The Fallen Angels

by Bernard Cornwell

  Larke gave a dutiful smile. “I see one difficulty.”

  “What, for God’s sake? She takes a fall! What could be simpler?”

  Larke sipped his champagne. “Her father dies, her brother dies, then she dies. I think some people would smell something foul, don’t you?”

  “Then wait!” Culloden brushed the difficulty away. “Give her a year or two.”

  “I doubt that Lucifer will want to wait that long.” Larke spoke mildly, but there was a subtle threat in his voice. “Think about it, Lewis. Maybe you’re right, maybe she can tumble off her horse, but there must be no foul stench.” He said the last three words slowly. “I don’t want lawyers buzzing around that honeypot.”

  There was silence. Lord Culloden was not sure how to prevent such a scandal, but it was a problem that could be delayed. First he would marry her, then deflower her, and only after that would he consider the manner of her death. He sipped his champagne. “And what happens to Sir Julius?”

  Larke smiled. He put his champagne glass beside the portrait “Shall we see?”

  Lord Culloden followed Larke through the long fencing hall, past the racks of foils and épées, the sound of Mrs. Tipp’s spinet fading behind them. They went over the upper landing, past the billiard hall, and onto the gallery of the fight room.

  The girl had gone.

  Sir Julius no longer hung from the iron rings. He was sitting at the lawyer’s table, a blanket about his naked shoulders. His right hand, undamaged in the evening, held a quill. Lord Culloden could see spots of blood that marked a trail from the rings to the table.

  Larke leaned over the balustrade. “Mr. d’Arblay?”

  One of the lawyers held up a hand. Sir Julius scratched with the quill, then leaned back. His mouth was a pit of blood.

  Mr. d’Arblay took the papers, then turned with a smile to the balcony. “They’re signed, Mr. Larke.”

  “I am most obliged to you, d’Arblay.”

  “The obligations are entirely mine, sir.”

  Culloden knew what Sir Julius had signed. He had signed what most of Larke’s victims signed, a paper that gave away their future inheritances. Sir Julius had been led into debt, and then the trap had been sprung. Now Larke would reap the harvest.

  Larke smiled. “Mr. Girdlestone?”

  The huge prizefighter turned his face to the gallery. “Sir?”

  “Sir Julius is now in your charge. Treat him kindly! He may have liquor, comfort, and a whore! Remember he is to be Earl of Lazen, so treat him with respect!”

  “Sir!” Abel Girdlestone seemed to come to attention.

  “And be ready to move him to Lazen on my orders, Mr. Girdlestone.”

  “Sir!”

  “Mr. Tipp?”

  The Negro looked up, but said nothing.

  Larke smiled. “I shall need eight or nine other men. You can provide them?”

  “Of course?”

  “And yourself?”

  Harry Tipp frowned. “No, Mr. Larke, you know that, Mr. Larke. My Betty!”

  “Of course.” Larke laughed. He straightened and turned to Culloden. “You see the dangers of marriage, my dear Lewis? Look at him! Even the Prince of Wales fears him, yet that slip of a girl has him under her tiny thumb. She won’t let him leave London for fear of highwaymen!” Larke laughed at the Negro, then clapped Lord Culloden on the shoulder. “Be grateful to me, Lewis, that you will not be burdened long with a wife.”

  Culloden smiled. He knew that Larke’s unnatural jollity came from the knowledge of victory. This night’s events, the papers that had been signed, had brought the triumph of the Fallen Ones very close. The Earl was dying, Lord Werlatton was trapped, Sir Julius baked in the lawyer’s pie, and Lady Campion was marrying Chemosh. Lazen was doomed. The day of Lucifer was close.

  11

  “I t’s horrid!” Lady Campion grimaced at the portrait.

  “It’s mother!” Uncle Achilles protested. “She has discovered, she tells me, that desiccated plums assist her digestive system. She says she will live to be a hundred and ten.”

  Campion laughed. The yellow drawing room of Lazen was slowly filling with wedding gifts. The Duchess d’Auxigny’s had just arrived, a portrait of herself. She simpered out of the painting, all her lines removed by the artist, and her hair piled impossibly with a profusion of stones, feathers, and pearl ropes. Campion shook her head. “I can’t think that Lewis will want it.”

