* * *
Pierce came downstairs for a much-needed drink, dancing a bit along the way. After Taisia had reached her crowning point, he held her until she had fallen asleep. It surprised him how awake he felt, considering the wild nature of their lovemaking. Unfortunately, the activity—though worth it—had caused the sore muscle in his leg to act up again, not that it didn’t stop him from doing a little jig around an elderly couple he passed in the corridor.
His bare feet burned against the freezing hardwood floor as he stepped up to the bar.
“Can I get a pint of ale, mate?” he asked the barkeep.
As the barkeep poured, Pierce scanned the low-lit tavern until he noticed Joaquin sitting alone in front of the fireplace. Pierce was tempted to grab his drink and rush back to his room, but then reconsidered. Perhaps it was because he was a lot less tense, but he reckoned it was time to have a chat with his estranged brother.
The barkeep set his pint on the bar.
“Can I have another?” Pierce asked.
He carried the mugs over to the table where Joaquin sat on the bench, staring at the flames burning in the mouth of the grand hearth. He was rubbing his stomach.
“Oi. Couldn’t sleep, eh?”
Joaquin tilted his chin up to him and scowled.
“Not with you two going at it. It’s been four hours, for Christ’s sake.”
Pierce set a pint on the table and took a seat on the bench next to him.
“Only that long? Uh, I must be tired,” he quipped. He raised his mug. “No wonder I’m so thirsty.”
Joaquin snorted and turned to the fire while shaking his head. Pierce grinned, hoping he was in a decent mood. Despite the levity, this delicate moment could be shattered by a single stone cast by either side.
“We ought to stop in Birmingham,” Joaquin suggested. “Trade off the horses.”
“We can do that anywhere,” Pierce pointed out.
“Aye. And anywhere is also Birmingham. It’s on the way.”
Pierce took a draught and threw up his hand. “Right. Fine. Fine.”
They sat in silence for a long while. Pierce wondered if Joaquin would accept the pint he’d brought him despite the various empty mugs on the table.
Pierce tried to think of something to say, but when he opened his mouth to speak, Joaquin interjected with, “Do you remember when we escaped that godforsaken orphanage? What I told you?”
Pierce did remember. They had been lying on the bank of the River Thames after escaping the cart, taking them to the cotton mill. Joaquin had clasped Pierce on the shoulder and promised, “Whatever happens, just know that I’ll always be there to watch out for you.”
It was the same moment that had flashed through his mind when Joaquin slit his throat.
His brother turned to him with an expression of profound sorrow. The anguish made Pierce’s own heart ache a little.
“I’m sorry I broke my promise to you, Pierce.”
He reached over and Pierce flinched. Joaquin paused and then continued reaching. He hooked a finger over the top of the scarf and pulled it down. The tenseness Pierce hadn’t felt in a while came rushing back, tightening his muscles into knots. Joaquin’s lips parted, and his eyes glistened in the firelight as they found the scar.
“I . . . I’m so sorry,” he stammered out hoarsely.
After a few awkward moments, Joaquin rose and started to leave when Pierce jumped up. “Joaquin. It, erm, it wasn’t your fault.”
“Do you mean that?”
Pierce pondered a moment. “Yeah. I think I do.”
A grin stretched across Joaquin’s face. “Cheers.”
He left for the upstairs, leaving his pint behind.
Pierce Landcross & Frederica Katz
Chapter Seven
Sanctuary
A young thief—the thief we all know by now—had at one time met a young woman who saved his life. These two eventually became lovers, and what happens as a result will affect not only them, but also perhaps the entire world and universe in the years to come.
This is the tale of Pierce Landcross and Frederica Katz.
Germany,
Autumn, 1834
Pierce thought he could handle holding up the carriage on his own until he realized the horsemen who had been accompanying the stagecoach were footmen. As the guards chased him, Pierce realized he’d bitten off more than he could chew, and now he was choking.
The shadows of evening helped him with losing his pursuers in the woods where he made his escape into Hamburg. Shaken by the close call, he decided to calm his frayed nerves and have a drink. He dismounted at the first tavern he came across and lowered the scarf from his face so to order a pint of ale at the bar. He took a seat at a small corner table by the rear exit and raked a shaky hand through his hair.
He should have known better. When he spotted the carriage and the two well-dressed riders, it didn’t even cross his mind that they could be footmen. He knew little about such liveried servants other than that they served as a testament to their master’s wealth, escorting them, opening doors, serving drinks, that sort of thing. These buggers, however, chased after him like hellbent constables. He reckoned that with the threat gone, they’d return to their master.
Being a highwayman was loads more difficult without his brother, Joaquin. Pierce hated to admit it, especially after what the bastard had done to him a year ago.
At least he had earned some funds to carry him into the next German town.
Pierce slouched in his chair and lifted his pint just as the footmen entered the small tavern.
Bugger! They must have spotted his horse outside.
Pierce had removed his scarf, but his clothing and hat could easily identify him. The men caught sight of him almost instantly. He leaped to his feet and fled out the back way. Time was too short to retrieve his mount, which was hitched at the front of the building, so he ran in the other direction through the alleyway and crossed the street ahead. The footmen pursued while screaming at him. Pierce had spent nearly a year in Germany, and had learned a decent amount of German, although he was not yet fluent in the language. He understood, however, that they were calling for him to halt. Fat bloody chance!
