Wilhelmina’s voice took on a note of utter foreboding as she answered, “Everyone’s.”
CHAPTER 16
In Which Hate Seeks Its True Source
Without his Burley Men to distract him with their squabbling, arguing, and assorted nasty habits, his lordship the earl at last found a modicum of solitude and quiet. It was not, however, an altogether welcome change. The cell was more peaceful, yes, but the days seemed immeasurably longer. Without his gang around him, filling the fetid air with their idle natter and incessant bickering, Burleigh had long hours of silence to fill and nothing with which to fill them.
For a man more accustomed to a life of unfettered action, this was a novel and uncomfortable condition. Time and again, Burleigh found himself lost in contemplation of thoughts he had never before seriously entertained. Like a dog returning to its vomit, his thoughts turned to his benefactor, the baker.
Why this should be, he could not say. One moment he would be sitting slumped in a corner of the cell, and the next he would be grinding his teeth over something the good-natured baker had said or done. The sum of all his problems had a name, and that name was Engelbert. Even the word was an affront. Why, it was the name for a clown, a buffoon—not a name for a man. Engelbert. What was that in English? Drawing from his meagre store of German, Burleigh was able to cobble together the English approximation as something like “Bright Angel.” What parent in their right mind would name their son Bright Angel?
Asinine as that might be, the name was a mere trifle, a trivial curiosity. What was it about the man that brought Burleigh’s blood to the boil? The more he thought about it, the more he assured himself that there had to be something substantial beneath the surface. What was it about the well-meaning fellow that rankled, that galled, that raised the bile to Burleigh’s mouth the moment he clapped eyes on the merry oaf? Was it his manner? His unfailingly cheerful demeanour, that perpetually pleasant disposition with which he met whatever barbarity life threw at him? Was it the big baker’s inane affability or his idiotic do-gooding that provoked hatred? What was the inflammatory thing, the thing that demanded, and received, such a strong response from Burleigh?
Certainly, there was nothing in the man’s physiognomy to incite such loathing. The baker was not unattractive in his way, though this quality could not be ascribed to any particular physical attribute; no, his features were regular and unremarkable. It was, Burleigh decided, more that Engelbert radiated a kind of natural warmth and, for lack of a better word, goodness. Engelbert’s sweet nature shone through his rather ordinary exterior, transforming it into a far more appealing and pleasing aspect.
Be that as it may, what was there to be so bloody cheerful about? Life was hard and life was deadly. Kill or be killed, eat or be eaten—that was the Law of Nature, the only law the world knew. Burleigh had learned that cruel lesson as a child of the streets, and it had served him faithfully ever since. Anyone who did not recognise that most basic law of life deserved whatever they got—Engelbert Stiffelbeam included.
One day, a week or so after Tav, Con, Mal, and Dex had been taken away, Etzel arrived with his regular food parcel. Burleigh, to avoid giving the insufferable baker whatever satisfaction he derived from performing this good deed, refused to acknowledge his benefactor’s presence. Since the Burley Men were no longer around to spoil the effect with their grovelling thanks and unctuous exclamations over Engelbert’s unwarranted largess, the earl remained on his mat with his face to the wall, silent—despite the baker’s best attempts to rouse him.
Later, after Engelbert had gone, Burleigh rolled over and regarded the little heap of provisions left for him. In the single shaft of natural light that shone down from his grated vent hole he saw the perfect white and brown loaves produced by Etzel’s bakery; the plump, greasy sausage purchased in the market; the firm yellow apples; the jug of sweet new wine—all so neatly arranged for him as if in a study for a still life painting, a work of art, an arrangement of beauty. Burleigh realised then that there was something more than simple do-goodism in the act. It had an aim, a purpose . . . but what?
After a time, the earl’s hunger got the better of him; he rose and, kneeling over his provisions, began portioning them for the week ahead. Taking one of the loaves, he broke it and pulled off a piece and ate it. Then, still kneeling, he picked up the wine and took a drink. In this way, he broke his fast. The simple meal of bread and wine eased his hunger and satisfied; it was good and wholesome. There was a rightness about it that went beyond the basic elements.
