The First House

by Robert Allwood

  ‘What about money for food and upkeep? Or work? How can you afford to feed all of us?’ Victoria asked him.

  With careful hands, Cyrus pulled out three shining ingots of gold from his breast pocket. He gave them to her, his hand squeezing hers. ‘Sorry for being away for so long.’

  ✽✽✽

  After a night in his armchair, Cyrus gathered himself and went upstairs to his reticent love. In the conversation that followed he took note of three things he had to do to make good on their relationship: one, make sure Gold had an allowance, sustenance, and her room was draft–free; two, find supplies and space for a nursery; third, appropriate names for the children, as their mother was not present. After Cyrus clomped back downstairs, he pecked Victoria's cheek, and waved goodbye to Gold. He walked out into the street for a carriage; his journey to Lamb’s Wharf quick and merciful. Vagabonds, whores and military men littered the closer he came. He saw anti—Crown graffiti splattered on walls. The Day Watch held back crowds with their batons held high as they met out violence. He thanked the driver as he disembarked. Ahead was his business; on a yellow hill stood a church with sandstone buttresses and pearl gravestones. The doorman recognised him on sight. He lifted one arm.

  ‘Domine dirige nos,’ said Cyrus.

  The doorman did not smile, but nodded. Cyrus patted himself down and adjusted his cloak. Inside the reception, it was cool. Vaulted ceilings, studded with the friezes of rogues, immortalised by their greatest heists. Murals of thunderclouds, bronze-clad bandits and geldings embossed the opulence. Dogtooth tiles lead the eye up to the halls that made up the Church’s dodecagon. Up ahead the lesser hall, one of twelve, crowded with hoodwinks. Alongside was the second hall, filled with highwaymen. In each hall the rank rose, but the men and women of ill repute dwindled. His hall was the tenth, reserved for spies. A rotund room with carpeted floor and trophies from parts of the empire; it was candle lit with thick curtains that blocked out the day. Contrasted with the muddy dignitaries’ hall, it was white washed pristine. Pink and yellow marble highlighted the skirt and the doors beaten copper. Cyrus looked over a fireplace he had seen in this room once before. Two lions supported pillars on either side of it. Mounted above the fireplace was the symbol of their service, a great rose surrounded by halos. Each represented a year of success. Splotches of wine matted the carpet beneath in places that made the threads stand stiff. Fresh patches still had their bright red colour; older ones had grown darker with age. While he had been gone, there were new stains shed in delicate patterns on the fireplace itself. Small spirals soaked into the pink stone. It looked as though some effort to scrub or soak the wine out had taken place, but failed.

  ‘You mix wine and men in one stuffy hall and they expect civility? It’ll be crimson by the year’s end.’ Cyrus noticed the familiar faces of Simon and Charlotte, or Red and Ghost as Alex had christened them. They were his forced recruitment back into a world of organised crime. Red was young and radiated an incipient worry, while Ghost was prone to laugh at any given time. However more wrinkled Ghost’s face had gotten from the previous years, her eyes still shined. ‘Oh, doesn’t matter if you spill your wine here Charlotte, it matches the carpet well,’ stated Red.

  Cyrus gave a cautious laugh.

  ‘So how was the journey? How is our Ladyship and her offspring? You do look like a man with too much green on his nails,’ demanded Ghost, striking a finger to Cyrus’s chest.

  ‘More to the point how are the children? Are they well? Notice anything different?’ said Red. ‘Isolde is aching to know.’

  Cyrus put both hands up in mock surrender. ‘The journey south was fine, until we were attacked and Lady Saville injured. The children are sound; nothing strange about them than you or me.’

  ‘We did hear of the attack. Hard to ignore the rumours,’ said Red.

  ‘And the… magic. One of the sailors let slip about Lady Saville,’ added Ghost.

  ‘If so, then I must be able to do my job with some insurance. There are forces against us.' Said Cyrus.

  ‘We cannot spare anything; you must realise this Cyrus,’ said Red.

  ‘You have brought us vital information, and you lose your bottle at this junction?’ Ghost demanded.

  ‘No, I have not lost anything. Sarah Saville did have an immaculate birth, a miracle.’

  ‘So, she says.’

  ‘So I say. But her twins are normal. No witchcraft. No geese shitting golden eggs.’

  ‘And the whereabouts of these miracles children? Do you know Cyrus?’

  ‘Why do you care?’