They opened fire, but Pierce had already vanished down another alleyway beside a theater. He aimed to keep going until he spied an opened side door where an employee was tossing out rubbish some yards away. The lad was standing with his back facing Pierce and so missed him when he darted inside.
There was little illumination other than a few hanging wall lanterns. Pierce slowed his run, not wanting to draw suspicion from the people he passed in the wide, dim hallway. He heard a thespian speaking her lines on a nearby stage. Othello, unless he missed his mark. The dark building helped to hide him from the stagehands, actors, and anyone else who was about backstage. When the footmen rushed in, asking about him, though, Pierce realized he needed to find an exit.
He reached a door and knocked. When no answer came, he entered, shutting himself inside. It was a small alcove with a mirror on the brick wall and costumes hanging on racks across from the only entrance. The outfits appeared well worn and reeked of mothballs and body odor. The tarnished latch turned downward, and he quickly took cover within the costumes. He unholstered his flintlock and waited.
Footsteps approached and the costume he was hiding behind was snatched off the rack. He aimed his pistol at the person. A young woman let out a shout. Pierce redirected the gun and held up his free hand to show he wasn’t aiming to harm her.
An odd and yet welcoming sensation rushed over Pierce. He couldn’t explain it, but it was as if he’d been searching for something and had found it when looking at her.
The voices of the footmen sounded outside and his heart lodged in his throat. He looked to the woman.
“Bitte,” he pleaded with urgency.
She looked toward the hallway and then back to him. He truly believed his days were numbered until she put a finger to her lips in a shu
shing gesture. She hung the costume on the rack just as heavy boots clomped into the room.
“Mädchen, haben Sie gesehen, ein Mann hier, durch zu kommen?” a footman said, asking the woman if she had seen a young man come through.
“No,” she answered without so much as a crack in tone. “I’ve been preoccupied in here.”
“He must be on his way out,” the other footman stated.
The heavy boots faded, and shortly afterward, the same costume was taken off the rack again.
“Stay here,” she ordered. “I have to get this to the changing room down the hall. I’ll come for you when I can.”
She left and Pierce stayed put. He tried to decide whether to make a break for it or not, but if he encountered the footmen along the way, he’d be buggered for sure.
He didn’t understand why the woman had helped him. He wasn’t dreadfully concerned she’d snitch, for she could’ve already done so. Another thing he thought peculiar was that strange tugging feeling he’d felt the moment he’d seen her. He only hoped he could trust her, for his survival depended on it.
The hinges creaked opened and then creaked shut again.
“Boy. Are you still in here?”
He pushed a costume aside enough for her to see him. Thankfully, she was alone. She pulled a black and white striped thawb and an Arabian headscarf off the rack.
“A guard left to fetch the authorities while the other chose to remain here to search,” she explained, handing him the outfit. “Quick. Put this on and follow me.”
Fortunately, Pierce understood German more than he could speak it. Naturally, the lass assumed he was German, considering she’d never expect some British bloke to come barging through her theater.
Once in disguise, he followed her backstage. The people they passed were much too busy with the show in progress to pay any mind to them. As they went behind the stage, a young bloke rushed up to them.
“Frederica,” he whispered. “You won’t believe it. I was tossing garbage out in the alley when two uniformed men ran in. I think they’re after someone.”
Pierce backed away from the warm glow of a nearby lantern and stepped into the shadows.
“I know, Oskar,” Frederica huffed matter-of-factly. “They came into the old changing room, asking me about the man they are chasing.”
“Did you see him?”
“No,” she stated bluntly. “If you see anyone you don’t recognize, though, tell someone. Now, I must go to the basement for my sewing kit and repair Garvyn’s costume. He has torn a hole in it.”
As they moved on, Oskar called, “Garvyn, I thought you weren’t on until the fourth act?”
“That doesn’t change the fact his thawb still needs mending,” Frederica returned hastily.
They reached a door at the rear of the building. There, Frederica brought out a set of keys from her apron pocket. She jabbed it into the lock, turned it, and stepped aside.
“Come,” she urged. “Hurry.”
For a brief moment, he worried she might try to trap him inside. But then, the fear of that footman spotting him any minute got him moving toward the pitch-black void and down one step. Thankfully, she followed, closing the door and locking it from the inside. Everything was completely dark until a burst of fire sparked to life at the end of a matchstick. She put the tiny flame into a lantern that was hanging from a hook on the wall and lifted it off.
“This way.”
She brushed by him. The smell of flowers emitted from her.
They descended the stairway for about eight feet or so and entered a low-ceilinged room.
“This is the basement,” Frederica explained as if he had asked.
The light of the lamp only reached so far, but it was enough for Pierce to spy stage props, musical instruments, more costumes on racks, and other miscellaneous theater props. The ceiling creaked overhead.
“We’re below the main entry hall,” she informed him.
