V - Once Upon A Time
England, about thirty years ago.
Richard pressed a handkerchief to his nose and inhaled through his mouth. The unbearably sweet stench of sickness hung thick in the air. Hesitantly, he stepped towards the bed, bracing himself. He knew he would see his father for the last time and he did not want it to be with an expression of disgust on his face. His mother motioned him forward, her nose and eyes red from crying.
His father was dying. There was little chance that he would make it through the day and so, at twenty-one, Richard would become head of the family. He was prepared. At least for the professional part. His father had afforded him an excellent education and Richard felt confident that he could handle his father's business.
It was the other part of this new life that made him uncomfortable. His father had always been a strict but kind man, and their relationship had been a close one. Richard had respected him. He had admired the surety with which Marius Travers had handled family and business matters alike, but now that it was his turn to take care of his mother and sisters, Richard felt a sense of ambiguity.
He had spent most of his life in boarding schools or under his father's supervision. His contact to the female members of the Travers family had been very limited. They were strangers to him, and the thought that they would look to him for reassurance and guidance now was disconcerting.
Richard had reached his father's deathbed. Even though it was late morning, the curtains had been drawn and only oil lamps illuminated the room. His mother, his sisters, the physician and one servant stood in silent vigil against the walls, affording the two men a small measure of privacy.
The picture that presented itself to Richard was horrific. His father lay half hidden underneath the blankets as if already buried, his skin grey as ash, sweat covering his face. His lips were dry and broken and his breath came in short rasping bursts. His eyes were sunken into his skull, the pupils were dilated and had a slight yellow hue to them.
*Opium.* Richard realised dimly.
He carefully took his father's damp hand into his own, fearing that it would break beneath his touch.
"Father…" he breathed quietly.
Before Marius could say anything the door behind him opened again. Richard looked over his shoulder to see a young boy being ushered into the room by one of the servant maids. The boy's name was Robert.
Robert was only eight years old and Richard had known him for most of that time and disliked for almost as long. For as long as Richard could remember his father had shown Robert a great deal of affection which the boy had returned in kind. What had irked Richard the most was to see that their bond seemed to have grown stronger every time he had returned from boarding school. Richard had never paid much attention to the child until Robert had reached the age of five. By then he was old enough to have the house in an uproar with his adventures, pranks and practical jokes. Envious of the freedom and attention Robert enjoyed, Richard had distanced himself from the boy, making him feel that he considered Robert to be beneath him.
He was about to demand that Robert leave them alone when his father finally spoke.
"Robert… my….my dear boy…Come," he whispered, the strain of speaking those few words evident in his face. He tried to lift himself to his elbows and Richard hastily held him up until Dr. Charlton, the physician, had stuffed enough pillows behind Marius Travers' back to support his weight.
Robert had reached the bed by now but refused to take the outstretched hand that Marius offered to him. Richard wasn't entirely sure if he saw fear or disgust in the boy's eyes but chose to interpret it as the later.
Marius' hand was still trembling in the air and Richard grasped it quickly.
"Richard, there is something I must tell you," Marius said then choked and tried to cough, his whole body convulsing. Dr. Charlton quickly pressed Richard's father back into the pillows and made him drink a few sips of water until Marius had calmed down.
"Richard…you must… you must promise me… to …to take care of Robert." Marius voice was barely audible and Richard had to lean forward to understand him.
"Of course, father," the young man answered in bewilderment. Richard didn't particularly like Robert, but his mother, Edith, had been a trustworthy and capable servant in his father's house since before he had been born. He had no intention to show them the door now that he had the authority to do so.
"No.. no" Marius voice faded even more. Richard bend lower and tilted his head." You don't understand. Richard… When Robert is old …old enough to be send to… school, promise me… that you will send him… send him…to..." Marius convulsed again.
The old man's request was strange but considering his affection for the boy not entirely unexpected. Richard still fought the strange feeling in the pit of his stomach, but nodded. He was not about to deny his father's last wish, though he could not repress the stirring of jealousy in his heart.
"If you wish that he shall receive a proper education, then I will see to it, father."
Marius shook his head with an expression of despair on his face. It seemed as if he knew his time was running out. "You still don't… but how could you?. I… I never told…never told anyone… not even your mother… until… until today."
