Fortune's Fools

by Paul Tomlinson

  But if he did not seize this moment and act, he might spend the rest of his days looking back on this instant in time and regretting his lack of action. Meg was the woman he should spend the rest of his life with, of this Edison was sure.

  Another deep breath.

  Edison began to climb, thrusting his hands deep into the cool foliage, gripping the stoutest stems and hauling himself up, the toes of his boots seeking similar purchase. The roses felt uncomfortable tucked inside his shirt front, and he was glad he’d had the foresight to wrap them so that the thorns might not harm him.

  He reached up, seizing another handful of vine, pulling himself up, thinking no further ahead than the next few inches of upward movement.

  The ivy came away from the stonework suddenly, the roots pulling loose from crumbling mortar. Edison had been on the point of transferring his weight to the hand which now waved a fistful of loose foliage at the night sky. He hung there for a moment, catching his breath, waiting for his heartbeat to slow; then he released the torn vegetation, letting it fall, and reached up for a more secure hand-hold.

  Edison had climbed almost a dozen feet now, and had reached the belly of the overhang that was the underside of Meg’s balcony. It would have been convenient if the ivy had continued to grow up alongside the balcony, allowing Edison an easy climb to his destination, but it had not. Perhaps it had been cut back to prevent thieves gaining easy access. It meant that Edison now had to climb beneath the balcony, out under the overhang, before he could reach up and pull himself onto the balcony itself. It was an awkward manoeuvre but not impossible.

  Climbing up the wall, the ivy had supported him. He hoped the vines growing under the balcony would also prove up to the task of supporting the weight of a man, and his bouquet.

  Edison hung, both feet dangling in the air, fingers clinging to the ivy above his head. There was a sudden shuddering and a tearing sound. The vine’s roots pulled free from the masonry and sagged, jerkily, rip by rip, as it gave way. The popping sound of the roots pulling free became a sudden staccato drumming and Edison plummeted towards the ground, down into the waiting limbs of the spiky rose tree. He closed his eyes and relaxed, preparing himself for the impact, expecting to be impaled on a stout branch.

  The crash as he hit the tree brought Meg and her father out into the courtyard.

  Edison was in too much pain to be embarrassed. From his inverted hanging position in the rose tree, he was looking into the faces of the startled father and daughter, until blood trickled into his eye and momentarily blinded him.

  “Don’t youngfolk know how to knock at a door anymore?” he heard Meg’s father mutter.

  “Shush,” Meg stage-whispered. “I think it’s quite romantic.”

  Edison felt that he was bleeding from cuts in several places, and it was possible that his left arm had been pierced through by a branch in the flesh just above the elbow. That thought was too much for his senses and, for a moment, he surrendered to unconsciousness.

  He opened his eyes again a short time later, the world coalescing into a blurry underwater version of its usual form. He tried to move, to ease his position among the spiny branches.

  There was a loud crack!

  Followed by: “I say, look out!”

  Followed by a thud, as Edison fell from the bush, face-first into the dirt beneath. He lost consciousness again.

  When his eyes flickered open once more, Edison found himself lying on a bed inside the house. His arm had been bandaged, and Meg was leaning forward, dabbing at his forehead with a cool damp cloth.

  “Thank you for the flowers,” she said.

  Edison looked across to where the red and green floral debris had been heaped. “Sorry,” he croaked.

  “Father’s having a bath drawn for you in your room,” Meg said. “I think he’s rather impressed,” she confided. “He said your actions were chivalrous but clumsy.”

  Doran Jarrett helped Edison back to his room, and left him to soak the pain from his muscles in a tub by the fire. Edison locked the door, setting the key on the table next to the jar of foul-smelling ointment Meg had brought him to spread on his cuts to prevent infection. He carefully peeled off the remains of his clothes.

