by A. E. Moorat
Conroy swung-left, right-shearing the locks from two more cells now.
'And it is forced upon you,' he cried, coming to her now, their swords meeting. 'You have demon blood. It is your nature-it is your instinct, your destiny. You are a servant of the darkness.'
'No,' she insisted. 'It only becomes my destiny if I allow it to be so. I once made a pledge, Conroy,' she said fiercely, 'and I have no intention of breaking it.'
'Oh, really?' he said in return, smiling. 'Not even now that you have discovered your mother is an inhuman, that your beloved a half-breed. Has nothing changed? Surely now you are ready to accept your true self?'
'I have accepted my true self,' she said. 'I am the Queen. Nothing changes that, Conroy-only that I now know the truth. And will use it to bury you.'
His smile faltered a little and she used his uncertainty to attack. She made a little ground as they fought, but then Conroy was bearing down on her once again, pushing her back. She was fast, and already a skilled swordswoman, but she was exhausted, and he was strong, and it was all she could do to hold him at bay.
'In that case, Victoria, though it pains me,' he smirked, 'we shall have to say our goodbyes.'
'What do you mean?' she said.
'Behind you is a door--'
'There is no door,' she snapped. There had been just a wall, marking the end of the corridor. Towards which she was now backing.
'No, Victoria, there is a door, look.'
She gave him a withering look as though to say, Nice try, but he held up his hands and put his sword behind his back, indicating that she should use the opportunity to look.
She did so, and indeed there was a door-one that had not previously been there, she was sure of it. At first she thought it was a stout wooden door, much like any other, but as she watched, it seemed to shimmer.
'What is it, Conroy?'
'The gateway to the second circle of Hell, Victoria, from which nobody returns.'
'And where is the first?'
'Well, you're standing in it, my dear. Where else do you think we would bring those who need corrupting. Those such as Albert-and yourself. You and he have proved too strong, my dear. I'm afraid there is nothing to be done but to send you-to Hell.'
He swiped at two more padlocks. Behind him she saw more doors open and inmates began to appear in the corridor. She saw crazed smiles, their heads darting about. Looking in their direction, but also back to the entrance door-to where Albert was chained in his cell.
'Albert,' she called, 'Albert.'
She felt wetness on her cheek and realised she was being spat upon. For a second she caught the eyes of the culprit, a man screaming obscenities at her. In the same instant she saw into another cell where a man sat with his trousers about his ankles. He had a cat with him in the cell and was holding it by the neck, kissing it open-mouthed.
'Ah, good evening,' came a voice from another cell, this of a gentleman, and she glimpsed him briefly. He wore a suit and was well dressed. 'Perhaps you would consider letting me out of here,' he said, smiling pleasantly at her. 'Perhaps you would let me out of here so that I can eat your cunt.'
She gasped.
Then Conroy was coming forward, pushing her back. For a second he backed off, sheared off two more cell door locks. Then, with a shout, thrust forward again, and as she defended a lunge, he brought his elbow up, smashing her on the cheek and sending her sprawling, stunned, to the stone floor, her sword clattering away from her, the doorway now right behind her.
Distantly, she was aware of Conroy moving towards her. Her sword was kicked even further away from her; she heard it skitter away back down the passage. Then he was standing over her, and she felt fingers at her weapons belt, taking it. Then that, too, was tossed away.
He bent and hauled her to her knees, holding her by the lapels of her coat. Her head lolled, her eyes were half-closed; she was barely conscious.
'It is a shame, Victoria,' he said, 'you should have been a fabled figure in the annals of Hell, instead you are its next victim.'
'No,' she said. Her eyes snapped open and flashed red, and for a second he had a glimpse of the demon within, 'you are.'
Finding the reserves of strength she knew were there, she twisted, pulling him off his feet and to the floor.
