by S E Turner
Cornelius sat back in his chair. 'So, I am free to return. I am not exiled anymore.' His tone was one of disbelief.
'You are a free man, Cornelius.'
'Do we know who killed them both?'
'I can find out for you.'
'Good, because when I return, I need to know who I am up against. I need to make sure they don't try and overthrow my Empire. I need to get an army and defend my title.'
'That is just what I was thinking, Cornelius.'
'Excellent work, Beauchamp. My father sent the boy away, but a man will return. I will take back what is rightfully mine and put to death anyone who gets in my way.'
Gye de Beauchamp smiled knowingly.
Cornelius furrowed his brow in thought. 'So how quickly can we get on a ship?'
Chapter Eleven
Cornelius had been born twenty five years ago, the only son and heir to the Empress Eujena and Emperor Gnaeus. By the time he was five years old, his mother had gone. It was said that she had given birth to a deformed daughter, not of this world and certainly not sired by the Emperor. What ever the truth was, Eujena had been banished from the court, and Cornelius grew up without his mother or a sibling.
By the time he was twelve years old, he was a tall, strong boy with a taste for music, poetry and the arts. He loved singing and had a wonderful voice. So many times, the palace was alive with the sounds of his warbling while the corridors and galleries rang out daily with his harmonious melodies. This disappointed the Emperor who had wanted a boy who enjoyed hunting, sword fighting and horsemanship—all the things he wanted to share with his only son. The Emperor had little time for 'women's stuff' as he called it. As the Emperor lost interest in Cornelius, people were brought in to try and change him. No one succeeded.
The Marquis de Beauchamp was one such man, and although he was skilled in hunting, sword fighting, and horsemanship, he appreciated the gentle side of Master Cornelius and was more sympathetic and understanding. So he encouraged his softer side and formed a strong bond with the boy.
The Marquis was a few years older than Cornelius, though some said they looked about the same age. Cornelius had been given a privileged life, whilst the Marquis had covered his well. He was slight of shoulder, not overly tall, but a medium build with a kind face and sparkling eyes. The Marquis kept his head shaved and wore a tattoo on his left arm: a Smilodon, the emblem of his tribe and a reminder of his forefathers from whence he had come. Though no one ever knew from whence he had come. No one knew his roots or how he had learned his craft; only that he was skilled in many things.
After answering a notice to be an aide for Master Cornelius at the palace, he had been assessed by Domitrius Corbulo by way of a sword fight with his best swordsman; in addition to trapping a boar in the forest and skinning a rabbit in less than twenty seconds. He was given the position immediately. Cornelius liked him because he was always smiling. He had a soft kind voice and he always had an answer to everything Cornelius asked him.
'Where do dragons and witches come from?'
'On the other side of the world, Master Cornelius, that's where they come from. They can't hurt you because they are so far away. Strange people live on the other side of the world, that's why no one goes there, only deviants and non-human souls.'
'I won't be going there, then.'
'Of course, you won't. You are a kind and gentle boy and have no place with those kind of people.'
By the time Cornelius was fourteen years old, his father was obsessed with even more power and driven by avarice. He was fearful of his dynasty and how Cornelius would fare in matters of war. Would he even be able to father a worthy son, or would he just breed more weaklings like himself?
'How come I am cursed with a fool for a son? How will he sit on the throne and rule when I have gone?'
'Maybe he should come with us when we search for the Seal of Kings, Your Excellency,' Domitrius Corbulo had suggested. 'That way he will have to face death and will definitely toughen him up... it's the only way to make him a man.'
'Excellent idea, Corbulo,' the Emperor had agreed jubilantly.
But all that happened was the General and the Captains put Cornelius in perilous situations, and he always came off worse for wear. He got knocked down by more experienced men, and he vomited when he saw death. He was put on the most difficult stallions that he couldn't control. Every day there was something more challenging that Master Cornelius couldn't handle. And every time, General Domitrius Corbulo and his captains sat laughing while he struggled.
