by Alan Scott
“Are you well enough to continue?” asked Archbishop Peak.
“I am, your Grace. So there I was, protected by the holiness of my shire, whilst outside, whispers from the midnight black...
“What did you say?” demanded Peak.
“I said I was protected...” began a shocked Amanda.
“No, not that – the end bit.”
“The midnight black.”
Archbishop Peak looked over to Deacon Brown, who nodded in answer to his silent question.
“Your Grace?” confessor Vember asked. “Is there something wrong?”
Peak turned his attention to Vember. “Not at all.” Looking at Amanda, Peak said, “Please, continue.”
“Yes, your Grace. I prayed to our Lord harder and more urgently than I had at any time in the past, whilst the midnight black alternated between whispering temptation and violence. It was then it made its mistake, your Grace.”
“Its mistake?”
“Yes, its mistake. It told me of certain plans and schemes. Then after it had divulged all that it knew, a beam of pure sunlight fell upon my sanctuary, and with a hideous scream, the blackness vanished and daylight returned. Our Lord had answered my prayers and saved me from evil.” Amanda’s eyes lit up with fanatical devotion. “Our Lord saved me.”
“And for that, we are eternally grateful,” appeased Archbishop Peak. Amanda bowed her head.
“Now tell me, Lady Rothgal-Ackroyd, what did this monster reveal?”
Amanda raised her head. “He promised me eternal youth, if only I would submit to him like Queen Rebecca Rothgal.”
Archbishop Peak and Deacon Brown both raised their eyebrows in shock.
“He said,” continued Amanda, “that the Queen and her thrice-damned lapdog Shadow Killer were planning a lavish party soon in which they would drink the blood of babies to seal the pact they had with him, and if I was to go, I would experience sexual acts beyond my wildest dreams.” Amanda Rothgal-Ackroyd blushed heavily. “What this vile creature showed me was beyond anything a gentle woman should know. I will say no more on the matter.”
“And we shall not press you, dear lady,” stated Peak.
“Thank you, your Grace.”
“As you can imagine, my lady was deeply traumatised by the whole situation,” said Confessor Vember. “However, from this awful position she has risen and, if that foul creature’s intention was to destroy the will of my lady, then he has badly underestimated her. Her will has only grown stronger...”
“Thank you, Confessor, for your supporting words,” interrupted Lady Rothgal-Ackroyd by placing her hand lightly on the confessor’s leg. Amanda took a deep breath and then a long drink from her glass before continuing, “The people need to be freed from this tyranny. They need guidance from the Church to bring them back...”
“What sort of guidance?” asked Deacon Brown, carefully.
“Moral, spiritual, and, of course, in piety.” Deacon Brown nodded in silent agreement as Amanda continued, “The people of the Twin Kingdoms demand freedom from the yoke of an oppressive reign, to which our current Queen has shackled them. That self-centred tyrant of a woman daily grinds her people into poverty whilst giving every luxury to those deviant werewolves, devils, and spirits that command her ear, whispering messages of damnation and debauchery. She must be stopped. She must be removed!”
Deacon Brown stole a glance at Archbishop Peak and raised his eyebrows. The Archbishop gave a small nod before returning to Amanda. “Mistress Rothgal-Ackroyd, with whom do we replace the wicked Queen?”
Amanda squared her shoulders and looked the Archbishop in the eye. “If it is the will of our Lord, then myself. I am, after all, an heir to the throne.”
“As is Reif Rothgal,” countered Deacon Brown.
“That poor excuse of a man!” Amanda eyes flared with disgust. “He is almost as bad as the Queen, with his debauchery and his support of the thrice-damned Craktoneons. No, I am the only one that can sit on the throne and save this kingdom, with the help of our Lord and his Church, of course.”
“Of course,” acknowledged Archbishop Peak, as he leaned forward slightly. “The Church, as you know, has taken a very keen interest in you, Amanda, and has done its best to provide you with the highest spiritual and moral guidance possible.”
