The Chronicles of the Tempus

by K. A. S. Quinn

  The horses slowed as they ploughed up a steep incline. They were nearing Hampstead. James knew there was no point being angry with Katie. She had been a loyal friend to him. She was sitting in a musty old growler in the middle of the night. She was offering to risk her life for his. He couldn’t accept it, of course. But he could at least be polite about it. He tried to shake off the attitudes of his own time, to see her the way she saw him. ‘Thank you,’ he said gruffly. ‘I know you only wish to help. The best thing you can do now is to familiarize yourself with the contents of my medical kit.’

  The cab came to a halt at the top of Prospect Hill. The driver had observed the pistol case, the medical kit and the dark concealing clothes. He knew what he had in his cab; a young duellist and his second – two foolish boys out to defend their honour. ‘I reckon you’re looking for South Wood,’ he remarked. ‘Just pass through them oaks. From there you can skirt across the grounds of Kenwood House – don’t be worrying about the Earl, he’s in Scotland. The meadows are on the one side, the South Woods are on the other. Head southeast and you’ll be finding the duelling grounds. If you pay another 10s in advance I’ll wait. You might be needing me to carry a message, or fetch a doctor.’

  Katie shivered, but James was steady. ‘I thank you,’ he said and gave the driver twice what he’d asked. ‘If you would wait; we will be several hours.’ The driver weighed up the coins in his hand and squinted down at James. ‘Good luck,’ he said. ‘You are a young ’un for such doings. I wouldna want my own son out on the heath t’night.’

  The wild night wreaked havoc on the heath. The ancient oaks creaked and groaned as Katie and James passed underneath. The tall grasses in the meadow whipped and stung their legs. Katie’s hat went flying through the air. She caught it, and jammed it down tighter on her head. In the distance lay the stately manor, Kenwood House. The driver had been right; the house was in darkness, but the white stone glowed, stark and ghostly in the moonlight. In front of them was the dense mass of the South Woods.

  The trees, thick with foliage, threw their branches across the sky, crossing and re-crossing the moon. ‘Maybe Lord Twisted won’t show,’ Katie shouted through the wind. ‘Maybe he’ll get lost.’ The woods offered a respite from the fierce squalls. Above them the branches rattled and shook in protest, but the woodland floor was dark and almost still. A whisper of a wind scattered the rotting leaves. The undergrowth rustled with small animals, the underside of a bat’s wing caught the glint of moonlight.

  Just when they thought the woods would never end, they came abruptly to a clearing. The trees hemmed in the spot, giving it complete seclusion. ‘Do you think this is it? I mean, it’s really such a small space, maybe we should turn back.’ Katie said.

  ‘It’s not too small, it’s fifty paces, there’s room to spare,’ said a voice from behind a tree. Bernardo DuQuelle stepped forward, and waved his walking stick. ‘I’ve measured it myself.’

  ‘You’re just, like, so helpful, I can’t thank you enough,’ Katie said, her voice thick with sarcasm. DuQuelle, though, was immune to sarcasm, along with almost everything else.

  James looked around the clearing. ‘Where is Lord Twisted?’ he asked. ‘I am ready to begin.’

  Bernardo DuQuelle lifted his head, and sniffed the air around him. ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I suggest we begin immediately. There’s something in the air tonight which I do not like at all.’

  Lord Twisted emerged from the woods and handed his case of pistols to DuQuelle. He looked at James, a sneer screwing up his dandified face. ‘Let us make quick work of this,’ he said. ‘I have someone waiting for me, in a supper house in Haymarket. I would not wish them to grow cold.’

  James stood stiff as a rod at his words. ‘You cannot open your mouth, but to be vile,’ he said to Lord Twisted. ‘I will never be more ready than I am now.’

  ‘Then you shall never be ready,’ Lord Twisted laughed; ‘for tonight I take aim. Who knows if you will see tomorrow?’

  Bernardo DuQuelle stepped between them. ‘There is no need for insults,’ he said, ‘no need for threats. Do you not think the duel is enough? I am certain each contender will rise and greet the sun tomorrow; let us rethink that turn of phrase. Lord Twisted, you have agreed to a duel of the “first blood” – and both gentlemen shall shoot to disable, not to the death.’

  Lord Twisted smiled, and adjusted his white cuff meticulously. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘as agreed. But with the winds so high, the light of the moon is fitful, unclear. I cannot vouch for my line of vision. What is meant to be a nick to the leg might become a shot through the heart.’

