by Euan McAllen
When she felt he was stronger Esmeralda asked about his mother and father but Marcus had little to say about either, or resisted, only saying that his father was gone and he never knew him; and that his mother was not much to talk about, that she was a lazy person who had no time for him. Esmeralda could relate to that. Unprompted he went further, saying how his uncle played games with him: nice one minute, nasty the next; sometimes ignoring him, sometimes trying to get close. Marcus clearly indicated that his uncle was all mixed up. Esmeralda thought of Breamston, concluding that he too was all messed up, probably by his wife, the bitch.
On her second night Esmeralda found it easy to slip into bed. She was exhausted. She slept like a log - as did Mozak - dreaming that one of the twins - either would do - would slip into bed alongside her, and hold her, and squeeze her, and kiss her gently. Both awoke the next day stronger, refreshed, ready to go somewhere.
During that same day, against his better judgement (he wished to remain secret - the best way in his view to discover the secrets of others), Iedazimus and Foccinni discovered each other. They began to talk - wine encouraged loose talk - and slowly opened up, and thereafter found it impossible to pull themselves apart. Only women, food and sleep came between them. They found themselves sharing boredom and even a girl (for a bet). Foccinni had his girl come nurse come maid. Iedazimus had his. Neither came cheap. They argued over who had the prettiest; which girl was better in bed (but not which of them was better in bed). At one point they agreed to swap.
For both of them the Castle was their curse and their crutch. They became natural allies. It was something approaching a brotherly bond: they were wounded souls; both felt sat upon; both felt trapped in the Village. They shared common interests and a passion to change the world. They both envied others who held greater power. Foccinni forgave Iedazimus for kidnapping his prince after Iedazimus admitted that it was a foolish act, done in the heat of the moment, but driven by honest, republican sentiments.
The elephant stirring in the room was soon exposed: Iedazimus was the first to admit that he had discovered ex-king Helmotti alive and here, in the Village. Immediately Foccinni also came clean. Both gloried in their discovery. Both agreed that the truth had to be contained: it was dangerous, toxic. Both felt better for letting it out. The sharing of the secret strengthened their bond. The fact that Iedazimus also knew made Foccinni less scared of Helmotti’s threat. The ex-king was now their common enemy. It was two against one. They discussed him, like doctors discussing a mad, incurable patient, and agreed that the older Helmotti had gone a little crazy, perhaps a lot crazy like his half-brother. And as for the younger Helmotti, they both agreed that he was a total write-off. As with best schoolmates their separate ingredients cemented together into a rock solid truth. Nothing could break it.
Castle life consumed them. They found it surprisingly easy to talk about the Castle and the royal family: it was far away; it almost felt like a foreign country. They chatted like old ladies armed with large battle-axes and strong opinions. They shared the visual tapestry of Castle history. They gossiped over facts and rumours, and argued over whether a fact was simply gossip or a rumour was actually true. They talked of famine and floods, pigeons, pheasants and pigs. Sometimes they whispered as if afraid of being spied upon by the king’s men. Iedazimus had been away so long he needed to soak himself in it all; rediscover it, readopt it, relive his former ‘castle-self’. Its chequered history was their glue.
The more they talked, the more they discovered there was more to talk about: two kings in particular, half-brothers; pitted against each other like fire and water, spear and sword, sweet and sour, steam and ice. They had been the worst, tempestuous teenage siblings known to man. And then there was the King’s Chancellor: a nasty man; no warrior, just a grey man who counted everything, missed nothing and said nothing; a man who could never win a woman’s heart for he was so dull so lacking in fire; a man who had to buy a man’s daughter for marriage (and who had to pay over the odds). They quickly agreed that Helmotti’s father had been a real bastard, always on the make; always took a mile but never gave an inch. His so called friends had feared him as much as his enemies. Those close to him were worn down by his constant demands and coldness. Yet he had mesmerised young women and they had fallen for him like bees fell for nectar.
