by Euan McAllen
‘It’s urgent,’ insisted Esmeralda.
Rufus believed her: this was no coincidence. This was weird, and he wanted to know the truth. Was Mozak hiding a secret from him? Was the father thing a ploy? Rufus pointed at the door of the building opposite.
‘He’s in there, trying to get laid, or at least making enquiries.’
That blunt declaration caused Timothy to smile and Esmeralda to fold her arms tightly. Boys. It was always the same with boys.
For Timothy this sense of deja vu was weird: he had done the same outside, and intended to do the same in here. Very weird. But then, no, perhaps not: after all how were young, sex-charged men supposed to burn time in this god-forsaken place? Timothy quickly apologised to God in case he was listening, and made a mental note of the brothel’s location. Watch only, Gregory had said but Timothy could not bear to just watch. He stormed on inside, leaving Stevie stranded. Esmeralda watched him go. She knew what went on inside that place, having been there many times. Rufus on the other hand was right on his tail.
Timothy almost crashed into Marcus in the hallway: he was arguing with some middle-aged woman over the value of a chain. The brothel keeper, thought Timothy. There was a dispute over how much gold it contained.
Mozak, on seeing Timothy again, stopped talking and slipped his fake gold chain into a pocket. The peasant was back. A shiver ran down his back. The brothel keeper looked at them both, eyebrows raised - stretched to the limit - before they were lowered. Twins? Rosamund, the only official brothel keeper in the village, had never seen twins before.
‘You?’ said Mozak. It was all he could say.
‘Your name is Marcus?’
Mozak looked at Rufus, wondering how the peasant knew his name, and how he had found him.
‘Did you tell him my name?’
Rufus threw the question back in his face. ‘Not me.’
‘Must have been the girl.’
‘She’s outside.’
Timothy cut in. ‘She is outside. And she has a name.’
Mozak glared back.
‘You from round here? The Village?’
Mozak hesitated. ‘Yes. Hereabouts. Why?’
He looked at Rufus for assistance, wondering what hole he was digging but all Rufus could do was return a blank stare. He had no idea where any of this was going.
‘You could be my brother, my twin brother,’ said Timothy, calmly. ‘I was born in the village then adopted.’
‘Impossible,’ said Mozak resolutely.
‘Why impossible?’
‘Just impossible.’
‘Are you an orphan, adopted?’
‘No!’ snapped Mozak.
This makes no sense, thought Timothy. He was stuck. The only way out was to take this Marcus to meet Gregory. He wouldn’t like it but he would know more. He would know what to do.
‘Please, will you come with me? Meet my guardian. He’s a nice man. He knew my parents.’
‘He knew your parents?’ asked Mozak, dumbfounded.
He looked again at Rufus but Rufus could offer no advice. He was just a member of the spellbound audience, along with Esmeralda who by now was standing at the door, listening in but refusing to step inside. The brothel keeper - her aunt - looked at her, surprised to see a small dog in her arms.
‘Has Breamston finally let you have a dog?’
‘No. He’s not mine.’
‘He’s mine,’ said Timothy. ‘Don’t drop him.’
Irked by the inference that she didn’t know what she was doing, Esmeralda made a point of not replying. She was not in the habit of dropping small dogs, puppies, cats or kittens.
Very well, can’t be any harm, thought Mozak. I’ll meet this man. Foccinni can wait.
‘Very well, I’ll meet him. But I tell you again, I cannot be your twin.’
Back outside Timothy reclaimed his Stevie and stroked him to reassure him - and himself - that all was well. Stevie licked the palm of his hand and wagged his tail. Mozak was not impressed: this was no hunting dog. Is this what passed for dogs in this miserable corner of the world?
Esmeralda led them back to the forge. Mozak could not take his eyes off her. Timothy did, but only to rest them on Marcus, as if to warn him ‘hands off, I saw her first’.
