“My friend was mad,” Artor said. “I have seen the strange light which flickered in his eyes again, and again, over the long years since. But in your eyes…”
The High King trailed off, regarding Galaad.
“You see nothing in my eyes, majesty?” Galaad was reluctant to ask, afraid what the answer would be.
“It isn't that.” Artor shook his head. “But it is a different look I see on your face. No, you are not mad. You are…” He paused, searching for the right word. “You are…haunted.”
Galaad's breath caught in his throat, and he swallowed loudly.
“Yes, that is it,” Artor said, nodding. “Haunted.”
Galaad's sleep, when it finally came, was thankfully dreamless, and it was late in the morning before he woke. In the relative warm and proximate comfort of his small room, he found it nearly impossible to resist the temptation to remain abed and settled on lying for a short while longer beneath the thin wool blanket. He intended to rise momentarily, but despite his best intentions he drifted once more to sleep. This time, though, his slumber was not so dreamless.
Galaad dreamt that he was on horseback, riding across the Powys countryside. It was a clear spring morning, the sun just pinking the sky to the east, and the rolling green hills were flocked with clover and cinquefoil, marigold and vetch, all flowering, all in bloom. In the hazy logic of dreams, Galaad realized that the flowers weren't on the hillsides, but were in his arms. He clutched a huge bunch of flowers. They were heavy and unwieldy in his arms, so that he had to shift on the saddle constantly and struggle to hold them to him. But for some reason, in the dream this unwieldy bunch of flowers were to him an endless source of joy and contentment, and he was happy just to have them near him.
He rode on, through the hills, laughing, spurring the horse to speed. But their course carried them away from the gently rolling hills and into an area pocked with rock outcroppings, the ground grown more rugged. And it became harder and harder to hold the flowers in his lap, though his laughter continued unabated. And just when he thought the horse could go no faster, and that he could laugh no louder, it all came to a crashing halt. The horse turned its ankle on a rock, cartwheeling forward and sending Galaad and the bunch of flowers flying through the air.
Galaad hit the ground headfirst, the pain setting off bursts of lightning behind his eyes, and he felt the side of his head go numb with pain. He reached up and his hand came away wet. He felt dizzy, nauseated, and only then did he think what had become of the flowers.
Gripped with sudden terror, he scrambled up onto his knees, looking around. And there, a short distance away, he saw the flowers scattered across the sharp rocks, the red clover bright in the morning sun against the gray stone.
And then he woke.
But the nightmare didn't end. It never did.
“Flora,” Galaad said, his cheeks wet with tears.
It was only later, after the sobs that racked his body finally subsided a bit, that he was able to climb to his feet, dress, and meet the day.
The High King's council was gathering again in the audience chamber, and Galaad quietly found a place in the back, out of sight. He had been in the kitchen, breaking his fast with a simple meal of bread and thin stew, when a servant came with word that he was wanted in the audience chamber. Galaad wasn't sure why he'd been summoned but saw no reason to refuse.
Caius, the tall, fair-haired captain and self-styled eques, greeted Galaad with a smile from across the room, while on the opposite side of the marble table the Gael Lugh treated him to a raised eyebrow, no doubt as curious about the reasons for Galaad's presence as he was himself.
Galaad was eager to find out and didn't have long to wait. Shortly after he settled himself on the bench, the room fell silent as the Count of Brittania, High King Artor, strode into the rear of the hall.
“God give you a good day, gentles,” Artor said, animatedly. He smiled as he sat in the gilt chair and drummed his fingers on the scabbarded sword he laid across his knees.
Caradog leaned forward, examining his tablet, on which were recorded the names of all the day's petitioners.
“Not today,” Artor said, waving his chief counselor silent before he'd even had a chance to speak. “We have other business to attend, instead.”
The captains seated around the marble circle glanced back and forth at one another in confusion, while around the room the various dignitaries, representatives, traders, and other plaintiffs grumbled their discontent.
