by A. E. Moorat
'Before Lord Conyngham, ma'am?'
'No, girl, he: the lord of misrule. He who would bring war, disease and pestilence to this land. I can sense it, lassie, he's ready; he'll make his move tonight. He's assembled his acolytes, his hellish acquiescents.'
Clara gulped. They spoke of this below stairs; that every so often Mrs Brown took leave of her senses and spoke in tongues; that two hundred years ago Matthew Hopkins would have drowned her for a witch but in these more enlightened and liberal times she found herself in the King's service and from there it was said she was dispatched often for secret, stealthy assignations; that she often rode out at night, caring not a jot for decorum; that her horse was shod in felt and velvet so that she might travel in silence and that she wielded weapons with all the ferocity and power of the best, most highly trained soldier.
They said much, below stairs.
Mrs Brown swept back her glorious hair and pulled on a tunic, still talking as though she had taken leave of her senses.
'Rank upon rank of them, Clara.' She held out a hand, rubbing forefinger and thumb together like an archaeologist testing dirt he'd scooped from around his boots. 'They're in the air, can you feel them?'
Clara shook her head no, edging back along the flagstones; nevertheless, entranced by the sight of the firebrand in full flight.
'Satraps and viceroys of the night,' said Brown, eyes burning with gypsy fire beneath her coal-black fringe. 'They're on the move...'
She reached and tightened her sword belt; she tossed her hair and, standing with her legs slightly wider apart than was proper, she put her hands to her hips.
'How do I look, girl?' she demanded of her visitor.
'You look...like a warrior queen, ma'am,' gulped Clara, feeling herself grow hot all of a sudden.
'Do I scare ye?' asked Brown.
'A little ma'am, truth be told.'
'Good. It's the effect I desire. If you, who attends Royalty, is touched by the cold fingers of fear, then what hope the denizens of Hell, eh?'
'Denizens, ma'am?'
'Servants of the fallen and beasts summoned from the infernal regions,' she said as though it were obvious, moving past Clara to the door.
As she did so, the muslin curtain was swept aside and standing there was John Brown in breeches and vest, his long hair unkempt.
He coughed.
Husband and wife stared at one another for some moments.
'Make the wind your minion, Maggie,' he said, at last.
'Aye, John Brown,' she said, the ghost of a smile upon her lips. 'Aye, that I will.'
'And watch your stance,' he added, 'block and parry.'
But if she heard him she didn't respond. She was gone.
III
Earlier
Kensington Palace
Princess Alexandrina Victoria, heiress presumptive to the throne, was seated at a generously sized mahogany writing desk in her bedchamber, making a list by flickering candlelight.
Or, to be precise, she was making lists, two of them in fact: on one page of her diary, a list of those things she liked; on the other, those that formed the subject of her loathing.
Princess Victoria (it was years since she had last been addressed as Drina, and then only by her closest family) was aged eighteen, having achieved womanhood just one month previously. Young though she may have been, she nevertheless had much learning behind her: at three years old the Princess could speak English and French in addition to German, her first language, and shortly afterwards developed an excellent knowledge of Latin, Italian and Spanish, all linguistic skills she put to good use: by sixteen she had already read Mr Dryden's translation of The Aeneid, Mr Pope's Iliad and Mr Voltaire's history of Charles XII (in the original French, naturellement). Since then her appetite for education had proved almost insatiable. She had gone on to read Ovid, Virgil and Horace; Messrs Cowper, Shakespeare and Goldsmith; she had pored over vast treatises in business and astronomy; she knew law from Blackstone and had studied geography, natural history and moral teachings, learning many of them off by heart. She had studied Mr Goldsmith's History of England, as well as his fascinating histories of Greece and Rome; Mr Clarendon's History of the Rebellion and Miss Mangnall's Historical Questions.
Indeed, it was whispered that her education, presided over by her governess Baroness Lehzen, quite rivalled that offered by the University of Oxford, an establishment she was, of course, ineligible to enter on account of her gender, future Queen of England or not.