Esmeralda was cheerful, despite the clash with Gregory which had put Breamston in an extra bad mood (he was always in a bad mood). She had never had such excitement, experienced such mystery: these two were twins? One on the Inside had a twin on the Outside? How could that happen? What was going on? She wanted to know.
On the way they passed the church.
‘What’s that?’ asked Mozak.
‘A church,’ snapped Timothy. ‘Don’t you know what a church is?’
Mozak wanted to say no. Why would he? But that would have revealed the lie. Rufus jumped in and saved him.
‘Stop it Marcus, stop messing about.’
Timothy spotted Fargo but luckily Fargo didn’t spot him: he was deep in contemplation. Timothy breathed a sigh of relief as he sneaked pass unnoticed. Fargo the monk was a bore.
Fargo was fuming and entertaining ungodly thoughts: the church was locked; some worthless cretins inside had locked him out. How dare they! He banged on the door as if expecting it to be opened by divine intervention. A voice sprang out from behind him.
‘Calm down my friend.’
Fargo didn’t want to be calmed down and turned to confront his tormentor: a man dressed in a long black jacket and wide brimmed black hat to match. He held a bunch of keys in his hand like he had just won them in a raffle. Fargo thought he looked slightly ridiculous, and he was smiling too much such that it made him look both serious and stupid at the same time.
‘You have come to pray my friend?’
‘Yes,’ replied Fargo, thinking it a stupid question.
‘We haven’t seen you round here before.’
The man took off his hat: the wearing of hats was banned inside the church.
‘This is my first time.’
‘First time?’
‘First time here I mean. I’m new to the village.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘Outside.’
‘I see.’
That reply seemed to create a bad smell and the man waved him aside. Keys jingling, he unlocked the door and gestured at Fargo to follow him in. Fargo shivered. It felt as if he had stepped into the middle of winter. The church was freezing cold and gloomy for there was little light. It smelt of beech and oak and varnish and old paper, and unwashed curtains. Most of all it smelt dead, unused.
Without asking for permission he sat down in the pew nearest the altar, closed his eyes, lowered his head and began to settle his thoughts. The man who had let him in was the Church Sexton. He watched Fargo a while to check that he was legitimate, not there to steal then, satisfied, went about his business; first duty being to open all the curtains and let in the light. He lit two candles on the altar and made a sign before continuing.
When he knew he was no longer being watched Fargo opened his eyes and watched the other man, else looked around like a tourist taking in the sights, or an inspector. Occasionally the Church Sexton would throw him a look as if to ask why he was still here, perhaps to hint that he was overstaying his welcome. Fargo did not budge. This was going to be his new home regardless of whoever else already regarded it as theirs.
In time they were joined by a third man, an old man; an old man wielding a bucket and mop. He had come to clean the floor. It was one of his many duties. He cleaned and tidied, dusted and polished, washed up and in return was given free lodgings. Outside he cut the grass, watered the plants, pulled weeds, fed the compost, pruned roses and cut daffodils. And it didn’t stop there: he cleaned and polished the vicar’s boots, washe
d his clothes and linen, made him feel superior. And it didn’t stop there: he fed the vicar’s chickens and collected their eggs. When it did stop he would sit and think, or sleep like a log. Old, out of touch, joints creaking, the old man had become much like the village church.
On seeing the new face the old man stopped in his tracks and looked on with a mix of curiosity, reflection and hesitation. Fargo didn’t like it: this old man was judging him.
Finally the old man spoke. ‘You, you’re from the monastery, yes?’
‘Yes, how did you know?’ Fargo stumbled over his words.
‘Your clothes.’
Fargo looked down. Yes it was obvious really: he was a man of the cloth even if that cloth was dirty and torn.
‘Is Jeremiah still Chief Monk?’
‘No, he retired years ago - hang on how do you know that?’
The old man beamed: it was rare for him these days to have the upper hand, to be a source of interest, to be - if only temporarily - the centre of attention. He was just an old man who scraped by by doing the jobs no one else wanted to do.