  “Lewis is an Englishman. He’ll probably think it’s wonderful art.” Her uncle flicked a speck of dust from his velvet sleeve. “Mother would like to come with her plums for your wedding. Do you think you can bear it?”

  “I can bear it.”

  “Poor mother.” Achilles said it lightly. “She’s pretending to be in mourning for Philippe. She isn’t, of course, but you’ll have to endure the sobs and gulps. She plays the bereaved mother rather as I imagine a hippopotamus would. Do hippopotomae exist? I can’t think so, they seem such an unlikely aberration by the Almighty, but then, I suppose one could say that of mother.”

  Achilles d’Auxigny, once Bishop of Bellechasse, was now the Duc d’Auxigny, Marquis of a score of obscure villages and Count of two score more. He thought it laughable. His elder brother, by insisting that the revolution would blow itself out like a freak storm, had found himself and his sons in a Paris tumbril that carried them to Dr. Guillotin’s machine. Achilles thought his elder brother a fool to have stayed, and now that the slew of titles had descended upon his middle-aged, elegant shoulders, he shrugged them off. “If people think I’m a Duke, dear niece, they’ll only wish to borrow money. I’m as poor as a church mouse.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have bought this. It’s lovely.” Her uncle had brought his own present to Lazen, a one hundred and thirty-eight piece set of Meissen porcelain, the glaze as hard and delicate as anything from China. She kissed his cheek. “It’s much too generous.”

  “Nonsense. As I expect to retire to your house some day I thought the least I could do was make sure you serve my meals on decent plate.”

  She laughed. “Not French porcelain?”

  “Meissen is better.” Her uncle sighed. “However I will expect a Sevres chamberpot in my bedroom.”

  “It will be yours.”

  At one end of the great table was a basket filled with scarlet and white sword knots of twisted silk. In the French fashion they would be presented to all the men who attended the wedding. Beside them, in a second basket, were fans of ivory and Nottingham lace for the women. The rest of the table was heaped with porcelain, silver, gold, paintings and jewels. Cartmel Scrimgeour had sent from Lincoln’s Inn a golden basket heaped with gold and silver fruits. Campion showed it with delight to her uncle. “Isn’t it generous?”

  “Considering the fees he takes from Lazen it’s a mere bauble!”

  “Uncle!”

  He laughed. “Of course it’s generous. Scrimgeour is one of those rare things, an honest and generous lawyer. What on earth is that?”

  “That” was a japanned work-basket sent by Aunt Lucretia on behalf of herself and her son Sir Julius. Achilles lifted the lid and frowned at the array of colored threads. “She thinks you’re a seamstress?”

  “At least she remembered.”

  “My dear girl, she never forgets! Once you and Toby are safely out of the way she’ll be the mistress of Lazen, and God help it then. She’ll put green curtains everywhere and paintings of small, plump children. Quite ghastly. Toby and yourself have a duty to survive in the interests of art. I do like this.” He lifted a crystal decanter, mounted in silver, from among the matching goblets.

  “That’s from Sir George Perrott. He apologized for the paucity of the gift.”

  “I like Sir George,” Achilles said. “He’s not complicated.” He ran a finger down a marble statue of Ceres, crowned with harvest wreaths. “Who gave you this?”

  “The Earl and Countess of Fleet. They’re distant relatives.”

  “I’m sure they were glad to be r
id of it. My God!” This last was occasioned by a vast, gloomy painting that showed St. George and the dragon. A half naked maiden, chained to a rock, strained forward for the benefit of the spectator, revealing huge white breasts, a snack denied to the dragon by St. George’s bloodied lance.

  Campion laughed. “Lord Paunceley.”

  “My God! You are honored. He probably found it in some forgotten room of his house. She’s not nearly nude enough for him and he’d much prefer it if the dragon was nibbling at her. What are you going to do with it? Hang it in the stables?”

  “And frighten the horses?”

  “True.” Uncle Achilles laughed. “Does he still write to your father?”

