by Euan McAllen
‘I have to survive. I have a wife and child. I’m not clever like you!’
So will I one day! Timothy wanted to say. And you’re just as clever as me! He wanted to add. He said neither but returned to his greater, more pressing problems: what to do with his twin; how to cope with a bad dream reborn as its original terrible reality.
Rufus gave a lame apology, but it was not accepted, and it made him feel even worse. He left them to it and went back inside. He needed to fill the painful pit which was his stomach. Timothy saw a betrayal: his friend had sold his soul for money. A falling out was inevitable, and the split would take time to heal.
‘So, Mozak, now what? What exactly do we say to each other?’
‘Call me Marcus.’
‘And you can call me Timothy.’
It was not a good start.
Lady Agnes meanwhile was doing her best to deny her rash. She had seen it had spread whilst having her bath. She saw it as a curse, a punishment for leaving the castle, for not standing her ground and staying put.
Doc put his hand up and asked for a bed, desperate to sleep.
‘You want a girl?’ asked Rosamund.
‘No, just a bed!’
‘I only do beds with girls.’
The man looked distraught. Esmeralda took pity – he was a doctor, a good man – and asked her aunt to give him a break. She relented, also taking pity, but still demanded the normal fee for a room and girl.
‘I’m not a charity,’ she explained as she led the way to his room.
As he climbed the stairs, legs barely able to bend, a girl coming down was troubled by his poor state. She looked at her boss, the brothel keeper, who shook her head as if to say ‘no, not this one’.
Upon reaching the first floor, Rosamund knocked on a door and slowly opened it. ‘Annabel, you in there?’
‘Yes,’ whimpered a voice back.
‘Well, leave please, this room is booked now.’
‘Shouldn’t I stay?’
‘No, not this one. It’s his for the night.’
‘Possibly more?’ Doc croaked.
Rosamund looked at him like he was trouble. ‘I’ll consider it.’
Annabel left the room disappointed, feeling a professional slight.
Back downstairs, Timothy hijacked Rosamund for a hasty, private conversation. It was agreed (in a matter of seconds) that she would not take in the others.
‘Too much bad blood. It would be too much for Esmeralda to bear,’ he protested.
She did not need persuading, and Timothy was quick to tell his brother that they could not stay.
‘Before you ask, you can’t stay. Rosamund runs a brothel, not a bed and breakfast, and my Esmeralda won’t stand for it.’
‘Nor you?’ asked Mozak.
‘That’s right. Nor me. You can take lodgings with Madam Overy, opposite.’
Mozak looked into the distance. ‘Madam Overy. Yes, I remember her.’
When they broke the news to the others, a look of relief spread across Esmeralda’s face while Lady Agnes jumped up and demanded a bath.
‘You had one yesterday!’ protested Mozak.
‘I need another.’
Timothy came to the rescue. ‘I can take you to the Bathhouse. You have to pay, of course.’
‘Money’s no problem,’ said Lady Agnes, staring at Mozak, arms folded and waiting for a fight.
‘Good idea,’ he said.
‘I could do with a bath,’ added Mutz.
‘Let’s go then,’ said Timothy. He could not wait to get them out of his home.
Rufus declined to join them, preferring to stay close to Esmeralda.
All types, covered in various degrees of dirt, frequented The Village Bathhouse: some to remove the dirt; some to go further, to gossip, to watch others, to bitch, to boast; some to escape husbands and wives, annoying kids, aging parents, and suffocating siblings. Sourced by an underground spring, it had been built by the Elders for their exclusive use. Later, due to the persuasion of one, benevolent Senior Elder, they extended its use to all The Village people. The cleaner they are in body, the man had argued, the cleaner the thoughts in their head, and the less likely they are to hate us. His words were very persuasive.