“And for that, I am eternally grateful, Archbishop.”
“It will be of no surprise to you that the Church, too, fears for the safety of its flock within the Twin Kingdoms, as we have discussed this matter a number of times.”
“I remember the conversations well, your Grace.”
“However, there must be discussion and debate.”
“Your Grace...”
“No, Lady Rothgal-Ackroyd, if we are to do this, then we must do it correctly.”
“Yes, your Grace.” Amanda bowed her head, submissively.
“Now go to your estate. Pray, prepare, and await our call.”
“Yes, your Grace,” said Amanda, standing. “Come, Confessor Vember.”
“Your Grace,” said Vember with a slight bow, before following his mistress out of the room.
Archbishop Frances Peak waited for his two guests to leave before saying, “Well?”
“Sorry, Archbishop, I could not find the tonic water.”
“You had me drinking straight gin in front of little Miss-Prim-and-Proper.”
“It was that or water, your Grace.”
“Mmm... that is true. Good choice, Brown.”
“Thank you, your Grace.”
“Now onto heavier matters.”
“The overthrowing of a queen and replacing her with a woman more accepting of the Church.”
“Exactly, Brown, exactly. What did you make of her story?”
“We know that Queen Rothgal does not drink the blood of babies. The only demons she consorts with are werewolves and that is mainly restricted to Shadow Killer, who is but a shadow of his former self, excuse the pun.”
“Exactly,” agreed Frances as he opened a drawer in his desk. He removed a bottle of brandy and a glass. “What did you make of the ‘midnight black’?”
“A direct reference to the Midnight Man.”
“That is what I thought, which leads us to...”
“The Mancer Prophecy,” finished Brown.
“Precisely.”
“It s not a prophecy that bodes well for us.”
Archbishop Peak poured himself a large glass of brandy. “There is a rumour that there is a final missing verse – a rumour that no one has ever managed to prove,” he said dismissively and took a large gulp from his glass. “Ah, that’s better.”
“The Mancer Prophecy is quite depressing, your Grace.”
“All prophecies are depressing in one way or another, as they mostly all have to do with the world ending or an evil being killing everything.”
“Yes, but normally they also have a hero who can save the world. Maybe that’s the rumoured missing verse!”
“True, true,” agreed Peak, before he continued with a light laugh. “Maybe, because the hero is just as dark and damaged as the Midnight Man, no one will want to read about him.” Peak drained his glass and moved to refill it.
“Very droll, your Grace.”
“I thought it rather good – a dark hero to fight a dark villain.”
“Mmm. Shall we get back to business?”
“Ah, yes; we need to call a full meeting of the senior members of the Church.”
“So we are really going to do it?”
“Support Lady Rothgal-Ackroyd? Yes, we are.”
“That will mean...”
“That will mean that we, the Church, will be in the best position to look after its flock when the Midnight Man arrives.”
“I see... your Grace,” Brown said slowly, as he carefully chose his words. “And what about Shadow Killer?”
“His glory days are well behind him. Also, the Church has ways of dealing with such creatures as him.” Deacon Brown raised a questioning eye
brow. “You may be my private secretary, Brown, but there are still some secrets that you do not know.”
“Yes, your Grace,” Brown said through a tight smile. “So you are taking this Midnight Man Prophecy seriously, then?
“Yes, I am.” Peak rubbed his hand thoughtfully over his jaw. “I remember the Midnight Man the first time round.”
“Yes, I remember reading the reports of what happened in the town of Hope in the Granite Mountains – the mutilation and murder of the two children.”
“That was nothing, Brown.” Peak emptied his glass and quickly refilled it. “I read the hidden reports, the reports of what he did when he left the Granite Mountains.” A look of fear entered Archbishop Peak’s eyes. ”I should fear nothing, as I have our Lord by my side, but I will tell you this, Brown: I fear the return of the Midnight Man and his accursed Brethren of the Night, and I will do anything in my power to stop them, including deposing a queen from her throne.”