  “Every month. Do you ever see him?”

  Achilles shrugged. “I’m admitted to the presence every few weeks to offer my humble opinion on some poor émigré.” He smiled. “I suppose you’ll have to thank Lord Paunceley for that monstrosity, but then he is a monster.”

  “Truly?”

  “A monster! A most ugly monster. But very clever.” Uncle Achilles lifted a Wedgwood cup, part of a great set of jasperware. “You’re getting a rather good painting from the town.”

  “I’m not supposed to know that.”

  “Well you do now.” He put the cup down with a grimace that suggested English china was not worth a Frenchman’s perusal. “They’re painting Lazen for you. The man’s rather good. I gave him a few suggestions about technique.” Uncle Achilles smiled at her. “You’re happy, then?”

  “Resigned to it, uncle.”

  “That’s the spirit. Like a lamb to the slaughter, dear. What are you going to wear?”

  “White silk, Brussels lace, orange pinners and the Lazen jewels.”

  He pretended to think about it, then nodded. “It will do. I shall find something to match, something that won’t put you entirely in the shade.”

  She smiled. Uncle Achilles would give her away. Her father had promised to be in the old church for the ceremony, but he was sicker than ever and sometimes Campion thought that it was pure strength of will that kept him alive just to see her married.

  Uncle Achilles stood back and stared at the profusion of gifts. “At least marriage looks profitable.”

  “Doesn’t it?”

  “And Toby will be here?”

  She smiled. “That’s the best news.”

  “The best?” He raised his eyebrows. “My dear niece, I thought the best news was that you will be united in matrimony with a fine, upstanding Lord?”

  She smiled, took his arm, and walked with him through to the oval drawing room, and then to the great chamber. “People keep telling me that I mustn’t look for magic.”

  “They do? How insufferable of them!”

  “Well, you told me!”

  “I did? I must have been in an avuncular mood that day.” He stopped, smiled and looked into her eyes. “If you had the choice now, my dear Campion, to marry or not to marry, what would you say?”

  She looked back at him. She paused, she shrugged, she smiled shyly. “I think I’d say ‘no.’”

  “Truly?” His fine, intelligent face was serious. “Truly? You want me to stop it?”

  “Oh, uncle!” She took his arm again and went with him down the great, curving stairs which led to the ballroom. “Am I very silly in wanting some magic?”

  “Are you looking for it?”

  She smiled. “I suppose so.”

  “Then you won’t find it. I do remember telling you that.” They walked out of the ballroom, through the wide folding doors and beneath the Gibbons carvings to the front hall. The great doors that were usually left shut had been folded back and measurements were being taken for carpets that would be laid on the pedimented front steps. It was from here that the guests would watch the fireworks launched from the lake’s far bank.

  They stopped on the top step. Uncle Achilles drew his cane along the square base of one of the pillars. “Do you remember my father?”

  “The Mad Duke?”

  “He always wanted magic, and that’s why he built that stupid shrine.” Achilles’s voice, talking about his father, was tight with displeasure. “All the candles to go out at once! The doors opening to show him in his chamber, the secret tunnel, the hidden chambers for the musicians. The secret funnels for turning water into wine!” He shook his head. “I learned one thing from him, my dear, that there is no magic. I used to think that place so special! Standing in the darkness, knowing I was alone and the drawbridge was pulled up, and then there was my father!” Achilles flicked his fingers open from his thumb. “Pouf! I was astounded! He had worked a miracle! He was God! Then I discovered it was all done by simple, simple machines, and a tunnel under the moat! So simple as to be laughable!”

  She smiled sadly. “So there is no magic?”

  He walked with her down the steps. “Oh, there’s magic. The spread of stars? A daffodil? Even your face.” He smiled at her, then shrugged. “If you don’t marry him, there’ll be scandal. You’ll make him unhappy, even your father unhappy. The lawyers will be like pigs in a sloppy trough. None of that matters. It’s totally unimportant. If you can look at me and promise me that you know this is wrong, that this will condemn you to unhappiness, to a life of dislike and envy and hatefulness then, I promise you, I will stop it.”

