Fortune's Fools

by Paul Tomlinson

  “If we cannot make the hole fit the body...”

  “We could make the body fit the hole,” Edison finished.

  “He definitely is not paying us enough,” Anton said.

  He came back from the wagon with a knife which had a finely-honed foot-long blade.

  “We were only supposed to cut off her ear,” Edison said. He stretched out one of Griselda’s arms.

  “Are you squeamish?” Anton asked.

  “Not really, why?”

  Anton handed him the knife.

  “I will do the arms,” Edison felt through Griselda’s clothes for the shoulder joint. “You can do the head.”

  “I expected more blood,” Edison kicked the arms into the grave on top of the headless corpse, which they had managed to wedge in there.

  “It only spurts all over when the heart is still beating.” Anton picked up Griselda’s head by the hair, holding it up to head height and staring into her glazed eyes. Her neck dripped gore. “Which ear shall we take him back?”

  “The one with the wart,” Edison said. “It is the more recognisable.”

  “She is not any less ugly dead, is she?” Anton asked. He held the head out towards Edison. “Pucker up and give us a kiss, poppet,” he falsettoed.

  Edison turned away from the moustachioed face. “Just hack off the ear and let us get away from this place.”

  Anton removed their grisly souvenir and dropped the head into the grave. He and Edison knelt and began pushing the loose earth back into the hole.

  “We are going to have a lot left over.”

  They stood looking over the mound of earth.

  “Do you want to say a few words?” Edison asked.

  “Apart from good riddance, you mean?” Anton said.

  “A few extemporised words of remembrance,” Edison suggested.

  Anton struck what he thought to be a poetic pose. “Here lies Griselda, a murderous hag, whose appetites sickened the stomach; she’d thighs like two hams, an arse like a sow, and a face like a freshly-shaved bullock.”

  Edison grimaced. “Proof if it were needed that actors seldom make great poets. Let us move from assault on our language to something more physical.”

  “Pardon?”

  “It is time for us to beat the stuffing out of each other,” Edison said.

  They moved out onto the road between the trees.

  “Go ahead and hit me,” Edison said.

  “Er – No, you go first,” Anton said.

  “Okay, but...”

  Anton swung a punch which rattled Edison’s teeth.

  “Owww! I was not prepared!”

  “Oh, sorry,” Anton grinned. “Your turn.”

  Edison threw a punch, which Anton dodged.

  “Hold on,” Edison said. “That is not – oof!” The punch winded him and he gasped, wide-eyed, fish-like.

  “Is your knife clean?” Anton asked.

  “Yes, why?” Edison wheezed.

  Anton pulled Edison’s knife from its sheath and stabbed him through the upper arm with it.

  *

  Edison and Anton lay in the grass, gasping for breath and bleeding quietly from several minor wounds.

  “You did that on purpose to get me to lose my temper, did you not?” Edison asked.

  “No, I have been waiting some time to do it.”

  “I think it would have been easier to have actually been attacked by outlaws.”

  Anton sat up, groaning. His left eye was swelling shut, blood trickled from his nose. “It will be dark soon. Time to start back.”

  Edison got to his knees, breathed deeply and gasped sharply. “I think I have a cracked rib.”

  They stood swaying unsteadily.

  Anton unhitched the horse from the waggon and slapped it on the rump, sending it off on its way.

  “Have you still got Grimwade’s souvenir?” Anton asked.

  Edison looked around him worriedly. “Do not tell me we’ve got to dig her up and cut off another one?”

  “No, it’s alright, I have got one ear.”

  Breasting the hill, the two horsemen stood silhouetted against the dawn, looking down at the walled town below. A salty breeze blew in off the sea.

  The horses began a careful descent, their riders barely conscious in the saddle.

  They came upon the gibbet.

  “Welcome to Sangreston, population eighteen thousand and eighty-four – less one,” Edison said.

  “Less two,” Anton said.

  The horsemen regarded the corpse silently for a moment, then rode on towards the town gate.

