The Chronicles of the Tempus

by K. A. S. Quinn

  ‘I have decorated my room,’ the Queen continued. ‘Look! All the things I brought from Windsor. I know you voiced concern over the time it took, but what a lovely effect it has produced.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ came the reply again. Katie felt Sir Brendan’s voice had a nervous edge to it. Had he bitten off more than he could chew?

  The Queen talked on, oblivious. ‘How long do you think I shall stay here?’

  This question must have panicked Sir Brendan. ‘Ma’am, if you return, they will ask a hundred things of you. They will expect you to make decisions on everything – economic strategies, foreign affairs, domestic policies . . .’

  Katie peeked from underneath the blanket. The Queen was wearing the heaviest of mourning clothes, right down to a sweeping black veil wrapped around her face. Underneath it she was trembling. She scooped up the little Pekinese dog at her feet, dropping her tears on his soft fur. ‘I cannot!’ she cried. ‘How can I make these decisions? I would not, could not act without my husband. He has ruled Britain wisely. I was but his aide. I would not choose a dress or bonnet without his advice . . . I will not!’ The veil swung from side to side as she shook her head stubbornly.

  Sir Brendan murmured soothing words. There would be no need for her to act. If she would just stay here, with him, all would be well.

  Immediately the Queen’s tears dried. She dropped the dog back onto the floor and picked up one memento of Prince Albert after another, telling Sir Brendan of her husband’s endless virtues. Katie suspected he had heard it all before. ‘Have you seen this sketch?’ the Queen asked, pulling forward the bed curtains. ‘I’ve pinned it here, so that I can see it at night. It is by Edward Henry Corbould. I had requested that he draw the Prince on his deathbed. How beautiful he is, in death as well as in life!’

  The little Pekinese began to sniff around the room. Katie watched in horror as his ears pricked up and his long tail began to wag. Sir Brendan might be oblivious, the Queen in her own world, but the dog could sniff it out – someone new was in the bedroom. He trotted over to the bed and began to growl gently.

  ‘Looty!’ called the Queen. ‘Don’t be naughty. Stay away from the bed. Why is it so rumpled? Have not the maids tidied this room?’ Looty began bark loudly, pulling the edge of the blanket. The Queen dropped the sketch she’d been holding up for Sir Brendan to see and backed away, whispering. ‘Someone has been in my bed, and they are still there!’

  Katie tried to flatten herself against the mattress, but it was too late. Sir Brendan was beside the bed now too. ‘Stay back,’ he ordered the Queen. The blankets were whipped aside, and Katie was staring at Sir Brendan, standing over her with an upraised brass candlestick. His face changed from fright to fury. ‘Do not worry,’ he said to the Queen. ‘It is an intruder, but a harmless one, I believe.’ Reaching across to the night table, he rang a small bell, and an orderly appeared. ‘Take our patient downstairs,’ he ordered the nurse; and then in a softer voice, ‘she needs her sedative, immediately.’

  With the Queen gone, Katie was alone in the room with Sir Brendan. Eerily, he did not ask how she had arrived or why she was there. He went into the next room and came back with his medical bag. Snapping it open, he rummaged about inside, searching for something. Katie began to edge towards the foot of the bed. She scanned the room, looking first at the open door and then towards the window.

  ‘It is no use,’ Sir Brendan said coolly, ‘there are two orderlies downstairs, blocking all hope of exit. I am standing between you and the window.’ Katie opened her mouth. ‘Screaming will be of little use,’ he continued. ‘The Queen has just been given a strong opiate. She’ll be asleep – yes, that quickly. Medicine can be amazing. Ah, here’s what I was looking for.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Katie asked. She wished she hadn’t.

  Sir Brendan spun around, his face tight with controlled wrath. He held a bottle in one hand, and a handkerchief in the other. She couldn’t help noticing it had a black border. Even at his most corrupt, Sir Brendan followed protocol. ‘You are a menace to society,’ he said. ‘I can only conclude that you have made your way here to kill the Queen.’

  Katie gulped. She hadn’t thought of this.

  ‘I have always found you mentally unstable. Just think: the lunatic has found her own way to the asylum,’ Sir Brendan continued, almost cheerfully. ‘But there will be no rest cure for you. Sadly, I have no choice but to operate.’