‘I am also from the monastery. I left - escaped - eight, ten, twelve years ago?’
He had lost track of the time. The passing of time was a difficult thing to measure here in the Village.
‘Left? Why?’ Fargo looked down at the bucket and mop. A change of vocation?
‘I ended up here.’
‘You said you escaped?’
‘I fell out of favour with Jeremiah - thought it best to leave while I could.’
That made sense: Fargo did not want to know more - which was not a problem as the old man did not want to tell him more. Conscious that the sexton might be watching, the old man returned to his duties and started to scrub the stone floor around the altar. The aisle which separated the two sets of pews would follow next.
***
Back at the forge Timothy made them wait while he went to find Gregory, wondering how he was going to explain this. Mozak and Rufus watched him disappear indoors while Esmeralda watched them both - while at the same time keeping a look out for Blacksmith Breamston or his wife. They didn’t like her bringing strangers back to the forge, especially when they were young men.
When Timothy reappeared, it was with an unhappy looking Gregory. He froze when he saw Mozak. He was thinking hard, so hard that it began to hurt - but the look on his face gave nothing away: it was all happening on the inside. Then something snapped him out of it and he beckoned at both Timothy and his doppelganger to join him.
‘You, both of you, come in here,’ he said as he ushered them into his rented room.
Mozak didn’t like taking orders but on this occasion - like many before - he had no choice. He followed his double inside and unconsciously stood alongside him. They were both on parade. Gregory examined the face of the doppelganger. He could not fault it - except for the spots. And still he gave nothing away, nor the slightest flicker of emotion. He could have been staring out to sea - if he knew what sea was - or across a green field at a lone lost sheep. He didn’t say a word.
Mozak expected some kind of reaction, anything. Timothy expected a lot more. Mozak decided to say nothing. He wasn’t sure but the face looked vaguely familiar. Was this man from the castle? If so then he would know straight away that he was in the presence of Prince Mozak. It didn’t make sense. Finally Gregory spoke.
‘So you are Marcus?’
‘That’s right. What of it?’
‘And you are from the Village?’
‘Near enough.’ Mozak folded his arms, determined to not blow his cover.
‘How old are you?’
‘Eighteen - nearly eighteen. Why?’
‘No reason.’
I’m nearly eighteen! thought an excited Timothy. This is just getting better! He was desperate to say it, let his feelings out, but Gregory was in charge right now.
‘And you’re not from the castle?’
‘No, definitely not,’ said Mozak.
Gregory could tell by his clothes that this ‘Marcus’ was lying, and that put him in a very difficult position, a nightmare even. Without realising it he stalled, cut out, like a broken engine. He just continued to stare, back and forth between his Timothy and that ‘Marcus’, not saying a word. It made then both uncomfortable.
Mozak broke the silence. He couldn’t stand it any longer.
‘Well if we’re done, I’ll be gone.’
‘Yes probably best.’
It was as if Gregory had broken free from a spell. He watched Marcus leave the room with a heavy heart.
Back outside Mozak turned and threw one last question back into Gregory’s face.
‘By the way do you know a man called Foccinni?’
‘No,’ said Gregory.
He was emphatic, which satisfied Mozak.
‘Very well.’
Timothy ran to the door to watch his probable twin walk away, his companion at his side, whilst trying to shake off Stevie who was trying to climb up his leg. He was not happy. Esmeralda, at a loose end, wanted to hold his hand.
‘You’re just going to let him go?’
‘It’s OK Timothy. We’re done for now.’ Gregory had one more question on his mind. ‘Where did you find him?’
‘At the brothel.’
The answer produced a look of satisfaction on Gregory’s face, as if a student had given the correct answer to a difficult question. Timothy grabbed him by the elbow. He would not let go until he got the answer he was seeking.
‘Timothy let go!’
‘Tell me! He’s my twin, right?’