Richard turned towards the sound of repressed crying that came from his mother's direction. She had her head buried in her handkerchief and needed to be steadied by his sister. Suddenly Marius gripped his hand with unbelievable strength. Richard's head snapped back to his father.
"What… I tell you now… must not leave this room, boy. Do you understand?" There was an intensity in his father's eyes that scared Richard.
"Robert…Robert is your brother."
Richard felt as if something had hit him very hard in the chest. He choked on the air in his lungs and a wave of dizziness swept over him. It was as if time had shuddered to a halt sending shock waves through his mind and body while he was trying to understand what his father had just told him.
*That's not true,* was his first thought, and, just as suddenly as it had stopped, time had started moving again. *That's not true!* The denial echoed inside of him, gaining volume until it burst out from his mouth. "That's not true!" he choked out and stumbled backwards.
His foot caught in one of the blankets and Richard fell. He scrambled back to his feet. "You're lying."
Marius forced himself upright his hands stretched toward his son but the effort was too much. He crumbled in on himself, too weak to reply.
Stunned, angry and confused, Richard looked first to his mother who looked upon his father with a coldness that he had never seen before, than to Edith whose eyes were wide with shock at this public admission. Finally Richard's gaze settled on Robert.
One look was enough to make Richard's blood boil. *He knew. He knew all along.*
* * * * * * *
*This is going to be a complete waste of time,* Norrington thought as he stood at the top of a short staircase which connected two parallel streets of Fort Charles. The passage was small, with buildings leaning in on either side. It provided a suitable amount of cover from prying eyes, as well as an excellent vantage point to observe the entrance of The Night Watch.
Commodore Norrington hesitantly stepped out of the growing shadows and cast a glance towards the sun which had almost reached the horizon on its inexorable descend. *What am I doing here?* he wondered, not for the first time since his feet had led him here.
He had committed himself to accompany Mrs. Travers and her two eldest daughters on a shopping and sightseeing tour of Port Royale that afternoon. The tour had been pleasant for the most part, although he would have enjoyed the company much more if Mrs. Travers had not tried to parade her daughters in front of him in such a blatantly obvious manner.
The two women had tried to hide their discomfort at their mother's tactics, but had failed to be completely successful; a fact which elevated Norrington's opinion of them considerably. While Constance had an overly excitable frame of character and had not yet grown into the mantle of maturity, Isabeau, the eldest, was a reserved, quiet, and sensible young women.
After spending three hours in the various stores and shops that Port Royale had to offer, while keeping up polite conversation, the Commodore had invited them to a tour of the docks. He had desperately needed the change of scenery. And so they had started at the merchant docks which had been bursting with activity today due to the arrival of two traders from the Indies, two from England and one merchant vessel from the African colonies. Their conversation had rapidly turned from the woes and gossip of the high society to an account of the ladies passage from England. When they had reached the pier, where the Pierce and Kerrington were anchored the Commodore had been gently coaxed into recounting one or two tales of his own seafaring experience. Constance, who was four years younger than Isabeau, had seized the opportunity and requested to board the Pierce. Her mother had immediately objected and because rather than in spite of this, Norrington had allowed it.
Constance, all exuberance and curiosity, had immediately darted across the deck, inspecting every nook and cranny while firing question at him. As she had hardly drawn breath in between her inquiries, Norrington had had little chance to answer them, but by then Mrs. Traver had already run after her.
Isabeau had laughed then, and suddenly the melancholy that had surrounded her had vanished. She had been an engaging conversationalist from that moment on. They had left the Kerrington then, and had waited at the pier until Mrs. Travers and Constance had rejoined them.
As planned, they had returned to the Governor's mansion, to have tea and biscuits, but when they had reached the estate, the place had already been in an uproar. Mr. Travers' valet had been found murdered at The Night Watch. And even though Mr. Travers had tried to hide his fear behind a mask of arrogance and righteous outrage, his feelings had been to obviously displayed in the paleness of his face and the agitation in his movements.
The Commodore could not say what had brought him here. "No one had seen anything," Travers had lamented. Norrington was not surprised. The Night Watch lived off the duplicitous characters it served and as long as they paid with solid coins their anonymity was ensured.