He shouted in terror and surprise as he hit the stone then Victoria was throwing herself forward, pushing him into the shimmering doorway. One of his legs disappeared into it, breaking the image as though it was the surface of water, and as it did so, his eyes widened in pain and horror. Suddenly his whole body jerked and he slid on the ground, his other leg going in the portal.
He threw out his hands, grabbing hers, so that she, too, was yanked forwards to the door. Lying on her stomach now she yelled in pain as his grip tightened and he was, slowly, pulled into the inferno.
But pulling her with him.
She, her feet scrabbling and unable to make purchase.
Their eyes locked; his, huge with pain, his lips drawn back as he snarled, 'It is...' he tried to say. 'It is...agony.'
He began to scream. Still he gripped her. To try and pull himself free or her in with him, she wasn't sure. Either way--
He was going to drag her in with him.
She kicked and doubled up, bringing her legs forward so that her boots went to the wall by the side of the portal, and at least now she had some leverage. But Conroy was refusing to let go. With a wrench she managed to free one of her arms and for a second he floundered, but then he clutched her other arm with two hands, his grip like iron and still screaming, more of his lower body disappearing into the portal.
Behind her the lunatics screamed and howled, the noise of it cacophonous. And she heard Albert, too, from his cell, screaming her name. They would be upon him. She felt the heat from behind the door.
Braced against the wall, but moving inch by inch towards the door she threw her head back, seeing the inmates in the corridor. Most, she saw, her making their way to the entrance door-in the direction of Albert-two had begun to shuffle in her direction. One of them was the man with the cat, which now hung limp and dead from his hand, and he was eyeing up her...
Weapons belt. In it, her spinsaw. With her free hand she grabbed for it.
It lay just out of reach of her fingertips.
The cat man started to move with more urgency.
She braced her feet. She summoned her strength. And with a shout she pulled, able to gain an inch and getting her fingers to the belt-just-then snatching it from the grasp of the cat man who had gone to his knees to try and take it, and who now let out a howl of denial.
From the belt Victoria seized her spinsaw, flicking it to start.
It didn't.
Conroy saw what was about to happen. He redoubled his efforts. She felt herself pulled towards the portal. Felt the searing heat of it. Tried the spinsaw again.
It took, and was spinning now, and grimacing she reached forward and used it to amputate Conroy's hands. First one, her face spayed with gore; then the other, until at last his arm tore free and with a last anguished scream, he was sucked into the inferno.
In the same instant the cat man was upon her, screaming obscenities and grabbing her face as though about to try and kiss her, but instead she pushed the spinsaw into his face and he was falling back, grey brain matter sliding down his face.
'Victoria,' came a scream.
Albert.
Victoria was already on her feet, dashing along the passageway to Albert's cell, evading a second inmate, then a third.
Her sword? Where was her sword?
She stood for a moment, looking for it. Inmates gathered about her. One of the men had pulled down his trousers and was tumescent, pushing out his hips at her. Another, a woman, was laughing maniacally, blood dripping from her chin, reaching for her.
Then she saw movement at the door to Albert's cell and saw the Prince emerge. He was held hostage by the well-dressed man, who was marching him to the door.
But in
mates crowded in on her. She screamed, slashing indiscriminately with the spinsaw, frantic to free herself and reach him-desperate not to lose him again. Now was aware of the door opening, Albert and the maniac moving through it.
At last the inmates fell away and she pushed herself off the wall onto which she had backed and shoulder-barged one of them out of the way, making for the door, certain that Albert and his captor would be through it by now and praying the man was simply too unhinged to think of locking it.
Except, they had not passed through. They stood still in the doorway.
On the other side of the door stood Vasquez. She was with two men that Victoria recognised from the Commons. Her bow was drawn and she was aiming at Albert and the psychopath, who looked nervously from Vasquez to the Queen.
'Your Majesty?' said Vasquez.
'Do you have a clear shot?' said Victoria.
The maniac shrank behind Albert.
'Negative,' replied Vasquez.
There was a second of stillness.
