The King's Beast

by Eliot Pattison

  “Tell me,” he said to Nettles, “the night at the Lick, was Ezra still saying his prayers when you killed him?”

  Nettles grinned. “Some African gibberish, with his head lifted toward the clouds. Between that and the rain he was deaf to our approach. The major had picked up one of those leg bones from a buffalo or such.”

  “Which he used to knock Ezra senseless.”

  “I still had to get in that damn pit with him. What a slop hole. First the major had me pound that letter down his throat. He actually came to and struggled while I was doing so, but by then he had no real strength left.”

  “I didn’t understand how you found his wife.”

  “She found us. A feisty bitch, that one. She must have seen us and run out from the edge of the forest, grabbing her own bone for a club. She actually laid the major out in the mud, but she wasn’t watching me. It was the simplest thing to reach with my dagger from behind her.” Nettles gave a sinister grin over his shoulder. “Tender flesh that, like butter under my blade. She called out Ezra’s name and tried to crawl to the pit as she bled out. I couldn’t have another body in the mud, too many questions, so I had to carry her back to the trees.”

  By the time the wagon rolled onto the stone flags of Westminster Bridge the link boys had fallen away completely, clearing the path. As Nettles turned his back to Duncan, steadying himself with one raised hand gripping a bar of the heavy cage, Duncan reached into his pocket and began inconspicuously loosening the knot in the cord that held the Roman dolphin charm that Xander had given him. He touched the ancient fish, then touched his own totem pouch and the bone of the incognitum.

  “A fine night, McCallum,” Nettles chided. “I’ll have a woman or two and a bottle of gin at the end of this road. You’ll have your new cage at the earl’s lodge.” He made a gesture toward the starlit sky. “Enjoy it, Highlander. Probably the last time you’ll see it.”

  The guards on the bench laughed. One of them began sharpening what looked like a skinning knife. As the second guard produced a jar of ale from under the bench, Duncan caught Lewis’s eye, then nodded downward to the pin that secured the cage. The ensign cocked his head, then slowly nodded.

  “What are those drunken fools doing?” the lead outrider barked and spurred his horse forward to investigate a commotion farther down the bridge. Moments later he wheeled his mount and sped back behind the wagon as he fumbled for the pistol in his belt.

  The Westminster Bridge had been built for one lane of traffic in each direction, but now two large cargo wagons, each hitched to a team of heavy draft horses, were accelerating toward them, side by side.

  “Not the time or place to be racing, damn them!” the driver spat. The man who had drawn his pistol shot into the air to discourage the oncoming teams, to no avail, and the driver swerved their wagon up against the side of the bridge, scraping the low railing, in an attempt to make way for the oncoming wagons. “Blessed Jesus!” the driver gasped as the oncoming teams passed under a light.

  A man was standing on the team that raced directly toward them, a foot planted on the back of each massive gray horse. No, Duncan saw, not a man. A ghost warrior, an Indian whose chest and face were painted white, and who swung an Iroquois war ax over his head. As the racing wagons passed another set of lights, Duncan saw that they were being driven by Sinner John and Darby.

  Nettles’s callous shell shattered at the sight of the phantom. “Dear God, that demon found us again!” he shrieked. “Shoot the thing!” The lieutenant seemed paralyzed at the sight of the warrior he had last seen on the Atlantic, flying out of the night sky to attack Hastings. Three pistols fired in quick, frantic succession, none of them striking Ishmael, now crouched for his attack, still balanced on the horses, who themselves had a ghostlike appearance. Their broad nostrils were flaring and a rumbling sound like a wild battle cry came from the massive animals, adding to the eerie effect.

  “Banshees!” one of the guards shrieked and leapt off the back of the wagon, fleeing back toward Whitehall.

  Most of the guards kept their wits and were calmly reloading their guns. Nettles now raised his own pistol, meaning Ishmael faced an onslaught of bullets at close range. The lieutenant, still bracing himself on the cage, seemed not to notice as Duncan wrapped and tied the cord around Nettles’s arm, binding it to the cage. He carefully pried a finger around Nettles’s lanyard. “Now!” he shouted to Lewis, then jerked the lanyard off Nettles’s neck as the lieutenant aimed his pistol.