  “Nice place for a holiday,” Anton muttered.

  A bell tolled, signalling the dawn opening of the town gate. The gate-keeper saw the two horsemen approaching and waited for them.

  “Mornin’ to you, gents. It’s going to be a nice one,” he nodded a smile to the two travellers, brushing bread crumbs from his tunic.

  The gatekeeper was somewhat surprised when Anton fell from his horse and lay unconscious at his feet. He took another bite from the thick sandwich in his fist, pondering. “Reckon you’ll be needing some help, then,” he said, finally.

   

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Anton was revived while Edison told a Guardsman how they had been ambushed by outlaws in the forest, and how the woman they had been escorting had been abducted. They were then taken to Mr. Grimwade’s house, there to break the devastating news to him.

  “Well?” the hunchback grunted, once the Guard had left the three of them alone. He could hardly contain his excitement.

  “No, but thank you for asking,” Edison groaned.

  Edison and Anton, battered and dirty, lay on couches in Grimwade’s reception room.

  “Is she – you know...” Grimwade asked eagerly. He was already counting the money that would become his when the news of his wife’s death was made public.

  “And buried,” Anton confirmed.

  “We brought you back a souvenir from our trip,” Edison waved a hand towards a low table which held a dirty piece of folded cloth.

  Grimwade opened the little package which held his wife’s ear. He bobbed about happily. “This is marvellous!” he squeaked.

  “Grimwade,” Anton said softly. “It might not do to appear so joyous in front of your staff: they may suspect that you are not entirely grief-stricken over your wife’s disappearance.”

  “Allow me at least a moment of celebration, sir. You can’t imagine how glad I am to be rid of her.”

  “Oh, I’m sure we can,” Edison muttered.

  Grimwade handed each of the men a small purse, a little extra something for their trouble, for which they thanked him. “You must excuse me now, gentlemen, I am suddenly overcome with grief,” the hunchback grinned a broad, uneven grin. He ushered the two weary travellers out.

  Behind them they heard Grimwade wailing over the loss of his “petal,” his “treasure,” the “light which brightened his darkest day.”

  “Do you think he is perhaps overdoing it just a little?” Anton asked.

  “Almost certainly: everyone knows he only married her for money and status.”

  “And business connections: her family are very well connected in the business world.”

  “And in the underworld, so I’ve heard. I think Grimwade is taking a big risk in getting rid of her,” Edison said.

  “You know, excellent though his plan was, I am sure there is some little detail that he has overlooked,” Anton mused.

  “You mean aside from the fact that Griselda’s family will boil him alive in dripping if they learn that he had anything to do with her death?”

  “Yes, aside from that.”

  “What do you think Griselda’s family will do to us if they discover that we had anything to do with her death?” Edison asked.

  “It does not bear thinking about,” Anton assured him.

  They made their way back towards the Siren’s Head for a drink.

  News of Griselda Grimwade’
s kidnap had reached the tavern ahead of them. They ordered baths to be prepared in the room Edison now rented above the tavern, and while they waited for the water to be heated, they sat at the bar.

  “Something to eat, gentlemen?” Doran asked, placing their foaming tankards on the bar.

  “What can you offer this morning?” Edison asked.

  “I do not think I could face a pie, do you?” Anton asked him.

  They ordered freshly baked bread with cheese and pickles.

  “Why do you think he’s making so much noise about it? He’s better off without her, I’d have thought,” one of the Siren’s patrons observed.

  “‘Twas a marriage of convenience.”

  “Whose?”

  “The outlaws sent her ear with the ransom note.”

  “Barbarians! Will you attend the cockfight tonight?”

  “I heard that Grimwade stood on the balcony shouting into the street – says he’ll give one hundred pieces of silver to anyone who brings back his wife to him.”

  “Would you pay that to get her back?”

  “I would pay it not to get her back.”

  “Is that one hundred pieces of silver for her return, dead or alive?” Edison asked, straight-faced.