Above and beyond those subjects she had studied, all endeavours conducted within the walls of Kensington Palace, within which she was virtually a captive, there was one thing she knew with the greatest resolution-and that was her own mind.
Which was how she was able to say with absolute certainty that she really and truly, completely and utterly, despised turtle soup.
Hated it.
The sound of scratching, her quill upon the page of her diary, was the only noise in the room as she wrote the entry 'turtle soup' in an elegant hand in the right-hand side of her diary.
Just the thought of it. Turtle soup. Ugh. Her stomach turned. Her mouth pursed. Just the thought of it was enough to make a pinchpenny of the most generous heart.
The Princess shared her room with her mother, who now looked up from her own reading.
'It's getting late, Victoria,' she said, in German, the language they used while in private.
In fact, noted Victoria, it would soon be getting early, it being almost past midnight. 'A little longer, mother,' she asked.
'A sovereign needs her rest,' admonished the Duchess of Kent, smiling.
Twenty miles away at Windsor Castle, King William IV lay dying of his 'hay fever' and it was no secret that the Duchess would welcome his expiration more than most. 'Hay fever,' she had snorted derisively upon hearing the diagnosis, 'he is to be pollinated to death. Quick, let us send flowers to wish the King a speedy recovery!'
'Tsk, mother,' chided Victoria then, as she did now, for she loved her uncle. It was certainly true that he and her mother had quarrelled and that he was held in no great affection by the English public, but he had always treated his niece with great kindness and affection.
'You can continue your writing tomorrow, my dear,' insisted the Duchess, and rang the bell. Victoria hid her disappointment. She loved to stay up late.
There was once more silence in the room.
That is, apart from the scratch, scratch of Victoria's quill. She had transferred her attention to the left-hand side of her diary and more pleasurable thoughts.
Few were more pleasurable than those featuring her spaniel Dash-her beloved Dash. She dressed him like other young girls dressed their dolls and bathed him every week, regular as clockwork, come rain or shine; she took him everywhere with her and in return he was the most playful and faithful companion she could possibly have hoped for.
As well as being quite the little cupid. Why, only last year, Victoria had been paid a visit by the rather handsome and dashing Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg, and Dash had had quite a hand (or should that be 'paw', she thought to herself, inwardly groaning at her own pun) in turning what was at first a rather tiresome encounter into something...well, something perhaps a little more.
It was a visit for which she had to thank her uncle Leopold, the King of Belgium, whose name would surely soon be joining Dash in the left-hand page of her diary, for it was he who had arranged that she should meet Albert and his brother Ernest at Kensington Palace on the occasion of her birthday.
It was true that she disliked these carefully engineered introductions intensely; arrangement and connivance hung so heavily over them that it was almost impossible to enjoy them on their own terms, though she tried, of course: there was usually dancing, at least there was that to be said for them. Dancing was another entry for the left-hand side of her diary; she absolutely adored to do it, and took every opportunity to do so. The trouble was, those opportunities came so rarely.
Just then the
re came a knock at the door.
Victoria glanced over towards where her mother sat, but the Duchess was asleep in her chair, her book hanging from her fingers and her lips vibrating slightly as she snoozed. Looking at her, watching her sleep, Victoria felt a longing for her mother's embrace, her kiss, her understanding and love. It was there, between them, she was sure of it-somewhere-but it had become buried, like diamond in coal, and in place of maternal affection there was something else. Expectation. Ambition. Not all of it, Victoria was sure, with the very purest of intentions. Now though, asleep, her face devoid of its usual cunning, the Duchess seemed so serene and almost vulnerable. Victoria found herself wanting to go over there and clasp her mother in her arms.
Another knock at the door. It brought Victoria from her reverie.
'Come,' she said, hearing a croak in her voice, thinking herself silly and weak. She dabbed wet eyes discreetly as the door opened softly and into the room came a lady-in-waiting, one of the eight ladies of the bedchamber, her long skirts rustling. She held a candle, a hand cupped in front of the flame.