  Duncan had fleeting images of pistols firing wildly, of Ishmael dodging a sword held by one of the riders, of the war ax slamming into a man’s head, of Lewis popping out the anchor pin, and of Sinner John standing with a club in one hand and his reins in the other. Duncan wrapped the lanyard with the key around his wrist and then, with a fleeting touch of his totem, thrust his arm around Nettles’s neck and threw his weight against the side of the cage. Nettles struggled in stunned surprise. Then, with a mighty heave to lift Nettles’s full weight toward the top of the cage, and another shove against the side, the cage tipped. The shift in weight tumbled it out of the wagon and over the narrow bridge rail. Nettles’s startled cry was choked off as they sank into the Thames.

  Duncan knew he had but seconds in the black water. He ignored Nettles’s flailing against the cage, confident that he would not free himself from the tight knot. He took the heavy key in his fingers and with his other hand felt for the lock. A flash of pain shot up from his right side and to his surprise he understood that Nettles still held his dagger and was tearing into his flesh.

  The strong current tumbled the cage as it sank. Nettles’s thrusts grew weaker, and too late did he turn the dagger to the cord that bound him to the heavy iron. Duncan fumbled in frantic desperation, then suddenly realized he was searching the wrong side of the door. His lungs searing, he found the lock as with a shudder the cage hit the muddy bottom. In an instant he had the door open. He glanced down to see that Nettles had been pinned underneath the cage, his limp hand drifting toward Duncan. Duncan grabbed the dagger from it, then kicked toward the surface.

  Strong young arms reached out as with his last ounce of strength he flung his upper body onto the landing stairs below the bridge. “The Roman fish saved him!” a boy cried out. “Don’t lose him now!” As he began to slip back into the water, three pairs of arms dragged him onto the second stair, then pulled his legs out of the river.

  “Mr. Duncan has avenged Robbie!” someone shouted, and with great effort Duncan pushed himself onto an elbow to look into Xander’s astonished face. He had a hard time focusing on the boy. The pain in his side was ripping him apart. “Blessed Jesus, his life blood pours out!” he heard another boy cry. His world blurred and he faded into unconsciousness.

  Chapter 20

  FOR THE CHILL, HIGHLANDER,” A scratchy voice muttered, and a strong arm pulled him up against something hard. Duncan shook his head, then groggily accepted the cup of tea from Sinner John. He had a vague memory of being lifted into a wagon by a horde of boys who had climbed in beside him. Now he lay shivering in the stable behind the Neptune, with blankets covering his legs. Nettles’s dagger lay beside him.

  “Xander says ye avenged wee Robbie,” Sinner John said.

  “The Horse Guards lost a barn and a lieutenant,” Duncan replied, raising a sad grin on the stern face. “His killer is buried in Thames mud. He’ll do no murder again.”

  Sinner John touched the wooden cross that hung around his neck. “The Lord works as the Lord wills,” he intoned, then added in a whisper, “and may the bastard feel the fires of hell for all eternity.”

  Duncan tried to push up, then groaned at the stab of pain in his right side. “I can’t stay here,” he said.

  “And you can’t go farther without your wound being treated,” said a voice from the shadows. Patrick Woolford stepped into the light of the lantern that hung on a nearby post. “They won’t recover their senses until morning,” he said. “And as far as they know you are dead. Again.”<
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  “But when they do recover their senses this will be the first place they look to confirm I am truly gone. Milbridge will want a body. And we can’t be sure they didn’t spy me climbing out of the river.”

  “I was watching from the bank,” Patrick said. “I ran up the bridge after the melee, as if I had been passing by. Two men with broken arms, two with broken heads. And most of them half convinced they had been attacked by ghosts. No one saw you climb out of the water. They were too shaken.” He shook his head. “Very few who fall into the Thames survive the strong current. And a man in an iron cage has no chance at all. His men will insist you are dead, else they will be earning the wrath of the earl.”

  You will die, again and again.

  “I put everyone in danger,” Duncan said, and once again his effort to rise was overwhelmed by the shredding pain in his side.

