The King of Shadows, page 10
“Close.” After a moment of silence, Hudson decided to elaborate. He stared at the lantern as he spoke. “My first wife … lost the child. And herself, soon after. I think she passed away mostly from the anguish of it, and for all the strength I am so proud to possess I had no power to help her out of that bed. Then … it wasn’t such a pressing need anymore.”
“The travails of life,” Falkenberg said, and he reached for the jug. “We are but travelers on the tide, Hudson. Blowing before the wind. We think we are in charge of our direction, ja? But who knows where we might end up?” He took a long—very long—drink. “The others,” he said quietly when he was done, his gaze cast down at the floor and half his face in shadow. “Battencourt … Lanier … deMarco … Stanhope and Captain Gauthier. Do you know what became of any of them?”
“I saw Jack Stanhope … I suppose it was ten or eleven years ago, in London,” Hudson said, easing into it. “Just a chance meeting, there on the street. I gave him some money.”
“Was he in need?”
“Yes,” Hudson answered. There was no need to elaborate that the dashing and exuberant young man who could play the violin as well as he could run a Dutchman through with his blade had been reduced to a half-blind street beggar plucking crooked fingers on a two-pence fiddle.
But somehow the Death Angel knew that it was a story best left untold, for it was his nature to read the lines in a man’s face as much as from the book of Revelations. “I miss them all,” he said. “All brave, all true. We were there when we were needed, Hudson. We did the dirty work for the kings and the bishops, while they stayed clean at home. But we found a beauty in it, did we not?”
“A beauty?” Hudson asked. “In war?”
“Of course. And don’t deny it, gudden. We were made for such. It is in our souls. The beauty of it: sunlight on the shining helmets of the cavalrymen as they advance, the red blasts and rolling blue smoke of the cannons, the sounds of the rows of soldiers as they are struck down on all sides by the fireballs like fields of grain before a giant scythe, the crash of a thousand swords in mortal combat and the sight of a tattered flag gripped in the hand of the last man standing. Ja, dirty work for the kings and bishops, but we soldiers knew a beauty in the work well-done, the orders followed, the fortress taken and the enemy set to flight. Is it not true?”
“I think,” Hudson said, “that you’ve been away from it too long. You’ve forgotten the mud and the blood. You’ve forgotten the horror of it.”
“Sometimes I hear them,” Falkenberg said, with the jug at his lips. “The trumpets and the drums. Don’t you?”
“Sometimes I wake myself up with a snore and a fart.
Does that count?”
Falkenberg gave a small smile and drank. “I do hear them, Hudson. They seem to be never very far away from me.”
“Then you stay very far away from me,” Hudson said. “I served my time in that particular hell. The money was earned and spent. I moved on. If there’s any beauty to be found in what you’re remembering, it’s that you and I got out with both arms and legs, both eyes and our jaws still attached to our faces. I saw many whose idea of beauty would be a self-inflicted bullet to the head and an end to suffering.”
“What did your Shakespeare write about beauty?” Falkenberg prodded. “This: ‘Beauty is bought by judgement of the eye.’”
“And one I recall, on memory,” Hudson answered. “‘Like one who having into truth, by telling of it, made such a sinner of his memory to credit his own lie.’ That’s from The Tempest. It’s the only play I thought was worth a damn.”
Falkenberg’s mouth, wet with rum, yet held the small smile. “Touché,” he said.
Back and forth clashed the rapiers as the men fought across the pitching deck. Hudson was aware that at the edges of his vision members of the crew had gathered around to watch this uncommon spectacle. But his focus had to be on the combatant at hand, for age had not daunted Brom’s speed, strength, or stamina, whereas he felt himself undeniably flagging. To counter the oncoming weakness he feinted to one side and darted in at the other, only to have his blade almost disdainfully pushed aside, and having to quickly retreat from a thrust at the groin he tripped over a wooden bucket like an ox-footed hobjohn and nearly fell on his rooster.
If his opponent wished this to be the soldier’s way, then let fly! And to emphasize that rather desperate thought, Hudson dared to drop his defense long enough to pick up the bucket and throw it at the Death Angel’s head.