  “Do not even think that!” Anton warned.

  Edison grinned. “Do not trouble yourself: Griselda Grimwade is one woman I wish never to see again.”

  They finished their bread and cheese and drained their glasses.

  “What action will you take regarding the one woman you do wish to see again,” Anton asked.

  Edison held up his hand. “Please, do not ask me that, for I do not know,” he said. “And please do not think to offer any advice on the matter.”

  “My suggestion that you make some overtly romantic gesture was entirely sound,” Anton said. “I can hardly be blamed for the fact that you made the gesture to me rather than Meg.”

  “I would rather not be reminded of that fact,” Edison said, grumpily.

  “Her ship sails less than a week from now,” Anton reminded him. “You cannot afford to let the hour slip by.”

  “You are right, of course,” Edison said. “But the situation is now such that any attempt to convince her of my love must be on such a grandiose scale that I do not know where to begin. How might I woo her?”

  “I understood that my advice was not welcome,” Anton said.

  “Forgive my earlier ingratitude,” Edison said. “You were in no way responsible for the unfortunate encounter in your cabin that evening. And I would welcome any suggestion you might make at this point.”

  Anton sat for a moment, considering the torment he had suffered as a result of the erratic nature of their relationship, and decided that the sooner Meg and Edison were reconciled, the safer his world might be.

  “What manner of romantic scene might I stage?” Edison asked. “I have already sung under her balcony in the moonlight.”

  “You have?” Anton asked. “Brave soul.”

  “How so?”

  “I have heard you sing,” Anton said. “Your crooning might well attract Megan’s attention, but it would most likely attract swift retribution via the contents of a chamber pot.”

  “I would sooner she showered me with kisses.”

  “Then more singing is not to be recommended.”

  “A shame,” Edison said. “The balcony scene has always seemed to me to be one of the more effective in romantic dramas.”

  “True enough,” Anton agreed. “But a balcony scene need not be played with song: you might climb up to her window while she lies in her bed chamber, taking with you a suitable gift...”

  “A tasty jugged hare, perhaps?”

  “Red roses are a more traditional offering,” Anton said. “Having delivered this romantic gift and gained her attention, you ought then to be provided with an opportunity to profess your undying love and make some attempt to bring an end to the misunderstandings that have kept you apart of late.”

  “And you believe this course of action guarantees success?” Edison asked, as they left their table and headed towards the stairs.

  “I have very serious doubts,” Anton said. “But I am unable to devise a more appropriate plan.”

  “Did it not occur to you to lie in order to boost my confidence?” Edison asked, pausing on the stairs.

  “The thought crossed my mind,” Anton said. “But I felt that giving you false hope would leave me open to a quick and painful retribution if my suggested action turned out to be less than successful.”

  “For a rogue, you are sometimes entirely too truthful,” Edison said.

  “It is one of my few faults,” Anton said grandly. He disappeared into Edison’s room.

  Edison shook his head and followed.

  The two men lowered their battered bodies into steaming tubs of water, closed their eyes, and pondered past and future actions. And if Anton felt guilty about enjoying a nice hot bath, while Varian still had to wash in a cold stream behind a tumbled-down shack, he didn’t show it.

  *

  As the sun rose and more light filtered in through the tiny barred window, Gosling was able to see his surroundings in more detail. The black, damp, hard-packed earth of the floor; the high oak beams of the ceiling, and the roughly hewn stone blocks from which the walls were built. Some of these stones had edges to them which he might have cut his bonds on, had he been bound with rope. He hammered the manacles against the rock, slipping and skinning a knuckle. But he didn’t pause to swear or suck his injured hand. Something else had attracted his attention. He struck the iron manacle against the wall again. Nothing. He struck again.

  A spark!

  He looked closely at the wall. One of the stones had a thin vein of brownish rock running through it. It looked like sugar toffee – like flint.