  ‘Because, you surely realise there’s reward enough for you. We can make a future with Victoria a reality, for example,’ said Red. Cyrus wetted his lips.

  ‘Perhaps the opposite can come about Cyrus, and it’ll all be taken away. Think on it,’ Ghost intoned. ‘Our Mistress is here with an offer. Will you meet with her?’

  Red and Ghost both smiled with thin lips and left him alone. Cyrus allowed an aide to him shown the thoroughfare into the central twelfth chamber. It circled around the first foundations of the church. Flagstones around him had been lain before Cyrus was born. It served as memorial and tomb, each previous Master buried underneath. From a single marker, shields of citrine and marble spread out towards pews lined with red leather. Amber light reflected off bronze spears that lined the walls. Polished lions adorned rails with highlights that caught admirers off-guard. He shivered. The aide moved to close the second set of doors that led into the chamber. The stones below radiated a chill that tickled his chin. Doors leading to the tenth hall slammed shut. A woman appeared before him, one he knew well, she nodded as he approached.

  ‘Now here’s an ideal place without interruptions,’ said Isolde. ‘No more banal talk with thugs; just two people in converse.’

  Cyrus folded his arms. His jaw tensed, teeth ground on one another.

  ‘Our newest agent Cyrus. I haven’t seen you since your little jaunt across the sea.’

  ‘Isolde.’ Cyrus sighed. ‘What would you have of me?'

  ‘Nothing so bad, cheer up.’ Cyrus’ face darkened. ‘While Percy is wasting time on that island, you’ll report to me now sir.’

  ‘I thought you were in collusion with each other.’

  ‘Yes. But I did warn him it would fail eventually. I’m only hastening the process. As soon as Lord Percy Turner is removed from his power, only then will London flourish. This city can never go back, it can never be what he wants it to be. Our future is diversity. Have you not embraced this philosophy yourself?’ Cyrus rose to argue but his mouth stalled. ‘Like most men your morals are rotting inside you. A man, child, or woman’s wellbeing is a right. A price cannot be placed on it, no matter how small the world makes it. This I strive to uphold. The lowest group of people shall obtain equal power to the highest. For a building without a foundation is nothing, and a city without its people is nothing. I trust you get the point,’ Isolde fanned herself with one hand.

  Cyrus regarded her. ‘I get the point. And what do you need me to do?’

  ‘Good. You need to placate Sarah Saville’s sister, Sophia.’

  ‘Sophia? Why?’

  ‘She’s powerful. Half of the Saville fortune split with her. She has the most connections and breeding, an ideal person to raise Sarah Saville’s daughters.’

  Cyrus swayed on his feet. ‘You want me to give up those children? For what?’

  ‘Safekeeping Cyrus. They’re special, and as soon as Percy hears wind of what has befallen Sarah Saville and her miracle children, he will seek them out. He is desperate and wants every advantage he can get.’

  ‘Surely he’s a rational man? How can children, babes at best, win back his London?’

  ‘You’ve seen Sarah Saville cast a spell?’ Cyrus mumbled yes, he had. ‘Can you imagine the control Percy would wield if these children came of age, and were under his influence? There are not many children left who are born of witchcraft, and fewer still who are born from nothing. I want them sa
fe, nothing more sir. Just as much as you want your Victoria to be.’

  Cyrus paced for a short while. His hands smoothed down his face, and rubbed away the stress from his sockets. ‘How on God’s earth do I convince a Lady to accept two babies for her own?’

  ‘You can try bribery, coercion, or threats Cyrus. Take your pick. But, I, myself would choose desire.’

  ‘Desire? What do you mean?’

  ‘Perhaps if you offered them plainly,’ said Isolde.

  ‘And why of all things does the affluent Sophia Saville desire children?’

  ‘She cannot have them herself.’

  ✽✽✽

  Cyrus sat occupied. He was drunk. Gold, beside him, sipped a cup of watered wine that brought a flush to her cheeks. The Lily was clean. It had respectable clientele, and even doormen that strong–armed undesirables back onto the streets. He wondered if they counted down the hours until closing when inevitably they would hoist some fat toff off a table and stuff him into a waiting carriage.

  ‘So, you’re keeping secrets from Victoria?’ Gold smirked.

  Cyrus raised his head and smoothed his hair. ‘Did you follow me today?’

  ‘Mayhap. But if it’s a job, and one you’re doing now, then why don’t you tell her? She must have asked about the ingots.’

