The Fallen Angels

by Bernard Cornwell

  The three men who had relieved themselves in the kitchen yard came noisily back into the hall. The pugnacious one, whose wigless black hair was cut short as a curry-brush, had vomit stains on his red silk coat. He saw Valentine Larke and laughed. “Christ! They let you come here?”

  Larke smiled and bowed. Sir Julius Lazender, he thought, had one merit; consistency. He was offensive all of the time.

  Sir Julius brushed rain off his coat. “Abigail lets you paw her girls, Larke?”

  The Honorable Robin Ickfield snickered in a high voice. “I thought politicians preferred boys.”

  “You should bloody know, Robin,” Sir Julius laughed. He belched drunkenly. “Christ! I could tup a bloody horse tonight.” He pulled himself up the stairway, then turned with a malicious grin on his face. “You’ve come for the Countess, Larke?” He said it accusingly.

  “The Countess, Sir Julius?” Larke’s voice was unctuous.

  “Don’t tell me you didn’t know!” Sir Julius’s breeches’ flap was only half buttoned. “The old faggot’s got a French Countess here, Larke, but then I don’t suppose you can afford her, eh?”

  “She’s expensive, Sir Julius?”

  Sir Julius laughed. “Five years ago the sniffy bitch wouldn’t look at you! Now her Ladyship will rub her tits on your ass for a shilling.” He leered at Larke. “But only if you’re a gentleman.” He turned away, pleased with his insult, followed by his companions.

  Valentine Larke watched the three climb the stairs, his hard eyes showing no offense. Valentine Larke had not been born into the gentry, but if Sir Julius Lazender was a measure of gentility then Larke was glad he was no gentleman. Sir Julius, nephew to the Earl of Lazen, was a belligerent, drunken, pugnacious, rude wastrel. Larke smiled. Sir Julius would live to regret every sneer and every insult.

  He turned toward the gaming room. The footman, who knew that Larke was neither a lord nor conspicuously rich, only opened one of the two leaves of the door.

  He walked slowly through the lavishly appointed room, acknowledging the silent greetings of three of the players, and then climbed the far stairs that led to the dining room.

  It was almost empty at this time of night. The waiters stood solemnly at the sides of the room watching the few patrons who remained. The food at Abigail’s was famous. Within an hour, Larke knew, the tables would be crowded with men from Parliament who saw no disgrace in eating their chops beneath Abigail’s bedrooms. One of the waiters hurried forward to usher Larke to a table, but Larke dismissed him. He walked the length of the room and through a door that would, by a short passage, bring him back to the main stairway which led to Abigail’s girls.

  Another door, marked “Private,” led from the short passage.

  Larke paused, looked left and right, saw that no one was watching, and took from his waistcoat pocket a key. He fitted it into the keyhole, grunted as it turned reluctantly, and then, with a last look left and right, went into the room. He locked the door behind him.

  He sat. On a table beside him was a tray with glasses. He poured himself some wine. A great book, bound in morocco leather, was beside the tray and, pulling the candelabra nearer to his chair, he opened the book on his lap.

  “Recorded. That Lady Delavele will drop Twins by Easter Day, between Mr. Tyndall and Ld. Parrish. 200L.”

  “Recorded. That Ld. Saltash will Consume Bishop Wright’s Tomcat, prepared in Mrs. Pail’s Kitchens, Entire. Between Ld. Saltash and Bishop Wright. 150L.” Beside it was written, “Ld. Saltash the winner.”

  “Recorded. That Mr. Calltire’s Bucentaurus will beat Sir Simon Stepney’s Ringneck, the owners up, between Tyburn and St. Paul’s. The race to Commence at Midnight, Christmas Eve. Between the Owners. 2000L.”

  “Recorded. That Ld. Saltash will Consume Bishop Wright’s Marmalade Cat, Without Benefit of Onion Sauce, entire, prepared without Any Sauces or Gravies, in Mrs. Pail’s Kitchens. Between Ld. Saltash and Bishop Wright. 300L.”

  Valentine Larke smiled. The commission on wagers recorded in Mrs. Pail’s book was twenty percent. A key sounded in the lock of the door.

  He looked up, his bland, flat eyes wary in the candlelight.

  Mrs. Pail herself stood in the doorway, her white, podgy face grim.