The Marquis had observed all of this and went to the Emperor many times. 'My lord, if I may be so bold, I am concerned that Master Cornelius is being subjected to a form of bullying and expected to do things that he is not yet proficient in.'
'Beauchamp!' The Emperor had turned purple with rage. 'When I want your advice, I will ask for it. When I want a lecture on how to bring up my son, I will ask for it. When I want to know the musical arrangement of a string quartet, I will ask for it. As I haven't asked for any of those things, will you leave me to do as I see fit!'
'But my lord, Master Cornelius offers other gifts that are far superior to killing and fighting.'
The Marquis was kicked out of court with the Emperor's wrath still ringing in his ears.
By the time the boy was eighteen years old, the Emperor had witnessed enough, and of course, Corbulo was there with the solution.
'He will never be fit to be an Emperor like yourself, Gnaeus. He is weak with too much of his mother in him. He is a laughing stock and dishonours you.'
'So, what am I to do with him Corbulo?'
'I have heard of places where boys such as him are sent away to become men.'
The Emperor was now interested and leaned in to allow Corbulo free passage.
'I can sort this out for you, Gnaeus. I can send him to the other side of the world where he has to face his fears and become a man. It is not a nice place, I can assure you, but then again, the world in which we live is not that nice.'
'Do it,' said the Emperor gleefully.
Cornelius was beside himself with grief and pleaded with his father to change his mind. 'Please, Father, please do not send me away. I will try harder, I promise. I will fight. I will charge a horse with the General. I will hunt and kill with the Marquis. I will do anything you ask—just don't send me away.'
The Marquis had also pleaded to no avail. 'Your Grace, you cannot send him away. Why do you want to change him? He has so much more to offer than fighting and killing and jousting on a horse. He is a kind and gentle boy who believes that dragons and witches live on the other side of the world. You cannot do it to him. He is your son. He is your flesh and blood.'
'How dare you speak to me like this. Who do you think you are? I had a wife once… she begged me to let her stay here with another mutant of a child that was supposedly mine. And guess what I said to her?'
The Marquis suddenly lost the sparkle in his eyes when he looked at the madman in front of him. 'No, of course dragons and witches don't exist, there are far worse things to contend with.'
The Emperor continued. 'And you had better tell that pathetic excuse of a boy soon, because the arrangements are being made as we speak.'
'Please, Your Grace, he is your son, and you do not know what it is like to be out there on your own with no one to look out for you. '
'Ha,' cried the Emperor with indignation. 'As I have already told you, I exiled my wife and her hideous excuse of a daughter to the great wilderness on their own, so I have no hesitation at all in doing the same to her son.' He paused to draw breath without a flicker of remorse. 'I am tiring of you and your ramblings. You forget your place in this palace. I should have you locked up in the deepest dungeon and throw away the key for speaking to me the way you do. But as you are so irritatingly concerned about my son's welfare, perhaps you should go with him. Then I won't have to set eyes on either of you again.'
Beauchamp clenched his teeth. 'I will go with him... gladly. I
will look out for him... happily. I will never leave his side. You can count on that.' He bowed his way out of the room.
The next day, they were on a ship together; complete with a letter in the General's handwriting that this was a one-way passage and that neither of them were allowed to return.
Cornelius began puking his guts up on the first day. He had never felt so wretched and cursed his father for inflicting this on him. The sea was rough and choppy with whitecaps everywhere. A flock of gulls and other monstrous-sized birds escorted the vessel, eager for a discarded corpse, he thought, or some other morsel of food. The huge ship rode the ocean as a hundred strong men pulled at the oars below. The oarsman beat a drum and the men sang out with each stroke. Above them, the bulk of her body creaked and groaned with the weight of her cargo, and above that, her sails cracked and snapped at each shift of the wind. Aside from the constant beating heart of the oars smashing against their port holes and smacking the bridge of the waves, the decks where alive with the rush of feet as crewmen ran to their tasks, pushing past anything and everything that got in the way. Which was usually him. So he decided to join them and earn a wage. For the first time in his life, he was put to work. The journey would take the best part of three months, by which time he could assist hauling in the nets, scramble up a swaying cable ladder, and manage to eat a meal without spewing it all up again.