In the act of eating Etzel’s food, Burleigh glimpsed something of the attitude behind the offering, and he had an epiphany: Engelbert Stiffelbeam was not the problem—it was his Jesus. Why should this be? Burleigh wondered. What difference did it make to Burleigh what the big oaf believed?
The Grand Imperial’s chief baker might also believe in pink-spotted green leprechauns for all he knew; people believed a multitude of ridiculous things up to and including the existence of mermaids, unicorns, and fire-breathing dragons. But those deluded beliefs did not inspire in him the same visceral disgust. And just like the imaginary unicorns that haunted the dells and hidden glades of folklore, Jesus was merely an irrelevant nonsense. The brutal indifference of the world proved that much beyond doubt; and Jesus, God’s insipid Son, was a phantom, a figment, a myth. In actual fact, the whole of religion everywhere, so far as Burleigh could discern, was a ragtag bundle of superstition and make-believe: wholesale foolishness concocted by lunatics, peddled by charlatans, and swallowed by the ignorant benighted masses.
Burleigh had always held that organised religion amounted to a kind of madness, a collective insanity embraced by the weak and powerless because it allowed them some small degree of comfort, a grain of solace in the face of the harsh reality that their lives were meaningless, existence had no purpose, and there was no good, wise, all-knowing God looking out for them. The naked truth was that existence had no significance beyond the random shuttling of mindless forces that had produced a blob of sentient matter that was here one day and gone the next. The lives of most human beings had as much meaning as the candle flame that is lit, burns for a time, and is then snuffed out, never to be seen again.
Real men, strong men, rational men of the world did not need such childish fantasies to strengthen a feeble, fragile psyche, or provide a way to avoid staring into the dark abyss of a cold, unforgiving reality. For the greater mass of humanity, however, better a merry fantasy than the bitter, bracing truth: there was no God, no purpose, no meaning in life, and nothing beyond the grave.
Burleigh took another mouthful of bread and was savouring its simple goodness when a thought popped into his head: “If there is no God, then everything is permitted . . .”
Where that had come from, he did not know, but Burleigh certainly recognised the sentiment and wholly agreed with it. As an aphorism, it was something he might have said himself once or twice and, if pressed, he could have argued the case most eloquently.
“There is no God,” Burleigh declared in his mind—as he would have proclaimed aloud if there had been anyone to hear him. “Thus, every man is free to do what seems right to him.”
From the shadowed dampness in the far corner of his cell emerged a dark figure, as indistinct as the shadows it inhabited, its thoughts manifest as a ghostly shade. “Every man does what is right in his own eyes,” offered the Voice helpfully.
“Exactly,” replied Burleigh, nodding in agreement. “Every man is free to do whatever pleases him for whatever reasons seem best and by whatever means best serve his ambition.”
“If there is no God, there cannot be any objective moral standard. No one can say what is right or wrong. Therefore, whatever a man does cannot be either acclaimed or condemned by anyone. It simply is.”
“Correct,” agreed Burleigh firmly. “If there is no objective standard against which actions may be judged, there can be no right or wrong.”
“By the same token,” continued the V
oice, growing more insistent, “whatever befalls a man cannot be judged as acceptable or unacceptable. In a universe of no direction or purpose, whatever happens cannot be considered good or bad; it is simply something that happens, an event without significance.”
Again, Burleigh agreed, though with less certainty than before. He could feel the drift of his thoughts beginning to carry him toward an unseen, possibly unwanted destination.
“Then why do you rage so against your plight?” asked the Voice. “What happens simply is—no meaning, no purpose, just the random collision of events with no significance beyond their immediate interaction.”
“Ah!” challenged Burleigh. “A man ought to have recourse to justice at least. The accused ought to be able to face his accusers and answer the charge.”
“Ought? Where does this ought come from?”
“It is only simple fairness,” insisted Burleigh, with less enthusiasm than before.
“Are we going to talk about unfairness and injustice? I thought we had laid that to rest. Why drag all that up again?”