  Katie moved back towards the headboard. She could hear Looty trotting upstairs, barking warily. ‘You can’t operate on me. There’s nothing wrong with me.’

  Sir Brendan actually laughed. ‘Ah, that is always the case. The more crazy they are, the more they deny it.’ He pulled the cork from the bottle and clapped the handkerchief over it. ‘You think my son James is the only one who reads. Well, I’ve been looking into medical research too. There is this amazing new form of surgery, recently performed by the Swiss. It is similar to trepanning, but more effective. You drill a small hole in the skull and insert an ice pick. You twist it. The cuts in the brain calm the patient to an amazing extent. Permanently.’

  Katie was becoming hysterical. ‘That’s a lobotomy. It’s against the law. You can’t perform that surgery. You’re a terrible doctor. You’ll probably kill me.’

  Sir Brendan shrugged his shoulders. ‘You are not who you say you are, and you are not where you are supposed to be. Who will know if you are here, and who will care? I can only think of one: Lord Belzen. He thought you might turn up at Brislington. He welcomed it in fact, and has suggested you would be more useful with some mental modification. I for one am very inspired by this opportunity to experiment in my chosen profession. This could be an important medical breakthrough.’

  ‘He’s the one who’s gone crazy,’ Katie thought.

  In a flash Sir Brendan had her by the shoulders, pinning back her head. The handkerchief was thrust over her nose and mouth. ‘Chloroform,’ he said. ‘The Queen loves it. Used it for her last few childbirths. Not that we’ll be going through that again.’ Was he really laughing?

  Katie thrashed her head from side to side. ‘You don’t know enough! You’ll sever my brain nerves. If you don’t kill me, I’ll be little better than a vegetable.’ She kicked against him, but in her panic breathed deeply, into the handkerchief. Her limbs began to grow heavy, her eyes to close.

  ‘That’s right, a good long sleep,’ she heard Sir Brendan saying. He seemed so far away. She made one last supreme effort and lifted her head. Looty, barking madly, was trying to bite Sir Brendan, while he sorted through his medical bag again. The barking seemed to die away, and her head fell back as Sir Brendan turned around, a sharp metal object in his hand.

  Blackness.

  The pain was very bad. Her head throbbed and her mouth felt burnt and blistered. There was a terrible stinging ache in her left temple. The operation must be over. She kept her eyes closed. He’ll still be here, she thought, I mustn’t move. At least she was able to think. Something hot and wet trickled down the side of her face. Blood. A wave of nausea made her turn slightly and wretch. ‘That will be the chloroform. He’s applied much too much. Try and stay still, Katie, while I patch you up.’ Relief flooded through her. That calm, rational, rather gruff voice: it belonged to James O’Reilly.

  Katie sucked in her breath, as he gently swabbed and bound her head.

  ‘Now get some rest,’ James ordered. Instead she opened her eyes and tried to sit up. ‘Well, we know your personality has not been altered,’ James added. ‘Here you are, immediately ignoring what you’ve been told.’

  Katie felt dizzy, and her vision was blurred. She sank back on the pillows to rest for a moment and then tried again. The outlines of the room clarified. It was a mess. Chairs were overturned, pictures ripped from the walls, the bed curtains had been torn from their hooks. Sitting comfortably in the one upright chair, with the Pekinese on his lap, was Bernardo DuQuelle.

  ‘He tried to save me,’ Katie murmured through the pai
n in her head. ‘Looty was a very brave little dog.’

  ‘They call them lion dogs,’ DuQuelle informed her. ‘Looty is an excellent specimen. I knew his great, great, great-grandfather, Shizi. He belonged to the Emperor Qianlong. I helped the Emperor collect the Siku Quanshu, perhaps the greatest library in the history of your world . . .’

  ‘I don’t understand what you’re saying,’ Katie whispered. ‘My brain, he’s damaged my brain.’

  James O’Reilly sighed. ‘There’s nothing wrong with your brain. No one understands DuQuelle. Katie, lie back and close your eyes. I’d give you a sedative but you’re full of chloroform already. Your brain is fine, at least as fine as it has ever been.’

