The Chronicles of the Tempus

by K. A. S. Quinn

  He made his way to his cell-like room, deep within the Palace. Lifting his head, he sniffed the air. It was not just the menace of Belzen he smelt, but something equally powerful, and more subtly dangerous. Turning one last corner, he saw his door, lightly outlined against the wall, bright from within. There was no time to learn, or to plan. Lucia was already there. ‘Just what I need,’ he muttered to himself. ‘I’ve spent most of the morning chilled to the bone, watching boys march off to become cannon fodder. I’ve had an upstart, a snooty, possessed child insult me. And now Lucia . . .’ Clearly, it wasn’t Bernardo DuQuelle’s day.

  To be with Lucia was always an uncomfortable reminder of the past: the Verus and the Malum – good and evil – Lucia and Belzen. Had they ever really had their own civilization, with their own communities, laws and languages? DuQuelle remembered his youth, his exquisite life and his great attachment to Lucia, and his friendship . . . with Belzen. But through greed they had overstepped themselves and destroyed their world.

  Lucia had confidence in the power of good. DuQuelle had to admit, she was nothing if not good. It gave her strength. Step by step she had begun to rebuild, taking what they needed from other societies. Language had been the hardest. They needed words, but had lost the ability to communicate. Here, in the nineteenth century, in England, they had struck a rich vein. But war threatened to disrupt everything and Belzen was in revolt – scorning the peaceful export of words, believing that brute force was the key to their vital energies. And Belzen wasn’t alone. The Black Tide might be thwarted for now, but there were others ready to take their place, to join Belzen and the Malum.

  What had Lucia become? A woman, or the shape of a woman, but burning bright through the zeal of her cause. He entered quickly, locking the door behind him. Lucia flitted from corner to corner. She seemed to pulse and throb with fire and air, but gave out no warmth. Yet he could still see her features, which were lovely, and her wild waving blonde curls. But when he tried to approach Lucia the elements within her rebuffed him.

  ‘What can you tell me?’ she demanded of DuQuelle.

  He smiled to himself. She had always been direct, even before her great transformation. ‘There will be war, and soon,’ he told her. ‘But it has drawn Belzen as well as you. The Malum are present as well as the Verus. Young Felix is the agent of Lord Belzen. That poor child has been channelled from the dead for a purpose. He is the chosen, the Tempus Occidit, the child who falls through time and brings the war to end the world.’

  Lucia wavered, her face becoming clearer and her body more formed. The look she gave DuQuelle was decidedly female. He had long feared the strength of Lucia, but he was more alarmed by these few signs of weakness. ‘And how will the princeling Felix achieve this?’ she asked.

  DuQuelle smiled slightly. He thought about removing his cloak, but instead pulled it tighter around him. One could never tell with Lucia. ‘I was present when the Queen announced that Felix leaves for the Crimea. What the Queen does not know is that Felix serves, not the Queen, but Lord Belzen. Felix’s mission is to make certain that Britain does not win this war. He will spy, he will betray, he will wreak havoc. Felix will plant the seeds of discontent, envy and rebellion. From what I gather his targets are Lord Lucan, Lord Cardigan and a certain Captain Nolan.’

  Lucia was not taking this news well – yet she tried to hold the elements within her in check and gather her strength. Lucia did not look back. The past was nothing to her. And she did not trust Bernardo DuQuelle. She needed him, though, in this world, in the centre of power, as part of the Royal Court. He was the only one capable of living with them. Darting forward, she placed a cold, bright hand just in the crook of DuQuelle’s elbow. ‘That is well done,’ she said in her whistling airy voice. ‘But there is still much more to do. War is upon us, as you say, a great war. We must strike first.’

  DuQuelle pulled away from her touch. ‘No, Lucia,’ he replied. ‘You do not listen, you never did. This war in the Crimea is a small war, though its trivial actions could set in motion events that lead to the Great War – a war throughout Europe that would last for half a century. You cannot simply unleash the Tempus like gladiators. This must be handled carefully, through diplomacy, through communication; or it could be the beginning of the war to end the world.’