'Take the shot,' said Victoria.
The katana hit the floor and the psychopath was reeling back, an arrow in his eye, falling and releasing the Prince who sprang out of his grasp-and into Victoria's arms.
Moments later, she closed the door on the scenes of carnage in the asylum, glancing to the far end, where the portal appeared no longer. Then they made their way out of Bethlem and past the ladies of the Bethnal Green Baptist Ladies' Prayer Association, gathered together in readiness for their journey home, who, with eyes wide in shock, watched the group make its way to a carriage. All the ladies were as one fascinated by the exotic-looking archer, the upper class-gentleman who seemed to be trying unsuccessfully to ingratiate himself with the exotic-looking archer, the shambling manservant, and in particular by the couple who walked ahead of them: a distinguished-looking gentleman, who bore more than a passing resemblance to Prince Albert, and a short woman, covered head to toe in blood, who, were it not for the fact that she was covered in blood, was smiling broadly and was carrying a very large sword, might well have passed for the Queen of England herself, Queen Victoria.
XLVIII
Later that morning
Buckingham Palace
It was the early hours of the morning in the stableyard at Buckingham Palace. A mist hung about the ground and the breath of the footmen clouded before them as they carried trunks to the Clarence-a specially selected carriage with no Royal crest or markings upon it-and secured them to its roof, lashing them there with rope. With the job done the footmen gathered a few feet away, looking awkward and confused, unsure what to make of this most unprecedented event and wondering if they should perhaps alert one of the ladies-in-waiting, or the Lord Steward. Instead, all had been roused individually from their beds by the Prince, who required their aid, because, he said, he, the Queen and children were leaving-alone.
The two children were asleep on the seats, and Victoria made sure they were warm and comfortable, and she arranged sheets so that they could not roll out of their makeshift beds, then closed the carriage door, and climbed up to the driver's plate to join Albert, who sat there, holding the reins. They looked towards the footmen who stood quite unable to comprehend what they were seeing, and Albert touched a hand to the rim of his hat in farewell, then shook the reins, the only sound in the early morning courtyard, that of the hooves upon the cobbles.
The carriage rattled along the approach road and Victoria twisted in her seat to look back at the Palace, stifling a sob as her home receded-knowing she would never return.
She closed her eyes and tried not to think of the future, for it was so black and uncertain. She and Albert had decided that they should travel abroad and that wherever it was they should go, it should be outside Europe. As far from England and Germany and Belgium as they could manage. Beside that they had no plans, other than to live and survive and to try and be happy.
As long as it meant that they had escaped. This was their chief concern. That they should take themselves, and more importantly their children, away from those manacles of destiny that had been forced upon them.
Presently, the carriage drew to a halt and the Queen awoke. For a moment she was disorientated, thinking they must have travelled miles and that Albert had arrived at a port, but when she rubbed her bleary eyes and stared around her, she saw the distinctive trees and shrubbery of the Palace. It felt as though she had been asleep for hours, lulled by the movement of Albert's arm and warmed by his body. In fact, they hadn't even left the gates.
'Victoria,' said Albert, and he was pointing ahead of them to where a woman sat on her horse.
In the dead silence and crisp cold of the morning, Victoria and Maggie Brown looked at one another. Maggie was sitting astride Henstridge.
Both doing what they believed to be right.
Both doing their duty.
'A word, Your Majesty,' said Maggie, and she indicated a spot off the highway, beneath a tree on the lawn. She jumped down from Henstridge at the same time, patting his flank. She put a hand to the hilt of her sword and strode to the spot.
'You're not going?' said Albert as Victoria went to climb down.
'Yes, I'm going,' she said.
She paused on the step. 'If anything happens, ride, Albert.'
'Victoria...'
'No. Just promise me that-that if anything happens, you'll just go.'
Albert looked over at Maggie Brown, who stared back. 'It's just the lassie I need to see,' she said, dispassionately.