  Gosling sorted the driest pieces of straw from the meagre bedding from the ledge. He piled it under the flint-rock and began to strike his iron bonds against the wall. Sparks flew, bright in the gloom. He skinned more knuckles. The sparks weren’t going in the right direction. He cursed, striking the rock again and again.

  Beside him, Bryn snored gently.

  “Aaargh!” he cried in exasperation, sitting back and licking blood from his hand. It had seemed such a brilliant plan.

  Smoke.

  A thin ghostly wisp. He wasn’t certain he’d seen it. Then it came again. He blew gently, and somewhere in the centre, the straws glowed red. He added several more strands of straw, shredding them with his thumb nail. He blew again, and a tiny yellow flame danced in the centre of the straw pile. He piled on more straws, building up the little fire. These too soon caught light, and he searched for more debris to burn. He tore a strip from the hem of his shirt and added this, then began to add dirtier, damper pieces of straw and unidentifiable rubbish to the fire to make smoke.

  He had quite a sizeable blaze going now on his ledge. He could feel the heat against his body, but he couldn’t draw any further away than the chains would allow. The smoke was beginning to fill the upper half of the cell, the air becoming hazy with it.

  “Fire!” Gosling shouted. “Help! Fire!”

  They’d have to free them to get him out of the danger of the blaze, then he could make his break for freedom.

  “Help!” he called more loudly. The smoke stung his eyes. He had added his leather boot to the blaze, and it now began to smoulder. It smelt foul.

  “Fire!”

  Suppose they didn’t come? He might be suffocated by the smoke.

  “Help!” he shouted, with renewed vigour. Beside him Bryn did not stir.

  Footsteps outside the cell door. Gosling braced himself, ready.

  Gosling shivered. Water ran down his nose and dripped off the end, splashed on the iron manacles on his wrists. The two men had burst into the cell with wooden buckets and doused him and the fire. He was soaked. Grimwade’s men had laughed as they re-locked the door. He shook water from his hair. His spirits sank lower.

 
; The rat sat looking up at him, twitching its whiskers and smiling a superior smile. Gosling threw a charred, wet boot at it, and it disappeared into the shadows with a shriek.

  “What about breakfast?” Gosling suddenly shouted at the ceiling.

  Keys rattled in the lock. The rough oak door swung slowly open. Grimwade’s curly-haired henchman ducked into the cell, supporting a large silver tray on one hand. It was covered by a linen cloth with a design of intertwining brambles and fat purple berries embroidered onto it. Wordlessly, the man placed the tray on the stone ledge between the two prisoners, and then walked back through the door.

  He reappeared with a pot and a brush and daubed grease on the cell door’s hinges. Then he closed the door, soundlessly, and the keys rattled in the lock once more.

  Gosling had watched this, his neck turning his head as though it was on bearings, his mouth agape. The henchman had obviously not been ordered to say anything to the prisoners, so hadn’t.

  Breakfast.

  Gosling lifted the corner of the cloth and surveyed the contents of the tray.

  Bryn’s nose twitched. “I’m having a lovely dream about food. I can even smell it.” His stomach grumbled loudly. “I can smell toasted bread, sausages, smoked ham, scrambled eggs and tomatoes stewed in their own juice – don’t wake me up, it’s wonderful.”

  “Alright.” Gosling picked up a silver knife and fork and began to eat from the first plate.

  Bryn sat up suddenly and had the chain from his manacles around Gosling’s throat before he had swallowed the first mouthful. “You would not have let me sleep while you ate all of this, would you?” he asked, dangerously.

  Gosling held his fork out towards his companion. “Sausage?”

   

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  The door swung silently inwards. Torch-light flickered in the corridor beyond and a figure stood silhouetted against it: round-shouldered, leaning forward.

  “Fool?” Julianne sat in the window seat, a lace-edged handkerchief clutched in her hands.

  “Are you alone, my lady?” the fool asked.

  “Of course, who would I be with?”

  The figure in the doorway straightened, seeming to shift magically, the body filling out into the form of a square-shouldered young man.