If he sat foot into the tavern, the odds to come back out alive were decidedly against him. The uniform and rank of a Commodore would give him little protection. It would rather serve as a target. There was no chance that he would get any information out of the patrons or the serving staff. He knew all this; had known it before he had come here. And yet, something had drawn him to this place. There was a quiet but insistent nagging at the back of his mind that he had not been able to ignore.
He was sure that James Deriks' death had something to do with the map. Mr. Travers had undoubtedly come to the same conclusion.
With determination Norrington left his position atop the staircase and ventured closer to the Tavern. He had to get more information. He rarely trusted his instinct, except when locked in battle, but now he felt compelled to follow the feeling in his gut rather than reason. There was no logic in coming here alone, just before nightfall. If he had stormed the place with a whole squadron, had arrested everyone in sight and had threatened them with death or worse, then maybe…
Norrington took a deep breath to clear his head. It was no use. He was here. He would do what he had come to do. And he would not leave until he had answers.
Carefully, he approached the tavern and descended the stairs. The room was brightly lit, but the windows were too filthy to see inside. He could hear music and laughter, shouted orders and other noises drifting onto the streets. His hand reached for the door when a high-pitched whisper halted his movements.
"You really shouldn't go in there, you know. They'll slit your throat."
There was a young man in his late teens looking down at him from the corner of tavern. He frowned, as if puzzled at the Commodore's presence but he did not look uncomfortable. His hands were stuffed in his trouser pockets, and his sand coloured hair was so long that it fell past his forehead into his eyes.
The Commodore withdrew his hand and gave the boy a wry smile.
"And who are you, that you are trying to save me?"
The boy snorted. "I'm not trying to save you. Just want to bargain with you."
Raising an eyebrow in surprise, the Commodore backed up the stairs. "And what would this bargain be about?" he questioned cautiously.
"Not here." The boy looked over his shoulder and gestured for Norrington to follow him. He disappeared around the corner, down a dark alley, without waiting for the Commodore to follow.
Norrington hesitated. It could be a trap. He estimated that about half a dozen grown men could be waiting for him in the shadows but he quickly realised that it was a gamble he had to take.
"What are you waiting for? A written invitation?" the boy whispered.
His lips pressed into a tight line, his hand on the hilt of his sword, Norrington entered the alley. His eyes needed a moment to adjust to the scarce light but after a few seconds he saw the boy standing not two paces from him by the tavern's wall.
"Who are you?" Norrington repeated his earlier question.
"My name is Thomas. I work as a kitchen boy in The Night Watch."
With sudden interest, Norrington stepped forward. "So you where there yesterday?"
Thomas nodded. "I saw who was talking to the man who got killed," he hesitated, as if uncertain. "That is why you are here, isn't it?"
Norrington leaned back and surveyed the alley. They were indeed alone. His gaze travelled back to the boy. "And what if it is?"
"I can give you a description," Thomas said eagerly. "For ten shillings. I'll tell you everything I know."
"Ten shillings? That's outrageous."
"That's the price." The boy's voice was steady, his tone stubborn.
"And I only have your word that what you say is true. Did you see the murder?"
Thomas shifted uncomfortable. "No, I was down in the cellar when it happened." At seeing the Commodore's derogatory smirk he added defiantly, "but he was only talking to that one man. It couldn't have been anyone else."
Norrington bobbed lightly on his heals. "So you didn't see it happen. It might just be that the man Deriks was talking to left, and someone else came by and killed him while you were in the cellar." He shook his head. "You're not getting ten shillings from me for that."
"Then I won't tell you anything." Thomas countered.
"I could throw you into the brig for obstruction of justice." Norrington considered out loud.
The boy immediately backed away. "You'd have to catch me first. And I know my way around here better than you do."
The Commodore considered this and had to admit that Thomas was right. "Alright, Thomas. I'll give you two shillings for that description."
"Eight."
"Three."
"Five."
"Four. And your promise that you won't repeat it to anyone else and that you keep my presence here a secret."
Thomas eyed him wearily.
"Do we have an accord?"
Thomas grasped the Commodore's outstretched hand and shook it.