  She stared at him. She felt the temptation. She said nothing.

  “Think! Better now than on the day. It’s so embarrassing when everyone is in church.”

  She smiled. “I suppose it’s just nervousness. Are all brides nervous?”

  “All brides are nervous and all brides are beautiful. I suppose you’re terrified of the nasty business that follows marriage, yes?” She shrugged, but said nothing. Her uncle laughed. “I can’t blame you. It always seemed to me to be a business suitable only for peasants. It’s cheap, they find it pleasurable, and the necessary equipment is widely available. I never did quite see it as an aristocratic pursuit. It lacks an element of civilization. It also produces children, but you probably want children, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “You poor thing.” He smiled. “Do you think Lewis is a bad man?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  He touched her cheek with his finger and looked lovingly at her. “Are you in love with someone else?”

  “No, uncle!” She laughed and turned away from him.

  Achilles’s voice was soft behind her. He stirred the gravel with his cane. “You think I know nothing of life, child?”

  “More than anyone I know.”

  Her uncle’s voice was still soft. He spoke almost casually, as if he talked of the weather or what they might eat for luncheon. “He’s French, so of course he’s good looking. He’s more than that. He’s splendid! I grant you that, splendid as a great horse can be splendid, or an eagle can be splendid. It’s just nature, child, blooming a great blossom on a crude bush.”

  She turned to him. She was truly aghast, astonished that he knew. She shook her head, unable to say anything. He laughed and held up the hand which bore his bishop’s ring.

  “No one knows! You’ve been so discreet, my dear niece, but you forget that I was with you when you first saw him.” He took her elbow and walked a few paces toward the lake. “And I watched you on the night of Christmas Eve. He was brave where Lewis held back. You think I didn’t notice? That I didn’t watch you with him? You desire that tall, mysterious Gypsy, don’t you?”

  She could not admit to it. She said nothing. She felt tears of shame pricking at her eyes.

  “You want him,” Achilles said, “and that is entirely natural. But you can’t have him.”

  “I know.” She said it so softly that she wondered if he even heard.

  He dropped his cane and put his hands on her shoulders. “You are a lady, dear niece. You come from a great family. You have the blood of kings in you. If this world has a future, then it needs that blood. You do not mingle it with dross.”

  “I know.”

  He
smiled. “Don’t be ashamed. No one knows except me, and that’s because I watch like a hawk. I wasn’t even sure till just now and I couldn’t resist finding out.” He said it mischievously, making her laugh. He patted her shoulders. “You must marry good blood, child. You can have him as a lover, but he must not father bastards on you.”

  “Uncle!”

  He laughed. “Is he the problem?”

  “I don’t know.” She smiled sheepishly.

  “Has anything happened?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Forgive me for asking, my dear.” He stooped and picked up his gold topped cane. “So, do you want me to stop this marriage?”

  She turned away from him and stared at the sunlight which glinted on the roof of the sunken barge. She thought of the Gypsy, of the lone, still candle in the gallery, of the sudden touch of his warm hand in the dance. She felt an odd relief that Achilles knew, that he had understood, that he had told her that the shameful feelings were natural.

  “Well?”

  She looked back to him. She thought of the scandal if the marriage did not take place. She thought of her father. “No, uncle. I don’t want you to stop it.” She spoke decisively, and she saw relief show on his thin face. He leaned forward and kissed her cheek.

  “Well done, O most favorite niece of mine.”

  She smiled. “You didn’t want to stop it, did you?”

  “No. I just wanted to see if you wanted me to stop it.” He laughed at her, pleased with himself. “Do you think we can go inside now? The sun is so bad for my complexion.”

  She took his arm and went back into the Castle that was being prepared for the ceremony and celebration of her marriage.

  The Lily of Rye, a fine schooner, was a smuggling ship. No exciseman could touch her, she was too fast and too well sailed. Yet Captain Nathaniel Skeat’s disdain of the Excise cutters and the Royal Navy did not stem from his ship’s speed, but rather from the piece of paper in his cabin that bore the seal of His Britannic Majesty and guaranteed that the Lily of Rye was hired to the British government for services unspecified.