  DuQuelle leaned forward and spoke low. A chance gust of wind carried his words to Katie. ‘Dr O’Reilly is much favoured by the Queen. What would she think if his son were to die at the hands of a courtier? My dear Lord Twisted, your sojourn to the Crimea might become an exile.’

  Lord Twisted stopped smiling, and Bernardo DuQuelle stepped into the centre of the duelling grounds. ‘These are the rules,’ he announced. ‘At my count, both gentlemen shall turn, back-to-back and walk twenty paces to the end of the grounds. At twenty they will turn to face each other, and then fire.’

  Katie bit her lip to stop from crying. DuQuelle just had to put an end to this. He couldn’t let James go on, like a lamb to slaughter.

  ‘Do you both agree?’ DuQuelle asked.

  ‘I agree,’ James said.

  ‘But of course,’ Lord Twisted replied. He looked almost bored.

  DuQuelle sniffed the air again, and scanned the dark woods behind him.

  ‘One last thing,’ he said. ‘James O’Reilly, as the challenged, will fire first.’

  Lord Twisted was suddenly paying attention. ‘We fire together,’ he said, ‘at the drop of your handkerchief.’

  Bernardo DuQuelle shook his head. He was smiling ever so slightly. ‘You are familiar with the Code Duello – the first shot is awarded to the challenged? James O’Reilly will fire first.’

  Lord Twisted’s attention drifted again. ‘Fine,’ he replied, ‘I have little to worry about, a boy like this, at forty paces . . .’

  James ignored the insult. He was concentrating with all his might on the next few minutes. Bernardo DuQuelle began to count. ‘One, two, three, four . . .’ Katie could hear a twig breaking in the woods behind her, but she could not take her eyes off James. ‘Nine, ten, eleven, twelve.’ He looked even younger than his years, with the tall trees swaying above him. ‘Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen.’ Katie was screaming inside her head. What if Lord Twisted did kill James? How could she ever face Alice, or Grace? DuQuelle caught her eye for a moment. What could his look mean? ‘Nineteen . . . twenty.’

  Both James and Lord Twisted turned. Lord Twisted wasn’t even nervous. He looked half asleep. Slowly James raised his arm and pointed the pistol at Lord Twisted. Katie’s heart ached for him. His hand shook badly and his face was crumpled. He looked about eight years old. For a moment James hesitated, aiming for the upper leg, and then deciding on the shoulder. Then his face cleared and his hand grew steady. Looking Lord Twisted in the eye, he raised the pistol and shot. High. High over Lord Twisted’s head. ‘I will not injure him,’ he said. ‘It is against my principles.’

  For one moment Katie’s heart sang with joy – of course he couldn’t do it. He was James the thinker, James the healer – not James the killer. She started to run towards him, but stopped as Lord Twisted’s voice rang out.

  ‘How dare you,’ he cried, now wide awake with fury. ‘How dare you choose to shoot above my head? As if I were some novice, some green young bounder who must be protected from his own mishaps.’

  James stood his ground. He looked taller now, and older. ‘I will live by my principles,’ he said.

  ‘Your principles? Don’t you know, to shoot above my head, to delope – is the gravest insult? Well, if you live by your principles you shall also die by them.’

  Katie gasped as she remembered the rules. James had taken his shot, and now it was Lor
d Twisted’s turn to fire. The man was very, very angry. She turned to Bernardo DuQuelle. ‘Please,’ she cried, ‘you have got to do something. Look at Lord Twisted. He’s going to kill James. You have got to stop this.’

  Bernardo DuQuelle did not reply. He stood stock still, unblinking, staring at something Katie could not see. Perhaps it was the moonlight, but he appeared bloodless as a statue. She ran over and shook him by the shoulder. No, he was flesh and blood, or at least as much as Bernardo DuQuelle could be. Why then, would he not speak?

  ‘Do something!’ she repeated.

  Lord Twisted now raised his arm. His pomaded hair was on end, the curls whipped by the wind; he was smiling, laughing, but with no joy, no mirth. With casual expertise he cocked his pistol. He was aiming directly at James – at his heart. Bernardo DuQuelle continued to stare, trance-like, into the dark woods.

  Katie followed his gaze, squinting. Then she saw it: a hooded figure, coming towards them, low to the ground, its cloak sweeping the leaves from its path. It was a figure she recognized, and dreaded. ‘Belzen!’ she cried.