  ‘Idiot I am. That’s all the money we have. And now we are with two children and an adolescent.’

  ‘Many have suffered worse. That woman is a blessing for you, don’t ever forget it.’

  Cyrus closed his eyes and drank more of his pint.

  The inn filled with more bodies until a thrum of conversation and laughter prevailed. Interest focussed on Sophia Saville who arrived with entourage. She was tall, taller than her sister Sarah had been, with thin doll legs. Her hair was earth-smoke from her crown, which melted down to auburn curls. Her dress was a sheet of burgundy, with silver buttons arrayed in a fleur on her chest.

  ‘I’ve got an idea,’ said Gold. Cyrus felt his shoulders sink and his hands fidget. ‘Become a freeman like my father.’

  ‘Become a privateer!? I shouldn’t have let you come.’

  Gold shrugged. She scratched her borrowed blue dress; the stitching fell in places around the arms. Sophia walked up to their table. She stepped in noble precision, a glass of white ready in her hand before she announced herself.

  ‘Black accented with black; you must be Master Cyrus? I received your letter to do business. But you must be brief with what you want to say.’

  Cyrus shuffled to his feet and clapped his heels together. He bowed; Gold stood after and curtseyed.

  ‘Shall we get down to it?’ Cyrus asked.

  ‘We should indeed.’ Sophia smoothed herself onto a chair. Her smile turned patronising.

  ‘And shall we talk of business?’

  ‘With the girl present?’ said Sophia.

  Cyrus pawed at his hands. Gold looked as innocent as he was at her age. Words ground thick as rocks on his tongue; he found useless lies and excuses fizz to the front of his mind. He knew he needed only a whisper for Sophia to accept one of the children. For her to commit to murder was only an embryo in the back of his head. It would take more than truth and bribery. He would need to trap her with honeyed words.

  ‘You’re right. Gold please move to the table behind us.’

  Gold huffed, but moved. They waited until she had settled.

  ‘Your daughter?’

  ‘Yes, she is.’

  Sophia sniffed and sipped her wine.

  ‘Must be wonderful to have a daughter. Do you treat her well? Spoil her?’

  ‘As my only one, she is everything to me. There isn’t a daughter more doted over her than she is.’

  ‘Really? Well, shall we talk about the younger ones? I can see from your daughter’s dress there isn’t much money in your life.’

  ‘There are two. Twins—each only over a year old, nothing wrong with them.’

  ‘Girls?’

  ‘Yes, they are. Tragic the way they came to us.’ Said Cyrus.

  ‘Oh? Do tell. What’s the story?’

  Sophia’s lackeys left her. She sighed; her head propped with an open palm. With darting looks she made sure their conversation was private enough. Cyrus imagined her as a cautious feline, with all the skittishness coiled under the surface.

  ‘A disaster with a ship; it came upon rocks during a storm.’

  ‘Ghastly.’ Replied Sophia.

  ‘There was a thunderstorm above our village. We could see the sea filling the hold, the ship had to break onto rocks or sink. Gold and I found these children in a rowboat, still alive. The day had hardly broken; the sun was still cold.’

  ‘And you live on the coast? Are you a fisherman by trade?’

  ‘A shipowner Lady.’

  Sophia shrank back, her brow folded. ‘A wife?’

  ‘No just me and her.’

  ‘I see. What brings you to London?’

  ‘To see you my Lady, I know you are in want of a daughter, and I can scarcely feed the four of us.’

  ‘A coincidence in my favour.’

  Cyrus felt his shoulders tighten, his jaw bunch. ‘No game my Lady. No jape. I heard from a rumour and took a chance. It you wish to keep it private I will honour it.’

  Lady Saville scowled. One hand rose to cover her chin in thought. ‘It is done then,’ she said. ‘I will look after only one of the orphans. She will be well fed, well–watered, with the finest education a child can receive. A boast none other can make. You take your pick of the two. The other will be in your care. I’ll send a nanny to pick her up in the morning with payment. Houndbarrow was it?’ She made a move to leave.

  Cyrus leaned in close to her. ‘Can you suffer one more favour my Lady?’ he whispered.

  She smiled at him. ‘Ask.’

  ‘Let me see her when she comes to term, or at the least speak to you of her, to put my mind at ease.’