  Lucia tried to hold in her impatience and anger. She saw the path of duty, straight before her. Like many ideologues, she was not open to new ideas. DuQuelle was now tinged with humanity. This only got in the way. He must be made to understand her will. ‘There are two wars, in two spheres,’ she persisted, ‘the English and the Russians; the Verus and the Malum. Both can be stopped, but only through the chosen, the Tempus. You have found one. I need all three. The three children must meet in battle. They hold the key to creation or destruction.’

  Lucia had seemed diminished, but now it was DuQuelle who sank into a chair by the fire. It was not just the February morning. Lucia’s words chilled him to the bone. ‘You really wish them to meet on a field of battle?’ he spoke quietly, his voice filled with disbelief. ‘They are barely out of childhood. You would brutalize them in this way?’

  ‘Sympathy,’ she hissed as the elements rose within her. ‘It is sympathy which weakens you.’

  A very rare rage sliced through DuQuelle, ripping aside his usual urbane mask. ‘Listen closely, Lucia,’ he said. ‘Don’t pick a fight. Not with me, not in the Crimea, not with Lord Belzen, not with the Malum. Try everything else before you resort to Belzen’s tactics – to brute force. Let me put this in the terms of this world, which is the only language we now have. You are moving towards a crusade. And while crusades are mounted in the name of good, they are executed in sheer evil.’

  He was infuriated by his loss of temper, aghast at the abuse implicit in her request. DuQuelle could not bear to look at her, to be in the same room. Yet as he unbolted the door and hurried through the Palace corridors, seeking the human element, he could still hear Lucia’s voice, rising like the winds within his brain. You will bring me the three children. The Chosen. The Tempus. They will fight on the field of battle. And the victor must be the harbinger of peace.

  Despite his fury, he knew what he was, and where his loyalties lay. But his sense of what was right and wrong had been changed by living amongst them. Could he ignore the voice of Lucia? He wasn’t sure.

  Chapter Eleven

  A Crimean Correspondent

  As the Verus and the Malum prepared for conflict, battle lines were also drawn in the Crimea. But Katie, James and Alice were engaged in their own war, a fierce fight against Grace’s illness. At first Katie feared it couldn’t be won. Grace was seriously ill, and there was so much they didn’t know. James had been studying tuberculosis since Grace’s return from Italy and Katie needed to catch up. Together they pored over medical papers and treatises, including Sir James Clark’s hefty A Treatise on Pulmonary Consumption; Comprehending an Inquiry into the Causes, Nature, Prevention and Treatment of Tuberculous and Scrofulous Diseases in General.

  With each word she read, Katie’s frustration grew. Doctors recommended blistering patients with hot plasters to bring out the sickly vapours, bleeding them to release bad blood, starving them to diminish the appetites. Some doctors were adamant that an almost comatose state of druggedness and bedrest were necessary. Others refuted all medication except extensive fresh air and exercise, even strapping weakened patients onto horses for hour-long gallops.

  ‘This is ridiculous’, Katie had told James. ‘Your doctors, they write such garbage. They just don’t know what causes tuberculosis. It’s like a germ that spreads through coughing. Once you get it, it ends up in your lungs and causes pneumonia. And then it can spread all over your body: to the joints, to the throat, to the spine. We all get a shot, in my time, so we can’t catch it.’

  ‘A shot?’ James wrinkled his forehead. ‘They shoot you? With a pistol?’ Despite being stressed out, Katie laughed.

  ‘No, not that kind of shot. I mean, what do you call i
t? An injection, from a needle.’

  James looked grim. ‘It’s too late for preventative medicine.’

  Katie thought again. ‘There are things you can take, once you have tuberculosis. We don’t really get it that much anymore, but it’s like an antibiotic or something.’

  ‘Can you make it?’ James asked. Katie shook her head.

  ‘There’s no way I could make it. I don’t really even know what it is. You haven’t discovered it yet . . .’

  James was getting frustrated too. ‘There isn’t much point telling me how stupid we all are, Katie. If you can’t make this anti-mobotic medication, we’ll have to think of something else. Instead of complaining, why don’t you come up with some ideas?’

  ‘It’s not anti-mobotic, it’s antibiotic, and you’re a long way from it, you don’t even have penicillin yet.’

