Dark Age

by Robert T. Bradley

  ‘How come the alarm didn’t go off?’ Jeremiah looked at his brother for the answer.

  Byron’s eyes inspected the frame of the door for a clue. ‘I’m not sure.’

  Over by the bed, toward the wall, stood a large sheer glass cabinet. The light emitting from it was dazzling. Byron entered. Jeremiah followed him, careful with each step avoiding further racket.

  Getting to the base of the cabinet, they both allowed their eyes to adjust. A vast number of jewels twinkled, reflecting the room’s gas lighting from the surface of their father’s crown. They both stood there, unable to speak from the awe of it.

  Jeremiah broke the silence. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen it; this close up, I mean.’

  Bryon closed his slack jaw and said, ‘Yes, it’s bigger than I assumed.’

  ‘Okay, right here it is, great, isn’t it marvellous, I’m sure you can’t wait to have it on your head, now let’s get back to bed.’

  ‘What?’ Byron’s eyes squinted to slits, ready to shoot fire. ‘You think I wish death upon our father?’

  ‘No, that wasn’t what I meant.’ Jeremiah said. ‘I don’t think you’d ever wish ill of anyone.’

  ‘Good,’ Byron replied, poking him firmly in the chest. ‘I’d make a better king, don’t you think?’

  Jeremiah felt pressure coming from his arm, pressing down on his shoulders. ‘Yes, dear brother, you’ll make a great king.’

  ‘Good. I can’t have my future Prince Regent thinking ill of me, now can I?’

  ‘No,’ he said, noticing how the cold room had warmed.

  ‘Ok let’s try it on, what do you say?’

  ‘That’s it!’ Jeremiah shoved his arm off. ‘I don’t want any further part in this.’ The young boy marched back to the chamber door.

  Byron rotated the two round knobs either side on the cabinet doors. No alarm sounded. He opened the case. Slowly he grabbed the crown by the fluff lining the base and pulled it closer. The weight of the Crown almost too much for one hand to bear, his other arm now at full stretch.

  A screeching sound filled the room, and the doors to the chamber slammed shut in Jeremiah’s face. Byron jumped and the crown slipped, he caught two fingers full of fluff, sending the priceless artefact bouncing off the corner of the cabinet, until finally tumbling. Time seemed to stop, it slowed down in the moment. The crown hit the side of the cabinet, but the jewels stayed intact. Now half way to the floor, Jeremiah entertained a feeling it wouldn’t smash, perhaps bounce back up and he’ll catch it? Instead, the crown shattered on the marble surface, sending emeralds, rubies and sapphires in every direction, and for a fleeting moment the room lit up as though inside a kaleidoscope. As the pieces found their chaotic station, dread found Jeremiah.

  II

  Sunlight shimmered off the royal guard’s armour, blinding Prince Jeremiah as he escorted him through a set of elaborately decorated double doors to his uncle’s office.

  Paintings of the Regent in the same pose wallpapered the walls, each showed him triumphant, conquering one of his hobbies. In the final painting, he stood with one hand resting on both Jeremiah’s and his brother’s shoulder, it never failed in giving Jeremiah a chill. The room was empty; typically, there was no sign of his brother Byron.

  ‘Wait here, your Highness.’ The guard’s moustache twitched with jitters of feverish delirium.

  ‘May I take a seat?’ Jeremiah asked.

  ‘Your Highness,’ the other guard replied, bowing.

  A draft from somewhere carried an aroma of soot. They were high above the city in the Palace towers, nearly as high as the ducts.

  A door slowly opened behind Jeremiah, and armour clanked together in a uniformed salute.

  ‘As you were,’ his uncle ordered, in his common accent; such a misplaced accent for a Prince’s mouth, Jeremiah thought. His uncle Reagan whose twin James died in the Nightingale train accident and much unlike his older brother the King, had travelled west to the Americas after conditioning. Little was known to the royal household of his experiences, but it made him different, in an ethereal way, it matched how he dealt with his position, rarely attending ceremonies – and when he did, he’d bring an entourage of fifty courtesans, unknowns. He looked and behaved feminine, fresh-faced and childlike, which appeared to match his appetites in company; pretty boys, years younger than him and even younger girls. All they ever did together was giggle, it was like watching a gaggle of geese pecking at a thick loaf of stale bread. They all copied his out-of-date fashions and sniggered to themselves, passing Absinthe bottles around their group while Jeremiah’s sick father struggled at court. Eyes from other guests always rolled from Reagan and landed on the future Prince Regent Jeremiah.