Both pretended to care lots about the plight of the peasants and little of the nobility when in fact it was the other way round. Both were sick of the old order and yearned for something new, fresh, responsible, accountable; and if they could have a hand in running it, so much the better. They were, after all, intelligent, ‘hands-on’ men; the kind of men who planned well and got things done. On that they were both agreed. The consumption of alcohol was great at twisting the universe into a new, happier truth. They revelled in it all; later on to dream and fantasize and finally conspire to make that world - their world - a better, fairer place free of stupid, nasty, brutal kings and queens, and their idiotic, self-indulgent princes. It all sounded great. Foccinni and Iedazimus drank and talked on into early morning until they were forced to fall asleep.
***
That same day a nervous, excited Fargo entered the Village Hall. He had an appointment with the Board of Elders. He had come to ask for the Village Vicar to be sacked on grounds of incompetence and negligence, and to be given the job. He had forced the Church Sexton to attend as his star witness. Despite the blackmail, what the Sexton had to say under oath would still be the truth. The Sexton’s only real regret was that Fargo might get the job he had waited patiently for all these years.
The Village Hall was as old as the Village Church and stored away in its archives was the history of the Village and its people. The history was kept secret and the Elders kept secrets for the Elders were a secretive group. No one knew how they operated or how one became an Elder for they were not elected, just announced. When a post became vacant - due to death - another seamlessly filled the empty post, and he was always the son of an Elder (dead or alive). No one complained about the system (all you could do was complain to the Elders) and everybody accepted their decisions - after all someone had to make them.
Fargo smartened himself up and, upon hearing his name being called, cleared his throat before entering the room to meet them. They sat behind a long wooden table which curved to form a half circle. The only thing resting on it was a bowl of decaying fruit. The room, like the Elders, had a timeless quality, and like some of their clothes, was covered in dust. Fargo was told to not speak until spoken to, and to stand on the spot which marked the centre of the circle around which they assembled. There he was equally in all their sights. Some sat with their arms folded on the table, some with their arms folded in their laps. They all wore beards: some short and smart; some long and scraggy. Beards were compulsory. You had to play the part.
Fargo had to undergo an extensive visual examination before he was permitted to speak and state his case. Their eyes crawled all over him. They did not like outsiders. When at last he got to speak some listened to every word while others listened to every other word. Some listened to none of it. The Elders were not fooled by the statement his witness gave. They all knew the Church Sexton, and what he was about. After testifying, he was gone in a flash. They knew the Vicar all too well. He went back a long way. They knew he drank heavily. They knew he didn’t exactly put his heart and soul into the job of running the church and enthusing the Villagers but, to be frank, none of them really cared that much. Religion was a tired subject. God was here if you wanted him, needed him. He didn’t need to be shoved in people’s faces or down their throats like some bad tasting medicine - which seemed to be the approach of this religious zealot from the Outside. They did not want an outsider coming into their Village and causing a commotion, even if he did have the best credentials. And to cap it all he had upset the community with his outrageous ban and misuse of the church seal. Unacceptable, they had already agreed, before
his appearance: his application would be refused later.
Fargo, sensing that he was not being taken seriously, complained bitterly that the Vicar was all washed up; that he did not provide moral guidance; that he did not save souls.
‘Which souls did you have in mind?’ asked one sarcastic Elder pretending to be curious.
Fargo blew his top.
‘The Village Vicar only pretends to believe in God! There is no God in his church! I will bring God back! He sent me to do this task, to save your people!’
‘That will be all thank you. You may go. We will consider your application and let you know in due course.’
Fargo left in a huff. He had been cut down to size but still he was a danger, both to himself and to others. The Elders concluded that he was quite mad: a mad monk from the Outside. Why did God drive them mad on the outside?
After the door closed behind Fargo, another opened and the Vicar slipped into the room.
‘Told you so,’ he said, unabashed. ‘Unstable, devious. They always are those Outsiders.’
