Chapter 8: "A Game of Recompense"

The court was in a stir. Lionel Hogan, a young man training to become one of the Queen's Guard, had disappeared three nights previous and nothing had been seen or heard of him. Another boy known to associate with Hogan, one Richard Johnson, now lay tied to a bed in the palace infirmary, having been found outside Traitor's Gate, trying to claw his own eyes out. Thankfully he had been caught before he achieved success at this, but his tortured screams could be heard all throughout the royal residence. The ladies-in-waiting were gossiping like maids in the waiting room adjacent to the bed-chamber, especially after Jethro arrived to speak with Gwendolyn, only to discover she was absent. Of course, the others were more than happy to keep him company until she arrived. When she finally did condescend to join them, she was in quite a sorry state. Her hood was askew, her skin pale, her eyes bloodshot, heavy-lidded and dark-ringed.

"My God, Gwen!" Anne exclaimed. "You look like death warmed over!"

"More like something the cat dragged in," Jane murmured.

"Somebody's been up late," Katherine remarked.

"So who's the lucky boy?" Mary asked. The quartet giggled amongst themselves, turning their gaze on a rather flustered Jethro, who was taking their insinuations much more to heart than they intended. He saw Gwendolyn was about to topple over and hopped to her aid, putting his arm around her waist to steady her.

"V…very…" she paused to yawn. "Very funny, I'm sure." Her eyelids fluttered and Jethro eased her to sit by the fireplace. "Thank you…" Another yawn. "I feel like I've been all over London twenty times…mm…this floor's comfy…"

Liza Townsend had been silent and tolerable until now, but at this point she spoke up. "You four should be ashamed of yourselves, mocking this poor girl. If you must know, she has been nursing her brother and his friends out of the kindness of her heart, that's more than you pampered brats have ever done for anybody." The ladies hung their heads.

"Sorry, Gwen," Anne squeaked. Her apology was unheard. The young Blackwood had dozed off, her head resting on Jethro's shoulder.

"So, Mr Marrack," said Liza, "why don't you elucidate the details of what you had to tell our sleeping compatriot, and whether or not it relates to the recent gossip?" It took a short while for him to answer. Having Gwendolyn this close, feeling her sweet bodily warmth, was not a feeling he wanted to disperse so soon. After further prompting, the stable-boy who had become a welcome fixture in their social circle, began his story as the ladies picked up their respective sewing projects and listened with rapt interest.

"It was a dark and stormy night," he began (eliciting a groan from one or two of the ladies). "All right, all right, the weather was mild, but it was dark. It began, as you know, with Richard Johnson, after he disappeared, 14 of his friends led by a fellow named Trudgwick went out to look for clues. Somehow, one of their number, Lionel Hogan, got separated from them and fell off the face of the Earth. Johnson was found the next day outside Traitor's Gate the next morning, but no clue as to what happened to Hogan have arisen."

"And pray, who told you this?" asked Liza sceptically.

"Who else?" replied Jethro. "I heard it from one of Walsingham's spies. Says he followed Hogan for about two streets before he lost sight of him. Now, you see, here's the thing. What they're trying to keep quiet – and you didn't hear this from me – is that over the past three days, about ten of them have been found either dead or stricken with madness. Three others have vanished, and now only Trudgwick himself remains…" The ladies leaned in as his voice became low and cryptic.

"Do…do they have any clue who is doing this…or why?" asked Anne, her tropical blue-green eyes brimming with scared tears.

"Who else could work such horrors in such a short space of time?" whispered Jethro. "The Devil himself!" He threw his free arm up with a flourish and the ladies fell over themselves, screaming and clutching each other for comfort. Liza, in a much different reaction, tore a cushion from one of the armchairs and threw it at the boy's head.

"Jethro Marrack!" she boomed. "If you maintain this disreputable behaviour you'll be the death of these poor girls!"

"Ooh! Why, Ms Townsend!" Jethro beamed. "I love it when you treat me rough!" Liza froze, her face contorted in a look of humiliated outrage. For once, this ice queen was lost for words, and when her parts parted all that came out was a choked eeerk sound. She stamped her foot and stormed through the door to the bed-chamber. About two seconds later, they all heard a chirpy voice say, "Ah! I see Jethro's here then," and they all burst into a round of laughter (all but the unconscious Gwendolyn of course). It was quite obvious that the Queen was feeling much better. Suddenly, Gwendolyn sat up with a start, and for the briefest of moments, Jethro could swear by his mother's name that it was a different face beneath her hair. A trick of the light, or something else? He could not be certain. He blinked and there was the face he had come to know so well.