  Bernardo DuQuelle came over to the bed. Up close Katie could see strain etched on his face. ‘James and I had not deserted you,’ he said. ‘We were nearby. The gatekeeper had been suitably bribed to tell us of any messages left in the shrubbery. But you forgot, Katie, a careless mistake that could have cost you your life. We only knew when the asylum reported you missing. Thank goodness Miss Grimm had turned up early for her shift. You had quite a head start on us,’ he said. ‘Young O’Reilly and I followed your footsteps in the mud, but with the twists and turns of the path, we lost you. Things had reached a crucial point by the time we forced our way into this secluded villa.’

  Katie touched the bandage on her head. ‘Don’t worry,’ DuQuelle added. ‘Sir Brendan had only just started when we reached you.’

  James actually smiled. ‘He was having some problems with the drill. Not surprisingly, you are very hard-headed, Katie.’

  Was she really OK? Katie counted to ten, sang the ‘Star-Spangled Banner’ to herself and tried to list all of Mimi’s top hits. ‘Where has your father gone?’ she asked.

  James stopped smiling. ‘Don’t ever call him my father again. He fled, left you bleeding on the bed.’

  The three of them were silent for a moment. Sir Brendan’s vanity and ambition had led him to Lord Belzen and evil.

  ‘Lord Belzen will be angered by his failure,’ Katie said. ‘I hate to think about his prospects.’

  DuQuelle agreed. ‘Sir Brendan backed himself into a corner. Once he had removed the Queen from Windsor Castle, there really was no future for him.’

  ‘The Queen,’ Katie cried trying to get out of bed. ‘She’s downstairs!’

  DuQuelle stopped her. ‘The Queen is fine,’ he said, ‘or at least as fine as possible, given her extreme sorrow. She is still sleeping; she has slept through the entire crisis.’

  James poured Katie a glass of water. Looty jumped onto the bed and snuggled up next to her. The Queen had slept through everything. Sleep – that sounded good.

  ‘I don’t want Miss Barren to get into trouble . . .’ Katie yawned and, holding Looty close, pulled the covers over both of them.

  ‘I’ll take care of that,’ DuQuelle said. ‘I advise you to sleep when you can.’ Katie knew she could. In fact, she could have slept for one hundred years.

  ‘Sleep is a great restorative,’ James added. And so Katie fell sound asleep in the Queen’s bed.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Miss Nightingale

  Under normal circumstances, a visit from Miss Florence Nightingale was an honour. But Miss Nightingale’s appearance at Brislington House was, for Dr Fox, the stuff of nightmares. She had arrived that afternoon, having been secretly summoned by Bernardo DuQuelle.

  She knew what she had to do. ‘What kind of an institution did Dr Fox think he was running?’ she asked in her refined but firm voice. The chaos, the crudity and the random cruelty of his establishment were beyond her comprehension. His ideas were more insane than the inmates of his asylum. Mysterious veiled women, brutal orderlies, experimental surgery – she was having NONE OF IT.

  Dr Fox followed after her, explaining and apologizing – babbling in the manner of his own patients. To be condemned by Miss Nightingale, a national treasure, the heroine of the Crimea. This would be the end of his career. Miss Nightingale, grim-faced, laid out her demands. ‘There must be reform in the care of mental patients,’ she announced. ‘I shall write, personally, to the Queen.’

  To Katie, this was an amazingly bold move. How could Florence Nightingale write to the Queen? She was already here, recovering from her ordeal in the villa in the woods.

  The Queen had woken from her sleep, but it would take much longer to rouse her from her sorrow. With Sir Brendan gone, however, there was a chance she would recover. Florence Nightingale was taken through the woods to the Queen.

  It was a most unusual relationship. Katie was amazed to see the normally astringent Miss Nightingale bow to the will of another woman. The Queen was, after all, still the reigning monarch. And Miss Nightingale was a loyal subject. The Queen, for her part, was a little bit in awe of the internationally famous Miss Nightingale, a lady of rank who could still pitch a tent on a battlefield, and saw off a man’s leg.

  Florence Nightingale sat with the Queen in her villa, admiring image after image of Prince Albert. Together they walked in the woods, and finally, with the Queen heavily veiled, through the ornamental gardens. As they got to know each other, Miss Nightingale began gently to speak her mind.