The dirty travellers – Lady Agnes excluded – waited, hanging around like spare grooms at a wedding, while staff filled their baths with hot water from buckets. Mozak and Mutz shared the men’s room with just two others. One man – overweight, but not dangerously so – was a farmer, the kind who had been well-fed all his life. He watched the newcomers as they dropped their towels and slipped into their allotted baths – watching to the point of rudeness, like he was watching his best bull. The other, a slimmer, fitter man, did likewise, but with more discretion. He watched intently, expressionless, recording the new. He liked to see faces at their best, on a normal average day, just in case he had to see them at their worse, on the day he had to hang them: he was Breamston The Village Hangman. Next door, in the women’s room, Lady Agnes was again in her element. The painful, weary, soul-destroying trip was quickly becoming history. And, judging by the looks she was getting from those around her, she knew she had a great body – bar that bloody rash.
Outside, Timothy waited, kicking dirt, occasionally greeting a passer-by – a parent of one of his pupils – while contemplating his new situation. An hour ago, he had been nicely settled in, promoting change and good causes, as he had been taught to do in his previous life at the Monastery. He was struck by an ironic thought: he was living a better life now, better serving God, than when he had been training to be a Monk. Thoughts about his brother continued to dominate – even if he tried, he could not push them away. Why was he here? To cause trouble? To steal his Esmeralda? Was Mozak on the run? Had he made too many enemies in that godless, cruel kingdom? Or could he simply not handle the responsibility? Timothy wanted to know – but not know too much – then he wanted his brother gone so he could get on with his life. On a few occasions – brief it had to be said – they had been close, very close; ready to take on the world together; before drifting apart again. Now, with his brother here by his side again, the gulf never felt so vast. Was this a challenge from God? Or a curse? If so, what had he done to deserve it? How long did Mozak intend to stay? Not forever, surely? No. Impossible. But why had he brought Lady Agnes along? To mock him? (Briefly, she had been his lover and his future wife. Timothy shuddered at the thought of the ‘what-if’s.) To prise him and Esmeralda apart? What game was his devious brother playing? Timothy reminded himself to warn Esmeralda, to watch out. Then a voice in his head reassured him: because she’s his mistress silly! And the Royal Doctor? In case he falls ill? Made sense. Mutz made sense. He was clearly a soldier now, on guard, there to protect his commanding officer, the great and all-powerful Prince Regent. The phrase ‘the great and all powerful Prince Regent’ made Timothy want to spit.
While Timothy stood in his gloom, Esmeralda sat in hers, at the kitchen table; chopping onions, trying not to cry; the words of her aunt drowned out by a similar brew of throbbing thoughts unwilling to exit her head. She was worried – though more for her Timothy than for herself. She knew: he was taking it badly, from the moment he had opened the door. Like a child, she wished he had never opened it. Like a child she wished she had kept it locked. She knew: mad twin Mozak was here to cause trouble, and he had the look of a powerful man who didn’t give a damn about whom he hurt, just as long as he got want he wanted. And then there was Lady Agnes, the great Lady Agnes Aga-Smath. Once, they had been close, like sisters, sharing all their grievances and dreams, aches and ambitions. Shit! Castle folk! Why can’t they just leave us alone?, she cried in her thoughts; and banged the tabletop with the handle of her knife in frustration. Aunt Rosamund interrupted her spiralling thoughts.
‘Too many onions,’ she said. ‘Peel th
e potatoes. Then carrots.’
Calmed a little, Esmeralda did as instructed.
Washed and dried, Mozak, Mutz and Lady Agnes were led back to Madam Overy’s to negotiate accommodation. Mozak successfully booked two rooms. Madam Overy glanced back and forth at the twins but passed no comment.
Lady Agnes looked around her new room. But her inspection was cut short by a terse statement from Mozak.
‘Leave us. Go.’
Giving him her dirtiest look possible, Lady Agnes left the room like a bullet from a barrel, slamming the door behind her. Mozak didn’t bat an eyelid. He was used to it. Small protests were her way of keeping sanity when her prince not-so-charming treated her like this. She was chained to him – and she stayed chained even when she left the room. She huffed and puffed as she ran to catch up with Mutz who was off to get a drink – to get drunk. When I’m the queen, you’ll have to show me more respect, she thought. (It was the same, recycled thought and it had become a mantra.) Timothy did not pass comment, despite the opportunity to declare his brother a rude bastard. His only lingering thought was ‘what had happened to the old Agnes? The one with bite? What had Mozak done to her?
