The Last Earl

by Lara Blunte

  "Ah, Lady Catherine," he said, feigning pity for her. "Where has this passion for my cousin gotten you?"

  She began to rise from her seat, much like the snake had done the night before when it was about to strike.

  "It doesn't matter what you do to him, he will win in the end. Even if you killed him, he would still have been the better man."

  Edmund stood up as well, as if hypnotized by her. She spoke in a low, hoarse voice that might have come from someone possessed: "But you will give me my son now, you will give him to me or I swear to you by all that's holy I am the one who will kill you."

  Edmund sounded incredulous as he replied, "I am sure you see that I cannot do that! It would spoil all my plans!"

  She almost snarled like an animal as she suddenly leapt over the table that separated them and threw him backwards onto the floor with the force of her body. She climbed on his chest and pummeled his head with demented strength. Edmund did not try to restrain her or push her away, and he didn't even protect his face. He did nothing.

  But the crash of the bronze table had alerted his men and two of them came running to his aid. They grabbed her by the arms and pulled her from him, though she fought like a savage. "Give me my baby!" she screamed.

  Edmund sat up on the floor, wiping blood from his mouth. "Do not hurt the lady," he ordered sharply. Painfully, he got to his feet. He looked at Catherine, who still struggled to get to him.

  "Lady Catherine, I advise you not to use such harsh tactics from now on. Others are not as well mannered as I am. I truly cannot answer for what they might do, if you don't behave like a lady. Don't say later that I didn't warn you."

  He started to move towards the door, but turned once more to say: "Ah, and I wouldn't want you to waste your time worrying about Fatima. You are so thoughtful, but she only did what was required of her."

  

  Once he was outside the drawing room, Edmund leaned against the wall, his breath coming in gusts. He touched his bruised face with the back of one hand as he sought to regain composure

  After less than a minute he straightened his back and, tucking the cane under his arm, he leapt up the stone stairs two steps at a time.

  "The baby, the baby, the baby!" he sang in falsetto under his breath as he went.

  He entered his own room, closed the door and approached the mirror. She had probably given him a black eye. Too bad she hadn't done all he needed. "Where is the baby?" he asked his own reflection in the same high pitched tone.

  Edmund considered the heavy, ornate handle of the cane: it had been hurting his hand for months.

  He held the cane by the middle and aimed carefully. Then, stretching his right arm out, he brought the heavy handle against his nose with all his strength.

  The pain made him fall to his knees. Blood gushed from his nose. He sat on the floor laughing, the now useless cane lying beside him.

  IV. Nine. Others

  There was a great deal of noise, which she could hear from her room, though she was locked inside and the shutters were closed. Catherine kicked the door in fury, screaming to be let out. She picked up a heavy chair with the strength of her rage and threw it against the shutters. Part of the chair broke, but it only made a dent in the wood.

  Running to the door, she put her ear to it to listen. There were boots going to and fro, voices speaking in Turkish or Arabic, the sound of things being carried and bumping against walls. Then there was silence. She hadn't been able to see anything or anyone through the hole, but now the key was turning in the lock.

  She looked around for something she could use as a weapon. There was only the oil lamp next to her bed.

  As the door opened, Catherine hurled the lamp at the man who appeared.

  It shattered against the wall to the left of his head. The oil spilled on the floor and caught the flame. A small fire started, but it wouldn't last, since the floor was made of stone.

  Cursing in Turkish, the man stomped on the fire. She was already running towards the door and tried to make it past him. Without looking at her he caught her by the hair and threw her on the ground. She landed painfully.

  He stood over her, a big man with strong shoulders and arms and a dark face prone to scowling.

  She scuttled backwards on hands and feet, and stood up again, facing him.

  "I want to speak to Mr. Lawson!"

  "He left. I'm in charge of you now." He motioned towards the broken lamp with his thumb. "And if you try that again you'll live in the dark."

  Catherine decided to put on a calm face and act as if she hadn't just tried to burn a man to death; she pretended that he hadn't thrown her on the ground.

  "Well, then, if Mr. Lawson has left I shall require a carriage to return to Constantinople. You will be well paid. My husband is a rich man."

  "I have been well paid. And you're not going to Constantinople. You're staying here." The man sniggered. "I know all about your husband."

  "Then you ought to know that if you keep me here he will come and kill you, all of you."

  "We'll see about that. But for now you are staying here and you'll be good and quiet."

  "It would be better for you if ─"

  Catherine couldn't go on because the man slapped her face, hard.

  The pain was mind numbing, and it was the first time that anyone had ever hit her, but instead of cowering she jumped at him with her nails out. He hit her again, a stronger blow that sent her head against the wall. A gash opened on her forehead and blood trickled down her face.

  "I'm not going to be beaten by a woman," the man said. "If you strike me it will get worse every time."

  She glared at him, undaunted. He struck her again, less hard this time. She protected her face with her hands.

