The First House

by Robert Allwood

  First published in 2019 by Amazon Publishing

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  © Robert Allwood 2019

  The right of Robert Allwood to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ISBN: 9781080154500

  Cover illustration by Mirella Santana © 2019

  mirellasantana.com.br @mirellasantana3

  Map illustration by Djinn Black © 2019

  @djinninthebox

  For my family, and everyone who believed, thank you.

  "For, as you know, no master of a household

  Has all of his utensils made of gold;

  Some are wood, and yet they are of use.”

  – Chaucer

  Part One

  The Sun

  – London, Winter, 1771 –

  On the anniversary of her mother’s death, Lady Eleanor Saville, wife of Lord William Saville, gave birth to twins. Everyone was bound to the mansion on that day: staff, well–wishers, Lords and Ladies, no exceptions. However, by late morning, those bound had grown tired of waiting, cleaning, or worrying. Written in the house’s official records, it was “…a day of anxiety and nervous talk among staff…” the more senior of which simply kept themselves busy, lips sealed, faces askance. Upstairs, in the afternoon, Lady Eleanor Saville found herself rolled into bed, water broken, her upper body strapped under thin blankets, and her breasts covered in modesty. The boisterous midwife and her dour assistant busied themselves around her, preparing cloth, dishes, water and instruments of labour.

  Hours later, when the contractions quickened, and the cramps came full force, Eleanor smoothed her matted hair back and gripped the mattress. As it built ever upwards and needles sparked under her skin, Eleanor gritted her teeth, her face condensed in agony. Under suggestion, she raised her legs further still, and wandered her gaze onto the ceiling. She screamed fiercely at nothing. The pain itself rose to a crescendo; it strangled her body with hot ropes of agony that felt as though she was being torn in two, and wished she was. With a final cry, and enormous relief, Eleanor finally gave birth. For a moment, she turned her head towards the window and noted it was a frosted yellow sky, the colour of soured milk. The first child, Sophia, came through stubborn and crying. She screamed until rubbed down with soft cotton and nestled in brushed fur. Seconds old, and yet already used to the finer things in life. The second, Sarah, came when the storm finally broke over the Darkwater. It shed sleet, blew chill wind, and bore glum thoughts. This child arrived quiet and content. The only signs of life were two curious oval eyes that absorbed the details of everything around her.

  When Eleanor’s daughters were together with her, the peace was greater than she had imagined. She held them, one in each arm, to her covered breast and nuzzled them before the nervous gathering present. The staff each in turn gave their blessings, and left mother and children alone to bond, to see to the needs of Lord Saville (who took dim view of these matters). That night, she slept snug with her two winter children. She dreamt of strange things: pale men in grey cloaks, a golden warrior melting, a ship of fog, a tower cracked by sun. She saw a coast dominated by a single oak crowned by bright coloured pennants. If she couldn’t sleep and see these portents clearly, Eleanor would sing songs which her mother had taught her in secret, old songs of a young witch, who falls in love with a thief, and carries on their bloodline of women lucky enough to escape the witch hunts.

  Women who could shape the fortunes of many, but could not divine their own.

  The Emperor

  – Lamb's Wharf, London, 1777 –

  Certainly, it was becoming more apparent that errant thoughts in his mind were the bane of progress; slippery muses that eluded his mental grip, that convinced him he was going mad in some small way. But, every time he woke anew, he found that they always faded into the aether, going to the same place all ideas that were never written down go. He rubbed his worn eyes, scrubbing the sleep from their corners. Today, as with yesterday, his mind would not be still, it fired and sparked, greedy for action. He found that the only remedy for such a cascade was to put plans into motion, or so his father had told him. Rest in peace, dear father.