Mutz, her ladyship in tow, stopped off at the brothel to check that all was OK with Doc. There he persuaded a down- and-out Rufus to join them for a drink. Rufus needed no persuasion.
Alone together, the twins faced each other off like boxers entering the ring. There was no room (yet) for anything except a fight. They had shared their mother’s womb but sharing a room proved more difficult.
Suddenly, Timothy remembered something. ‘Did you read my letter?’
‘Letter?’
‘My farewell letter.’
‘No.’
Of course, thought Timothy. You can’t read. (Mozak had been taking lessons, intending, when able, to read it.)
They stood apart, neither willing to sit; Timothy doing his best to tolerate the situation; Mozak doing his best to exploit it. There was much to talk out, argue over, dispute, attack, but not much to resolve. Neither wanted reunion: events beyond his control had forced it upon Mozak.
Timothy asked after their mother: a subject Mozak did not like to be reminded off. The answer – what little it was – had to be dragged out of him.
‘How is she?’
‘Who?’
‘Who do think, our mother!’
Mozak looked away, out of the window, as disgusted by the question. ‘She’s fine. Same as always. Another bloody cat.’
‘She’s in good health?’
‘Yes.’
Timothy asked after their father. ‘And our father? Is he recovered?’
Again little came back.
Mozak shook his head. ‘Don’t ask.’
‘He’s not dead?’
‘No, just poorly, always poorly. A sad man, very sad.’ Mozak suddenly perked up. ‘He’ll never be king again. He can’t handle it.’
‘And you can?’
‘Yes!’
Enough of this thought Timothy, and he went straight to the point.
‘So why are you here? Not run away?’
That was an insult which made Mozak move in on his brother, with menaces. His mean streak had grown.
Timothy backed away, hands up in submission. ‘Sorry.’
Finally, Mozak sat down and came clean as he explained the reason for his appearance. His kingdom had been hit by the Plague.
His words exploded like a bomb, a chemical bomb. Timothy went beyond outrage. He went sky-high. He was unable to respond in words, though words could clearly be heard inside his head: and you have brought it here you cretin, you stupid, fucking royal cretin! He wanted to hit Mozak so hard that his face would bleed for the rest of his life. Mozak spluttered as he tried to reassure him that there was nothing to fear.
‘Nothing to fear! You may have brought it here!’
‘I need treatment.’
‘Treatment!’
‘I’m not saying I have the plague. I just need to be sure. I have this rash. Don’t tell anyone. No one must know.’
‘Does your doctor know?’
‘No. He’s useless.’ Mozak looked up at his brother, for the first time in a long time looking vulnerable, weak, and insecure. ‘Your people can cure me, yes? Or stop me getting it if it’s a false alarm?’
‘My people? People here?’
‘No, not here. Outside. Your monastery – it’s a centre of learning, you told me once. A centre of excellence, you boasted.’
It was true, Mozak had him cornered.
‘Yes, the hospital, the Monastery Hospital.’
‘What’s a hospital?’
‘Like your infirmary, only there they cure people properly, and not just royalty. But they won’t take you in.’
‘Why not? I feel ill enough.’
‘They serve only the Monastery. You have to have put in service at the Monastery.’
‘Like you?’
‘Yes, like me.’
‘Good, so I’ll be you for a while.’
Timothy stared down at his brother, horrified, as if he was mental, but had to admit that his logic was rock solid, unbreachable, like those castle walls Timothy – when Tascho – had once looked up at, proudly, with intent, with ambition. Mad days then, he reminded himself. Mad days ahead.
‘I’ll pay you.’
‘I don’t want your money.’