  An equally frustrated voice came from the bedroom. ‘The two of you, like bickering babies. Can’t you see in front of your very own noses? Every day you’re helping me. James never ceases in his care. You’d think I was one of the Queen’s wee babes. And Katie brings common sense to everything she says and does. So do stop arguing and come keep me company. Despite what Father says, a bit of mental stimulation does cheer me up.’

  They both jumped, shamefaced. They hadn’t realized Grace was listening. Katie sloped off to see her. ‘We’ll have to make do with the stuff we do know,’ she said to James. ‘The important thing is to keep trying.’

  He shook his head at Katie. ‘You’re a very stubborn girl,’ he said.

  Princess Alice assisted greatly. At the request of her father, Prince Albert, she had been tutored by Dr O’Reilly; though on a far lesser scale than James. Dr O’Reilly wasn’t a proponent of the education of women, but James knew, from experience, that Alice was a competent nurse: steady, kind and patient. If the truth be told, he admired her tremendously – not for her royal status, but for herself.

  Working together they began to wean Grace off the laudanum. It was highly addictive, and Dr O’Reilly had been increasing the dose as Grace’s health failed. They’d have to take her off it, little by little; otherwise the withdrawal symptoms would be too severe. Grace was also receiving a daily dose of digitalis. ‘It’s just an extract of foxgloves,’ James explained, ‘it’s been proven to slow the heart rate.’

  But when Katie looked it up, she almost fainted. ‘Digitalis is dangerous. It’s an appetite suppressant, and the last thing Grace needs is to eat less. If taken incorrectly, it can poison her. I say, drop the digitalis.’

  At the same time, Grace’s meals became larger. Katie demanded she have red meat (she could almost hear Mimi shuddering in New York) and the occasional glass of red wine. She tried to remember all those articles she’d leafed through in Mimi’s endless women’s magazines. ‘Grace must eat bright green vegetables,’ she told James. ‘Spinach, broccoli, cabbage – I mean, what are those super foods they’re always blathering about – beetroot, I think, blueberries, avocados . . . Do you have kiwis? No?’

  ‘Are you going to cure her by colours?’ James teased. But he sensed she was right.

  The Royal kitchens were less than pleased by these dietary requests. They were used to sending up a bit of milk toast or weak broth for Grace. And now they were having to find all these strange vegetables, having to peel and chop them and then barely cooking them! It was a fight to the end, to get the food they needed, but Katie made a game of it, moaning and groaning to make Grace laugh. And laugh she did. Sometimes Katie thought it was the laughter that was really curing Grace.

  Or could it be the fresh air? Dr O’Reilly had bolted the windows in Grace’s room. It was so close and still, Katie could almost smell the germs swimming through the thick air. As spring came, Katie opened all the windows. Along with the soot of London came the scent of newly-turned earth and opening flowers. Grace breathed in deeply: ‘It smells of new green things,’ she said, ‘it smells of rebirth.’

  And it was like a rebirth. Day by day Katie watched a vibrant, happy Grace emerge. But despite having reached this point, Grace was still ill – there was no denying it. But she was standing, and laughing with James and Katie and Alice. ‘This is going OK,’ Katie thought. ‘With time we’ll cure Grace, and then DuQuelle will send me back to my own time, New York – to Mimi.’ She thought, with a pang, about Mimi. She’d left her, sound asleep, in her career trauma, yet again. Katie never really understood how time worked between the centuries. Would Mimi be awake by now? Maybe Katie was needed there, as well as here. But right now, she’d rather stay with her friends, and laugh.

  Much of this laughter was at Katie’s expense. Grace was older, and the most experienced member of their group. She guessed much of Katie’s encounter with Jack, and teased her without mercy. About a month after Jack’s departure, Grace ordered James out of her room. Throwing a shawl around her shoulders, she climbed back into bed and turned, with dancing eyes, to Alice and Katie. ‘I have a good reason for us to be alone,’ she said. ‘For in my pocket is a letter from Jack. I will share it with both of you.’

  ‘But wouldn’t James want to hear it?’ Katie asked.