  Lord Percy Turner sat up with his dream still on repeat in his mind. It was of the city around him, and its preservation. The city was many things. It was the key of the world, a monster of stone and industry, a haven for all people: paragons and rogues, queer and plain. Parasites. He loathed, no, hated, seeing it bleed. The culture, the money, the politics, thrown onto the butcher’s block and diced into tidy morsels. The interference of the Crown, and the foreign squeeze from west and east had cumulated into its degradation. He shuddered, and almost wept for his fair Lady London.

  Percy took water from a basin placed on the night stand and drew apart the curtains. It was just after dawn, and at what thin light bled into the master bedroom, he smiled.

  A soft knock at the door. 'My Lord–lady Isolde is here.'

  Percy nodded at nothing. 'Succinct. Show her the study Harris – and bring a small breakfast also.'

  'Will you be eating with the lady my Lord?'

  'No – but, see that she is refreshed.'

  'Very good my Lord.'

  Percy washed, dressed himself and scented his clothes. A delicate little ritual. What silly rules and regulations he followed as a person. He smiled again. Just a normal man in here, he thought, out there I'm importance. A rule to follow. Not so silly, not so small and delicate. A title, a name. He sighed and balled his fists. No more of this. I must stop listening to nonsense. The plan must have focus. I must rescue my city.

  He walked slow on purpose, a chance to play out greeting Isolde in his mind. Another change to his posture or speech, and another juxtaposed–on top. In his experience, it was always best to lead a conversation, rather than be second. Go on the attack. You have advantage. You direct the converse, the flow of words. Power. Rules. Regulation. Silly. Little. Words. Percy stopped before the threshold of the room and straightened his back.

  Isolde sat in the study, at study, with one of his books folded open neatly in her lap. She had grown into a singular young woman. Always on the verge of being insolent from what he remembered of her; a victim of a sad and lonely childhood. However, she also brought about a fascination. The way her quick eyes noted lines and marks on your face, the way her character was apparent in every motion her body produced; a creature of natural charisma. Isolde's hood fell back further as she realised Percy. Her alabaster hair was tucked tight into a bow. She rested two fingers across her cheek, the other hand balancing the book on her belly. She did not rise.

  'You truly have the most interesting works, Lord Turner,' she began.

  She was first to speak then. 'You can keep it, if you like. I've no time for reading as of late, my lady.'

  Percy frowned as the minx winked her flat brown eyes at him. For a second, the briefest moment, he saw exactly what she was thinking, and knew, he had lost all advantage in this conversation. She could probably spar with the best of them. He laughed at the thought as the butler brought his meal. A small sausage, delicate toast, a little glass of coffee. Isolde, in turn
, watched Turner eat with the most neutral expression on a person she had ever witnessed.

  'Hungry?' he asked.

  Isolde straddled the chair, hoisting herself up and replaced the book back in its rightful spot. She ignored him.

  'You've brought me here.'

  'I did,' he said.

  'Why now?'

  'To save London from its detractors.'

  'No. I know that; I received your letter. I want to know, why now? After all this time Lord Turner – after what you've given me.'

  Percy finished eating. He chewed before washing down the toast. 'You're an investment girl. That's what you are. You have a magic with people. A talent of speech. When I found you –'

  '–when you discovered me.'

  'Discovered. You were alone, destitute, hopeless.'

  'I was whole. I was at peace.' Isolde scowled.

  'You were delirious. Do you remember?'

  Isolde shook. She wrapped her arms around herself. 'I remember sun. I remember a field. I spoke to someone; he gave me fire.'

  'And that sounds like insanity Isolde. And yet here you are, years later, at my invite. You could have been locked up in Bedlam for your own safety.'

  'An investment.'

  'Correct. That old church you now reside in serves a larger purpose than just–’ Percy waved his hand ‘–for you to enjoy at my expense. I've spared you from an impoverished life, a beggar's life, now you return the favour in helping me. But the premise is simple.'

  'And what do you need from a thief like me?'

  'To steal back my London, piece by piece.'