“Were they that bad, your Grace?” asked a stunned Deacon Brown.
Peak remained still and silent for a moment before replying with a single word, “Worse.”
***
Nearing sunset of the next day
Maria Clough stood in the well-furnished drawing room of Charles and Beth Rothgal, parents of Reif Rothgal, looking out the window as the last rays of sun illuminated an immaculate garden. Nearby, her bodyguard stood silent and still. Maria did not turn round as she heard the door open. Instead, she asked, “Those wonderful yellow roses – what are they called?”
“Those lovely yellow roses there are called the Wolverton rose. Her Majesty, the Queen, was kind enough to allow us to take some cuttings many years ago,” replied Beth Rothgal.
“I’ve never seen them before. What’s their scent like?” asked Maria, turning around.
“They come from a far away exotic land and their scent reflects that, Banker Clough.” Beth turned to speak to a woman outside the room. “Steph, cut three of the Wolverton roses, and bring them here.”
“Yes, Mistress Rothgal.”
Beth turned her attention back to Maria. “You shall soon find out why they are so highly prized.”
Maria smiled. “I shall look forward to it.”
Charles Rothgal ran his professional eye over Maria’s bodyguard. “Your servant has a very military bearing, Banker Clough.”
“These are dangerous times, Master Rothgal. A woman needs to be protected.”
“Especially if the bank she works for charges such ridiculous rates.”
“I thought we could be civil about this,” said Maria, lightly.
“I am sure we can,” soothed Beth, laying a gentle hand on her husband’s arm. “Please, be seated, Banker Clough.” Beth indicated a nearby comfortable looking seat.
“Thank you,” smiled Maria as she moved to the indicated seat. “I must say, you have the most wonderful eyes, Lady Rothgal.”
“Em, why thank you, Banker Clough,” replied a slightly confused Beth. “Wine?”
“Please.”
“Sylvia!” Beth called through the open door, “please bring in the wine.”
“They say that the eyes are the windows to the soul,” said Maria.
“Oh, do they? What a nice thing to say.”
“Yes, and you must have a very beautiful soul.”
“Thank you.” Beth cast a questioning glance at her husband.
“Enough of my wife’s eyes,” dismissed Charles Rothgal. “We are here to discuss the ridiculously high interest rates you are charging us, Banker.” He gave Maria a hateful stare.
“Charles!” scolded Beth.
The servant, Sylvia, entered the room, carrying a tray upon which stood four glasses topped up with wine. “The wine, ma’am.”
“Ah, good, yes.” Beth removed a glass and sipped it. “Yes, that is fine.”
Sylvia went to Maria, who helped herself to a glass, before making her way to Charles, who snatched the glass from the tray, and, finally, to Maria’s bodyguard, who stood silent and unmoving.
“He does not drink whilst on duty,” called out Maria.
Sylvia bowed her head in acknowledgement of Maria’s words. Casting a lingering and appreciative look at the swordsman, Sylvia moved away towards the exit of the room.
“He is a fine specimen of manhood, is he not?” commented Maria as the servant walked past her.
“Ma’am,” replied Sylvia with a coy smile.
“For crying out loud,” muttered Charles Rothgal and drained his glass.
As Sylvia left, Steph walked in carrying three yellow roses. “Ma’am, the roses, as you requested.”
“Please give them to our guest, Steph.” Beth looked at Maria. “I think you will find their fragrance without equal.”
Maria took the roses from Steph, being careful to miss the thorns, and sniffed the flowers. Her eyes opened wide with wonder.
Beth smiled sweetly. “Isn’t the scent simply divine?”
“It is,” replied Maria, still opened-eyed.
“You may leave us, Steph, and close the door behind you when you go.”
“Yes, Lady Rothgal.”
Maria watched the woman leave, as she continued to enjoy the bouquet.
“At bloody last!” declared Charles as the door closed. “Can we now get down to the matter at hand?”
“Which is?” asked Maria, turning her attention to Charles Rothgal.
“Getting you to reduce the monthly repayments on our loan.”
