Fortune's Fools

by Paul Tomlinson

  Sheldrake sat on his haunches and watched Lord Eòghan’s last breath bubble out through lips and throat. He hugged his knees and rocked back and forth, shaking with silent laughter. Recovering himself finally, Sheldrake stood and shrugged off his cloak.

  He seized hold of Eòghan’s hair and tried to drag the corpse back into a sitting position, but the burden was heavy and slack, and would not be easily moved. Sheldrake licked his lips and set his shoulders, steeling himself for the task at hand. He gripped the sodden fabric of Eòghan’s robe and lifted him, setting him in a sitting posture like some oversized toy.

  Sheldrake straightened to ease his back a little.

  Eòghan slid sideways to the ground, determined to vex Sheldrake even in death.

  Sheldrake knelt and wrapped his arms around the body, hugging Eòghan to his breast like a lover. The gore was beginning to thicken now. Keeping the corpse’s back pushed against the wall, Sheldrake slowly slid him into a near upright position. His face was only inches from Eòghan’s clotted beard, and the death smell of blood and shit filled Sheldrake’s nostrils. He swallowed, and staggered with his burden, sitting Eòghan on the window-ledge.

  “Oh dear,” Sheldrake said. “It seems that the fool will fall from the window after all.” He pushed Eòghan backwards.

  Eòghan’s shoulders became wedged in the narrow space.

  Sheldrake pushed again, but the corpse remained firm like a stopper in a bottle. Sheldrake stepped back and cursed several of the gods by name. “Why is it that you cannot allow me such a simple victory?” he demanded. “Is it too much to ask?”

  It seemed that it was, for Eòghan’s corpse began to lean forwards back into the room.

  Sheldrake cursed again. He balled his right hand into a fist, and a vicious upper-cut caught Eòghan under the chin. There was a sharp crunch of teeth breaking, and then the corpse tilted backwards. Eòghan’s feet left the floor. Sheldrake watched as the body disappeared slowly out through the window.

  There was a distant thud as Eòghan hit the cobbled courtyard below.

  Sheldrake hurried towards the window, intending to peer down at the shattered body below. But his foot slipped in a pool of blood, and he found himself falling towards the window. He spread his arms to prevent himself pitching head-first after Eòghan. His left knee came up against the stone wall under the window with a force that made Sheldrake cry out.

  Sheldrake wrapped his cloak around him to hide the worst of his gore-stained clothes, and limped back to his room in the Guard House to change. Already he could hear the alarm being raised upon the discovery of Eòghan’s body.

  *

  “Why would anyone kill Lord Eòghan?” the lieutenant asked. He had hammered on Sheldrake’s door with news of the tragedy, and led him out into the courtyard.

  Lord Eòghan’s body had been covered with a cloak. The Guardsmen were searching the castle and would eventually reach the top-most room of the east tower and discover its grisly tableau.

  Sheldrake raised an eyebrow. “Many men have reason to hate their lord. There are those who might feel that he has judged and punished them wrongly or over harshly. There are those who will believe that they have been taxed too heavily. There are those who would wish to take his place. Need I go on?”

  “But even so...”

  “It is a bad business, all right. Locate the gatekeeper and question him regarding any strangers seen entering the town in the past week. We will have our contacts among the criminal fraternity make enquiries...”

  “Sir, it is not yet dawn. The murderer cannot yet have left town: if we begin searching now, and keep the gates locked until we are finished,” the lieutenant suggested.

  “No. We would need warrants to search the houses of the wealthy townspeople. I do not have the authority to turn this town upside down.”

  “Declare an emergency and impose martial law,” Lieutenant Walcott urged. “That will give you the authority you need in Lord Eòghan’s absence. We’ll search every house between now and midday, and hand over the assassin to whoever replaces Lord Eòghan as town governor.”

  “Mobilise the whole of the Guard and have them rampage through the town in search of one man?” Sheldrake said. “There would be an outcry, and protests made to the King.”