* * * * * * *
England, about thirty years ago.
Richard pressed a handkerchief to his nose and inhaled through his mouth. The unbearably sweet stench of sickness hung thick in the air. Hesitantly, he stepped towards the bed, bracing himself. He knew he would see his father for the last time and he did not want it to be with an expression of disgust on his face. His mother motioned him forward, her nose and eyes red from crying.
His father was dying. There was little chance that he would make it through the day and so, at twenty-one, Richard would become head of the family. He was prepared. At least for the professional part. His father had afforded him an excellent education and Richard felt confident that he could handle his father's business.
It was the other part of this new life that made him uncomfortable. His father had always been a strict but kind man, and their relationship had been a close one. Richard had respected him. He had admired the surety with which Marius Travers had handled family and business matters alike, but now that it was his turn to take care of his mother and sisters, Richard felt a sense of ambiguity.
He had spent most of his life in boarding schools or under his father's supervision. His contact to the female members of the Travers family had been very limited. They were strangers to him, and the thought that they would look to him for reassurance and guidance now was disconcerting.
Richard had reached his father's deathbed. Even though it was late morning, the curtains had been drawn and only oil lamps illuminated the room. His mother, his sisters, the physician and one servant stood in silent vigil against the walls, affording the two men a small measure of privacy.
The picture that presented itself to Richard was horrific. His father lay half hidden underneath the blankets as if already buried, his skin grey as ash, sweat covering his face. His lips were dry and broken and his breath came in short rasping bursts. His eyes were sunken into his skull, the pupils were dilated and had a slight yellow hue to them.
*Opium.* Richard realised dimly.
He carefully took his father's damp hand into his own, fearing that it would break beneath his touch.
"Father…" he breathed quietly.
Before Marius could say anything the door behind him opened again. Richard looked over his shoulder to see a young boy being ushered into the room by one of the servant maids. The boy's name was Robert.
Robert was only eight years old and Richard had known him for most of that time and disliked for almost as long. For as long as Richard could remember his father had shown Robert a great deal of affection which the boy had returned in kind. What had irked Richard the most was to see that their bond seemed to have grown stronger every time he had returned from boarding school. Richard had never paid much attention to the child until Robert had reached the age of five. By then he was old enough to have the house in an uproar with his adventures, pranks and practical jokes. Envious of the freedom and attention Robert enjoyed, Richard had distanced himself from the boy, making him feel that he considered Robert to be beneath him.
He was about to demand that Robert leave them alone when his father finally spoke.
"Robert… my….my dear boy…Come," he whispered, the strain of speaking those few words evident in his face. He tried to lift himself to his elbows and Richard hastily held him up until Dr. Charlton, the physician, had stuffed enough pillows behind Marius Travers' back to support his weight.
Robert had reached the bed by now but refused to take the outstretched hand that Marius offered to him. Richard wasn't entirely sure if he saw fear or disgust in the boy's eyes but chose to interpret it as the later.
Marius' hand was still trembling in the air and Richard grasped it quickly.
"Richard, there is something I must tell you," Marius said then choked and tried to cough, his whole body convulsing. Dr. Charlton quickly pressed Richard's father back into the pillows and made him drink a few sips of water until Marius had calmed down.
"Richard…you must… you must promise me… to …to take care of Robert." Marius voice was barely audible and Richard had to lean forward to understand him.
"Of course, father," the young man answered in bewilderment. Richard didn't particularly like Robert, but his mother, Edith, had been a trustworthy and capable servant in his father's house since before he had been born. He had no intention to show them the door now that he had the authority to do so.
"No.. no" Marius voice faded even more. Richard bend lower and tilted his head." You don't understand. Richard… When Robert is old …old enough to be send to… school, promise me… that you will send him… send him…to..." Marius convulsed again.
The old man's request was strange but considering his affection for the boy not entirely unexpected. Richard still fought the strange feeling in the pit of his stomach, but nodded. He was not about to deny his father's last wish, though he could not repress the stirring of jealousy in his heart.
"If you wish that he shall receive a proper education, then I will see to it, father."
Marius shook his head with an expression of despair on his face. It seemed as if he knew his time was running out. "You still don't… but how could you?. I… I never told…never told anyone… not even your mother… until… until today."