  “We have a few hours to find you a hole to hide in. First we have to clean you up.” As Woolford spoke a soft laugh came from just outside the barn.

  “I need more light!” came a feminine voice. A second link boy appeared with a lantern, illuminating Ishmael standing in a washtub, shirtless, having his white paint scrubbed off by Lizzie the chambermaid. Ishmael met Duncan’s gaze and rolled his eyes, then pointed to his ear. As Darby bent over him, wiping blood that was dripping onto his shoulder, Duncan put his hand to his own ear and it came away bloody. He had almost forgotten that Nettles had sliced off a piece of the lobe.

  “Nicked yer lug, eh?” the bosun remarked. “No matter, just the mark of a warrior.”

  “I must admit I was startled when I saw those teams racing toward us,” Duncan said as Ishmael stepped out of the tub and began drying himself, resisting Lizzie’s efforts to help. “How could you—where did the wagons come from? And those massive horses?” His voice faltered as Patrick lifted his shirt, sending a white-hot splinter of pain up his side.

  “The same teamsters who helped move the bones,” Ishmael explained. “Except Sinner John and Darby wouldn’t let them take the risk of driving. By God, Duncan, I thought we’d seen the last of you when that cage fell off. How is possible you could survive such an accident?”

  “It was no accident. It was my one chance to escape and eliminate Nettles.”

  Ishmael’s eyes widened in astonishment. “You meant to throw yourself into the river? But we were moments from releasing you!”

  “They were reloading their pistols. All you had was a war club. You were riding into close range. They couldn’t miss.”

  “At least four of the devils felt the blow of my club. I so wanted to use the spike end of the club, but Patrick warned me off fatal blows. When the rest saw you and Nettles had vanished as if into thin air, they were stunned. All the fight drained out of them. “Duncan—” Ishmael’s emotions overwhelmed him for a moment. “I was certain I would never see you again in this world,” he said, and clamped his hand around Duncan’s shoulder.

  “It was the only chance I would have to kill Nettles. If you had closed with him, he would have used his dagger on you. He had to die. He admitted to killing Ezra’s wife and child, and to helping Hastings kill Ezra. He boasted of killing Robbie.”

  “So obviously,” Woolford sighed, “you had to push yourself into the Thames in an iron box.”

  “I was certain it would be the end of Nettles. I thought I had a fair chance of surviving since the key was in my hand when we hit the water, and of course—” Duncan didn’t finish his sentence, just touched his totem pouch, which they both knew contained the spirit of an otter, invincible in the water. Woolford seemed about to argue, but after a moment he just shook his head and touched a lump protruding from his own shirt. The deputy superintendent wore a totem pouch himself, at the insistence of his Mohawk wife.

  Clenching his jaw, Duncan instructed Woolford to hold up his shirt as he blindly probed his wound, but the effort ended in an anguished gasp. “Hold him down,” came a worried voice, “and bring another lantern or two.”

  Duncan opened his eyes to see William Hewson kneeling at his side, cutting away Duncan’s shirt as Woolford explained how he had received his wound. Darby moved behind Duncan and clamped his shoulders with his powerful hands.

  Hewson gave a despairing groan. “You let yourself be stabbed in the filth of the Thames?” he said to Duncan. “God knows what contamination we will see!” The doctor leaned closer. “That settles it,” he said to Woolford. “He must come to my operating theater, and once there I will need some strong arms to hold him down.”

  “No!” Duncan protested. “It is too dangerous for you!”

  “Too dangerous for you not to do so,” Hewson retorted. “I must bathe the wound in sulfur water. Your muscle wall needs internal sutures before I can attempt the twenty or thirty external ones. I am afraid you will need some of that famed Highland fortitude, my friend.”

  “That, good doctor, comes in the form of a smoky amber liquid. And I pray you have enough for all of us,” Woolford said.

  As they lifted Duncan, the pain drove him beyond consciousness again.

  He had a dull recollection of worried voices all around him, of calls for hot water, rags, vials of laudanum, whale oil lamps, mirrors, and a longer needle. Someone growled, “Damned well hold the lens steady!” He was lifted twice to gulp down whisky, but the coughing that followed brought more agony and afterward only laudanum was used.