When Brom had easily dodged the makeshift projectile, he gave a wide grin that almost made the new sun glint off his front teeth. “There’s the Hudson I used to know! Now to the point of it!” And once more came a flurry of strikes to the left and right, a feint up the middle, a circling, and another quick tease of a feint at Hudson’s legs which caused him to jump back like a scalded dog. In the midst of all this strenuosity Hudson felt the sweat on his face and his strength ebbing, the rapier as heavy to his arm as a barrel of bricks, his heart pounding, his breath ragged, and here advanced Brom Falkenberg again to administer not only a thrashing in front of all these men, but a reminder that Hudson Greathouse was a poor puffing shadow of what he once had been.
This affront to his dignity inflamed Hudson. His cheeks reddened and his mind reeling at the truth of the matter, he struck aside Brom’s next two thrusts and advanced with the intent of cutting at least his first initial into the other man’s ruffled blouse, yet found his blade blocked with a shoulder-jarring clash and himself once more on the retreat as Brom pressed in.
Clang, clang, clang was the music of the rapiers, and never was Hudson so distraught at knowing this particular symphony was nearing its end with him unable to get through Brom’s defense no matter how he came at it: slyly or forcefully, feinting or circling, lunging or sidestepping, thrusting at any of the four quarters of the body. Every positive move was denied, and every mistake his weary arm was making brought on a thrust he was barely in time to turn aside.
He retreated once more to give himself space of thought and action … and just that fast, Brom was upon him. The Death Angel pushed forward from the front foot, launching himself into the air in the fleche maneuver which made him a human arrow in flight. And just as fast, a rapier point was suddenly pressed against Hudson’s chin at the center of his beard.
“Which side shall I shave first?” came the question.
Hudson’s sword dropped to his side. He stood breathing heavily while Brom made two gentle cutting flicks to right and left, no inch of flesh touched in the demonstration of superiority.
Someone began to applaud.
Matthew, who had come up on deck for his own walk and heard the swords clashing before he saw the contest, turned to see who among the group of crew—including Captain Brand, Stroud and Tallow—was showing such appreciation for the arts.
“A magnificent entertainment,” said Maccabeus DeKay. “Thank you for that.” In addition to his white suit trimmed with gold he wore a white tricorn with a gold-colored band. Matthew reasoned that the wax mask, however solid it was, needed the tricorn’s shade as protection even against the early sun’s rays. In response to DeKay’s response, Stroud and Tallow took up the applause, as well as the other crewmen, and Brom Falkenberg lowered his sword from Hudson’s chin, saluted the onlookers with it and gave a little stiff-backed bow.
When Matthew looked at Hudson again he saw that the Great One’s mouth was open as his eyes took in his first appraisal of their host.
“Don’t fret, gudden,” Brom said with an easy smile as he took the rapier from Hudson’s hand. “Someday you’ll learn how to use a sword.”
“I’ll know next time not to let you get the sun in my eyes.” This was spoken to Brom, but Hudson still stared at DeKay with what Matthew suspected was a mixture of both fascination and downright curiosity as for one of those unfortunate deformed creatures set center stage at a travelling carnival and made to prance around in a white wig like Lord Ascot of Ascot Manor.
“Mr. Greathouse.” DeKay came forward, parting the assembly to either side. He got up close enough for Hudson to make a thorough inspection of the half-face, half-mask, which Matthew surmised was the point. To Hudson’s credit, he wore the same composed expression as if he’d been addressed and approached by one of his dearest louts at the nearest tavern. “I understand you and Brom have been comrades.” DeKay’s speech was somewhat crimped by the wounded mouth beneath the mask, but not overly so.
“We do go back a distance,” Hudson said. “Imagine my surprise.”
“Well-imagined. And well-contested, too. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen Brom have to work so hard to get a sword where he pleases it to be.”