Richard turned towards the sound of repressed crying that came from his mother's direction. She had her head buried in her handkerchief and needed to be steadied by his sister. Suddenly Marius gripped his hand with unbelievable strength. Richard's head snapped back to his father.
"What… I tell you now… must not leave this room, boy. Do you understand?" There was an intensity in his father's eyes that scared Richard.
"Robert…Robert is your brother."
Richard felt as if something had hit him very hard in the chest. He choked on the air in his lungs and a wave of dizziness swept over him. It was as if time had shuddered to a halt sending shock waves through his mind and body while he was trying to understand what his father had just told him.
*That's not true,* was his first thought, and, just as suddenly as it had stopped, time had started moving again. *That's not true!* The denial echoed inside of him, gaining volume until it burst out from his mouth. "That's not true!" he choked out and stumbled backwards.
His foot caught in one of the blankets and Richard fell. He scrambled back to his feet. "You're lying."
Marius forced himself upright his hands stretched toward his son but the effort was too much. He crumbled in on himself, too weak to reply.
Stunned, angry and confused, Richard looked first to his mother who looked upon his father with a coldness that he had never seen before, than to Edith whose eyes were wide with shock at this public admission. Finally Richard's gaze settled on Robert.
One look was enough to make Richard's blood boil. *He knew. He knew all along.*
* * * * * * *
*This is going to be a complete waste of time,* Norrington thought as he stood at the top of a short staircase which connected two parallel streets of Fort Charles. The passage was small, with buildings leaning in on either side. It provided a suitable amount of cover from prying eyes, as well as an excellent vantage point to observe the entrance of The Night Watch.
Commodore Norrington hesitantly stepped out of the growing shadows and cast a glance towards the sun which had almost reached the horizon on its inexorable descend. *What am I doing here?* he wondered, not for the first time since his feet had led him here.
He had committed himself to accompany Mrs. Travers and her two eldest daughters on a shopping and sightseeing tour of Port Royale that afternoon. The tour had been pleasant for the most part, although he would have enjoyed the company much more if Mrs. Travers had not tried to parade her daughters in front of him in such a blatantly obvious manner.
The two women had tried to hide their discomfort at their mother's tactics, but had failed to be completely successful; a fact which elevated Norrington's opinion of them considerably. While Constance had an overly excitable frame of character and had not yet grown into the mantle of maturity, Isabeau, the eldest, was a reserved, quiet, and sensible young women.
After spending three hours in the various stores and shops that Port Royale had to offer, while keeping up polite conversation, the Commodore had invited them to a tour of the docks. He had desperately needed the change of scenery. And so they had started at the merchant docks which had been bursting with activity today due to the arrival of two traders from the Indies, two from England and one merchant vessel from the African colonies. Their conversation had rapidly turned from the woes and gossip of the high society to an account of the ladies passage from England. When they had reached the pier, where the Pierce and Kerrington were anchored the Commodore had been gently coaxed into recounting one or two tales of his own seafaring experience. Constance, who was four years younger than Isabeau, had seized the opportunity and requested to board the Pierce. Her mother had immediately objected and because rather than in spite of this, Norrington had allowed it.
Constance, all exuberance and curiosity, had immediately darted across the deck, inspecting every nook and cranny while firing question at him. As she had hardly drawn breath in between her inquiries, Norrington had had little chance to answer them, but by then Mrs. Traver had already run after her.
Isabeau had laughed then, and suddenly the melancholy that had surrounded her had vanished. She had been an engaging conversationalist from that moment on. They had left the Kerrington then, and had waited at the pier until Mrs. Travers and Constance had rejoined them.
As planned, they had returned to the Governor's mansion, to have tea and biscuits, but when they had reached the estate, the place had already been in an uproar. Mr. Travers' valet had been found murdered at The Night Watch. And even though Mr. Travers had tried to hide his fear behind a mask of arrogance and righteous outrage, his feelings had been to obviously displayed in the paleness of his face and the agitation in his movements.
The Commodore could not say what had brought him here. "No one had seen anything," Travers had lamented. Norrington was not surprised. The Night Watch lived off the duplicitous characters it served and as long as they paid with solid coins their anonymity was ensured.