  The sound of his uncle’s boots clanging on the carpet set Jeremiah’s nerves to rest on a knife-edge.

  ‘Jeremiah,’ he said in the high pitched, ungodly voice of his, ‘trying to steal the crown jewels for yourself, now are we?’

  He met his uncle’s eyes, hoping he might find the idea amusing, a last-ditched attempt at rapport with him. It didn’t work.

  ‘It was Byron’s idea–’

  ‘Silence,’ the Regent said while opening his desk draw, but he removed nothing, merely kept it open looking down at whatever it contained. Jeremiah suspected he kept a mirror in there. How he’d love to find it and replace it with some rotten vegetable so his uncle would get a true reflection.

  ‘You continue to lead your brother, the heir to the kingdom, astray.’

  ‘But uncle, I–’

  ‘Jeremiah, enough. Repeatedly you test me with your schemes. Your brothers plagued with the notion of one day having to bear the crown. Do you think it’s going to be easy for him? We have enough trouble from the rebel brotherhood sabotaging royal fleet’s trade routes and scaring the people from attending Mass.’

  Even got to you, have they? Jeremiah thought, as he struggled to remember the last time he saw his uncle at a sermon.

  ‘Your insolence is the last thing our family needs. I know how tough it can be having your brother in the limelight, but trust me, it will get a whole lot worse, those feelings of jealously, once they place the crown on Byron’s head–’

  ‘Uncle, I–’

  ‘Your Royal Highness.’

  ‘Apologies, your Royal Highness, we just wanted to set the alarm and test the guards, it was Byron’s idea, I swear it.’

  One of the guards twitched.

  The Prince Regent placed the tips of his fingers together in a spire. ‘Now, you know me to be a fair and loving uncle?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes, what?’

  ‘Yes, your Royal Highness.’

  ‘Now,’ Reagan calmed his voice. ‘I know better than any of the troubles faced from your time after the Nightingale disaster, and how living among the ordinary folk must have warped some vast areas of your mind. But Jeremiah, look at yourself.’ The Prince Regent tilted one of the many mirrors on his desk to reflect the young prince’s face. ‘See those scars, your little Highness?’

  ‘I do, uncle.’ Lowering his head away from the ghastly reflection.

  ‘Those are all you have from the harrowing incident.’ The Prince Regent gave one of the guards a frustrated pat to get out of his way and walked slowly from his desk to the nearby window. ‘We’re very much alike you realise, I have scars to you know, not a day doesn’t go by when I don’t miss James.’

  The prince snapped out of whatever reminiscing memory he held and looked at Jeremiah. ‘It has been decided, seeing as you so love to have your head in books and pranks, we’ll look at one of those areas and heighten it for you, giving you our full support.’

  Jeremiah closed his eyes, the tears were coming. He tried his hardest to hold them back, making his bottom lip quiver.

  ‘You are to pack your things at once. The head cardinal in Rome has already been informed, and you are to start your ordination conditioning at once.’

  Jeremiah shot out of his chair and sprung toward the Reg
ent. ‘No, uncle, please I beg of you, I don’t want to go–’

  ‘Silence. Guards, take the young prince back to his chamber and see fit he packs his belongings. You’ve had enough warnings from me, Jeremiah, and now you shall answer to the master who governs us all.’

  CHAPTER 10

  Madeline Barknuckle locked the cabin doors behind her as the Gypsy Moth came to a steady balance. The winds bashed against the wood, flexing it, making it creak. Those sounds had once terrified her. Sat in a bundle of pity in her chamber was the man she’d cried out to protect her. The Captain looked at her father, one hand against his jaw, the other slumped at his side. The crew had set wagers against his defeat, what must they think of her having such a pathetic heap for a parent? A vision appeared of her mother. It was a dark memory, one she rarely cared to visit.

  II

  Conditioning had ended, and the young Madeline had come home to an empty house. Outside in the garden, her mother hunched over the pond.