Albert bridled. 'The lassie,' he hissed. 'Why, who on earth does she think she's talking to?'
'Albert,' snapped Victoria, 'we've just abdicated. When you've abdicated you stop worrying about how people address you.'
She jumped the last step to the ground, then walked around the back of the Clarence to meet Maggie Brown. On the way she bent down and retrieved from beneath the axle her katana sword, which she had stowed there earlier. She was dangling it over her shoulder as she appeared around the back of the Clarence, the hilt of it at her left armpit.
Maggie Brown saw, and smiled.
And now Victoria saw Maggie Brown properly. The cuts and bruises that adorned her face.
'You were going to leave, just like that?' said Maggie.
'I was worried about doing it any other way,' said Victoria. Both women kept their distance. 'I was worried this might happen, in fact.'
'Aye, of course,' said Maggie, ruefully.
Now the Protektor smiled sadly. 'When you spoke to your mother earlier, guess who was listening?'
'I thought as much,' smiled Victoria.
'You're a half-breed, ma'am,' said Maggie Brown, who sounded crestfallen, as though nothing had ever pained her more. 'The blood that you, your husband and your children carry is what I am sworn to destroy. I can't let you leave those gates.'
She drew her sword.
Victoria looked at her. The Protektor had been badly hurt in whatever battle she had been involved. Victoria could see bandages beneath her sleeves and she limped slightly when she walked.
But even so, could Victoria beat her in battle?
No, she didn't think so.
'I won't let you kill my children, Maggie,' she said, hoping that she sounded braver than she felt.'
She drew her sword.
'Aye,' said Maggie. 'I didn't think you would.'
She lifted her sword.
Then placed the point of it to the ground, took the hilt in two hands and knelt, bowing her head, like a knight of old.
'Maggie?' said Victoria.
Maggie Brown looked at her.
'Last night young John Brown had another of his visions,' she said. 'This one was of the same conflict. He saw great death and suffering once more. He saw men in iron hats, burning. He saw men dying in huge troughs cut into the ground. A war on a scale mankind has never seen, or so he said. Now, I have no way of knowing whether or not this war will ever take place, and if it does whether it happens because of you or despite you. And I have
no idea of knowing whether his premonition will come true, or whether or not my actions will have any effect on whether it does, because until a moment ago even I didn't know what I was going to do. Whether I was going to put you and your family to the sword or tell you not to be so bloody stupid and get your arse back in that palace and start running the country.'
She paused.
'The fact is, Your Majesty, that whatever the blood that flows through your veins, your heart is good, and your country needs that now. Which is why I'm down on one knee in the freezing cold at God-knows-what hour of the morning. She straightened. 'Which is why I'm telling you to get your arse back in that palace and start running the country.'
Minutes later, Maggie Brown had galloped off and Albert and Victoria watched her go, Albert about to shake the reins and drive on.
Victoria stopped him, though, of course.
'Turn around, Albert,' she said. 'We're going home.'
XLIX
The same time
Pembridge Villas, Notting Hill
Quimby stepped quickly back from his gratifyingly weighty drapes and turned to the room, addressing Perkins and Egg.
'Christ,' he said, 'they're coming. The peelers are on their way!'
Perkins and Egg stared back at him, unmoved.
'A fine help the pair of you are,' shouted Quimby, pacing the room. He still had no idea whether or not his revenants submitted to his control. Worse, when he tried to gather from Perkins and Egg whether or not they were under his control-they who should bloody know!-neither were able to say.
So it was that as the peelers banged on his front door, he still had no idea and was sweating profusely as Perkins answered the door. A sign they would surely take as evidence of his guilt.
Oh Christ.
Oh God.
He heard the two officers ascend his stairs and walked out of the study on to the main hall, greeting them breezily. But their faces were grave, and as they walked to the library the officers explained that they needed to ask his Lordship some questions involving some rather delicate subjects, and that his Lordship might need to come to the station.