  “Sir, we must act before the murderer’s trail grows cold! If we fail to apprehend the murderer of Lord Eòghan the consequences would be...”

  “Lieutenant Walcott, I am...”

  “Soldiers do not sit around and wait for some informer to perhaps give us the name of the assassin,” Walcott said. “If you do not give them orders to unearth this murderer, they may well go after him of their own accord. Direct them, do not thwart them. Or you may find yourself without men to command.”

  “Are you threatening me with mutiny, lieutenant?”

  “No, sir. I am advising you to order swift action and take control of the situation. Lord Eòghan is dead, and the Guard have no commander: you must prove yourself their leader, you cannot rely on the automatic loyalty of these men.”

  “You are describing mercenaries, Mr. Walcott,” Sheldrake said.

  “They are paid to be soldiers. We must allow them to do what is necessary. There is an enemy in our midst, and he must be found and stopped. Action must be taken,” Walcott insisted. “The shock of Lord Eòghan’s death will also cause unrest among the ordinary townspeople, the situation is bound to be volatile.”

  A young Guardsman hurried towards them, saluted and stood nervously at attention waiting to be acknowledged.

  “Thank you for your opinions, lieutenant. They have been duly noted, and will be considered. In the meantime, you will carry out my instructions: locate and question the gatekeeper immediately. Have notices posted offering a reward for information relating to this killing. Word is also to be passed to whatever contacts we have within the criminal element: find out if any rumour circulates there. Are my orders clear?”

  “Yessir!” Lieutenant Walcott saluted stiffly.

  Sheldrake turned towards the young Guardsman. “Well?” he snapped.

  “We – we found this, sir,” the young man stammered. His face was ashen. “In a room at the top of the tower.” He held up the fool’s blood-stained staff. “There was a lot of blood, sir.”

  Sheldrake turned and called after Lieutenant Walcott: “It seems the men will have their hunt after all,” he said. He held up the fool’s staff: the painted face now seemed even more like a skull.

  “The fool?” Walcott seemed unconvinced.

  “Can an assassin not disguise himself as a fool?” Sheldrake asked. “What better way for a stranger to gain proximity to Lord Eòghan?”

  “The fool...” Walcott repeated.

  “Find him,” Sheldrake ordered. “A bonus for the man who brings me Eòghan’s murderer, alive if possible.”

  “Yessir!” Walcott snapped an enthusiastic salute and hurried away.

  Sheldrake smiled.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The second performance of Phantom from the Underworld went gone much more smoothly than the first, and the pace was much brisker. The sword fight between Anton and Edison was not quite as intense as that of the previous night, but still the audience seemed to enjoy it. And there was bigger crowd, as word of the spectacle on offer had spread through Sangreston. Hopes were high for even better attendance on the following two nights. Doran had even heard a rumour that Lord Eòghan was going to request a performance in the castle for himself and Lady Julianne. Anton suspected the theatre-owner had seeded this gossip himself, in the hope it might reach his lordship’s ears, and prompt him to make it true.

  Varian would be off-duty soon after the play ended, and Anton quickly removed his costume and wiped away the make-up, wanting to get away before the night’s celebrations got underway in the Siren’s Head. But then came word that all Guardsmen were being kept on duty because of an incident at the castle. Varian’s message was brief, giving no other details, and Anton didn’t know ho
w often the Guard had to deal with something like this – but the news made him uneasy.

  Needing quiet in order to think, Anton sneaked out into the walled garden at the side of the Siren’s Head. He paced along the weed-strewn path between the neglected bushes, trying to order his thoughts. And all the time feeling that a terrible thing had happened while he was on stage.