  ✽✽✽

  Isolde shook her head as Percy sold his idea to her. To her, it was akin to selling fireplaces to Spaniards during summer. They were going be partners; not a business, but something sinister–a cult? A following? He spoke of an organisation, a gang, with its own twisted religion, its own rules. It was unlike anything Isolde had heard of. It was genius desperation, a mad man's thoughts condensed with a drop of imagination to taste. London was being torn apart, or so Percy had surmised over the past decade. He was madly in love with it, a mother–city, one that gave life and meaning to the English. He reviled those that made her bleed, that cut and torn at her flesh; those that ate away at the trade, the liberties, the people. He spared no grisly metaphors from his rhetoric.

  Percy wanted London pure again. Fresh. To steal it piece by piece, home by home, street by street, person by person, coin by coin. He wanted to make it his own, and shape it into whatever God required him to shape it into. A haven of the disillusioned? The centre of the world? Isolde had her own thoughts on what ulterior motive the mad Lord had, and doubted his faith in God and Heaven was as strong as he made it out to be. After everything had been said and his small breakfast table cleared, Isolde looked at her employer with a skewed expression. Percy was a thin man – with a thin blond moustache and arrogant eyes. He folded his fingers together as a spider hugs its prey.

  'Do we have an agreement?'

  Do I have a choice? You’ll keep hounding me until I die white man, she thought. 'I'll do as you ask.'

  'Wonderful! Can we just–'

  Isolde extended a finger in warning. 'I'll do as you ask—until the plan is no longer viable.'

  'Meaning?' asked Percy.

  Isolde drew herself close, her voice flat. 'When we fail, when it all fails, you will not see me again. I’ll disappear into the aether.'

  'Oh, on that I can agree, miss Isolde. I will be in touch,' smiled Percy, his lips taught.

  ✽✽✽

  When Isolde had left, sweeping up her dress, her eyes fixed on the exit, Percy relaxed his shoulders. The meeting had almost gone as well as he had imagined it, that is to say, it was neither the very best result, nor the worst. Still, he could not trust her. Too many thoughts inside that woman. Too much independence. He did not need independent minds for the short term, only a sense of his plan in motion, the wheels set in traction. He noticed her expression changed when money was involved. He had his tower to spread this false religion of his, a base of operations, and, on the other side of the Darkwater, Isolde had her dilapidated church as her own. She was to recruit, indoctrinate and train thieves, and he was to see the wealth that accumulated secured away, or invested, to be used later as capital to buy up London. A treasurer of sorts. He scoffed, and retired from the study.

  Percy donned a jacket and hat, nodded to his butler and walked outside. In the low mist that lined the roads and streets, he pulled his collar up from the chill and flagged a coach. The driver, rough shaven and sullen around the eyes, doffed his cap.

  ‘Saville mansion.’

  ‘Yes, my Lord,’ replied the driver, and goaded the horses immediately.

  Saville mansion, on approach, lay squat and awkward among wet leaves, crumbling stone walls, and spools of ivy left to choke the path. As the carriage rounded the entrance–Percy took stock of the view from the hill past a copse of ash. The fog had cleared, and now London peeked out, towers and steeples first, then chimney stacks, and finally tall houses made from bright red brick. Rooftops were glazed and darkened, like the bark from a tree after rainfall. He asked the driver pause, got out before the mansion proper, and bid the driver collect payment from his house. Percy breathed the morning air in deep. Cinnamon clouds sprawled above, as the sun crowned the sky and licked the firmament; birdsong and the crunch of wet pebble beneath stirred some long–lost memory in him, but of what, he couldn’t tell.

  Inside, the mansion was sparse, humble, and spotless. It reeked of age and whispered of austerity. Much like William in fact, he thought. Lord Saville appeared at the top of the grand staircase, footman in tow, deep in converse. Percy coughed ever so gentle.

  ‘Ah Percy.’ William waved the footman away, duties to attend.

  ‘William,’ they shook. ‘Faring well? No doorman?’

  ‘Let go for pastures brighter. I need the funds for a new expedition you see; these jollies are never cheap.’