  ‘What’s the matter, Mother?’ She didn’t reply. Instead, her arm hooked her daughter in closer. Lying next to the water, Winston, her grandfather’s dog, was still, his fur drenched in water.

  ‘He was all I had left of him,’ her mother whimpered, ‘now he’s gone too.’ She wiped away a tear and stood.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mother.’

  She smiled through the sadness and led the young girl back to the house. ‘Your father should be back tonight,’ she said, clasping Madeline’s hands, the grip between her mother’s papery fingers were strongest in her memory. ‘Know I love you and I’m sorry.’

  ‘About what?’ Madeline pulled on her mother’s skirt, waiting for her desolate face to resolve.

  She removed a knife from the drawer and placed it on the side. ‘When you’re older, you’ll understand.’

  III

  Grabbing the white towel hung over the back of the armchair, Madeline held it up to her eye and wiped her face, taking in its freshness, reminding her of the comforts of being with her, instead of him. She placed it back, grabbed the brown one and threw it at him. Holding on to his jaw, he missed it and clawed across the floor like a starving Rabid begging for death.

  ‘Why did you have to do it, Madeline?’

  She snatched the towel back. ‘He was pulverising you; I had little choice.’

  ‘Your crew must think you a dulcop,’ he spluttered from his blood-filled mouth, ‘saving your old man from a fist fight.’

  ‘They don’t know you’re my father, and I wish to keep it that way.’ Had she said his name out loud? The crew might gossip but she had their respect, she was certain of it.

  ‘You underestimate your crew. Do you think they’d believe their captain would dive from her ship to rescue any old goon? If they don’t know who I am, you can bet your rations they’re discussing it.’ He pointed at the door. ‘Has your little stunt jeopardised your mission?’

  She skewed her head at him. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Would’ve if you died,’ he said, meeting her eyes and giving her the same smug look she’d grown to hate.

  ‘No pleasing you, I saved your life.’ She walked away from him.

  ‘You haven’t saved me; your heroic blunder will be my undoing. My target,’ he sniggered. ‘and I almost had him.’

  She shot Francis a look plastered with disappointment and hoped her next words penetrated his arrogance. ‘He had you, Father. Why do you think I jumped?’

  ‘Because you’re a fool. Your mother’s side.’ He said, pointing his towel at her.

  She stomped toward the door. ‘I don’t need this now. I have my own target to acquire. Clean yourself, we have standards on board the Gypsy Moth.’

  ‘I’m coming with you, then?’

  ‘No, Father, I’m dropping you at Gateshead.’

  ‘He won’t have gone back.’

  ‘Who was he?’

  ‘Nicholas, The Nightmare, former boxing champ of the Middle districts.’

  ‘No shit. What did Seagrave want with him?’

  ‘What our ostentatious employer always wants. And now, thanks to you, I’m finished.’

  He was right, she knew it, this was his last mission, his final chance at redemption.

  ‘I can’t believe how humiliated you must feel,’ she said, ‘having been evaded by your target. And what’s Lucian doing sending you out as far as Gateshead? Isn’t it Buckingham’s patch.’

  Francis struggled to stand upright and looked to his daughter for help.

  Instead she watched him muster strength he didn’t deserve; his newly bought shirt ablaze in red blood.

  ‘It is his patch’ he said, ‘I was just trying to get passage back to the City, but then I noticed one of my targets at the station about to board the same train. I thought I’d killed him, but no, Seagraves’s useless drones blundered it. You assassinate a man by sneaking in their bedroom and poisoning the water, but no he wanted to use the drones. Perhaps the golden age of killing is dead, murdered by the technologies to replace us. What irony.’

  ‘Isn’t poison a woman’s weapon?’ Madeline walked around her father, he had an open sore on the back of his neck framed with purple bruised flesh. She felt the instinct to be a daughter and reach out, help him, grab the towel and dab it clean. Conflicting feelings waged a war within her.

  ‘I’m taking you to Lucian,’ she sternly ordered. ‘You can explain all of this to him, but first, I have a target to find.’

  Francis moved in front of his daughter, ‘You look taller.’