  Sophia waved her hand up. ‘If you must. You’ll meet her at my estate, when she is a woman. Make a note of it, and bring your own daughter. I’m sure both of you will find country air the better.’ She swung her dress from over her legs and left. After she left, Cyrus took up one hand and wiped away the tears still falling on Gold’s face.

  ‘You heard everything?’

  Gold nodded. She wrenched his hand away and left. Cyrus sat alone, his face a dichotomy of regret and relief.

  Part Two

  The Star

  – Winter,1822 –

  Flakes of snow had worked themselves into her hood for the past hour. The cold chilled the sweat that had built on her brow as Elena pushed through a rough path to the inn. She paused to soak in the quiet and stillness of the valley. Sun–kissed white hills curled up to meet bruised clouds. It had been two weeks since she had fled London. In those two weeks of travel on foot she had never felt more exhausted. She trod on to the inn, through frozen grass and glassy puddles of mud, grasped its iron knocker and pushed the door open. She regarded the innkeeper with his hunched back and fat cheeks. He looked harmless. Straw and sawdust were strewn on the ground which soaked up the mud and snow, and a raised platform led to a roaring fire pit where a woman and a girl perched on benches were deep in talk. Wood–smoke permeated the air and funnelled out through an open hole in the roof. Behind the counter a creaky staircase joined with private rooms.

  ‘Anything to drink, please,’ Elena croaked.

  She shook and her belly grumbled. The Innkeeper gave her a worried nod and poured from a bottle into a cup. She paid and found an inviting nook with its own curtain. It was a warm booth, rank with sweat and wax, the walls a comfort after exposed travel. Carved niches were filled with gods and goddesses, each with a statue or candle placed in them. The seat beneath was worn smooth from many a traveller. She let out a sigh and the tension from her shoulders dropped. Her eyes closed, her mind recalling the worst year of her life. The only want, the only desire she had, was to get away from it all. This dread had muddied her mind, made her awa
re that some of her actions were not her own. A frown knitted itself across her brow; memories broke her concentration. Blank faces, half–begotten smiles, noise void of context, locations and rooms without reference. As Elena had another vision of a young woman who whispered to her in a dark room, she drifted into the sleep that her body craved.

  Before long she felt a vibration run through her mind that jerked her into waking. She spilled what remained of her drink. The inn was beginning to be an increasing bad idea to stay, nowhere was safe. Peering out a window, she saw a man, tall with a thin build, his face unshaven. She could see that his narrow eyes were searching the sides of the tavern, not the front. His clothes were tight fitted. He wore leather and heavy boots, and a dagger in his belt. A black hood lined with fur covered most of his head, which looked superior at keeping the cold out than her jacket. Elena felt a bubble of panic, the two patrons and the innkeeper had vanished, she presumed, upstairs. There was no obvious cellar to hide in. In her panic her boots knocked at a plank joined at the front of the counter which revealed a priest hole.

  The thin man waited with snow falling onto his furs. The Innkeeper, his wife and daughter had fled as soon as they saw him, running off in the opposite direction to get help. Surely, he didn’t look that intimidating? The mountain air had now started to make his muscles tired and stiff. Alex sighed. Breath escaped his mouth and faded into ether. His hands fingered the dagger he wore at his belt. Alex’s world had crumbled since The Tail had battled pirates on the south coast. He recalled tumbling over the gunwale after he struggled with a boarder twice his size and weight. Although the plunge into the water was warm, and the sea shallow enough, he swam like a frightened dog. Half–drowned and half–pummelled, Alex reached the shore with the South Sea still in his lungs and stomach. From that beach he spent a week travelling north until he could find a town large enough to hide and ply his trade. It was a month before his ribs healed, a further month before his ankle was strong enough to support his weight. He wasn’t sure if Lady Saville was alive after he saw her collapse from the first cannonade. He wasn’t sure if Cyrus was alive either. Taking the situation in his stride, Alex discovered, to no doubt, that it was easy to be a thief in Port’s Mouth, the businessmen were trusting and lax. The doubt came from something new; a feeling that Alex had never experienced before in his life. The town had charmed him. It felt right. It was not London; the air off the Westland Sea was rich and fresh. People in the town were happy, they actually smiled at him without an ulterior need. They were mollified by dazzling summers and mild winters that hardly saw snow or ice. Alex slowly, and with healthy scepticism, became used to the coast. Inch—by—inch the sea accepted him and sedated his urban attitude. Bad memories of his childhood and of the Tower, quashed in acquiescence of a simple life. He felt revived, mind, body, and soul.