Think you can buy your way through life? thought Timothy. Think you can buy anybody? Well, you can buy Rufus but you can’t buy me.
Mozak saw hesitation, a refusal to come to his aid. He might be dying and his brother – his high-minded, God serving, brother – didn’t give a damn! He jumped up, rushed forward, and grabbed his twin by the collar.
‘Damn it, man, I could be dying!’
Timothy removed his brother’s hand, slowly but firmly, not wishing for things to escalate. Mozak got the message and backed off. He sat back down. He looked up, hands clasped. He looked like a broken man.
‘Please, I’m begging you. Just help me this one time, and I’ll never bother you again, never ever.’
Timothy saw a pitiful face – his own face – staring up and all he had been taught as a novice monk came flooding back. Here was a test, from God, a challenge. Was he prepared to take it on, make a sacrifice for his own blood? The Outside: Timothy was still drawn to it. The Outside: a place of sophistication. The Outside: perhaps he should see it one more time, before settling down with a wife, and child – and hopefully his own Church! Another trip through the Maze, this time with his brother. Perhaps, it could bring them together in a way God could not. Closure: perhaps the Maze could provide closure.
‘I’ll think about it,’ he said and made to leave, whereupon Mozak jumped up, like a dog which had been thrown a bone.
‘When, when will you say?’
‘I don’t know. I need to speak to Esmeralda.’
Mozak became confused. ‘What’s she got to do with it?’
‘Everything Mozak. Everything. She’s my life.’
‘Sorry. But don’t tell her that I actually have it. Don’t mention the rash.’
Sorry. Timothy could not remember his brother ever saying that to him in such a humble way.
‘Mozak, I have to. I can’t just go back outside and leave her without good reason. You don’t treat the woman you love like that. Sorry, but she needs to know.’
That seemed to shut his brother up: the Prince Regent – the king of all he surveyed – slumped back down on to the bed, looking completely exhausted. The woman you love. For Mozak, that was a concept he had yet to encounter, to explore.
‘Well, if you must, but please, don’t mention the rash, and swear her to secrecy. I don’t want to panic the others.’
> ‘The others. Do the others have it? The doctor – he looks ill.’
‘He’s always ill. That’s why I let them come along.’
‘If that’s all then I’ll come to see you tomorrow,’ said Timothy, having nothing more to say.
‘Not too early,’ replied Mozak. ‘I need a lie-in. And it’s Marcus don’t forget.’
That made Timothy give him a long-lasting, dirty look before leaving the room.
In the nearby tavern, Lady Agnes, Captain Mutz, and Rufus stood close together and drank beer; not wishing to draw attention; making little conversation. Lady Agnes stayed on alert for she knew she was receiving looks from both men and women: curiosity and suspicion from both; from the women also envy; from the men also interest. She dreamed of being the talk of the town – something to keep her prince on his toes. Out here, she would not be taken for granted. Her alcohol intake was directing her thoughts with possibly loose talk to come. Always on duty, Mutz watched her closely. Finally, about to burst, she had to share it with him.
‘I’ve got my admirers already.’
‘Understandable. You’re good-looking. You have good skin.’
She looked up at her captain, as if in a new light. Mozak had never said she had good skin! Thankful for the compliment, she bought him another drink, ignoring Rufus, which left him feeling more fed up, more isolated.
Farmer Giles – the fat man from the bathhouse – was also there: cleaned, polished and looking his best – like a pig on competition day. He was ready to chat up any reasonably young, fit woman: recently widowed, he needed a replacement wife to keep his life in balance. The new girl in town was a godsend – good-looking, no wedding ring on her finger – and he watched her like a hawk, taking measurements, without drawing attention. He was very good at watching without being seen; at changing an opinion without getting into an argument; at making his workers be grateful for the work he gave them for the least pay possible. He never approached her, wary as he was of the big, strong man who stood by her side – the fighting type – and the scruffy henchman who lingered by their side looking for any excuse to cause trouble. He was intrigued. Why the protection? What was so special about her? She was from the Outside!