Two times, though, undesirables tried to take the clothes off his back and steal what was in his pockets. And two times, the Marquis had finished them off and tossed them over the side. The first time, Beauchamp saw two men trying to rob Cornelius on a late evening when the ship was quiet, and the sea was calm. He raced up the ship's deck and yelled out to them. He ducked as one of the men turned and swung at him. Stepping back, he banged into the boom of the overhead mast as the big man came at him. He wobbled for a moment but had time to flick out his blade to deflect the blows that were raining down on him. The impact loosened his grip. He clenched his teeth and tightened his hold as the big man came at him again, each blow harder than the last.
Beauchamp had one eye on Cornelius, who was trying to fight off the scrawny thief, while he had to fend off blow after blow from his own attacker. The big man had pulled out a knife now and was swiping at his throat. He danced and parried while the attacker jabbed at him with lazy motions and narrowly missed his scalp with a well-executed swipe. Beauchamp caught his chin deeply, and while the bigger man put his hand up to stem the gush of blood, Beauchamp reached up for the mast and swung himself round. he flew at Cornelius' attacker and dived at his sacrum with outstretched boots. The crack of his spine could be heard across the waves and the villain sunk to his knees. Beauchamp signalled with his hands and the paralysed man was hoisted over the side by Cornelius. Now, Beauchamp leapt from one cleat to another, and with swift movements, he catapulted himself onto the big man's back, pulled his head backwards, and slit his throat. He, too, was sent over the side.
Beauchamp now always slept with a dirk in one hand and the other slumped over Cornelius. And that was just as well, for the second time another thief attacked them as they slept; but all he found was the end of Beauchamp's blade in his heart. He, too, was unceremoniously hoisted over the side.
'Next time we sail, Cornelius, we are going to get a cabin.'
'What? Don't you like sleeping on the same deck as a hundred other men?' Cornelius smiled.
Beauchamp threw Cornelius a withered look and went back to sleep in his hammock.
Apart from the dreadful living conditions, the worst part of the journey was the monstrous storms .
'Bad weather coming!' warned one sailor. 'Best get below!' shouted another. 'Unless you want to feel the wrath of the sea, you either tie a tethered rope around your belly, or you go down to your sleeping quarters.'
Beauchamp had gone below, preferring the filth and the stench on the lower decks to risking his life to the waves. Cornelius, though, decided to stay on the top deck and embrace the storm. The air was heavy, and the clouds were thick, each one hardly daring to move until the winds opened them up with an unforgiving force. Crewmen were dashing about, battening down the hatches and reefing the sails, tying anything and everything down that had the potential to kill or maim. The sea grew rougher, and the winds howled endlessly, pushing the ship down then whipping round to the stern and forcing her back up on her haunches again. Tonnes of gallons of sea and rain water deluged her hull, soaking any crevasse or unattended door. Time and again, the ship was thrashed about like a pawn in a tidal wave. The wind never waned and the sea never tired. Nothing was as strong and fierce as an angry storm.
But when it was kind, the sun came out and a gentle breeze helped glide the ship along as though she were a cradle taking care of a newborn babe.
The vessel had been moving along at a good speed for days now, but their supplies were incredibly low. Water barrels were nearly empty, and tempers short. Arguably, the oarsmen were the most tired, but all hearts were lifted when the lookout spotted cliffs and caves, and the blisters of rocks made an appearance from the water.
When they docked, the port was crowded with sailors, smugglers and thieves alike. Thin and ragged peasants paved the streets, scrawny children dodged carts and legs. The people in the town always cheered the arrival of the ships, for the travellers bought in everything from rich fabrics to a range of exotic birds. There were fifty prisoners to be put to work on the farms, and another fifty slaves to work for the gentry one hundred and fifty miles away. But most brought in money to spend in the town, and it was a thieves paradise when a ship docked.
