The Queen of Bedlam

by Robert R. McCammon

  “A tragedy,” Matthew replied.

  “A business. Like any other, except…” Chapel thought about it. “It made me, a poor but ambitious tinker’s son, very wealthy.”

  The boys suddenly rushed ahead. Ominously so, Matthew thought. They disappeared around the corner of the belltower building.

  “Ah, the ragged schools give us such dedicated pupils,” Chapel said, with a hint of wicked delight. “Now listen, do as I say. Run a little bit to get them excited, then lie down. Tell the girl, if she’s in any state to hear you. But you won’t be able to run very far, anyway.”

  “What’ll you do to us afterward? Throw our bodies in the river?”

  “Certainly not. Billy jumped off that cliff over there,” and here Chapel motioned in the direction of the Hudson, “before he could be stopped. He was half-blind, as it was. Couldn’t see where he was running to or from. Ordinarily, we would have buried him back in the woods where we bury all our mistakes and failures. Which are unfortunately many, as we have very exacting standards, the same as any university. Out of all the candidates sold to us by Ausley, we only pass through about six a year. Now this Ausley situation is a problem. We’re going to have to find a replacement for him and get our own representative heading up the girls’ orphanage, so we have a lot of work to do the next few months.”

  Matthew’s mind had latched on to something Chapel had just said. “Half-blind? What do you mean, Billy was half-blind?”

  “Oh, his eyes were all torn up. The birds, you know.”

  “The birds?”

  “That’s right. My hawks.” And then they turned the corner and there around a large canopy-shaded aviary the pack of boys were waiting. Three of the biggest ones had hooded brown-and-white birds of prey perched on their leather gloves and forearm-guards.

  Berry made a sound as if she’d taken a blow to the stomach. Her knees buckled, but the gentlemanly Count shoved her forward with sadistic relish.

  “You are one bastard,” Matthew said to Chapel, his teeth gritted so hard they were about to break. Chapel shrugged, as if this were a compliment.

  “Young men!” Lawrence Evans had picked up a basket and was passing it around. “Arm yourselves, please. Watch the blades, we don’t want any accidents.”

  The boys, who Matthew noted had removed their colored badges so all were equal in this endeavor, were reaching in and coming up with knives. There was a disturbing variety of blades: short, long, hooked up or down, wide, thin, stubby, elegantly evil. The boys walked around sticking and stabbing the air, some delivering a brutal twist, some slashing as if trying to destroy the last vestiges of childhood before they stepped across the threshold of no return.

  They all appeared to have done this before, though several—including the light-fingered Silas—looked just a bit green around the gills. But they too hacked and sliced the air with abandon.

  “Your version of the professor’s gauntlet,” Matthew said to Chapel; or more correctly, heard himself say, as his face and mouth seemed numbed by frost.

  “Correct. My version, utilizing a long-cherished hobby. Mr. Greathouse has been schooling you well. He’ll be out here soon enough himself, you can mark that.” He waited for Dahlgren to shove Berry into earshot, though she still looked too dazed to comprehend their fate. “Mr. Edgar? Where’s Mr. Edgar?”

  “Here, sir,” said a large, stocky young man with close-cropped dark brown hair. He came forward out of the building’s shadow cradling a small lamb in the crook of a meaty arm, and in the other hand a wooden bucket that held of all things a paintbrush. Edgar had a slight limp and a pock-marked face, his eyes also dark brown and obviously nervous for he was blinking rapidly. When he reached Chapel, he glanced up and said almost shyly, “Hello, Matthew.”

  Matthew was struck dumb for a few seconds. Then his mouth moved and he said, “Hello, Jerrod.”

  “I heard you might be coming out. How’ve you been?”

  “Fine, thank you. And you?”