“And what is this business, majesty?” Caradog asked, his tone perhaps a trifle too unctuous.
Artor smiled, seeming filled with a vigor that had been lacking the day before. “I come today to announce a new enterprise, gentles. A foray. An…expedition, if you will.”
The murmurs rippling around the room increased in volume and intensity, and the looks of confusion deepened.
“An expedition, majesty?” Caius asked.
“Just so,” Artor said with a nod. “To Dumnonia, by sea.”
Scowls appeared on the faces of some of those around the room, amusement on others, while not a few cast glances in Galaad's direction, suspiciously.
Galaad couldn't help but remember Artor's repeated queries about Dumnonia, and whether he had ever been.
“Your pardon, majesty,” Lugh said, waving a hand for attention, “but you don't suggest that you believe the tadpole's story, do you?”
Artor smiled, though Galaad noticed that the lines around his eyes deepened as he regarded the Gael. When he answered, it was in measured, even tones. “I cannot say, Long Hand. Or rather, I cannot say that I believe every jot and tittle. But neither can I escape the feeling that there is some truth to what he has described.”
“And the purpose of this expedition would be…?” asked another captain, short and compact, who spoke Britannic with a Demetian accent.
“To see the truth of it for ourselves, whatever truth there may be.”
The grumbles from those gathered in the audience hall intensified in volume, and dark looks passed back and forth.
“Perhaps it would be best to adjourn the council for today,” Caradog said quickly, seeking to sooth raising tempers. “To allow the High King time to…formulate how best to present his thoughts.”
Artor's eyes flashed as he glared at his chief counselor, thin-lipped, but in a moment his white-knuckled fists relaxed on his knees and he drew several slow breaths, steadying himself. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then shut it again and contented himself with a curt nod.
“Thank you, gentles,” Caradog said to the room at large, rising from the couch and taking up his tablet. “If you will all return tomorrow at midday, we will hear each of your complaints in due order.”
As those gathered reluctantly shuffled from the audience hall, some shaking their heads in bewilderment, others muttering darkly in their discontent, Galaad rose from the bench, expecting to be ushered out with them. But he noted that none of the twelve captains had left their positions, except for Caradog who stood at the table's edge, and that the High King kept his seat. Galaad half turned to leave when Artor caught his eye and gave a quick shake of his head, his expression unreadable.
Glancing at the retreating backs of the plaintiffs, Galaad swallowed hard and sat back down on the bench.
When the room had cleared, the silence was finally broken.
“What madness is this, Artor?” Caradog fairly shouted, wheeling around and pointing a finger at the High King.
Artor sighed heavily, but didn't yet answer.
“Surely there is some jest in this, right?” Lugh asked, leaning back on the couch, chuckling. “Though I'll admit that the humor escapes me.”
“Perhaps that says more about your faculties than about the jest,” chided the captain with the Demetian accent, at which Artor cracked a slight smile.
From his privileged position at the rear of the otherwise empty room, Galaad noticed that, without an audience, the captains and their king comporte
d themselves very differently. No longer the dignified ruler and his trusted counselors, they seemed now much more relaxed, much more a group of equals, though all still deferred to Artor to some degree. What he saw before him now, Galaad realized, was the easy camaraderie of the battlefield.
“Perhaps, Bedwyr,” Lugh said to the Demetian captain, “you simply have a better vantage that I, what with your nose buried so far up Artor's arse.”
Bedwyr flicked the end of his nose with his thumb and grinned. “Is that what that smell is? I thought for certain that it was the air wafting from that rotted maw you call a mouth.”
“Will you two either fight or fornicate and be done with it?” said an auburn-haired captain who spoke Britannic with the accent of Gwent.
“Careful, Pryder,” Lugh said with a leer. “You might give the impression that you'd like to join our coupling, and that would make your dear brother jealous.”
Across the marble circle a captain, who except that his hair and beard was blond instead of auburn could have been Pryder's double, scowled and lay his hand on his sword hilt.