Except, Victoria, realised, her eyes adjusting, she wasn't actually one of the ladies of the bedchamber, and neither was she accompanied by two maids of honour, as was the custom...
Which was most unusual. Unheard of, in fact...
Seeming to acknowledge her confusion, the lady put down the candle then curtsied, casting her eyes downwards to address the Princess. 'Your Royal Highness,' she said, 'the chief butler sends his sincere apologies and begs your pardon, but there has been a measure of uncertainty concerning the rota. He and the housekeeper are seeking to reach a resolution now, your Highness.'
Victoria could well believe it. Uncertainty and confusion were regular guests of the household and it was not unknown for the chief butler and the housekeeper to exchange lively words on such occasions.
'Oh dear,' she said, pleased to hear that her voice had returned to its usual timbre, 'is there a terrible upset?'
'Quite an uproar, yes, your Highness.'
The Princess glanced over at her mother, aware that any uproar was as nothing compared to the potential conflagration should the Duchess be informed. Victoria had lived at Kensington almost all of her life and had never known such a thing happen, so goodness only knows how her mother would react.
'Very well,' said the Princess, 'then we shall do our best not to make matters worse...'
She cast a meaningful glance at the sleeping Duchess and touched a finger to her lips.
'You may carry on,' added Victoria.
For a moment her visitor's face was illuminated as she moved to place the candle, and Victoria took the opportunity to study her, though she was still unable to recognise her. A lady in her mother's household, perhaps, a new arrival; after all, they each had complete autonomy when it came to the hiring of staff. She was quite beautiful, that much at least was apparent. Then her face was again in the shadows and she turned her back and began busying herself turning down the beds, preparing the chamber for sleep.
From outside came a distant rumble. A summer storm? Victoria fancied that the room was lit more brightly all of a sudden, as though illuminated by lightning, then, as if to confirm it, there was a second crack of thunder.
Pleased to be indoors, she turned in her chair, her back to the lady-in-waiting, her thoughts returning to Albert.
She had to admit, she had not been immediately bowled over by the Prince's charms, though charms he most definitely possessed. He was undoubtedly the better-looking of the two; she noted his beautiful nose and mouth in particular. She had decided many years previously that she liked to watch a person's mouth in conversation. Others said it was eye contact one should endeavour to establish but, as usual, Victoria had her own feelings on the matter and for her it was most definitely the mouth. Albert's was full and sweet; she loved his moustache. Oh, his eyes were lovely, too, clear and bright. What's more, he was musical and could draw well.
But, on the other hand, something of a bore.
For a start, Albert had arrived suffering from terrible, almost debilitating seasickness. Well, that wasn't a very good start, was it? He was a little shy, to tell the truth. Now, Victoria detested men who were too confident (one in particular sprang to mind and she pursed her lips at the thought of him) but there was such a thing as being painfully shy. In that respect, Albert was quite unlike Ernest, who also displayed greater enthusiasm for those pursuits Victoria enjoyed: the receptions, dinners and balls, and the late nights that went with them. At one point on his first evening at court, Albert had even fallen asleep, causing great hilarity, while on the evening of her seventeenth birthday ball he'd had to excuse himself and go home early, 'as pale as ashes' as she later wrote in her diary. Almost a week later and he still hadn't sufficiently rallied to enjoy the Grand Ball held at Kensington Palace, when she twirled and danced into the early hours of the morning. Once again, Albert had retired early.
Yes, it was nice enough to spend time with him during the daytime, when they would sing and play piano, go riding and draw, but his habit of disappearing at night-time was really rather a bore and to be honest, she thought now, only half-hearing the sounds of the lady-in-waiting behind her as she bustled about the room, she might well have ended the visit much preferring Ernest, even though he was not nearly so pleasing to the eye.