  “I’m all right.” Jerrod Edgar nodded. His dull eyes did not show the most intelligence in the world, but Matthew had known him as a decent fellow in 1694, when Matthew was fifteen and Jerrod twelve. Jerrod had unfortunately been the target of some of Ausley’s most frequent and intense attentions, and Matthew had watched him withdraw into himself and pull all his shame and anger into the shell with him. Then Jerrod had stolen a burning-glass that Ausley lit his pipe with during one of the punishment sessions, and afterward he was always setting fire to either leaves or donated prayer book pages or grasshoppers or his own plucked-out hair. When another boy had tried to steal it, the boy had left the orphanage for the King Street hospital folded up in a cart and obviously died there, as he’d never returned. “I guess I’m doin’ all right,” Jerrod repeated, as he gave the lamb to Simon Chapel.

  “May I ask what you’re doing here?”

  “I don’t know. Just playin’ with fire, mostly. It’s what I like.”

  “Knife, please,” Chapel said, to no one in particular.

  Matthew saw that the other boys were settling down. They had stopped swinging their blades. Their muscles were warmed up, and they were saving their energy. Matthew looked back into Jerrod’s disturbed but fathomless eyes. “Jerrod?” he said quietly.

  “Yes, Matthew?”

  “Are you going to kill me?”

  Evans had brought a hooked knife to his master. Matthew realized it was the exact kind of slaughterhouse implement Kirby had used so well. Chapel stroked the lamb a few times and said, “There, there,” to its pitiful call for its mother. Then he drew the head up and back with one hand while the blade in the other sliced the white throat from ear to ear. The bright red blood burst out and flooded into the bucket that Evans had taken from Jerrod and now held steady beneath the torrent.

  “Yes, Matthew,” said Jerrod. “I suppose I am.”

  “You don’t have to,” Matthew told him.

  Jerrod cocked his head, listening to the blood spilling into the bucket. The three hawks began to shiver with excitement and clench their claws on the leather gloves, scoring deep grooves even deeper. “I do,” Jerrod answered. “If I want to stay, I mean. They’re good to me here, Matthew. I’m somebody.”

  “You always were somebody.”

  “Naw.” Jerrod’s mouth smiled, but his eyes did not. “I was never nobody, out there.”

  Then he looked at Matthew a moment longer, as the convulsing lamb emptied and the bucket filled up and the hawks stirred and made little eerie skreeling noises, and finally Jerrod went over to the basket on the ground to get himself a knife.

  Matthew started to go over to stand beside Berry, to say—exactly what, pray tell?—something to her to get her mind focused, but suddenly Evans grasped his upper arm and a bloody paintbrush that smelled of old Dutch copper duits was being liberally applied to his face: forehead, cheeks, around the eyes, circling the mouth, down the chin, and done.

  One of the hawks, the largest of the birds and perhaps the one that had torn the cardinal to shreds over Matthew’s head in the garden that day, twitched its hooded head back and forth and made a soft, high keening noise.

  “They’re trained to go for the color,” Chapel explained, in all earnest seriousness. “Many hundreds of blood-soaked field mice and hares have gallantly given their lives. They smell the odor too, of course, which helps them home onto you, but their eyesight is simply magnificent.” He had deposited the lamb’s carcass into a black box with a lid on it that he now closed, so as not to give the birds a confusing signal. Lawrence Evans walked over, carrying the gore-bucket to paint Berry’s face with the brush. She looked at him as if he were mad, tried to kick him and then strike his head with her own, but had to relent when again Count Dahlgren seized her hair, shoved a fist against her spine, and threatened to break her back before the game even began.

  “You’ll be given a running start.” Chapel walked a few paces away to a horse trough to wash his hands. The boys were striding back and forth, also
eager to hunt. No one was laughing and whenever someone spoke the voice was tight and clipped. “To the first row of vines,” Chapel continued, motioning toward the sunny field some seventy yards away. “Then I’ll signal the handlers to release their birds. It’ll take them a few seconds to reach you. They’ll see your face as just another bloody little animal, though perhaps a more difficult challenge. They seem to particularly like the eyes. At my discretion, I’ll then send the boys. Everyone gets some exercise, everyone gets some experience. Everyone forges a bond to his brother. Do you see?”