  His skin was criss-crossed with bloody scratches, and his reflection in the glass was that of an apprentice flagellant. His arm had been cut quite badly, but not skewered by the branch as he had feared. This was all on top of the wounds he had gained at the hands of Anton Leyander and the two assassins.

  The breath hissed out through his teeth as he lowered himself into the steaming water. He closed his eyes, leaned back, and relaxed. The balcony scene had not quite played as he had intended, but the outcome had – in a way – brought the success for which he had hoped. Meg had seemed pleased to see him; assuming she wasn’t just enjoying his humiliation and discomfort. He preferred to view it from a position of optimism.

  Edison was at the point of dozing off, when he heard a key turn in the lock. The door to his chamber swung silently inwards.

  “I have another key,” Meg whispered. She closed and locked the door behind her.

  Edison looked wildly around for something to cover himself, but found nothing within reach.

  “Why, sir,” Meg said, approaching the tub. “How immodest, to bathe unclothed.” She smiled.

  “Whatever it is you have in mind,” Edison said, “my body is too much abused to oblige.”

  Meg pretended to blush. “It is not seemly to mention your bodily abuses in front of a lady!”

  “I meant only that I was too sore for amorous embraces,” Edison said.

  “Your abuses have made you sore? Perhaps you were too energetic in your handling of the flesh.”

  “You have a most unladylike imagination,” Edison said.

  The suggestion Meg whispered into Edison’s ear only strengthened his argument. And attempting it resulted in his near-drowning and much of the bath water finding its way onto the floor.

  “Perhaps we should move from the tub to the bed,” Meg said.

  “Or from my tub to yours?” Edison said.

  “Mine?”

  “The deck of the Sea Hag, under the stars?” he suggested.

  “If you would risk splinters from wet wood, we have the floor here,” Meg said.

  “The gentle rolling of the ship and the gentle lapping of waves would be more romantic, don’t you think?”

  “We could dress and walk down to the harbour, and make our way up onto the deck of the Hag, or...”

  “... or we could stay here, and I could go down below much sooner,” Edison said, grinning.

  “The bed it is, then,” Meg said. “We will enjoy the delights of the Hag another time.”

  “I was hoping to enjoy them now,” Edison said, earning himself a slap. They threw themselves onto the bed, naked and wet. Edison’s fingertips traced the curve of Meg’s ribs, raising goose bumps on her flesh. “How long before your hold is filled?” he asked.

  “Mine or the Sea Hag’s?” Meg asked, smiling. “The gunpowder will be loaded the day after tomorrow. Is this an argument you wish to have again now?”

  “I wanted only to know how much time we have together,” Edison said. He kissed her neck. “You are captain of your own ship, and of your own life.”

  “It means a lot to me that you can say that.”

  “But if you do blow yourself to hell, can I have your silver tantalus?”

  “You should stop talking now, or I may throw you overboard,” Meg said.

  “Aye, cap’n.”

  Meg rolled on top of him. “You won’t object if I take the helm?”

  “I would insist upon it,” he said, and then her tongue silenced him.

  “What was that?” Meg asked, turning away from him to listen.

  “I heard nothing,” Edison said. But then the sound came again, and he did hear it.

  A key rattling in the lock.

  “How many keys are there for this door?” Edison asked, exasperated,
as they sought to cover themselves.

  “One too many,” Meg muttered.

  Anton Leyander burst through the door. “Varian has been arrested!”

   

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  “We cannot storm the castle!” Edison said.

  Edison and Meg were dressed now and sitting in the near darkness at a table downstairs. The air was heavy with the mingled stale odours of smoke and ale and men. Anton was pacing the room, his agitation plain.

  “We have to get him out of there,” Anton insisted. “Do you know what Sheldrake will do to him?”

  “There will be a court martial and he will be discharged without honour,” Meg said.

  “And then he will be flogged and his face branded with the mark of a deserter,” Anton said. “I cannot allow that to happen. This is my fault – I did this to him.”

  “The Guardsman you spoke to...” Meg said.