  ‘You are a strong woman and a passionate one,’ she said to her monarch. ‘You have taken your great will and put it at the service of your grief.’ The Queen wept and wailed, insisting she could not rule alone. Florence Nightingale held her nerve and continued to argue her case. ‘Unlike most women, you have a must in your life,’ she told the Queen. ‘You must rule your people. You must set aside your private griefs and attend to the public’s affairs. It is a great thing to be a Queen.’

  The Queen did not put aside her widow’s weeds. Nor did she agree to end her mourning – not in a year, not in five years, not ever. She said she would never again open Parliament, nor ‘show herself’ to large crowds. She did, however, agree to return to Windsor Castle. The Queen would go to her large mahogany desk, sit down in the leather chair and open the red boxes, filled with the government’s paperwork. She would begin the heavy burden of governing. The desk next to hers, equally imposing, would remain. But no longer would anyone sit in the adjacent chair. She would rule her country and she would rule alone. It was a great thing to be a Queen.

  As Florence Nightingale put it to Bernardo DuQuelle, ‘The Queen will behave like a heroine now, and knuckle down to business.’ Florence was always that bit more crisp when among old friends. And her crispness turned acrid when confronted with Dr Fox. He continued to apologize profusely. Sir Brendan’s reputation was so high. There had been no reason to question him. Everything had been in order. ‘And all monies had been paid in advance,’ Miss Nightingale added drily, ‘really, when the Queen hears about this . . .’

  February turned to March. The snow had melted and the winter sun took on a tinge of promised warmth. The orderlies bowed and curtsied endlessly to Florence Nightingale. After Katie’s experiences, the staff were to be reorganized. Miss Barren would be retrained. Miss Grimm was fired. Workmen were installing a large new boiler. There would be no more cold-water baths. Miss Nightingale had also written to St Thomas’s Hospital requesting nurses and doctors to assist at Brislington House. She insisted that Dr Fox be stripped of his position, but he would not be prosecuted, as long as he remained silent. And the mysterious veiled woman must remain a mystery.

  One morning Katie sat with James and Miss Nightingale, enjoying the mild day with several of the female inmates. It was amazing how quickly the slightest changes in regime had benefited them.

  Bernardo DuQuelle came up the hill to the house, holding a copy of The Times. He handed it to James. ‘Read the editorial,’ he said. ‘They are questioning the Queen’s isolation at Osborne House. We’ll need to return as soon as possible. We can make the journey in a single day. We should be thankful Sir Brendan’s hideaway was not even more remote.’

  ‘There’s something I don’t understand,’ Katie said. ‘Why did Sir Brendan hide the Q
ueen here? Wouldn’t it have made better sense to simply declare the Queen insane and then have her committed?’

  DuQuelle shook his head. ‘It was a more cunning plan than that and Sir Brendan needed total control over the Queen. If she were declared insane, she would lose the Crown. The Prince of Wales would become King. The smooth succession would be complete. But if the Queen moved in and out of sanity, there would be a vacuum of power. Rumours would fly around, the country would be in disarray, and resentments would fester: the perfect breeding ground for revolution. Things are dangerous enough. We must return the Queen to some form of normalcy, and she must return to Windsor Castle.’

  James turned to Florence Nightingale. ‘Has the Queen recovered? Is it safe for her to travel?’ Miss Nightingale looked towards the woods, where the Queen sat in her villa, looking at pictures of her beloved dead husband.

  ‘She will never completely recover, but yes, she can travel, and she can rule.’

  Katie jumped up. ‘Well, I’m really glad to go. I’m worried about Alice and I miss Dolores. I’m packing my bags NOW.’

  As they came out of Brislington House, Katie looked around her. Freedom. The sky had that sharp white and blue hue of a cold, cloudless early spring day. But there was something curious about the weather. On the horizon, past the woods, purple and black clouds were gathering. They clashed together, piling high, with sharp needles of lightning stabbing the ground. The storm did not spread, but stayed in one spot, growing darker and angrier by the minute. ‘What could that be?’ Katie wondered.

  DuQuelle watched the lightning slash the ground. He took off his hat and bowed his head. ‘It is Sir Brendan O’Reilly,’ he said. ‘I would say “rest his soul”, but there will be no rest.’

  ‘So Lord Belzen has found him,’ Katie said.