  Larke stood. “Dear Mrs. Pail.”

  “Mr. Larke.” She shut and locked the door, then turned and gave him a clumsy curtsey.

  He smiled. “I find you well?”

  “Indeed, sir. Yourself?”

  “Never better, Mrs. Pail.” He put the book on the table. “Things seem to be flourishing?”

  “Flourishing they are, flourish they had better.” She said it grimly, then smiled and bobbed her head as Larke poured her a glass of wine.

  He raised his glass to her. “What’s this I hear about a French Countess in the house?”

  “Dear me!” Mrs. Pail gave a coy laugh. “A spinet maker’s daughter from Birmingham! Father was a rich man, raised her to speak French, but he’s bankrupt now.” Mrs. Pail shook her white, shapeless face. “Not the most beautiful of my girls, but I took her as a favor. She does well. She jabbers in French while they work. You’d like to see her?”

  Larke smiled. “No. But a splendid idea to call her a Countess. I do congratulate you.”

  Mrs. Pail blushed with pleasure. “You’re too kind, sir, entirely too kind.”

  “Please sit, Mrs. Pail.”

  Valentine Larke was the sole owner of Mrs. Pail’s Rooms, though only she, he, and a select few others knew it. He owned a dozen other such establishments in London, places where the gentry went to lose their money at cockfighting, cards, women, or prizefighting. He was insistent that, in public, she treated him as one of her less valued customers, such was his passion, his need for secrecy. He waited till she was seated, then sat himself. “I’m sorry to intrude on your evening with business, Mrs. Pail.”

  The doughy, powdered face screwed itself into a sympathetic smile. “It’s always a pleasure, Mr. Larke.”

  He smiled. “I won’t detain you long. I merely wish to know how much Sir Julius Lazender is in your debt.”

  She thought for two seconds. “Not counting tonight, Mr. Larke, nine thousand four hundred and twenty-two guineas.”

  He raised his eyebrows. It was a huge sum, yet he did not look displeased. “You still lend him money?”

  “Of course, sir. You told me to.”

  Larke nodded and sipped his wine.

  Abigail Pail watched him without speaking. She did not know why her employer had instructed her to let Sir Julius Lazender run up such a vast debt. Sir Julius did it without difficulty. To Abigail Pail’s knowing mind Sir Julius Lazender was a brute, a brute with an appetite that drew him back night after night. He lost at the tables, he became drunk, and he went upstairs to the lavish, soft rooms and never was asked to pay a penny. Even his gambling debts were settled by the house. Sir Julius Lazender, on Valentine Larke’s specific instructions, had been given the freedom of London’s most exclusive and expensive whorehouse.

  Larke knew that freedom should not end yet. His timing in this matter of Sir Julius had to be exquisitely right. He put his glass down, steepled his fingers, and smiled at the woman. “You will see Mr. d’Arblay and instruct him, upon my authority, to prepare a summons for ten thousand guineas. But it is not to be served, you understand?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Nor is Sir Julius to know that the summons exists. He may continue to come here and you will continue to welcome him. If you need money then my bankers will, of course, oblige.”

  “You’re very kind, Mr. Larke.” The white, blubber face sniffed in disapproval.

  Valentine Larke saw it and smiled. “Something troubles you, dear Mrs. Pail?”

  “Not my position to be troubled, sir.” She said in a tone that contradicted her words. “But he’s going to be the ruin of us!”

  “I assure you he is not.” Larke smiled.

  She chose to ignore his assurance. “Only this week, Mr.
Larke! He bit a girl! Horribly, Mr. Larke! I can’t work a scarred girl!”

  “You put it on his bill?”

  “Of course.”

  “And the girl?”

  Mrs. Pail frowned. “I can’t put a girl on the streets just before Christmas, Mr. Larke! It’s not Christian!”

  “Indeed not.” He stood, to show that the interview was over. “Indeed you may keep her in the house, Mrs. Pail, so long as you wish.” He knew the loyalty that Abigail had to her girls. She educated those that could not read and always ensured that those who were not communicants in the Church of England learned their catechism and were confirmed by a bishop who was one of the house’s steadier patrons. By day the bishop conducted the girls toward heaven, and at night they returned the favor.

  Larke bowed over her fat, ring-bright fingers. “I will stay a few moments.”