  “Lieutenant Walcott,” Anton said.

  “Did he say when this will take place?”

  “With Lord Eòghan dead, they will need authorisation from the Palace for a court martial,” Anton said.

  “It will take two days at least to get a message from Raensburgh,” Edison said.

  “That was Walcott’s thought,” Anton said.

  “Then we have two days to come up with a plan,” Meg said.

  “Sheldrake will expect you to make some move to rescue Varian,” Edison said.

  Anton nodded. “It is me he wants.”

  “Would Varian betray you?” Meg asked.

  “Never.” Anton shook his head firmly.

  “But if they show him the rack...?” Meg said.

  “He is a member of the King’s Guard – he cannot be tortured,” Edison said.

  “Not until he is discharged,” Anton said. “Perhaps if I offered to give myself up to Sheldrake – in exchange for Varian’s release...”

  “Sheldrake would kill you both, you know that,” Edison said.

  Anton reluctantly nodded agreement. “I could speak to Lady Julianne,” he said.

  “You would never get close enough to speak to her,” Meg said.

  “I have done it once,” Anton said. “I have already warned her of Sheldrake’s treachery.”

  “Was she convinced?” Meg asked.

  Anton’s shoulders slumped. “She requires proof to persuade her,” he said.

  “Then we must find some proof,” Meg said.

  “I do not think there is anything to find,” Anton said. “I have searched already – there is nothing physical, no document, no witness...”

  Edison stood and began pacing as well, taking the opposite course to Anton; the pair of them crossed and re-crossed as they strode up and down the room between the tables.

  “We need something to force Sheldrake’s hand,” Edison said. “A way of making him reveal himself as a villain – ideally in the presence of witnesses.”

  “Ideally in the presence of Lady Julianne,” Anton said. “But what chance have we to achieve that?”

  Edison paced some more before he spoke again. “A scene could be staged,” he said, “a confrontation between yourself and Sheldrake. Witnesses could attend – hidden behind a tapestry, perhaps. You would engage him in conversation – challenging him, and encouraging him to say, out loud, what his ambitions are, and what acts he has already committed to advance them.”

  Anton stopped pacing and considered this. “It might be done.”

  “My father could help,” Meg said, “with the staging – or perhaps in the preparation of a script.”

  Edison nodded agreement. “We must decide on a location where this scene can take place, and on some way to lure Sheldrake there.”

  “He will come if he believes he has a chance to eliminate me,” Anton said.

  “Perhaps you have a venal acquaintance who would betray you to Sheldrake for a price?” Edison suggested, grinning.

  *

  “We cannot proceed without proper authorisation,” Walcott protested.

  “If the commander’s life is lost in battle, a captain may assume the necessary authority,” Sheldrake said.

  “Lord Eòghan did not fall in battle,” Walcott said, “and your position as captain is a provisional one, until the Palace makes a permanent appointment.”

  “That is a mere formality.” Sheldrake dismissed the argument, believing his own confirmation in the role was a near-certainty.

  “Nonetheless, we cannot act until we receive the warrant from Raensburgh.”

  “We cannot wait!” Sheldrake insisted.

  “Why the urgency? Varian sits in a cell beneath our feet – he is going nowhere.”

  “We must set an example to the other men – and to the people of Sangreston. They need to see that we are in control here, and that any who oppose us will be punished.”

  “You would exceed your authority in this matter,” Walcott said. “I feel I should bring this to the attention of Lady Julianne.”

  “I forbid it!” Sheldrake said, spittle flying from his lips. “Have a care, lieutenant – your own position too is only an interim one. I can have it revoked, and you thrown into a cell next to the deserter.”

  Walcott swallowed. “I understand, sir.”

  “Schedule the court martial for dawn tomorrow,” Sheldrake said. “I will set my seal to the paperwork.”

  Unable to form suitable words, Walcott bowed his head. Sheldrake took it as a nod.