If he sat foot into the tavern, the odds to come back out alive were decidedly against him. The uniform and rank of a Commodore would give him little protection. It would rather serve as a target. There was no chance that he would get any information out of the patrons or the serving staff. He knew all this; had known it before he had come here. And yet, something had drawn him to this place. There was a quiet but insistent nagging at the back of his mind that he had not been able to ignore.
He was sure that James Deriks' death had something to do with the map. Mr. Travers had undoubtedly come to the same conclusion.
With determination Norrington left his position atop the staircase and ventured closer to the Tavern. He had to get more information. He rarely trusted his instinct, except when locked in battle, but now he felt compelled to follow the feeling in his gut rather than reason. There was no logic in coming here alone, just before nightfall. If he had stormed the place with a whole squadron, had arrested everyone in sight and had threatened them with death or worse, then maybe…
Norrington took a deep breath to clear his head. It was no use. He was here. He would do what he had come to do. And he would not leave until he had answers.
Carefully, he approached the tavern and descended the stairs. The room was brightly lit, but the windows were too filthy to see inside. He could hear music and laughter, shouted orders and other noises drifting onto the streets. His hand reached for the door when a high-pitched whisper halted his movements.
"You really shouldn't go in there, you know. They'll slit your throat."
There was a young man in his late teens looking down at him from the corner of tavern. He frowned, as if puzzled at the Commodore's presence but he did not look uncomfortable. His hands were stuffed in his trouser pockets, and his sand coloured hair was so long that it fell past his forehead into his eyes.
The Commodore withdrew his hand and gave the boy a wry smile.
"And who are you, that you are trying to save me?"
The boy snorted. "I'm not trying to save you. Just want to bargain with you."
Raising an eyebrow in surprise, the Commodore backed up the stairs. "And what would this bargain be about?" he questioned cautiously.
"Not here." The boy looked over his shoulder and gestured for Norrington to follow him. He disappeared around the corner, down a dark alley, without waiting for the Commodore to follow.
Norrington hesitated. It could be a trap. He estimated that about half a dozen grown men could be waiting for him in the shadows but he quickly realised that it was a gamble he had to take.
"What are you waiting for? A written invitation?" the boy whispered.
His lips pressed into a tight line, his hand on the hilt of his sword, Norrington entered the alley. His eyes needed a moment to adjust to the scarce light but after a few seconds he saw the boy standing not two paces from him by the tavern's wall.
"Who are you?" Norrington repeated his earlier question.
"My name is Thomas. I work as a kitchen boy in The Night Watch."
With sudden interest, Norrington stepped forward. "So you where there yesterday?"
Thomas nodded. "I saw who was talking to the man who got killed," he hesitated, as if uncertain. "That is why you are here, isn't it?"
Norrington leaned back and surveyed the alley. They were indeed alone. His gaze travelled back to the boy. "And what if it is?"
"I can give you a description," Thomas said eagerly. "For ten shillings. I'll tell you everything I know."
"Ten shillings? That's outrageous."
"That's the price." The boy's voice was steady, his tone stubborn.
"And I only have your word that what you say is true. Did you see the murder?"
Thomas shifted uncomfortable. "No, I was down in the cellar when it happened." At seeing the Commodore's derogatory smirk he added defiantly, "but he was only talking to that one man. It couldn't have been anyone else."
Norrington bobbed lightly on his heals. "So you didn't see it happen. It might just be that the man Deriks was talking to left, and someone else came by and killed him while you were in the cellar." He shook his head. "You're not getting ten shillings from me for that."
"Then I won't tell you anything." Thomas countered.
"I could throw you into the brig for obstruction of justice." Norrington considered out loud.
The boy immediately backed away. "You'd have to catch me first. And I know my way around here better than you do."
The Commodore considered this and had to admit that Thomas was right. "Alright, Thomas. I'll give you two shillings for that description."
"Eight."
"Three."
"Five."
"Four. And your promise that you won't repeat it to anyone else and that you keep my presence here a secret."
Thomas eyed him wearily.
"Do we have an accord?"
Thomas grasped the Commodore's outstretched hand and shook it.
* * * * * * *