The Elders gave him a round of applause, told him to keep up the good work, try not to drink so much, and sent him on his way, out through the back door.
***
The next day Foccinni and Iedazimus continued in the same vein. They speculated more, and began to repeat earlier conversations. Foccinni told Iedazimus about the Dowager Queen’s famous disappearance which lasted a week: even to this day no one knew to where or why. Bizi ‘went mental’ said Foccinni. They laughed as they recounted the day Helmotti’s mother caught the king in bed with Bizi’s mother. They replayed the ‘Second Peasants Revolt’ after the failed harvest, triggered by the cancellation of two peasant ‘work free’ days in a row in order to clear up after the flood. And then there was the day Helmotti’s father introduced the ‘Truffle Law’: all truffles found had to be handed over to the king. Only the king and his immediate family could eat truffles. To eat them was to risk imprisonment or exile or death! The Truffle Law was used as the excuse to banish me, explained Iedazimus, to cover up the fact that he was organising a Republican movement. He had never tasted truffles, complained Iedazimus. He did not mention the fact that he had been caught sleeping with Bizi’s mother.
Foccinni counted up the number of drunken rages by Bizi, versus those of the Queen, and kept returning to the subject of Bizi’s pig. It became their biggest joke and confirmed that the king had gone bonkers, just like his mother. They remembered the day young Bizi pulled young Helmotti from his horse and fought him to a standstill in the mud. It had been a fight over a young lady, the future queen. That led them on to the tale of the decapitated head found in the king’s kitchen, stuck on the roasting spit. There was the rumour that he had had it roasted and served up to his queen. And to this day no one knew whose head it had been.
They discussed at length Bizi’s overthrow of king Helmotti and Helmotti’s escape, and how Queen Anneeni had switched sides. They agreed she could never be trusted. They shared their distrust come hatred of both the King’s Secretary and his Chancellor: the Chancellor had got Foccinni out of favour with the court, declared him unfit to serve the royal family; he had clashed with Iedazimus’ father. Iedazimus felt sure the Chancellor had persuaded Bizi to have his father murdered, but nothing was proven.
Lady Tamatellini was a great source of amusement for Iedazimus when Foccinni told him of the time she chased Helmotti’s mother through the castle; waving a butcher’s knife; threatening to cut off her hair. She had been pulled off just in the nick of time as she grabbed the hair and began to cut. That was the final straw and Bizi felt required to lock her up, which probably led to her going really mad, explained Foccinni. Helmotti’s mother had died soon after: the nervous type, this attack and her (presumed) dead son had probably broken her. Bizi could never bring himself to release her, explained Foccinni, she was too far gone. They both concluded that the attack was semi-justified for Helmotti’s mother had also been the cruel, nasty, scheming type. They agreed that there had always been a competition between the two women: over the length of their hair, the whiteness of their dresses, the health, strength and good looks of their respective sons.
Fuelled by wine and beer they talked about changing the future for the better, about how to change things, about how to revive the Republican Movement. Drunk, they even promised revolution. Both wanted their world free of a corrupt, dysfunctional, cruel, royal family. Inch by inch, Iedazimus pulled Foccinni into his zone, and took control. He persuaded Foccinni to swear loyalty to the Republican cause and to return to the castle at the first opportunity - preferably with Prince Mozak: to watch and listen; to be a spy for their cause. Foccinni agreed, thinking he would have done so anyway, so sharing his information with Iedazimus did not compromise him.
***
And while this was going on in the house of ill repute across the road a stronger Prince Mozak was returning to something like his former self: perhaps not so cocky; perhaps with more emotional intelligence; perhaps able to connect with a female’s mind rather than her body. The day had started badly for him. He awoke to the stony gaze of a troubled, accusing Esmeralda. She stared down at him, reducing him. She revealed that during the night he had cried out in his sleep that he was a prince, and deserved better, and wanted to be back in his castle. That was when Prince Mozak dropped his bombshell. Yes, he was a prince, and proud of it. Yes, he was from the Castle. ‘Marcus’ was a fiction, to protect himself. An angry Esmeralda felt insulted that he did not trust her enough to share his secret. But the anger was fleeting: she had to forgive him for he was Timothy’s brother, and anyway a prince sounded exciting and she craved excitement.