The sprawling buildings covered the shore as far as Cornelius could see: tall brick storehouses, squat wooden outbuildings, crowded merchants’ stalls, loud taverns, bustling inns, and places of ill repute. The fish wives could be heard for miles around, shrieking and hollering, while the squawking of caged hens pierced the air even more. A fan of quays lined the waterfront, and the harbour was bursting with ships, ferries, and fishing boats. On top of all this chaos, the day was uncomfortably hot and sticky, and the two men waved off sweat and flies with the wrath of busy handkerchiefs.
The Marquis had been told of a bartender who owned several properties in the area. Everyone called him Shorty even though he was about seven feet tall and just as wide. They made their way through the jostling crowded streets. Cornelius had no money and could only offer the malnourished children a shrug and a smile while Beauchamp resisted the women in the brothels with their pouting lips, beckoning fingers, and inches of stockinged thigh on show. Shorty took his money and directed him to a weathered building that was wedged between a fish house and a manse house, where the roofs of every building morphed into a crooked tunnel over the winding narrow street below. Their new home had a climb of two floors that took them to a single room. A bunk bed, a table and a desk greeted them. The toilet was outside. A pump and well with fresh water were further down the street, and they had to pay Shorty one shilling once a week for the use of his bath.
Chapter Twelve
The first time Cornelius had to use a knife was just days into their new venture. The two men had been navigating their way round the labyrinth of alleyways and taking note of the places to go and the areas to definitely avoid. Evading the countless buckets of dirty water thrown out of high windows was a particular necessity, and they had to dance and pirouette along the narrow pavements, steps, and doorways.
This particular fine, sunny evening, two undesirables had hidden themselves in a darkened doorway. They obviously thought that the Marquis hadn't seen them as they tried to conceal themselves further, but Beauchamp had seen their shadows. Shadows always give things away. One should always be suspicious of a hidden figure, he thought, they don't want people to see them, and in a place such as this, that's usually a dangerous thing. He felt the sheath clasped to his leather belt and kept an eye on Cornelius. The younger man was totally oblivious to the two scoundrels and seemed only concerned with the shop windows and what they were sellin
g though he had to look upwards every now and then to avoid a soaking. The two vagrants were definitely following them; they had done this many times before, waiting to pull an unsuspecting victim into one of the hidden corners and attack them for their money, or rob them of their clothes. Others worked for unscrupulous doctors and those victims lost their lives.
Beauchamp was unsure of what to do at first. He didn't want to lose these two vermin and have them attack Cornelius when he was on his own. So, he played them at their own game, and deliberately meandered into a narrow passage down a secluded alley and pretended to be unaware. Almost at once, one of the men bounded up to him and grabbed him round the neck. Cornelius looked on horrified with no idea what to do. Beauchamp threw his knife to him so that he could defend himself while he grappled with the one that was hanging on his back and trying to gouge his eyes out. Beauchamp was having none of it though, and with the ease of fighting off a small kitten, he pulled the vagrant over his shoulder in one movement and smashed the left side of his jaw with a heavy fist as he faced him. The opponent was dazed, but not down.
'You bald bastard!' yelled out the street rat, rubbing the pain.
'I've still got more,' yelled back Beauchamp.
'Oh yeah?' and the rat pulled out a knife. He smiled, revealing a graveyard of crooked black teeth with two missing at the front. Then he pulled up his sleeves to display scars and other marks on his arms. This sign of menace meant little to Beauchamp, and he cracked a snigger. The vagrant tried to slash at his opponent, but Beauchamp jerked back, just out of reach, and the silver blade sliced only air. The attacker launched again, but Beauchamp backed away, narrowly missing the rise of a moss-covered stone. Beauchamp had to be smart about this now. He kept one eye on Cornelius, but his focus was on the one with the blade.