Burleigh had no reply. He hurt, and the pain was real—maybe that was reason enough to complain.
The Voice was quick to pounce on this. “You hurt, so you attribute the pain to unfairness, to injustice? Who do you imagine cares to hear your complaint?”
“It hurts!” Burleigh insisted. “I do not care who hears about it!”
“Your hurt is a fantasy, a figment, a phantom. There can be no hurt where there is no law. Every man is free to do what he likes. The magistrate likes to keep you locked up. Where is the harm?”
“But he ought not to like it!” snapped Burleigh, losing his patience.
“Again with the ought!” chided the Voice, fading back into the shadows and becoming once more merely a damp patch of mildew on the wall. It whispered, “It seems, brother, that you do not truly believe your own philosophy.”
“Bugger philosophy!” growled Burleigh. “I bloody well want out of here!”
Another week passed in the dank cell beneath the Rathaus—another week of misery for its once-proud occupant. Truly, Archelaeus Burleigh, Earl of Sutherland, was proud no longer. He was wretched, and knew himself to be so. Indeed, he very much suspected that he was even worse than he knew.
With each passing day, he felt more fragile and unstable—much, he imagined, as an egg—one that had been broken and emptied, and then patched together again with all the cracks showing and some of the pieces missing. He lurched restlessly about his cell trying not to think, for thinking only brought new torrents of misery.
He was in the throes of another bout of painful introspection when the sound of his door swinging open on its rusty hinges startled him. So lost in the maze of his thoughts was he that he had not heard the footsteps in the hall, nor even the key in the lock. He stopped pacing and turned to see the familiar form of the baker framed in the doorway, light streaming in around him. Bright Angel, indeed, mused Burleigh. Come to torment me again.
The gaoler muttered something, and Engelbert stepped into the cell with his bag of provisions and a great smile on his broad face. “I have news for you,” he announced happily, moving to the centre of the cell.
Burleigh said nothing, only stared—half fascinated, half dreading what his good-natured nemesis might say next.
“Your friends are to be released!”
Raising his head, Burleigh glowered as the baker stooped to open his sack. Friends, thought the earl. Where are my friends? The alchemists and courtiers he had cultivated at the palace . . . where were they now? In the long months of his confinement, none had come to his aid, none had spoken for him, all had deserted him. “I have no friends,” Burleigh replied, his voice a low, husky rasp.
“The men who were with you—they were your friends, no?” said Etzel.
“Hirelings,” the earl sniffed. “They worked for me. Nothing more.”
“I am your friend,” declared Etzel cheerfully. He lifted out a fresh brown loaf of rye bread and laid it carefully on the folded cloth that served as the earl’s table.
“You!” sneered Burleigh, the old anger stirring once more. “You are the reason I am here.”
Engelbert shrugged and withdrew a chunk of cheese wrapped in muslin and placed it beside the loaf, then reached in for a clay jug of beer. “You know the reason you are here, I think.” He pulled out handfuls of apricots and stacked them neatly on the cloth. “There is a prison cart leaving the city. Your friends are to be taken to Pilzen, where they will be released at the border. But they must promise never again to enter Prague.”
Burleigh said nothing for a long moment, then asked, “Will I see them? My men—will I see them again before they leave?”
“I do not think so,” allowed Engelbert. “But I will ask.”
“Who . . . ah”—Burleigh fumbled for words—“how is this possible? Who made this happen?”
Etzel nodded. “I have been speaking to the magistrate for many weeks. He has grown tired of my begging and has agreed to free the men.”
“So,” huffed Burleigh. “They can go, but I must stay.”
“The magistrate tells me that a crime has been committed and that someone must answer for this. Someone must be responsible.” The baker produced something new—a whole roast chicken—from his bag and added it to the other items on the cloth. “I have said to the magistrate that only one man was responsible. Locking up five men for the crime of one made no sense.”
“You told him this?” wondered the earl.
“I have told him a great many things. He listens to some of them.” Engelbert frowned. “But Herr Richter is an official of the empire. The magistrate listens more to the emperor than to me.” The big man cocked his head to one side. “This is the way of things.”