  Having heard the extent of Sheldrake’s ambitions, Anton had felt an obligation to do what he could to thwart them. He had believed the fool would act as a visible deterrent. Some nights, the fool patrolled the castle corridors, his wooden sword in his hand. On other nights he slept on the floor at the foot of his master’s bed. He would turn up in the kitchen expecting to be fed. And once he had appeared on the parade ground and marched with the soldiers. Anton thought that if the fool appeared to be a constant presence in the castle, popping up in unexpected places at all times of day and night, Sheldrake would remain in constant fear of discovery. In time, he might even abandon all thought of replacing Lord Eòghan.

  But time spent preparing for the play, and the performances themselves, meant Anton could not be at the castle the whole time. And now he feared Sheldrake had taken advantage of his absence. If he wanted to know what had occurred at the castle, Anton could wait for Varian’s return – or he could go to the castle himself.

  Anton perched on top of the wall and stared up at the castle. A small window on the first floor lay open, as it did most evenings. The wall up to it looked smooth, but it offered hand- and foot-holds for anyone foolhardy enough to attempt to climb it. Anton wore his fool’s outfit, and was barefoot, the huge brown boots fastened together and hung around his neck by the laces. He ran silently along the wall and leaped across to gap. He hung there a moment, just a shadow against the stone in the pre-dawn light, and then he began to climb.

  He gripped the frame of the window with one hand, reaching up with his free hand to find a secure grip inside, and then pulled himself up and in.

  The castle was quiet now. Lord Eòghan’s bed chamber was on the opposite side of the landing where Anton sat, pulling on his boots. He would be visible from the hallway below when he crossed the landing, but if he adopted the fool’s shambling gait, he knew his presence would not arouse suspicion. He stood and peered over the edge. He could see the foot of the stairs and part of the hall, and there was no one there to see him.

  The door to Lord Eòghan’s room was closed. Anton stood outside and listened. Silence. He gripped the handle and turned it slowly; the well-oiled mechanism opened with the gentle snick.

  Lord Eòghan lay in bed, sleeping peacefully. Lady Julianne’s side of the bed was empty, but she had a chamber of her own on the other side of the corridor, so her absence did not strike Anton as unusual. His lordship did not stir as Anton closed the door. He would curl up in the blanket on the floor at the foot of the bed, as the fool had done on many nights previously.

  Anton moved closer to the bed, thinking it would be more comfortable to lie down on the vacant side of the mattress. Lord Eòghan was lying on his back, hands on his chest, and had not moved at all. Anton peered more closely, and saw that the covers were not even stirred by the movement of breathing. He reached out to touch Eòghan’s hand, and drew his finger’s back quickly: the flesh was cold. For a few seconds, Anton didn’t move, and then a sigh escaped him as the tension leaked from his muscles. He was too late to do anything for Lord Eòghan, and now needed to think about his own safety. Lacking his lordship’s protection, the fool might quickly fall victim to another of Sheldrake’s plots. It was time to put aside the motley and take on another role.

  Anton opened the bed chamber door and looked out. Seeing and hearing nothing, he stepped out and closed the door behind him.

  “Only a fool would return to view his victim.” Sheldrake’s voice.

  Anton turned. “Is that why you are here?” he asked.

  “I am not accused of the murder,” Sheldrake said. He leaned casually against the balustrade, the point of his sword resting on the ground, his hands resting on the pommel.

  “Not yet,” Anton said.

  “Lord Eòghan did not believe the word of a fool – do you think anyone else will?”

  Anton glanced about him. They were alone on the landing, but he was unarmed, without even the fool’s wooden sword to defend himself. This was no time for subtlety. Anton threw himself forwards and down. Surprised by the suddenness of the attack, Sheldrake struggled to raise his sword, but the quarters were too close. Anton ducked and wrapped his arms around Sheldrake’s upper legs, lifting him and pushing him backwards. Unable to save himself, Sheldrake went backwards over the balcony. His sword clattered to the hallway floor twenty feet below. With one hand, he managed to grasp the edge of the balustrade, holding on with his fingertips, his legs dangling out over the drop.

   “Help me!” he said.

  Anton crouched on the balustrade, looking down and wondering whether he should step on Sheldrake’s fingers and let him fall.