  ‘Well, and two daughters, I imagine you’re being careful with the pennies.’

  Both smiled at each other.

  ‘How goes it Percy?’ William asked, his voice lowered.

  Percy gestured at the reception next to them. William nodded and took a key from his pocket. ‘I have to keep my books safe. Especially from Sarah, she’s a trouble–maker.’

  Percy simply grinned. Slowly, as if not to wake anyone, William closed the door behind him and locked it. ‘Whiskey?’ he asked Percy.

  ‘Please. Just a touch.’

  Two glasses were poured, and two men settled into leather armchairs. ‘So, tell me. What about my legacy?’

  Percy stirred the gold scotch in the glass and sipped. ‘It goes well. I’ve taken on an old accomplice to split the work involved in half.’

  ‘Trusted?’ William asked.

  Percy drank the rest of his whiskey. ‘Trusted. Handpicked.’

  William nodded, and rubbed down his beard. He picked a large tome off a table, that lay in front of a modest fireplace. ‘This,’ he held the book high, ‘is my magnum opus. It’s yours now Percy.’

  Percy shook his head, brow furrowed. ‘What is it sir?’

  ‘A guide. One, that I have worked on for most of my life. I will not be around forever for advice; we both know this. It will show you how to divide those who seek to harm Her.’

  ‘And control London from within.’

  ‘Precisely my friend.’ Said William.

  Percy took the book in one hand and shook William with the other. The two men held eye contact for a time longer than felt normal, but imparted more meaning between them than words could justify. This was goodbye. This was finality. This was his legacy, and now mine to see through.

  With that, Percy walked out of the mansion, his head upright, his step confident, and errant thoughts silent.

  Death

  – The Isle of Rocks, Summer, 1778 –

  On an overcast morning when Sarah Saville woke with one of her
mother’s songs stuck in her mind. The tent flap had been left open, and now a warm breeze came through in gasps, as though the wind had lungs and breath to use. Sarah shuffled in her blankets and looked at her sister, who was already awake, and being fussed over by the nanny.

  ‘Sarah, you’re next. Come on now, feet first, out of bed,’ said the nanny, her mouth full of bobby pins, and hands ready to work.

  As Sarah stood there, her hair knotted too tight and her cheeks scrubbed too hard, she adopted a dark scowl. Sophia giggled alongside her as they wriggled into their brown frocks and polished boots. Sophia looked as tired as she felt. From their conversation last night, neither of them had a good sleep, but neither were in the mood to close their eyes and surrender to the day. This voyage to her father’s imaginary island was the highlight of their fortunate lives thus far, a rare glimpse of a world without wooden halls, chalkboards, and dour tutors. It had induced an excitement of treasure and monsters that had generated endless questions and queries mostly directed at the exasperated staff.

  Yesterday, their ship, The Lion’s Tail, had weighed anchor in a natural bay. It was a musty old thing, with creaky planks and cramped cabins that rolled unceasing in the Westland Sea. Their father had noticed a lack of sea legs in his daughters, and in his own gruff way had shown them how to steady their feet and shift their bodyweight to the rolls. On deck Sarah had overlooked the crags and beaches with wary metropolitan eyes. For one sailor it was: “…an odd place. Compared to London, little Miss, you’ll find it a miserable part of the world. More sheep than people, more rain than sun, but blessed on the days when it does shine, I suppose.” She asked if there was a Christian mission, but all the sailors she asked crossed themselves and turned their eyes heavenward without explaining why.

  Out of the tent, clean and brushed, it was not until they saw their father that the sisters straightened their spines and walked in trained step, a mask of respect on their faces. Lord Saville slouched on a stump; he had a gun in hand, his long white beard twitching in the wind. Sarah could see he was in that distant concentration of his, the one he used when something was being explained to him, but did not want to appear completely ignorant. The polished catch of the musket flipped up and down in smooth action as the sergeant beside him instructed its use.