  He wagged a finger at her. "Here is how things are: the master left you in my care. There are other men with me in the house, you won't be able to escape and if your fool of a husband ever found you, we would kill him. Now, he especially asked me to be nice and not do anything to you, do you understand what I am saying, and not let the other men do anything ─ but only if you behave. Is that clear?"

  "Where's my child?" she asked him.

  He slapped her again. "You don't ask any more questions."

  "Where's my child, where's my child, where's my child?" Her lip was split and it bled as she screamed more and more loudly at him.

  He put a big hand over her mouth and nose so that she couldn't breathe.

  "It would be so easy for me to kill you," he said. "And if you make me mad, I will. Then you'll never see your child."

  That means he's alive, and Edmund has him! She felt elation and despair at the same time. The poor innocent had been taken by a devil, and she was captive to a beast much more primitive than Edmund.

  Another guard came in and put a dish and a bottle of water on the table. He left without looking at her.

  The big man pushed her towards the table and told her, "Eat."

  "Somehow I'm not very hungry, just at present," Catherine said ironically through bruised lips.

  "As you like," he shrugged. "Sooner or later you'll get hungry and you'll eat. Or die."

  As he moved towards the door, he added, "It's all the same to me."

  He pulled the door shut and locked it. Catherine went to the table and smelled the food. She knew there would be laudanum or poison in it, or in the water.

  She climbed on the bed and crouched, telling herself never to eat. Her ears were ringing from the blows she had received and her head and neck were in pain. She had to be calm and convince her jailer that he could be rich beyond his expectations if he let her out. She had to stop defying his authority and start cajoling him.

  It was important to keep holding on to the thought that she had a child, a boy, and that he was out there somewhere. She must remember that Adrian was looking for her and would find her.

  She tried to convince herself of these things even while looking around the room with the feeling that it might be her tomb.r />
  Book V. Adrian. One

  Jean Belgard was known to his customers as "the finder".

  His great talent was to be able to procure almost anything that men ─ or women ─ set their hearts on. He could find a Bengal tiger, a sword from the time of Attila the Hun, a diamond big as a fist. And Jean Belgard could also find very high quality opium.

  On Saturday evenings he liked to dine in the private room of a restaurant in Pera. He would eat alone and would always order the same fare: oysters and champagne to begin, then hot mezze followed by a fish fillet with boiled potatoes. He would wash it all down with good wine or champagne.

  After this dinner, he would leisurely ride over to his mistress' house and spend about three hours with her. Then he would go home, to his mansion overlooking the Bosphorus; he would change into a crisp white nightshirt and sleep as only men without scruples could.

  He was, therefore, extremely surprised when, just after the arrival of the oysters, a European man totally unknown to him made his way into his private room and sat across him at the table.

  Belgard's small fork was poised in midair over a shell. He lifted an eyebrow at the stranger.

  "I'm afraid you stepped into the wrong room," he said politely.

  The stranger replied in good French. "I'm afraid not."

  Belgard hated to ask simple questions, but he felt this one was warranted. "And who, if I may ask, are you?"

  "Someone who has an interest in one of your transactions."

  Eyes darting to the door, Belgard considered escaping. The stranger shook his head slightly, and the Frenchman's face fell. Belgard changed tactic, putting his fork and napkin down. "Champagne?" he asked, motioning to the bottle.

  "I don't have any cause to celebrate just yet," the man said, an edge to his voice.

  Belgard cleared his throat. "Well, let's see if I can help you with that."

  "You have recently bought a good amount of opium from an Englishman you may know as Richmond."

  Belgard knew Richmond. In spite of the fact that his absolute discretion was one of the main reasons for his success, he saw at once that to equivocate or to avoid the question were not options. He was a practical man.

  "I know who you mean," Belgard said. "You are correct, there was a transaction, as you say. Are you some sort of police?"

  "I'm interested in Mr. Richmond for private reasons."

  "Ah!" Belgard exclaimed. "He has upset you!"

  The man nodded slowly. "You could put it like that."

  Belgard looked at the door again, but he was not going anywhere. The intruder didn't seem to have a pistol or a knife, but somehow he knew that he would be very sorry if he tried anything. He knew that the calm the stranger was exhibiting was much worse than murderous rage.

  "How did you pay for the latest transaction?"

  "I had to send the money to him in Smyrna."

  "I will need more details."

  Belgard obliged. Then the man stood up and said, "I think you owe Mr. Richmond a great deal of money. I might just be able to wipe that debt off if I find him. It would be in your interest to keep quiet about this little meeting."

  The merchant's eyes lit up, but then he could not help a sneer, a small compensation his pride extracted for being frightened of this man and showing it. "Richmond is a step ahead of everybody all the time."

  The man considered him for a moment. "He won't always be so," he said, and left the room.

  

  The men guarding the house must have lost their sense of danger, probably lulled into security by too many nights when nothing had happened.

  Tonight, as probably many other times, some of them were sleeping, others eating.

  They didn't look around much, so when Adrian and his men fell upon them, there was little they could do.