  “Please?” Sheldrake said.

  “Did Lord Eòghan plead for his life?” Anton asked. He jumped down and walked away, leaving Fortune to decide whether Sheldrake lived or died.

  “Guards!” Sheldrake shouted.

      

  “The master’s horse is stolen!” A shout from the castle stables.

  “It has not passed this gate,” a guardsman said to the first of the searchers.

  “Then it must still in the empty stall,” the stable boy said. “If it didn’t pass this way, where...?”

  A cry went up inside the castle, and the sound of hooves on stone echoes around the courtyard. Lord Eòghan’s dappled-grey mare mounted the front steps and entered the castle through the main doors, the fool clinging to its back. The horse galloped off down an internal corridor at break-neck speed. A mass of red-uniformed guards swarmed after it like angry ants.

  Another group of guards appeared at the end of the corridor, pikes pointing forward, blocking the way. The horse was pulled up by its rider, and directed left into the main hall. The two groups of guardsmen converged and flowed through the archway into the hall.

  The horse bounded up onto one of the long dining tables in the lower part of the hall, a rear hoof sliding as it tried to gain purchase on the glossy wood. White scratches and the shapes of iron horseshoes were left in the varnish as the horse clattered along the length of the table.

  A guardsman stopped and took aim, loosing the bolt from a crossbow towards the fleeing rider. The bolt tore through the fool’s shirt, grazing his upper arm.

  Reaching the end of the table, the horse leapt across the gap between the table-top and a ground floor window. The diamond-leaded pane shattered, sending fragments of glass and lead out into the courtyard. Horse and rider followed close behind. Landing heavily, crushing glass under its hooves, the grey mare took off towards one of the courtyard’s open stone staircases. Guardsmen and other staff hurled themselves away from its path. Seconds later, the horse and the fool appeared on the walkway that ran along the top of the curtain wall.

  Uniformed guards swarmed up the staircases all around the yard, heading up onto the top of the wall. The fool was laughing wildly, keeping just ahead of his pursuers, and seemed intent on riding the entire circuit of the wall. Several men appeared in front of him, but they were too few to halt his progress, and he rode straight at them. One leapt out of the way too late, and was sent tumbling over the side of the wall, crashing into the roof of the stables below. Another stepped aside and swiped his sword at the fool as he galloped past: the blade drew blood from the rider’s leg, but the horse didn’t slow.

  The grey mare passed under the archway, and emerged on the other side without its rider. Guardsmen converged on the spot, bearing torches, swords drawn, but their searches found no sign of the fool: he had vanished into nothing.

  Anton limped up the stairs to his rooms above the inn. The right leg of his breeches was stained with blood, as was the lef
t sleeve of his shirt. He had returned to the castle intending that his fool-self would continue to watch over Lord Eòghan, but found learned that he had arrived too late. And worse, that the fool was being sought as his lordship’s murderer. There was little doubt in his mind that Sheldrake was behind all of this.

  Anton dropped the fool’s clothes onto the bed: he would have to burn them shortly. He sat down heavily, tugging off his boots and then carefully pulled down his breeches. Blood oozed slowly from the wound. He tore a strip from his shirt to bind it.

  He looked up and was startled to find Varian standing in the bedroom doorway, arms folded, one foot crossed in front of the other. He was wearing his Guardsman’s uniform, and for a long moment, Anton thought he was there to place him under arrest.

  “Do you need any help with that?” Varian nodded towards the bandage.

  Anton shook his head.

  “The life of a fool is a dangerous one,” Varian said.

  Anton looked guiltily at the costume beside him on the bed.

  There was a commotion in the street outside, horses and the sound of voices. Varian went to the window and opened the shutters enough to peer out. “Were your pursuers tonight Guardsmen rather than theatre critics?” Varian asked. From Anton’s expression, Varian saw that he was correct. “Then you are undone, my friend, for the Guard are at your door.”