At the corner of the spacious subterranean basement was a wrought iron bed with ruffled sheets and blankets on it. Frederica lit another lantern hanging from a standing rod constructed of old steel piping. Set on a vanity table near the bed was a brass heating lamp supported on short, cast iron legs. Surrounding the lamp were eight stacks of coins with small pieces of paper that reeked of vinegar between each coin. The face of every coin on top of the stacks had been sanded off, and perhaps so were all the others. Thin braided wires were lassoed at the bottom of the stacks. These were consolidated into a single, thick braid that connected behind the heating lamp.
Makeshift batteries?
“Wait here until I come for you,” Frederica said, going over to the vanity table and taking a sewing box from atop it. “I need the costume.”
Pierce kept his silence and removed the thawb and headscarf. As she retrieved them, she stared at him almost as if though trying to figure something out.
She finally moved away with a lingering look. “I will return in a couple of hours.”
Frederica hurried up the stairs, the glow of the lantern she was carrying fading away. There was a click, a squeal of hinges, and then another sharp click.
As he waited, Pierce explored the basement, mostly for potential hiding places. After finding a few good ones, he approached the bed and examined the things set out on the vanity table. There was a pile of old playscripts and a perfume bottle that matched Frederica’s scent. He pulled open the table’s drawer, where he found loads of theater makeup stored. On the other side of the wrought iron bed stood a dresser that had been sitting in the dank basement for so long that algae had grown at its base. On top of it were a water jug, a washbasin, and some neatly folded clothing in the drawers. Underneath the mattress was a chamber pot.
“Is she living down here?” he wondered out loud.
As the play carried on, Pierce heard music playing from the percussion and the applause from the audience. To occupy his mind, he read over the scripts of ‘Hamlet’, ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’, and ‘The Oresteia’. He read ‘The Arabian Nights’ up until he reached the scene in the City of Brass where the characters had discovered a djinn imprisoned inside King Solomon’s temple. He had never read any playwrights before, and their lack of filling made him wish he were reading the novels instead. He was rather surprised they were written in English, which was most likely the reason why they were being stored in the basement.
Finally, the door upstairs was unlocked and Pierce grabbed his flintlock and hid inside an empty cello case. Footsteps made by hard-heeled shoes passed by.
“Boy?” Frederica called softly. “Boy, where are you?”
Pierce lifted the lid enough to see she was alone.
“I’m seventeen-years-old, Fräulein,” he remarked, climbing out. “I’m hardly a boy.”
She whipped around, slapping her hand against her chest. “You startled me.”
“Apologies, love.”
She knitted her eyebrows together. “Are you an Englishman?”
“Aye, so I’ve been told.”
She tilted her head in confusion.
“Erm, can you speak English?” he asked hopefully.
“Ja. A little. What is your name?”
Pierce thought it unwise to give her his real name, so he gave her the most generic British name he could think of.
“Peter Smith.”
“Really?” She held the lantern up to his face. “You do not look like a Peter.”
To veer her away from the subject, he bowed with a hand outstretched. “And you are?”
She allowed him to take her hand.
“Frederica Katz.”
He smiled broadly. “Frederica Katz. Charmed.”
He kissed her hand and every hair on his body stood on end. It was as though he had pecked his lips on pure energy. She wrenched her hand away suddenly, apparently having experienced the same queer sensation.
“Erm,” he said puzzlingly, “are they still looking for me?”
She shook her head.
>
“No. I told the guard I saw someone running out the back way.”
Music to his ears.
“Ah! In that case, I should clear out. Cheers for saving me.”
He started heading out when she called to him. “The other footman brought soldiers to search the area for you. They’re out there doing so, even as we speak.”
Her words were a grappling hook, catching the back of his coat collar and holding him in place. He stopped short and rubbed his chest where his heart was pounding irregularly underneath. He turned around to face her. “Is that so?”
“It is. If you leave now, they’ll find you.”
Despite it all, he had to ask, “Why are you helping me? You have no idea what I’ve done.”
She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, her tone soft. “What have you done?”
“I tried robbing a stagecoach.”
“Oh, that does explain why footmen were chasing you. So, you are a highwayman? What else? Do you kill people? Hurt women?”
“No,” he answered honestly.
“Then there is nothing for me to be concerned about, ja?”
“Well, no, but that still doesn’t answer my question, does it, Freddie? Why are you helping the likes of me?”
Frederica looked at him as if she did not understand. Perhaps it was the manner in which he had addressed her.
“Erm, I mean, Frau Katz.”
She shook her head.
“No, it’s not that. I was thinking about how to answer your question.”
“And?” he pressed.
“I’m not sure exactly why I helped you. It doesn’t make any sense. I’m not in the habit of hiding outlaws. I am a very lawabiding person.”
“Then, why?”
“It . . . it . . .” She struggled. “. . . it was when I first saw you. I can’t fully explain it, but my instincts urged me to hide you. That I should not let them take you away.”
She was bang on about one thing—it made no sense. Frederica had no idea who the stranger with a gun pointed at her was, or what he was capable of doing. Yet, she had hidden him, all the same. Also, he couldn’t deny that feeling of arriving at a destination he’d been traveling toward his whole life.
The Underground Page 6