  “Dismissed, lieutenant.”

   

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  A dull grey light filtered in through the leaded panes of the window. The air was still, the humidity high. The sky was overcast. The birds were silent, as if quietly awaiting the storm.

  Captain Sheldrake buckled his belt, slid the sword into the scabbard. He flicked a speck from the rich red fabric of his sleeve: he was wearing the decorated red uniform tunic meant for ceremonial occasions.

  There was silence in the courtyard when he emerged, helmet under his arm. It had been silent even before the lieutenant had shouted ‘Attention!’ The soldiers of the Guard were all immaculately turned out. Deep red and light-drinking black. Highly polished metal and gleaming leather.

  Silently expectant.

  Sheldrake allowed himself a smile. These men were under his command.

  Lieutenant Walcott, his face pale, took his place behind and to the right of his captain. “Sir, the prisoner’s mother is in the Guard House, she asks to see him.”

  “She can have him afterwards,” Sheldrake said.

  The door to the Guard House opened and a uniformed Guardsman stepped out. He was followed by the prisoner, who blinked in the daylight. A second Guardsman followed him. Varian was barefoot, stripped to the waist, and wearing threadbare peasant breeches. The absence of any part of his uniform was intended to add to the humiliation of his discharge. His wrists were bound in front of him. In the weak morning sunlight, his hair and skin were an almost luminous white. The Guardsmen led him to the centre of the courtyard.

  A shallow iron dish had been set on a tripod. The charcoal heaped in it was now covered in light powdery grey ash, and heat shimmered above it. The head of the branding iron was buried in the coals, the handle extending over the side of the dish. On the cobbles close to the tripod lay a smooth wooden post almost eight feet long, with a large iron ring bolted close to one end of it. Beside it was a hole where a cobble had been removed, ready to take the post. 

  Off to the right of the main body of Guardsmen were two stocky figures dressed in civilian clothes. The two men might have been brothers their heavy brows, wide shoulders, and hairy forearms were so similar. They had the dull eyes and calloused hands of working men, farmers perhaps. Strong arms were needed for the task they had been brought in to carry out.

  Varian stood before Sheldrake, a Guard behind and to either side of him. His face was calm, though his lips were pale.

  “Varian Alan Kenyon, you have been judged guilty of desertion of
duty, and of consorting with a wanted criminal,” Sheldrake said. “You have brought dishonour to this company of the King’s Guard, and disgrace to your own family name. Your actions render you unsuitable to serve his majesty, and it has been my sad duty to discharge you without honour from the Guard.”

  Varian kept his eyes on the captain’s face, which made Sheldrake uncomfortable.

  “I have determined that a punishment should be administered that reflects fully the serious of your crimes, and which will serve as an example to any Guardsman thinks to betray his company. Do you have anything you wish to say?”

  Varian continued to look into Sheldrake’s eyes: he shook his head once.

  “Raise the post!” Sheldrake said.

  Walcott turned towards the assembled men and nodded. Two Guardsmen stepped forward and lifted the wooden post, slotting it into the hole in the cobbles. They returned to their places in the ranks.

  Sheldrake turned to one the labourers and called him forward. The man walked towards the centre of the yard. He was carrying a coiled whip, the kind made from plaited leather that was used to drive livestock. Seeing this, Walcott moved to intercept him, facing Sheldrake as he blocked the man’s path.

  “Captain, there has been a mistake,” Walcott said in a quiet voice.

  “There has?” Sheldrake raised an eyebrow, a hint of a smile on his lips.

  “That whip, sir, it’s for cattle. A single stroke will lay open a man’s flesh to the bone. The cat o’ nine tails is what we use, sir. A dozen strokes.” Walcott kept his voice low so that the other men wouldn’t hear, and tried to keep from sounding patronising. But there was a slight curl to his lip that revealed his true feelings: Sheldrake had no idea what he was doing.