Despite feeling no requirement to apologize for his deception, seeing it as totally justifiable, Mozak did say sorry - though he was quick to point out that in his world lying was an accepted weapon of defence or attack. Esmeralda accepted it, secretly thrilled: she was sharing a room with a prince; she was nursing a sick prince back to health. His life was in her hands. She asked if she should call him ‘Prince’.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Just call me Mozak, forget Marcus.’
An odd name, she noted. A royal name, said Mozak, not odd. It would take her a while to get used to the new name. It sounded weird whereas ‘Marcus’ sounded homely, soft, right - like ‘Timothy’. Timothy! Timothy, the long lost twin brother of a prince! That made him a prince! Neat!
She thought of Timothy faraway, hopefully safe. Timothy would be so pleased, if only she could tell him. Sometimes when she looked at her prince she saw Timothy. When holding his hand, she felt Timothy’s. Timothy had never lied to her. He had opened his heart. In Esmeralda’s mind Timothy had the one face whereas Marcus and Prince Mozart had two. And strangely, with her thoughts faraway and locked on Timothy, Mozak interrupted her to ask about his twin. Where was he? What was he doing? Esmeralda said she had no idea, just that he had disappeared with his friend; probably gone home, back to the Outside. Mozak tried not to imagine him at the Castle, taking his place. A stupid, idiotic thought he told himself as he tried to kick it out of his mind. And Rufus? he asked. Again she could not help. He had simply disappeared. Mozak cursed his servant’s name and sent a shiver down her back.
Having won her over (again) Mozak talked more and mumbled less but still repeated himself. With the royal cat out of the bag and the Castle a distant, faraway object, Mozak could talk openly and more critically about his crazy, dysfunctional family. And Esmeralda had to sit and listen to it all. He demanded more food and complained more: he was sick of soup and wanted something more substantial; his bed sheets smelt; his hair stank. She promised to do her best. She put up with his complaining for she too had lots to complain about if she put her mind to it. She didn’t, for Mozak took up all her space. On the plus side, he appreciated her more and she was the centre of his attentions. Esmeralda felt like the most important thing in the room.
Mozak recounted, with vile, how his drunken uncle, the king, had once, at a banquet, thrown up over his mother, the Dowager Queen; and how he had been severely told off by both of them for laughing. That Esmeralda could relate to, and said so. He told her about the grey men, the King’s Chancellor and the King’s Secretary, who controlled his uncle. They would stand behind the king and whispered in his ear, perhaps to overturn anything he heard from anybody else. They always had his ear while he, the prince, had very limited access. That rankled, Esmeralda could tell. He complained that his uncle dressed as a warrior but was no warrior: the king had turned into a big joke and he, the future king, was stuck with him. He laughed when he mentioned the pig again, only to become angry: royals should not be seen with pigs; disgraceful; the pig was an embarrassment to the royal family. And then there was his uncle’s constant wind: foul, disgusting. And then there were his uncle’s mistresses: sad women, an insult, a joke; they didn’t deserve him. Mozak declared he would never fall so low as to have two mistresses at the same time. Esmeralda struggled with that announcement but said nothing: Mozak was a prince and his castle was a different world.
Mozak didn’t stop there. He complained that his mother was the laziest person in the world. He counted out loud the number of times she had forgotten his birthday: those birthday presents which she said she had picked and wrapped herself, had in fact all been the work of others. To top it all, he complained, when a present was truly from his mother it was disappointing. Esmeralda asked if it was normal to receive a present on your day of birth. Baffled by the odd question, he told her yes, of course. Esmeralda did not know on which day she had been born so receiving no presents made perfect sense. Mozak was horrified. He could make no sense of that: surely everybody knew their birthday?