  ‘He would,’ Grace said. ‘But more important, Jack would want you to hear it, Miss Katherine Tappan.’ It was Alice’s turn to stare at her friend and wonder about the future; and Katie’s turn to look down and fidget.

  ‘You know, I think everyone would want to hear about the war,’ she concluded lamely. Grace laughed and unfolding the letter, began to read.

  Scutari, April 1854

  My dearest Grace:

  What an ungrateful boy I am! My life’s desire was this commission with the 17th Lancers. Yet at the last moment I struggled to leave my beloved sister in such precarious health. I can only hope that you are reading this letter with happy eyes; that your cheeks are rosy and the fingers turning the pages are round and plump. I do believe you are in good hands. James and I might quibble about father’s abilities, but he is admired at court. And then James himself has such knowledge and expertise in medicines, though don’t let on that I think so; the last thing we need is a swell-headed little brother. As for your new boon companion, Miss Katherine Tappan: she will enliven your time with a strong dose of mischief!

  When we did sail, the town of Portsmouth gave us a rousing send-off. The port was crammed to the gills with well-wishers. You will raise your brows, Grace, but some of the men used this time for a last carouse, and there was many a sore head when we boarded the HMS Tribune. Flags waved from the quay and the men clambered up the riggings for one last glimpse of home. As we weighed anchor, a huge roar rose above the waters, and we banged our caps in response.

  But after the excitement, came the sea, and such a fierce sea it was. The men who had drunk and danced the night away paid heartily on the passage. Even I, a good sailor, had my head over the rails from time to time. (As a doctor’s daughter, you will not mind this detail, but you might wish to remove it should you read this letter to your friend Miss Katherine Tappan.)

  We had our mounts on board, and the horses were even more seasick than we were. Don’t laugh at the idea of a seasick horse. It was a terrible crossing for them. They were hung in slings, on the deck below us; so as not to be crushed by the roll of the waves. I spent much time with my own mount, Embarr. With legs splayed and head down, he suffered greatly. Several fine cavalry horses went almost insane with the colic. The one doctor on board turned vet, and had these horses shot; but they were too cumbersome to be thrown overboard, so were left in a pile amongst the living. I would not treat a horse so myself, and shielded Embarr as far as possible from the corpses of his friends – some of my regiment thought this soft behaviour on my part, but others understood.

  And along with the regiments, the horses, the equipment, and rations – we had the women. They had been chosen by the official military lottery, but several men smuggled their wives on board. They are separated from the men, and bunk below the waterline. The stagnant bilge is directly below them,
and the horses neigh and stamp above. A woman is by nature a homely body, Grace. Even in the bowels of a ship she slings ropes, drapes sheets, tries to create some privacy and peace for herself – despite the corpses of horses and the reek of men made sick by the sea. The women are aided much by William Howard Russell, also a stowaway on board. He scribbles for The Times and means to report all our brave actions.

  Despite his profession, I must admit, Russell is the heart and soul of the ship; always up for a card game, and with a seemingly unending supply of whisky. (Not that I would drink it Grace, you and your dear friend are not to worry.)He has many jokes and salty stories, and always seems to win at the cards (again, please don’t worry). He has tackled our commander on the subject of the women; says they cannot be left below deck for weeks on end, to cry and be sick in buckets. He has negotiated an hour, on deck for them, weather permitting. And when they cannot come up, he goes down to them, takes up a darning needle, and helps them mend their hosiery! Yet there is nothing unmanly about Billy Russell. He is a puzzle, but an amusing one at that.

  We had hoped for a skirmish when we finally landed at Scutari, but the Russians took one look at us and fled! It is strange to have the French as our allies, and they have a different way of doing things. Lord Raglan camps amongst us in a modest hut under the Cypress trees. The French are commanded by a dapper little man, Saint-Arnaud. He bunks on the European side of the Bosporus in an elegant villa. Our men do not think much of him, and it is rumoured he learnt his English as a dancing master in London!

  But all this talk of darning socks and dancing masters is not the stuff of war. Soon we leave for a yet unnamed field of battle, where we will take the Russians on and win! The campsite is a merry place, with tall tales, jigs and songs, but I cannot wait for this war to commence.