  Adrian left the scuffle and entered the house carefully. There were no lights inside except in a room upstairs, but there could be someone lurking in the shadows. As soon as he ascertained that the house was empty, he climbed the stairs swiftly, to reach the room in question.

  It was at the end of the corridor and the door was open. A perfect triangle of light came out of it and was reflected on the ground. He started walking toward it silently, as he heard a voice say in Turkish, "Great lady! Great lady! Wake up! It's time for your food!"

  He heard the sound of slapping and every hair in his body seemed to stand as if he were a cat.

  When he got to the room, the scene gave him pause for a few seconds. There was an emaciated woman with a shorn head lying on the bed and a man sitting next to her. The man was shaking her roughly and slapping her face to wake her up.

  Then he realized that the woman was Catherine; at the same time, the man saw his reflection on the metal headboard of the bed and stood up very quickly, trying to unsheathe the knife that was at his waist.

  Adrian was already moving to kick his opponent in the belly with all his might.

  The Turk was thrown backwards against the wall with force and lost the knife upon contact. He shook his head to recover from the blow, but Adrian grabbed him by the hair and his long knife found the man's throat, entering it with such violence that there was the sickening sound of bone breaking.

  Held up by the knife, the man presented an expression of surprise, while blood spouted from his throat and splashed Adrian's face and hands.

  Adrian still held him there for one second, driving the knife in deeper, but his rage abated and gave way to expediency when he saw that his opponent was dead.

  A moment passed before he turned to Catherine. His eyes fell on the corner of the room where all her beautiful hair lay, on the ground next to a broom. He had feared she might be dead, though now it was easy to see that his cousin's cruelty would require her to live, and to look as she did. Her face was sunken, and her body seemed to have shrunk to almost nothing under the nightgown.

  He sat on the bed and held her up gently, afraid of breaking her bones, "Kate? Kate?"

  His hands were covered in blood and smeared her face and nightgown. He kissed her forehead, then her cheek. "Kate, can you hear me?"

  Her eyes opened with difficulty. She seemed to smile when she saw him and he asked urgently, "Kate, where is the baby?" Her head fell back again. He saw that her hair had been cut off with no care, probably by the dead brute; in some places her skull was showing. He might have wanted to punish her, or made her look less beautiful so that she would not tempt him.

  Omar and Abed had arrived at the door. They didn't cross the threshold when they saw the dead man on the ground, and Catherine in Adrian's arms. Abed let out a gasp of disbelief, but Omar frowned at him

  Adrian had stood up and, wrapping Catherine on the bed covers, he lifted her in his arms. He walked towards the door saying curtly, "We must go. We must get her out of here."

  He kept walking towards the stairs. Abed's eyes were full of tears and he pulled the edge of his turban over them, asking his brother, "Did you see her? Who could do such a thing? And where is the child?"

  "I don't know. But hide your pity," Omar told him, "or you will shame her and enrage him."

  They followed their friend, holding on to the thought that Catherine had been found, and that she was alive for the moment.

  V. Two. A Thousand Lives

  They rode to a villa on the road to Constantinople.

  Once there, Adrian settled Catherine in a bedroom. Leila had been waiting for them, and began to cry when she saw her mistress in such a pitiful state. Catherine didn't even seem like the same person.

  Adrian turned to the girl and shook his head. "You mustn't weep in front of her. She will sleep for a while now, and when she wakes up you have to be very calm."

  Instead of obeying him, Leila started sobbing, hiding her face in her shawl. "What happened to her hair?"

  "Leila," Adrian said. "You must do as I am telling you!"

  The girl got up and turned her back on him, still crying. Adrian glanced at Catherine: she was fast asleep. He m
oved towards Leila. "You have to stop crying or you will be of no help."

  "It's my fault that she is like this!" the girl managed to say between sobs.

  "It's not your fault."

  "You know it is, you told me so that day when I came back without her!"

  "Listen to me," he turned her around by the shoulders. His face wasn't angry, not at her. "You couldn't possibly know this would happen. Forget what I said then. We need to get her to be well again. Can you do that for her?"

  Leila glanced at the almost unrecognizable form lying on the sofa and let out another sob, but managed to nod.

  "She is more important than anything now," Adrian said. "We have to forget everything else."

  Leila nodded again several times, more convinced. "Yes, it's true."

  "I'm going to get warm water to wash her. Don't leave her alone for a second. And don't weep."

  He left the room, descended the stairs and went into the kitchen. There was a little water in a large jug and he poured it in a basin, using it to wash the blood off his face. He should go out and fill it at the well, then take it upstairs, but instead he put his forehead against the window, as if trying to cool it with the glass. The thought kept running through his head: That is Catherine.

  He started to tremble with rage. Instead of taking the jug, he abruptly walked out into the garden, and kept walking through it to an olive grove beyond the walls of the house. He stood alone, trying to steady his breathing, trying to stop his own arteries from choking him.

  Wash the blood off her, he told himself. Try to get her to drink a little water. Stay by her side as she sleeps and make sure she is not fading away. Tomorrow she might respond. She might yet be well.