  Matthew was watching Berry shudder as the brush left her face bloodied in the same pattern as his own. The rings around the eyes were the worst. Billy Hodges had leaped to his death not only to escape the blades, but to escape the beaks and claws. “If we’re going to die anyway, why should we run?”

  “Well, there’s no way you can get off the estate because of the wall all around, that’s true, but in several instances we’ve had young men who’ve fled from the vineyard into the woods and hidden there for a day or so. Sometimes the birds do get tired and distracted and they turn away. We have had to go into the woods on hunting expeditions. Very bothersome, but again it’s experience. Now: are you sure you want to stand there and die without resistance? Of course I would recommend that you not try to get into the woods, as it would simply prolong your inevitable deaths, but if you’re interested in perhaps spending a last night communing with your Maker before you go, or hanging on to life as we know it to be, then you will give us a good display, won’t you?”

  Matthew looked at the group of young killers. Nineteen had never seemed so many. Had a few ghosts of previous failures slipped in among them, to rectify their failings? Movement at an upper window of one of the buildings caught his attention. Someone had just pulled a curtain aside and was peering out. An indistinct face. One of the instructors, perhaps? Was that their living quarters?

  “Oh…one last thing. Mr. Hastings!” To Chapel’s summons came a burly, thick-shouldered boy of about seventeen, who carried a knife with a long slim blade. “Clear his pockets, please,” Chapel directed. Hastings came up with some coins and the silver watch, which Chapel immediately took charge of. “I’ll give you a little time to ready yourselves,” he told Matthew, as he wound his new possession.

  Matthew walked to Berry’s side. She was trembling and tears had rolled down through her bloodmask, yet her eyes were no longer scorched blue blanks. She was hanging on.

  “Listen to me,” he said, looking her square in the face. “We have two choices.” One of the hawks loudly skreeled. He felt his own nerve quickly ebbing. “We can fall on the ground and wait for them to kill us, or we can run. The hawks are going to be after us first, then the boys. We can cut across the vineyard and try to reach the woods. That way.” His gaze ticked to the right. “We might get there. If we can find a place to hide—”

  “Where?” Berry asked, with welcome fury in her voice. “Hide where?”

  “If we can find a place to hide,” he continued, “long enough to get these ropes off.” How that was to be done without a knife he didn’t offer. “We might be able to climb the wall.”

  “Ready, Matthew? Miss? Ready, young men?” Chapel called. A few of the boys crouched down, Indian-style, with one knee to the ground.

  “Keep going,” Matthew said. “Don’t fall.” He feared he was losing her, as she blinked heavily and wavered on her feet. “Berry, listen!” He heard a raw edge of panic. His arms gave a final convulsive wrench against the cords, which would not be loosened. “Just keep going, do you—”

  “Time!” Chapel shouted, and instantly the boys began to shout with voices as sharp as their blades.

  Berry set out like a deer, even as Matthew said, “—hear me?” Then he followed right on her heels and immediately tripped over his own feet and fell to his knees to a chorus of frenzied laughter. He hauled himself up, cursing under his breath, and caught up with her. She was running faster and more nimbly than he would have expected, her hair flowing back and her face grim as the grave beneath the blood. He kept pace with her, and though she staggered once and crashed against his side neither of them fell this time but kept going onto the vineyard itself.

  As they neared the first vine row, Matthew realized the true vintage on these few acres of Hell was the wine of corruption. The field was overgrown with weeds and the gray clumps of grapes were rotten and shrivelled. A sickly-sweet odor akin to graveyard decay wafted in the sun. He felt the urge to look back but dared not. He cried out, “This way!” and ran along the row toward the green line of forest perhaps another hundred yards distant. A gnarled root caught at his right foot and he pitched forward, out of control for a few seconds before he righted himself. Berry was close beside him, her hair whipping into his face.