“So that is it? I just sit here until I die?”
“May God forbid it!” replied Engelbert quickly. “I have spoken to His Majesty on your behalf. I asked him to release you, but he also tells me that justice must be served. But no matter, I will go to him again and bring a strudel next time.”
“You spoke to the emperor for me?” Burleigh shook his head. “Why? Why do you care what happens to me? I hurt you. I meant to hurt you. I had no care for you—why do you care for me?”
The baker stood and moved to stand before the earl. “But I have told you this already.” Etzel placed his hand on Burleigh’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Be of good cheer. The Lord is with you.”
Burleigh gazed at him, then shook his head. “I wish I could believe that.”
“It makes no matter,” Etzel assured him lightly. He turned and stooped to retrieve the empty bag. “I will believe enough for both of us.”
With that, he was gone again, leaving only the whiff of a strange fragrance behind—a scent like that of wildflowers, the scent of open spaces and sun-washed air. It lingered long in the cell, causing Burleigh to wonder whether he had indeed been visited by a bright angel.
This notion was so absurd that Burleigh had no argument against it; all he could do was stand and stare at the offering of food so carefully—one could say lovingly—arranged. As he stood there looking, a tear came to his eye. He did not know why; he did not feel sad, only mildly confused. But something deep inside him turned in that moment, and a single tear marked the occasion. Embarrassed, the earl swiped it away, smearing the wetness off his cheek with the heel of his hand. “Big bloody fool,” he murmured aloud. “You’re losing your mind.”
In the empty hours that followed, Burleigh found himself thinking not so much about his own sorry state and the monumental injustice that was keeping him locked in a stinking dungeon cell, but about the reason he was rotting in prison. From that moment, his thoughts now centred on the cruelty he had shown in the attack against Engelbert and the regret he now felt. This was a new thing.
Slowly, the circle of his meditations widened outward to include not only Engelbert but others he had wronged throughout his life: Cosimo Livingstone and Sir Henry F
ayth; the sweet, trusting Phillipa, his one-time fiancée; Arthur Flinders-Petrie and his grandson, Charles; his Burley Men; Lady Haven Fayth—now, there was a woman after his own heart, someone he could have loved—whatever happened to her? And there were others . . . so many others—and all of them people he had used for his own selfish purposes, only to be ruthlessly cast aside when it suited him. He had earned his condemnation tenfold, a hundredfold, and he deserved the harshest penalty the law and heaven could decree, nothing less.
As he brought his appalling behaviour to mind, he encountered what was for him a strange sensation: a mingled blend of guilt, shame, and sorrow that, on further reflection, he decided must be remorse. This unusual emotion might have been allowed to fade, its potency diminished over time, but for the persistent example of Engelbert, whose virtue threw his own wretchedness into sharp relief. Etzel’s simple, uncomplicated goodness burned like a beacon on a distant hill. Burleigh had only to glance up to that shining hilltop to see just how very dark his squalid little valley had become.
Increasingly, Burleigh caught himself looking to that light and wishing he could move closer to it. Strange to say, this feeling did not produce the abhorrence and revulsion it might once have done; rather, in accepting his guilt and owning the blame for his actions, the earl felt more contented—as if something that had long been misaligned was now properly adjusted: the compass needle pointed true north once more.
But that was not all. On those occasions when the earl fixed his mind on the big baker’s shining example, he discovered that he was able to find a little respite from the ceaseless churning of his more troublesome thoughts. In contemplating goodness, he found—innocently, unexpectedly, blessedly—peace.
CHAPTER 17
In Which the Peace Exacts a Price
On the third and last day, the feast celebrating the pact between the Bulgars and the Byzantines concluded with a service of prayer and thanksgiving for having come through the travails of war and been granted the peace in which the empire now rejoiced. The sun had just set over the Sea of Marmara when a bell tolled in the plaza tower. The emperor and several high-ranking officials departed the feast, and the entire celebration was moved to the Cathedral of Holy Wisdom located just beyond the imperial palace walls.
The Fatal Tree Page 13