  “Of course, Mr. Larke.” She smiled archly. “You’d like company?”

  He shook his head. “Thank you, but no.”

  When she had gone, and when the door was locked, he took from his waistcoat pocket a message that had come to him at the House of Commons. He opened it, read it for the third time, then tossed it onto the grate that was piled with glowing coals. He watched the letter curl, burn, and break into wavering scraps of black ash.

  Chemosh had not done what he had said he would do.

  Larke stared into the fire.

  Chemosh had promised that the girl would never marry because no man would marry her. She would be poxed and scarred, yet she was neither. She lived still with her beauty and her virginity. Chemosh had not done what he had promised he would do.

  He put his head back, the corrugated black ridges of his hair crushed on Mrs. Pail’s chairback, and he wondered when the Gypsy would next come. The Gypsy was the messenger who connected Larke and Marchenoir, carrying the coded letters that none but those two politicians could read. Larke hoped the Gypsy would come soon for he needed to pass on to Lucifer, by way of Marchenoir, the news of Chemosh. Lucifer would have to decide what was to be done. The timing of this thing was like the workings of a chronometer; gleaming, valuable, and exact. Chemosh was threatening to fail.

  They dared not fail. Valentine Larke, staring into the fire, thought that they could not fail. Lord Werlatton was hunted by Moloch, Sir Julius by Belial, and the Lady Campion by Chemosh, and the joy of it was that not one of the victims knew of the hunters. He sipped his brandy and thought of Chemosh. The man had not done what he had promised, but he had not yet necessarily failed. Nor, Larke reflected grimly, would he fail. They were the Fallen Ones, and they did not fail.

  Nor would he fail with Sir Julius. He smiled and took another sip of the wine. Sir Julius was baited and hooked, and Larke could reel him in whenever he wished. It could wait, he decided, till after Christmas, and then Belial would strike and the Fallen Ones would tighten the invisible ring that would choke the life from Lazen Castle. He smiled. He drank to the victory that would follow Christmas, to the victory that would lead the Fallen Ones to the Day of Lucifer and the fall of Lazen.

  Uncle Achilles ran the blue ribbons through his fingers. “You’re going to wear these?” His tone suggested that perhaps she should burn them instead.

  “I won’t wear anything if you stay here.”

  “My dear Campion, I am far too old to be excited by a woman getting dressed, let alone undressed. Besides, you forget that I’m still a priest. They never unfrocked me.”

  “And I’m not unfrocking while you’re here. Go away.” She smiled at him and kissed him on both cheeks. “I’m glad you came.”

  He smiled. “And glad that my mother didn’t?”

  “She would have been welcome.”

  He laughed. “I like your Lord Culloden.”

  “He’s not mine.”

  Mrs. Hutchinson was laying out a dress of white crepe with Brussels lace at the neck and cuffs. Uncle Achilles looked at it where it lay on her bed and smiled. “A wedding dress?”

  “Go away.”

  “But I do like him, truly!” Uncle Achilles took a pinch of snuff, crossed to her dressing table, and sat down. He opened a pot of rouge, dabbed a finger in it, and rubbed it experimentally on the back of his hand. “Not my color.”

  She crossed her arms. “I’m going to be late, uncle.”

  It was only four o’clock in the afternoon, yet already Campion had ordered candles lit in her bedroom. It was gloomy outside, the sky gray and darkening over the Lazen valley. Uncle Achilles twisted on his chair and stared down at the townspeople who walked in excited groups toward the Castle’s entrance. “You English make a great fuss about Christmas.”

  “We don’t make any fuss at all. We simply have a good time. Those of us, that is, who are allowed to dress.”

  He grinned at her. He was clothed, Campion thought, lasciviously; there was no other word. He had a suit of gold cloth, a new wig with silk tails, gold-buckled shoes of satin, stockings of white silk, and the faintest touch of cosmetics on his face. He saw her looking him up and down. His voice was teasingly anxious. “You think I’m presentable?”

  “You look wonderful. Just like a bishop.”

  He laughed. He dipped her powder puff into the china bowl and brushed it against his hand. He held the hand out to the window and frowned critically. His nails were varnished. “In London they think I’m very elegant. But then I’m French which always impresses the English. They feel inferior to us for one very good reason.”