“Peace, Gwrol,” Pryder said, raising a warning hand. “There's no need for that.”
“You're all a pack of children!” Caradog barked, slamming his tablet onto the marble table and dropping loudly back onto the couch. “In case it has escaped your feeble attentions, there is a more serious matter before us.” He glared at the other captains, then turned his attention to the High King. “Come now, Artor. What is all this about?”
Artor glanced around the marble circle at his captains and, shaking his head, let out a heavy sigh.
“Surely I'm not the only one bored senseless with this.”
Caradog looked to the other captains, who seemed as confused as he. “With what, precisely, Artor?”
Artor waved his hand, though whether indicating the room, or the palace, or the city beyond, Galaad couldn't say. “With this. With all of this…this officialism.”
The High King pushed his gilt chair back, scraping noisily against the floor, and climbed wearily to his feet, his scabbarded spatha in his hands.
“I don't know about you lot, but this isn't what I fought and bled for. My intention was to drive the Saeason from our lands and restore order. To make Britannia safe for our families, safe for our children and children's children. But I never intended this. Never intended…” He paused, and his lip twisted. “Grain levies.” He pounded a fist on the marble table. “Or the boundaries of farm land. Or tin tariffs. Or preferential trade agreements.”
More than a few heads around the marble circle began to nod.
“I had no intention to rule. Hell, I never even wanted to lead. But Ambrosius tapped me as his chief lieutenant, and when his hour came the sword of the Count of Britannia passed into my hands, and that was an end to it.”
Artor held the spatha up, regarding the silver- and gold-worked hilt.
“But I might never have taken it up if I'd known it would all lead to this.”
He threw the sword onto the marble table with a clatter of metal on stone.
“My heart scarcely seems to beat, these last few years, so sluggish does my blood course around my veins. I would have my pulse quicken again, if only once, before death takes me in my sleep or boredom at last reduces me to stone. And if that quickening comes at the cost of a fool's errand, of taking a stranger at his word and following a senseless vision to the ends of the earth, then so be it.” He passed his gaze over those sitting before him. Then, with a shrug, he said, “And who knows, perhaps the boy does receive visitations from some angel or spirit or goddess, and there will be something waiting for us at our journey's end. But I can tell you one thing for certain. We'll never find it sitting here on our widening backsides, listening to the endless prattle of these petitioners.”
A number of the captains seemed to find sense in Artor's words, while others were clearly unconvinced, Caradog chief among them.
“Listen to reason, Artor,” Caradog said, his tone gentle. “I know that our present duties may lack the vigor of our younger days, but these are offices which must be fulfilled.”
“Then leave others to fulfill them,” Artor snapped. He calmed himself visibly, and took a deep breath. “I'm a soldier, friend, and a poor statesman. I'll not abandon my duties here, but if I'm not allowed to step away from them, if only briefly, I doubt my spirit could weather it.”
“I'm with Artor,” Bedwyr said, slapping the tabletop with his palm. “I'm tired of all of this statecraft, and could do with a bit of venturing.”
Some of the other captains grumbled, shaking their heads.
“As much as it pains me to say, I agree with Bedwyr,” Lugh said. “I feel myself suffocating within these city walls and would value the chance to roam.”
“And I think you've all been at kegs that have gone bad,” Caradog objected. “Artor was selected as High King by those he now rules, and he owes them his time and attention.”
Other voices raised around the marble circle, some in support of the notion and some opposed.
“Enough,” Artor said, his voice quiet but firm. “It's clear we won't be of one mind about this. Then let us be, for a moment, a democratia, such as the Athenians practiced. We shall put it to a vote, and each man shall decide his own course for himself. As for me, I know my own mind.” He reached out a hand to the spatha that lay on the marble table, but stopped before his fingers touched the sheath. He paused, then drew his hand back, leaving the sword where it lay. “I'm for boarding White Aspect and sailing down the Tamesa with tomorrow's first light. Now, who is with me?”