I’m not up to snuff today, Matthew expected Hudson to say … or some such thing because it would be true. He didn’t think the Great One had handled a rapier since giving him long and grueling lessons at the beginning of Matthew’s association with the Herrald Agency. But Hudson—still with the same unperturbed expression—said, “He’s a great swordsman, no doubt. But I can drink him under the table twice a night and thrice on the Sabbath.”
“Oh, so that’s why Brom asked for the key to my rum cabinet. I see.” The gold eye with its crimson center turned upon Matthew, as Captain Brand and the other crewmen began to move away to go about their duties. “Good morning, Mr. Corbett. Sleep soundly?”
“To the hiss of the sea serpents,” Matthew answered. “I had to do a little writing before I slept.”
“This young man has a brain,” DeKay said to Hudson. “He should go far in life. Brom, would you do me the favor of looking in on both the professor and Adam this morning? They might wish not to miss breakfast. Also inform the professor that if he continues to refuse to eat, we have a ready throat-funnel on board.”
“Yes sir.” Brom gave Hudson another small salute with the winning sword, to which Hudson responded with a look as if he’d just bitten into a sour pickle. Then Brom turned away and went off to do his master’s bidding.
“A soldier,” said DeKay, again regarding Hudson with eyes both genuine and false. “You look the part. Brom tells me it was the Dutch War?”
“It was.”
“I am of a younger generation than yours. Not by much, perhaps ten years or abouts, but I don’t recall many details of that conflict. My father and I had other concerns.”
“Your father?” Hudson’s eyebrows went up. A small ripple crossed his mouth before he spoke again. “I’m sure he must be very proud of you.”
After a moment of hesitation, DeKay said, “My father has passed away. I believe he is in a much better world than this one.” He moved forward until the tip of his tricorn touched Hudson’s forehead, but Hudson stood his ground. “You must realize,” he said quietly, “that a tongue can be trimmed as well as a beard.”
The statement hung in the air. The only movement was Hudson’s slow blink, as Matthew thought his friend would indeed become shark bait before the morning was done.
Then DeKay stepped back, his right hand came up and a forefinger stabbed Hudson’s chest. “But I like you, Hudson! You show admirable spirit. And Matthew here shows he has good common sense. So let us all behave as civilized gentlemen, and we shall get through this last month of travel as decent companions.”
“I’m for that,” Matthew blurted out.
“Sir?” Captain Brand had approached them. Behind him, toward the stern, stood the two dripping wet crewmen who’d been hauled up from the drink by their ropes. “A word, please?” He motioned for DeKay to follow him. The master of the Nemesis gave a pardon to Matthew and Hudson and strode away, both he and the captain going back for a conference at the stern.
“Careful with that one,” Matthew said when DeKay was out of earshot. “And what’s going on back there?”
“Brom told me there’s trouble with the rudder.” Hudson clasped a hand to his aching right shoulder. The sweat had not yet dried on his face and his shirt was damp under the arms and across his back. “A ‘magnificent entertainment,’ wasn’t it? No.” He held up a palm in front of Matthew’s face. “I make no excuses and want to hear no notes of excuse on my behalf. Damn bastard’s ten times the swordsman I ever was. The Death Angel! Fie on it!”
“The Death Angel?”
“What he was called among the mercenaries. He used to sing before going into battle, and his voice is as good as his sword. Damn, I’m going to pay for this all day!”
Matthew thought of reminding Hudson that his use of the rapier had been negligible in the last couple of years and this being cooped-up aboard ship for months was not exactly a training-ground for the art of soldiering, but he let it go in favor of not incurring any displacement of Hudson’s obviously simmering anger.
“All right.” Hudson turned to face the white-capped waves. “What’s the plan?”
“The plan?”
“You always have one, don’t you? As that person said, you have a brain. So let’s hear what you’ve come up with.” When Matthew hesitated for lack of brain power in this particular situation, Hudson said, “I figure I can work on Brom. Maybe get him on our side. Find out where they keep the guns. The only ones we’ll have to worry about are Stroud and Tallow, and we can take them, so—”
“So you,” Matthew interrupted, “will wind up in several bloody pieces, and I will have to figure out a sensible plan alone when this ship reaches Venice. Falkenberg’s paid too well to leave the side he’s on. You know that, so stop fooling yourself. Comrades then, yes. Now: the friendly prison guard. There’s my plan.”