  “Because they are?” She smiled. She thought how bored Achilles must be; an elegant, clever Frenchman only half employed in a strange country. He smiled at her.

  “Exactly, dear niece. You are so sensible for a mere woman.” He crossed his legs, taking care not to crease his silk stockings. “The English have a sneaking suspicion that we know something about life and elegance and beauty that they do not know, and it is every Frenchman’s duty to continue the illusion. It is even, dear niece, the duty of someone like yourself who has the blessing of being half French.” He smiled seraphically. “Has he asked you to marry yet?”

  “I haven’t known him five weeks yet!”

  “How proper you are, dear niece.” He smiled and turned to the dressing table again. He dipped his finger into the cochineal ointment she would use on her lips and painted a heart on her mirror. He ignored her protests. He pierced the heart with an arrow. Above its fletches he wrote “CL,” by its point he wrote “LC.” He inspected his work. “There’s a certain symmetry to the two of you.”

  Mrs. Hutchinson, who had not understood a word of the French they had been speaking, understood the drawing. She laughed.

  Campion, who was dressed only in a full length bed robe of colored Peking silk, sat on the chaise longue. She smiled at her uncle. “You think the symmetry is important?”

  “I think it’s wonderful!” He was fastidiously wiping his finger on one of her towels. “After all, lovers always seek fate’s happy signs. One says ‘I was born on a Monday’ and the other says ‘and I also!,’ and from that mere, unimportant coincidence they deduce that heaven has had a hand in their conjunction.” He shrugged. “I think CL and LC come into that happy, heavenly category, don’t you?”

  “You want me to marry him?”

  He smiled wickedly. He liked teasing her, not the least because she never took offense, however shocked she might be by his words. “Do you wish to marry him, dear Campion?”

  “What I wish, uncle, is to get dressed.”

  He stood, bowed, and smiled again. “I retire defeated from the field. You will dance with me?”

  “Of course.”

  “If Lord Culloden will let you. Do you think he’s the jealous kind? Men with moustaches often are.”

  “Go away.”

  He did, crossing in the doorway with Edna, Campion’s maid, who had fetched a bowl of warm water and hot towels.

  It was Christmas Eve, the traditional day of celebration, the day when the town came to the Castle and the Castle provided bowls
of frumenty and plates of pies and vats of punch and music from the gallery and fires in the great hearths and hogsheads of ale and puddings that had seeped their smell from one end of the huge building to the other and, as midnight drew near, great platters of roasted geese would bring cheers from the throng in the Great Hall.

  A throng which expected the Lady Campion to marry. The word seemed to haunt the castle. The rumor was like a whisper in every room, in every corridor, in every smiling face that greeted her. Lord Culloden had been in Lazen just a few weeks, yet all the Castle, all the estate, expected there would be a marriage.

  Lord Culloden had said nothing. He was correct, polite, and charming, yet the mere fact of his presence fed the rumor that, before the leaves fell again, the Lady Campion would be wed.

  She dressed with more care than usual.

  Mrs. Hutchinson cooed over her, patting the dress where it did not need adjusting, twitching hair that was like pale, shining gold. “You look a picture!”

  “I feel exhausted, Mary.” Campion, as usual, had organized the day’s celebration.

  Mrs. Hutchinson smiled. “You look lovely, dear, quite lovely.” What she meant, Campion knew, was that she looked lovely for him.

  For whom, though?

  For the Gypsy was also here.

  She had seen him and the sight of him after so long was like an arrow thrust into the heart. She had thought she had forgotten him, she thought that the memory of that slim, dark, oddly blue-eyed face was just that, a memory. She had persuaded herself that her thoughts about the Gypsy were not about a real man, but about an idealized man, about a dream, and then she had seen his smiling, strong, competent face, and it seemed as if her heart stopped for that moment, there had been a surge of inexplicable, magic joy, and then she had turned abruptly away.

  He had brought a letter from Toby. Toby was still in France, working for his mysterious master, Lord Paunceley. The letter asked his forgiveness that he could not be in Lazen this Christmas. Instead the Gypsy was in Lazen and on this night of Christmas Eve, just as at the old Roman feast of Saturnalia from which Christmas had sprung, the servants in Lazen would join the festivities with those they served. Tonight the Gypsy was her equal.