  ‘No, I’m stooping less, Lucian expects all–’

  ‘Lucian, you say, using his first name now? You are beginning to sound a lot like your mother.’

  She turned away; his breath reeked of dead teeth. She opened her wooden chest and wrapped the wolf pelt around her. The mention of her mother’s relationship to Lucian, she ignored the feeling in her stomach. ‘I’m a captain, all of us are on first name terms with Seagrave.’

  He nodded then noticed it, the wolf pelt, dark grey with a white belly, cut from an older one of the moorland dogs.

  ‘A gift of his?’ he asked.

  She stroked it. ‘A raid actually. Two helpless Moorlanders had it, claiming they were from Gateshead. The lad had clockwork and a lot of silver. I showed it to Seagrave and he ordered us to get him, hence why were in this dump and you’re in my chamber. Shortly to be leaving, I might add, so don’t get too comfortable.’

  ‘Did he have short dark hair, green eyes, about your age?’

  ‘Younger. He and a girl were trying to trace the whereabouts of the boy’s Father. They were heading back to Gateshead.’

  Her father gulped a pool of blood. He enjoyed the taste, a reminder he was still alive.

  ‘Where am I taking you, back to Luci– Seagrave?’ she asked.

  ‘It doesn’t matter where you take me.’ Francis said, ‘Nicholas will be long gone from Gateshead now, and only the Mother could tell you where he might have been headed next. It’s his brother Alfred Nightingale who he wants dead.’

  Madeline faced her father. ‘Nightingale?’

  ‘Yes… what about it?’

  ‘The boy, was called Nightingale.’

  ‘We need to find him, right now.’ Her father’s air changed, and there was a long pause. ‘Don’t take me to Seagrave, Maddy,’ he pleaded. ‘We need to find this boy. Let me help you. Where was the last place you saw him?’

  ‘No.’ she said.

  ‘No? What do you mean no?’

  ‘I am not giving you any credit, this Nightingale is my target, mine and my crew.’ She pointed out to the deck.

  ‘Fine,’ he said, ‘He’ll know the whereabouts of his father, that’s all I care about.’

  ‘You might also want to care about avoiding the other one.’

  ‘Nicholas is a fool.’

  Madeline laughed, ‘a fool who can fight. If I’m not mistaken there the worst fools of all!’

  ‘A fool who thinks their wise is far more dangerous – so we
have a deal?’

  She nodded. ‘But, we take him to Seagrave first, I don’t want you interrogating the lad, not on-board my ship.’

  ‘I understand Maddy.’ Francis bowed. ‘Where did you last see him?’

  ‘A cave network. It’s a few miles east from here.’

  ‘Closest town?’

  ‘Gateshead.’

  ‘Little chance they’d have got there without their belongings. This boy is a skilled tracker, though. Have you tried Port Staddiscombe?’

  ‘How do you know he’s a skilled tracker?’ she asked, ‘and what have they been tracking? The boy said he was hunting wolves. Never mentioned his village being attacked.’

  Francis turned away from her. ‘His uncle was alone at Gateshead so he won’t be there.’ He struggled to recollect the train stops. ‘I think, I might be wrong, but I’m sure the train said it was stopping at Port Staddiscombe and Port Eastwood. Take us to Port Staddiscombe now, before dusk.’

  ‘The Moth is a fast ship, Father,’ she boasted. ‘We’ll be there before the night falls.’

  Madeline left him to care for his own wounds and re-joined her crew back on deck with the fresh set of orders.

  The ship banked portside, setting the course back out toward the Moor. It rushed over the dashes of clouds with the featureless landscape held beneath them, void of challenge.

  After Mother had died, she remembered how Father took her out to shoot craters in his battered old airship, the St Louis. The man she recollected and the man sat beaten in her chamber were two different people. Her door opened, and out he walked. Some of the crew looked over at him and whispered to each other. One of them caught her eye and gave his loquacious shipmate a budge. She watched as her father perched at the far end of the stern and tidied his posture. What had happened to him, was it age? She used to think it was what Mother had done – he never showed remorse. Losing his ship to a younger crew, put on missions most likely to kill him, neither seemed to bother him. The older ones were either bored or worked to death. It was always about what you’re doing, never what you’ve done; a brutal fact of employment.