  When Duncan finally awoke Benjamin Franklin was sitting beside him, staring at Duncan while leaning both hands on his blackthorn cane. “Are you still with us, lad?” the inventor asked.

  Duncan could only manage a weak nod.

  “Excellent,” Franklin said, then added in his matter-of-fact way, “William says if you don’t die in the next twenty-four hours you will be fine.”

  “Dr. Franklin,” Duncan said in a hoarse voice, and coughed again. Franklin raised a cup of water to his lips. “In twenty-three hours,” he started, then drank again.

  “Yes?” Franklin asked, leaning closer.

  “In twenty-three hours please send over half a dozen Leyden jars.”

  Franklin gave a low laugh, then wiped at his eyes and patted Duncan’s shoulder with paternal affection.

  “You have to go,” Duncan said. “They may still be following you.”

  “Nonsense. I told your friend Woolford—a capital fellow, by the way—that all that fuss must have been about your feud with Ramsey, with the Earl of Milbridge. If he thinks you are dead, then of course all the blackguards will be called off.”

  “They still want to stop your meeting with the king.”

  Franklin chuckled again. “But they don’t know what I know, Duncan. We are nearly in!”

  “In?”

  “Nevil has asked the king for a private meeting to review His Majesty’s transit observations. The king is well aware that he stumbles in explaining them and Nevil says they shall make notes together for use when he is in the banquet halls of his hunting trip, where his hosts will surely ask about June third. It is the perfect angle of attack, don’t you see? The king is too embarrassed to reveal his shortcomings to anyone but Nevil, so Nevil is confident the king will accept. We propose to meet at sunset, four days before his royal ball, because everyone knows he cancels all appointments for the three days before one of his grand balls. He will be in high spirits.”

  “There’s much to be done, then.”

  “Not for you. For you it is rest and recovery. Ishmael and that man Darby say they have a secret place to take you.”

  “If we were in Mohawk country, we would have you in a lodge, Duncan,” came a familiar voice. Patrick Woolford stepped off the stairway that led up to Hewson’s kitchen, holding a steaming cup. “With cedar smoke and poultices of moss and spiderwebs.”

  “And the old women would be singing to the gods,” Ishmael said, appearing behind Woolford.

  “Sounds like paradise,” Franklin chuckled, then moved aside for Woolford to help Duncan with his tea. “Conawago always says the Iroquois fo
cus on curing the spirit,” Duncan recalled, “because once the spirit is cured the rest will follow.” He looked up with an expectant glance at Ishmael.

  “I still have to go to Bedlam every day,” the young Nipmuc said.

  “Don’t worry about me,” Duncan said, putting a hand to his head. He was feeling dizzy. It was the effects of the laudanum. “We will make the sailing of the Galileo,” he added, not because he had any confidence he could, but because Ishmael needed to hear the words.

  “And don’t forget the ancient one,” Franklin said. “He is still here, lying nearby.”

  “He?” Duncan asked.

  “The ancient one,” the inventor explained, sounding like one of the tribes now. “Ishmael told me. The incognitum watches over you.”

  They had found the closest thing to a tribal healing lodge in London. The walls of the corner room at the Faulkner manor held drawings of Iroquois spirit masks, in the best approximations Woolford and Ishmael were capable of. A small ceramic bowl held smoldering cones of pine incense. On the stool beside the bed were draped the white wampum beads that Ishmael had held after settling Duncan into the bed, telling the tribal spirits that Duncan must recover to help save the only living Nipmuc elder.

  On the third day his new physician arrived, carrying a piece of strudel wrapped in linen. Heinz Huber clucked his tongue as he lifted the dressing over Duncan’s wound, praised the precise sutures, and began asking blunt, insistent questions about Duncan’s bodily functions, then asked to see his chamber pot.

  Duncan managed to push himself up into a sitting position with only a dull ache from his side. “Henbane,” he said as Huber finished his examination.

  “I found a Flemish broker in Billingsgate who had a new shipment,” the German doctor reported. “I doubled my inventory.”

  Duncan nodded at the news, then looked out the window over the wet slate roofs, weighing one last time an idea that had been taking shape during his bedbound days. “You said something about Vikings using henbane.”