  A shadow passed over them, followed by a second and a third.

  The boys were silent, waiting.

  Eighty more yards to the woods, Matthew judged it to be. They were still running at full speed. A giddy spark of hope flared in his heart that they would make the forest. He glanced back to see if the boys were coming yet, and the hawk that was swooping down right on top of him spread its wings wide and struck.

  forty-seven

  MATTHEW THREW HIMSELF ASIDE as the hawk sailed past his right shoulder, its talons grasping at empty air. A second bird of prey came in from the opposite direction, this one moving in a blur, and almost before he could register that it was right there in his face he felt a searing pain across his left cheek and knew he’d been hit.

  The third hawk came down almost lazily and grazed Berry’s forehead. She gave a wounded cry but her stride never slowed. She kept her head down as another hawk sped by with a high shrill shriek and began to turn a slow circle for its next pass.

  Sixty yards to the forest. Suddenly Matthew had feathers in his face and talons jabbing for his eyes. He hunched his shoulders up and head down and felt the sharp claws rip furrows across his left shoulder. There was no time to waste; he had to keep moving, just as Berry was not letting the next attack—even so close as it came to taking out her own left eye—make her lose her speed and determination to live.

  Two birds passed close over Matthew’s head, one from the right and one from behind. A third darted in, again shrieking, and this time slammed into the left side of Berry’s face. As it flew on she stumbled and fell to one knee. Matthew stood over her shouting, “Get away! Get away!” as another hawk skimmed her head. She got up, breathing raggedly, and then Matthew looked back and saw the boys coming.

  Sunlight glinted off their knives. Three of the smaller and faster boys were already halfway to the first vine row. He saw Simon Chapel watching, standing between Lawrence Evans and Count Dahlgren. Four other adults Matthew did not recognize—three men in suits and tricorn hats and a woman under a dark blue parasol—stood with them. The instructors had emerged to watch their pupils in action. The desire to live caught flame within him. If they could get their wrists free…

  Berry was up and moving again, still heading toward the forest. Just above her left eye what was lamb’s blood and what her own was difficult to tell. Matthew ran after her. A hawk flashed by his face with a noise like bacon sizzling in a pan. An instant later, a pair of talons were scrabbling at his forehead and the fresh pain told him he was going to be cut to pieces out here in the open. A red haze shimmered before his eyes. If he fell or was overcome, he was most certainly dead. The hawk’s shriek pierced his ears, but he ducked his head down before further damage could be done.

  Forty yards to go, and with every stride the forest neared.

  Matthew could imagine what the hawks must have done to Billy Hodges. Three on him at once; it had been a cutting party before the boys had even—

  The largest hawk was suddenly upon him. From which direction it had come, he had no clue. It was just there, its wings outstretched as if to enfold him. His instinctive turning of his head and squeezing his eyes shut probably saved him from being blinded, a
s the claws caught at the front of his coat and the hooked beak, intending to pierce his left lamp, tore flesh a half-inch beside it. The bird’s talons ripped shreds of cloth from his suit and through slitted eyes Matthew saw a flurry of beating wings and a blur of red-spark eyes and flashing beak. He was hit again on the cheek just under the right eye, a pain like a burn, and then what felt like a broomstick clobbered him across the back of the head and talons were caught in his hair. He heard himself cry out with pain and abject terror and he did the only thing he could do: he crashed himself headlong into the grapevines with the strength of the damned. As he rolled on the earth, he realized the large hawk was still clutched to his coat and the beak was trying to hook an eye. Matthew desperately twisted his head back and forth, his shoulders hunched and his eyes tightly sealed against the onslaught. Then the bird gave a sudden human-like grunt and near-squeal, and Matthew opened his eyes to see the hawk whirling away on the toe of Berry’s shoe.