“You did sign the agreement, Lord Rothgal, including all the sub-clauses.”
“It’s not that we don’t want to pay,” said Beth.
“Excellent,” commented Maria with a smile.
“It’s just, at the moment, we are having trouble with repayments, due to bandit and werewolf attacks.”
“I am sorry to hear that. Have you tried petitioning the Queen?”
“Bah, she is nine-tenths useless.” Lord Rothgal ground his teeth.
Lady Rothgal answered, “We have, Banker Clough, but she says she cannot help; hence, why we ask for you to help and understand in our time of need.”
Maria breathed in the wonderful scent of the roses in her hand and sighed deeply. “Well, let’s have a look at the contract.” Placing the roses gently on the floor, she looked at her bodyguard and called out, “Guard, to me!” The man she called Guard made his way towards her. He unslung a backpack and silently handed it over. Looking at her bodyguard’s perfect physique, Maria said, “You are getting a bit flabby. I think you need some exercise soon.” The man nodded his head and moved to stand behind her as she rummaged through the backpack. “Ah, here it is,” she said as she pulled a scroll out.
“What’s that, Banker Clough?” asked Beth Rothgal.
“This, Lady Rothgal, is the loan paperwork you have with the Bank.”
“Oh.”
“You see, I want to help you with your problem of running your estate and supporting your workers.”
Beth looked at her husband with excited eyes. Maria made a show of looking down the paperwork.
“Can I ask what you are looking for, Banker Clough?” asked Charles Rothgal, his tone and manner now much more civilised.
“What? Oh, I am looking to see if a particular clause has been written in the paperwork and ...yes, yes, I have just found it. I think this is the clause that will relieve you of all your worries. Here, have a look.” Maria handed the document over to Beth.
“Em, what am I looking for, Banker Clough?”
“Yes, what are we looking for?” asked Charles as he moved to stand next to his wife.
“It’s clause 8B,” replied Maria as she continued to look around the backpack.
“Clause 8B,” repeated Charles as he and his wife looked down the scroll.
“Ah,” said Maria as she found what she was looking for.
“This... this can’t be right?” stated a confused Beth.
“Read it to me,” said Maria, standing whilst keeping one hand inside
her backpack.
“It’s says that if the holder of the debt...”
“That’s you,” confirmed Maria.
“...should die along with their spouse, and the outstanding repayments are more than half the worth of the estate...”
“Which they are,” added Maria.
“...then all of the holder’s lands, goods, and livestock shall immediately become the possession of the Red Bank, bypassing any offspring or relatives.”
“That is the correct clause,” nodded Maria.
“I don’t understand,” said Beth.
“Basically, if you and your husband die, then you will no longer have any monetary worries. All your debts will be paid off and your son will not inherit your bad debts. In fact, he will not inherit at all, but he is a strong intelligent lad and I am sure he will find something to do.”
“But... but that would mean, we would have to die.”
“Correct.” An evil smile crept onto Maria’s face as she dropped the bag she was holding, allowing the Rothgals to see that she was now wearing a glove with long, thick, steel talons.
“What is the meaning of this sick joke?” demanded Charles Rothgal.
“It’s no joke, Lord Rothgal,” replied Maria. “This wonderful glove will make it look like werewolves will have attacked you... Oh my!” Maria’s eyes went wide and her voice shook with awe. “Oh my, you have been granted a very special honour.” Maria and her bodyguard fell to their knees as a shadow-door formed in the centre of the room.
“What’s happening, Charles?” asked Beth as she rushed to stand by her husband.
“Damned if I know, but I am not standing for it. GUARDS! GUARDS! GUAR...”
The shadow-door opened and from it stepped a robed figure with a hood hiding its face.
“My lady,” said Maria.
The figure threw back the hood to reveal a woman’s face framed by wild jet-black hair; however, the most captivating thing about this woman’s face was her eyes. They shone with a deep fanatical light, tinged with a hint of madness. “He cometh!” she hissed.