  This seemed to rouse DuQuelle. Springing forward, he flung himself between the two duellists, directly into the line of fire. Lord Twisted could not stop himself. His shot rang out, and Bernardo DuQuelle staggered backwards, falling to the ground.

  ‘Run, you fools!’ DuQuelle cried. ‘There’s something far worse than a duel in the woods tonight – if you value your life, run!’

  Lord Twisted needed no further invitation. He knew he’d bungled and shot DuQuelle. To kill James was one thing, but to kill Prince Albert’s Private Secretary was another. He turned tail and fled.

  DuQuelle dragged himself onto his knees. ‘Didn’t you hear me? Run!’ The duelling ground had given them some shelter from the wind, but now it rose up with a roar. The trees around them bent double. Dark clouds scudded across the moon. The ground flickered with light and dark. Around them, large branches began to fall.

  ‘We can’t leave you here,’ Katie yelled into the storm. ‘You’ve been shot. You need help.’ James shook himself, and suddenly seemed to realize what was going on. He ran forward and, taking DuQuelle’s arm, hooked it over his neck. Katie understood, and did the same. They held DuQuelle between them.

  ‘We need to get him away from here,’ James shouted. ‘I pray the cab is still waiting.’

  ‘Are you witless?’ DuQuelle gasped. ‘Katie knows what’s coming, and yet she does not flee.’

  Something crossed Katie’s foot, slapping against her ankle. She leapt back repulsed. It was a snake, and then a rat. A glance over her shoulder showed Belzen was closing in. She could see his strange blunted nose and his small glittering eyes. She shuddered, but worse was to come. As Belzen took in the three figures, desperately limping, he began to writhe and sink to the ground. With dread, Katie knew that Lord Belzen was about to transform himself. He’d been aroused by their weakness, and was preparing for the kill.

  Suddenly Katie’s fear turned to fury. ‘I will not die like this,’ she thought. ‘I can’t let that ghastly thing drink my blood, fill me with tar and gouge out my eyes. I have nice eyes . . .’ Belzen was gaining on them. She could hear the slithering of his great mass even through the wild winds. But she would not abandon DuQuelle, and she had no weapons, no pistol, no knife. Lord Belzen was at their heels. The ground rumbled under his surging weight. She couldn’t bear the idea of facing him. How horrible, to see what he had become – a snake, a man, a serpent. That was almost as bad as what would happen next, when he caught them.

  Then DuQuelle’s voice, soft and slight, was in her ear. ‘Use your head, or at the least what is on top of it, Katie.’ In a panic, almost without thinking, she pulled the top hat from her head and, turning, pushed it blindly over Belzen’s snout and glittering eyes.

  Lord Belzen coiled back upon himself; this stopped him for but a moment. Katie urged the others forward. She had gained seconds, but every second counted. The very heavens seemed to rage. With a loud groan, a mighty oak gave way close by, uprooted after hundreds of years. Slowly at first, the tree bowed towards the earth, and then in a rush it crashed to the ground. Branches tore past Katie, ripping her clothes and scratching her skin. But the bulk of the tree landed upon the transforming figure of Lord Belzen.

  Then there was silence. The storm had passed, so abruptly that the silence had a violence of its own. DuQuelle’s white skin had become almost transparent, the deep lines on his face tinged with green.

  James looked at him with growing concern. ‘I have my medical kit here, but I doubt it will be much help to you,’ he said to DuQuelle. ‘Let’s get you to the cab. Then you can tell us what to do.’ DuQuelle licked his lips and closed his eyes. His breathing was shallow. His arm around Katie’s neck was ice-cold.

  ‘I think we should carry him,’ she said to James. ‘And let’s get out of here fast. That thing you saw behind us: I can guarantee the falling tree hasn’t killed it. It was never alive in the first place.’

  James gave Katie a long look as they struggled across the Heath, DuQuelle between them. ‘What was that thing – that came out of the woods? I can tell you know, Katie.’

  ‘It was Lord Belzen,’ she answered. ‘He must have been drawn by the excitement of the duel. He feeds off brute force. But I can’t understand why he would pick this particular duel. There’s so much brutality in the world. It wouldn’t be a feast for him, really just a snack. Then he changed, he began to transform. Why? Was it the duel, the blood that was coming, the death? Maybe DuQuelle had angered him in some way.’