“Oh? What?”
“Survival,” Matthew answered. “Breakfast will aid us in that. Are you coming?”
Hudson gave a heavy sigh. For a time he kept staring out at the empty ocean, and then he said, “I suppose they’ll let me do some fishing.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“The food’s not bad.”
“In fact,” said Matthew, “the food is very good. We will sail along with the current and the wind, taking whatever enjoyment out of this as we can, knowing we could both be dead and might yet be if we don’t just …” He hesitated, thinking.
“Just what?” Hudson asked.
“Just follow Fate,” Matthew replied, thinking that what was sound advice in the era of Plutarch was also equally as sound in the era of Corbett. “I hope there are biscuits again,” he said to Hudson’s blank expression. “Those are excellent with the apple jelly.” And without waiting for the Great One to decide if the plan of no plan was valid or not, Matthew went off to the nearest hatch to get his morning taste of survival.
Nine
Matthew knocked on the wall beside where the door to Professor Fell’s cabin had been before it was taken off its hinges. By the light of the single oil lamp within that gloomy domicile he could see the professor sitting in a chair, just sitting there with a few books on the table at his side, his gaze fixed upon the blank wall opposite.
Matthew knocked again. “Professor, I’ve brought you some supper.” He held up the tray supported in his left hand, but Fell gave no response. Matthew turned his attention upon Tallow, who occupied a chair next to the empty aperture. “Is he going to be guarded like this, twenty-four hours a day for the next month?”
Tallow stared up at him. Under the spiky reddish-blonde hair beneath the low forehead the man’s bulbous eyes made Matthew envision a malignant toad squatting on a rotting lilypad in the midst of a cesspool. Fell was indeed guarded in this fashion by Stroud, Tallow or another of the crew in several-hour shifts. Matthew doubted that the onerous duty was shared by Falkenberg, who seemed to be DeKay’s right-hand man and in charge of the other two. It was clear that the lamp within was a matter of concern, that Fell might use it to set the cloth of his hammock aflame or even his clothes, and so the lamp was lit by his keepers and the tinderbox removed, the guard sitting alert—supposedly, though it was hard to tell if Tallow wasn’t asleep with those bulging eyes open—for any nefarious activity or scent of smoke. They did give the professor some books to read, and it was out of any iota of humanity in their thorny hearts that they allowed him a light at all, for the cabin was as dark by noon as by midnight.
“I’m going in,” Matthew said, but again there was no response from either of the waxen life-sized poppets that shared the scene. He crossed the threshold and stood before Professor Fell. “Some supper for you,” he repeated. “Fish stew, biscuits and a cup of water and lime juice. Where shall I set it?”
No movement, no reaction.
“You need to eat something,” Matthew went on. “It’s important to keep your strength up.”
The tight line of the mouth quivered, just a fraction. Then: “Important to whom?”
“To yourself, most of all. Anyway, there’s a very able cook aboard. You won’t be—”
“Take that slop out of here,” Fell said.
Matthew hesitated, and then answered firmly, “I will not. I’m going to put the tray down. If you choose to paint the walls with this meal, that is your extremely unwise decision. I would at least recommend that you drink the water and lime juice.”
“Bring that food out here if he don’t want it,” Tallow croaked.
Fell’s arm whipped the books off the side table and sent them flying across the room. “Fuck you,” the old man said to his prison guard, which brought forth a gurgling laugh as if issued from the cesspool’s thickest depths.
Matthew put the tray down. Upon it the fish stew was held in a wooden bowl, there were two biscuits, the water and lime juice was contained in a wooden cup and there was a wooden spoon to eat with. Matthew had taken the liberty of adding a cloth napkin from the galley’s cupboard, even though the napkins were marked with the gold-script initials MDK. “There you are,” he said. “Eat it all, you’ll feel better.” He started to leave but was stopped when Fell gave his own harsh bark of a laugh.