It was Albert's treatment of Dash that played the greatest part in turning her affection towards him. He played with Dash and fussed all over him and was most attentive; in return Dash seemed to like him back, taking every opportunity to lick the young Prince's face. The two liked each other, they palpably liked each other.
Well, that had sealed it. She had gone back to her diary the night Albert and his brother had left, telling it how she would miss her two cousins, 'whom, I do love so very, very dearly, much more dearly than any other cousins in the world.'
She was always so fond of stressing certain words when she wrote, it gave her writing a great vitality, she felt.
She glanced over to her mother, who slept on. She should wake her by rights, but then again, Mother would only make her close her diary and she was enjoying her list-making, and anyway, the lady-in-waiting was still working behind her, moving between the beds. No, she would let mother sleep a little longer.
There was another rumble of thunder from outside, the swish and rustle of the lady-in-waiting's skirts. Candlelight cast her shadow on the wall above Victoria's desk and she watched it for a moment or so. How very strange, she thought, the shadow makes her fingernails look abnormally long.
Then she turned her attention back to her book and the list of pleasurable things.
Scratch scratch.
Victoria wrote that she very much enjoyed the music of Mr Mendelssohn, cream cakes and trifle, her 132 dolls (for which she was a little too old, chided Lehzen, but which the Princess secretly still adored) and staying up late dancing and ale and Lehzen and Uncle Leopold and poor Uncle William, so desperately ill with the hay fever at Windsor Castle.
Then she turned her attention back to the right-hand side of her diary and those things she disliked.
Under turtle soup she wrote the word 'bishops'.
It was the wigs. The powder that choked and the cloying perfume. She hated wigs.
Whigs, on the other hand, she liked. Tories, though. Hm, she had a rank distrust of Tories. She knew she wasn't supposed to, of course, with her being in the position of soon-to-be-Queen, and that if (well, when) that happened she would be duty-bound to be scrupulously even-handed in all matters of state and internal politics, but still, this was her diary and she had no need to hide her true feelings from it. So she wrote it down.
Now, though, she had left the best of the worst to last, and she steeled herself to inscribe it now.
Scratch scratch.
She wrote: Sir John Conroy.
IV
Later that morning, twenty minutes to three
Ten miles west of Kensington Palace
The rain and thunder didn't stop her hearing the drumbeat of their hooves on the ground. To tell the truth Maggie Brown had been half expecting them ever since leaving Windsor: Acheriders, the dread horsemen who served the Prince of Darkness.
They would have but one purpose: to stop her reaching the Palace. They would die rather than fail in that mission.
Which meant there were plans afoot to kill the wee lassie.
The thought spurred her on. She leaned forward to whisper in the ear of her mount, Helfer, echoing John Brown's words to her as she left (his last words to her? Her sweet John Brown? Her rock? She prayed not), 'Make the wind your minion, Helfer,' she breathed, 'ride hard.'
She released the reins, holding the horse by his mane, pressing herself hard to his body so that she could feel the muscle and sinew working beneath her. She felt him increase speed. 'God speed you, Helfer,' she whispered, holding him close. Breath billowed from his nostrils.
Now, what did she know about the Acheriders? That they were half-entity, half-horse, usually hunted in packs of three and only ever under the cover of darkness; that they fought using swords forged from the reconstituted and hardened bones of their victims, and that each subsequent kill only increased the strength of their weapon, which could literally suck the life from your bones; that she had never met one in battle, but had heard it told that there were only a handful of mortals who had done so and lived. Those that had survived spoke of great swordsmanship, cruelty and low cunning and that the only way to defeat an Acherider was to stay on your horse. To sacrifice your seat was to die.
And there was one other thing that she knew about Acheriders, God help her.
That they were fast.
In Royal horsemanship circles, Helfer had a reputation for speed that was second to none-why else would Brown have chosen him but for his swiftness? But was he as fast as an Acherider? Three of them? She pressed her face to her mount, breathed in his scent, made herself one with him, her beloved horse.