  Though weaker by the moment DuQuelle could still speak. ‘You have it wrong,’ he said weakly. ‘I could never excite Lord Belzen in such a way. I am afraid, my dear, that it was you . . .’

  True to his word, the cabbie was waiting for them. He looked astonished by what turned up. The young man was not wounded, but he and his second carried a man who seemed half-dead. The second was in bad shape too, clothes torn, skin bleeding. Long black hair tumbled down his back. He . . . was a she!

  Katie reached into Bernardo DuQuelle’s pocket and found a gold sovereign. ‘Here,’ she cried, tossing it to the driver. ‘To Buckingham Palace!’ They loaded Bernardo DuQuelle into the carriage and the cab lurched forward.

  Katie could barely look at Bernardo DuQuelle. His strange green eyes glittered too brightly; his mouth was a thin red line drawn crudely on his white face. His breathing came in sharp pants.

  James went to work immediately. Laying DuQuelle down on the carriage floor, he loosened his cravat and took the studs out of his shirt. ‘I was concentrating on Twisted,’ he said. ‘I didn’t see what happened. Where did he get hit?’

  ‘I think it was his chest, or his shoulder.’ Katie replied. DuQuelle was staring at her. His eyes glowed. James took a sponge and some alcohol from his medical bag.

  ‘There are no blood stains,’ he said.

  Opening DuQuelle’s shirt, James ran his hand across his chest. ‘Ah, here is the wound,’ he said. ‘Close to the heart, but not fatal, I hope.’ He soaked the sponge in the alcohol and swathed the area. ‘How strange,’ he murmured, ‘there is no bleeding. Could it be that deep a wound? It is more dangerous than I thought.’

  Then Katie remembered the day in the rose garden when Lord Twisted had challenged James to the duel. Bernardo DuQuelle had pricked his finger on a rose.

  ‘He is not bleeding,’ she said, ‘because he has no blood.’

  James looked shocked, and Katie felt quite queasy, but Bernardo DuQuelle smiled up at her. ‘I begin to believe you are worthy of the Tempus,’ he whispered.

  James stared down at his patient. ‘This is what I feared,’ he said. ‘I don’t know how to help you. Tell me what to do.’

  Katie could see the open wound, near the heart. A silver fluid like liquid mercury seeped from the edges. DuQuelle began to wheeze, but now the sound came from the wound. The silver fluid began to shine. It bubbled slightly and then rose like mist from his chest. Above him it reform
ed, into a new shape – the shape of words:

  It is never too late to be what you might have been.

  For a moment the words hung above them in the carriage, then dissolved into nothing.

  Men do not stumble over mountains, but over molehills.

  The words formed and reformed, seeping from the wound in Bernardo DuQuelle’s chest. It was fascinating and terrifying. ‘What’s happening?’ Katie cried. ‘You’re, like, bleeding words. Why are you doing this?’

  DuQuelle’s voice was barely audible. ‘I am losing what is best in me, what is hard gained, most important . . . I am losing what I have learned from you – the finest ideas, the highest ambitions that you communicate.’ Leaking from his chest, the words came thick and fast:

  No man is free who is not master of himself.

  ‘Epictetus, Confucius . . . They are the best minds, the great philosophers,’ James murmured. ‘He is bleeding human knowledge. This is far beyond anything we can treat in this time.’

  ‘Or any time,’ Katie said. She wasn’t frightened anymore. As Bernardo DuQuelle shed his humanity, she began to believe he was, or had been, human. Taking the sponge from James, she placed it on his forehead, and gently stroked his temples. ‘There must be someone who can help you,’ she said. ‘We need you to tell us. We need to help you.’

  DuQuelle closed his eyes for a moment, as if he were having a private debate. Katie held her breath. Was he dying? Was he dead? Could he even die? At last he spoke. ‘You must leave me at Half Moon Street. I am too far gone to mend myself. There is only one who can treat me. If she has not already left for the Crimea, I believe you will find her at Harley Street. James, you must send a message . . .’

  DuQuelle’s voice was so low that James had to bend his ear to his lips. DuQuelle muttered the name and the address, and James’s eyes grew wide with astonishment. ‘Tell no one . . . not Katie . . . no more . . .’ Bernardo DuQuelle’s eyes rolled back in his head, and the words seeped and glittered above him:

  Death may be the greatest of all human blessings.