SANDFORD BLANK AND ROXANNE BONAVENTURE reviewed the materials Melville had provided. The details were scant and raised more questions than they answered.
There had been a full coroner's inquest into the first murder, two weeks previous, though if it had been reported in the papers, it had escaped the notice of Miss Bonaventure and Blank, who habitually scanned the day's news for such stories. If they'd overlooked the story, they were hardly to be blamed. On the surface, it seemed just another anonymous murder, the sort that happened with an altogether depressing regularity in the city. The victim, evidently, had been a prostitute, or so the coroner concluded after hearing the testimony of the witnesses who had discovered the body and of the officers and physicians who had investigated the case.
It was to the credit of the city's police that they investigated the murder of those for whom society at large had such little regard, though admittedly with less vigor and tenacity than they would the slaying of a duchess. However, simply to label a woman, whether living or dead, as a “prostitute” was to paint a portrait with too broad a brush. In addition to the untold thousands of women for whom prostitution was their sole means of employment, there were countless more women engaged in the various menial and low-paying professions, seamstresses and the like, who were forced by circumstance to engage in more casual prostitution when needs must. There was little in the transcription of the inquest to suggest in which of these types of prostitution, career or casual, the victim had engaged. This was a point which Blank resolved to remember.
Of particular interest was the testimony of one Doctor Thomas Bond, a resident at Number 7, the Sanctuary, Westminster, and surgeon to the A Division of the Metropolitan Police. He had been the one to examine the remains of the first victim, which had been brought to New Scotland Yard, and who also visited the site where the body had been found, along the embankment. In addition to the transcript of his testimony at the inquest, Blank and Miss Bonaventure had been provided with the postmortem report that Bond had written and delivered to his superiors.
The portmortem was quite graphic in its descriptions, enough so that Miss Bonaventure, whose stomach for such unpleasantries was usually cast iron, was forced to turn away. The report dwelt on the appearance of the armless, headless torso, bloated white after some indeterminate amount of time spent in the Thames, with special attention given the condition of the wounds, which ap
peared to have been fodder for fish at some point after death. The inquest testimony was thankfully somewhat less descriptive, though even here there was enough to make Miss Bonaventure turn a bit green at the gills. Blank, who had seen far worse things in his time, was too overcome by a frisson of recognition to allow himself a moment of queasy unease.
He'd had dealings with Dr. Thomas Bond before. Bond had been one of the physicians to examine the remains of the Torso Killer's victims. The man was well regarded, both by his peers in the medical establishment and by the police authorities, but Blank had quickly deduced that the man was an unctuous buffoon. He seemed too eager to impress, too eager to please, and as a result he had a habit of rendering his verdicts sooner than was appropriate, preferring a ready answer that sounded clever and learned to spending the time necessary to root out the actual truth.
In the case of the Torso Killings, Bond had quickly determined that the bodies had been dissected by someone with anatomical knowledge, later amending the statement to say that the knowledge could have been that of a butcher, rather than a surgeon. However, based on his own examinations of the remains, Blank knew full well that the killer displayed little knowledge of anatomy whatsoever, having simply hacked at his victims like a poor woodsman with a dull axe, rather than carving them with the skilled precision of a surgeon or cleaving them into quarters with at least the workmanlike skill of a butcher.
If anything, Bond's assistant, a Dr. Charles Alfred Hibbert, was the more skilled of the two, and so it was with interest that Blank read the transcript of Hibbert's testimony to the inquest. It was Hibbert's contention that the cuts had not been made by an anatomist, given that the positioning of the cuts did not conform with the locations of the various joints. The cutting implement had simply been applied to the body and pressed straight through bone.
The body, when found, had been in the early stages of decomposition, having been dumped into the Thames somewhere further upstream and catching up on the embankment in Pimlico. As a result, the state of the wounds at the time of death was difficult to ascertain. However, both Bond and Hibbert made specific mention of the bones being sheared cleanly through, without hack or saw marks.
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