Gregory looked at him, almost with sadness in his eyes, a deep sense of regret.
‘Sit down, here, next to me.’
Timothy did as instructed. He could feel something big was about to explode.
Unbeknown to them Esmeralda had sneaked up to a hole in the wall and put her ear up close to listen in. Unfortunately Breamston caught her in the act, grabbed her by the other ear and marched her away inside. He had something to say to her about Gregory - just as she had something to say to Gregory about him. Iedazimus took her place instead: at the kitchen window while gnawing on a piece of bread, he had caught a glimpse of the doppelganger. He had to know what was going on. He had to keep one step ahead of Gregory - and watch out for Valadino who had returned.
‘Yes, I believe this Marcus is your twin.’
‘I knew it!’
‘It makes perfect sense. But I doubt he wants to talk about it.’
‘Talk about what?’
‘His past, his parents - his true parents. He may be adopted. He might not even know he’s adopted.’
‘So what do we do?’ Inside Timothy was screaming for resolution.
‘We tread carefully. We wait.’
Timothy did not looked convinced.
‘Timothy, give yourself a rest. Give him a rest. Leave him be a while.’
Timothy trusted Gregory in everything so he accepted his advice, for now. As for Valadino, he would never get used to that name.
‘Very well, if that’s what you think is best.’
‘I do. Get some rest.’
‘I will.’ Timothy thought of the brothel, not so far away. I need some, he thought.
Iedazimus stood up and crept away, energised by the announcement. Twins separated at birth? Where had he heard of such things before? He began to think hard and long. He tried to dig the past and turn it over. There was a lot of it to shift. He looked up, to see young Mutz bounding towards him. Mutz was still his boy, even after all this time.
‘You look happy.’
‘I found a brothel,’ announced Mutz proudly.
‘Good on you. It’s still there then.’
‘You know about it?
’
‘Of course I do. I’ve been here before, remember?’
Now he had his memories of the brothel reactivated, reheated, Iedazimus could not ignore them, nor the urges they ignited. It had been too long. After checking up on the whereabouts of his mates - Jeno and Tippo were playing cards - he set off, to rediscover the delights of the brothel. He wondered if he would recognise any of the girls. He hoped not. He wanted fresh meat.
***
Later, back in their room, Rufus watched his prince sit perched on the edge of his bed, biting what was left of his fingernails while he stared out of the window, else scratch his itchy scalp, else excavate the dried snot which was plugging up his nostrils. The prince looked a nervous wreck. The prince was having a bad time of it and Rufus was now the strongest person in the room, Mozak the weakest. They had not exchanged a word since walking back from the forge. Mozak had refused to talk. But Rufus had a question to put and he was not going to hold off any longer.
‘Well?’
‘Well what?’
‘What do you mean well what! You know exactly what I mean.’
‘Don’t talk to me like that!’
‘I’ll talk to you anyway I like. You dragged me into this. Well is he your twin?’
Mozak may no move to answer but Rufus would not cease.
‘Well is he? Is he your twin?’
The question kept striking the same sore point and Mozak could not fight the pain.
‘No.’
The answer he gave was something he desperately needed to hang on to. He dare not let go of it, else he would fall. The answer could not be yes.
‘Sure?’
‘Sure I’m sure. The Queen said I never had a twin.’
‘And you believed her?’
‘Of course I believed her - believe her! She’s my mother damn you!’
Mozak wanted to punch the peasant standing over him. Rufus was forgetting his place. (To be fair, Rufus was only standing through force of habit: when royalty sat, you stood, unless given permission to sit.)
Mozak did not want to meet his double again. He could not bear to face him. He wanted the impostor out of his life. He wanted to escape from this place, even though he had only just arrived. He tried to recall past conversations with his mother, looking for clues, comfort, anything. Wicked rumours she had said, had been stoked up and passed around by those wishing to make trouble, by those who wanted to discredit the monarchy.