"Sorry," she forced a tired smile. "Just a nightmare." Soon, she was out again, her head landing in his lap. Jethro blushed and hoped that she would not awaken and object to this, still, she looked so delicate, and he could not resist running his fingers through her rich locks. He was so enchanted that he ignored the united, "Awww!" from the ladies.

XXX

Robert Cecil sat at the writing desk in his personal chambers, absent-mindedly penning a manuscript with little or no relevance to his current concerns. It was all legal and nothing interesting. He almost felt relieved when Sir Francis Walsingham pleaded entrance, giving him an excuse to set his quill down.

"Problems, Walsingham?" he asked, turning in his chair so he sat backwards across it with his legs resting on the balls of his booted feet.

"Bloody unnatural business, Cecil," replied the spymaster. "A merchant brought news to the castle today. Another one of those boys has been found."

"Oh? Which one?"

"Can't truly say, sir," Walsingham paused to wipe imaginary sweat from his brow, as if he were dismissing a terrible memory. "There was no head." Cecil blinked. His mouth opened and closed in rhythm before he gathered himself.

"No…no head?"

"It was sliced off perfectly, the work of a master blades-man. He did find a head in the next field over, but the features had been…well, rubbed off. No sign of who the poor blighter was…even more disturbing…"

"I'd love to know how this could get more disturbing," Cecil snorted, shuddering at his companion's story.

"This was found in his mouth," said the spymaster, holding out a little orb made of glass and dyed crimson. Cecil stood up and took the object gently between finger and thumb.

"Is this…a marble?" he asked.

"A shooter, I believe," replied Walsingham.

"That settles it," said Cecil, "we must alert the Queen."

"Not until she is back on her feet," Walsingham protested sternly. "Such a disclosure could prove unsavoury to her already fragile health." He was about to go on when the door slammed open with such force it was almost torn from its hinges. Queen Elizabeth stood in the way with a stormy expression on her face.

"I have just heard the most distressing news from one of my ladies," she scowled, "and I want answers…NOW!"

XXX

Back in their waiting room, Jane was attempting to comfort Mary, who was presently a bundle of red hair and flowing tears. It had been Mary who told the Queen of Jethro's story, a fact the stable-hand was not overly pleased with.

"When I said you didn't hear it from me," he muttered, "that meant keep your fruit-hole shut." Presently, he was torn between losing his temper and helping to assure her. Anne and Katherine had left to accompany Her Majesty, leaving Liza to restore order amongst their group.

"She was too distraught to keep it in her empty head that you were even involved," the head lady scolded, "and if any of you wake up Gwendolyn, whether it be through shouting or by blubbing, I'll use your skulls for skittles."

"Skittles…" Gwendolyn breathed, still very much asleep, "…that was a good'un…"

XXX

Taking their conversation to the throne room, Elizabeth now sat in her royal seat, rubbing her temples as Katherine brushed her hair, which was still tangled from spending so much time flattened against her numerous bed-pillows. She finally opened her eyes and looked at her two advisors.

"How much has the public seen?" she asked.

"Little, Your Majesty, and those who have were sworn to silence," replied Walsingham. "The victims that were killed were found within close proximity of the palace, while those alive but insane were found outside Traitor's Gate."

"Except the one found by his brother," piped up Cecil, "who, ah, disappeared shortly after."

"Ah, yes," Walsingham agreed. "There is that. I believe that was the one with noughts-and-crosses etched into his own stomach."

"Oh, my," Elizabeth put a hand to her mouth, "by his own hand as well?"

"So we've been led to believe," Walsingham nodded. "The strangest is the living victims. The only way there is by boat, and they obviously didn't get there by foot, which means somebody put them there."

"The only one left of that little outfit is their leader, Mr Trudgwick," said Cecil. "I sent a messenger to his house to investigate, but there was no answer. I assume he already has or intends to flee the city tonight."

"It would be advisable to follow his example, Your Majesty," Walsingham suggested, "by moving court to another location…at least for a while anyway."

The Queen clapped her hands together happily and cried out in a sing-song voice, "Oh! I haven't been up to Hatford in ages! Walsy, see to it that everybody is ready to travel by morning. That includes Misters Blackwood, Smythe and Pomeroy. If they don't come, I'm more than certain my Lady Blackwood will refuse and we can't have that, can we?" She giggled excitedly, to which her advisors responded by just rolling their eyes and nodding their heads.

XXX

The docks at Wapping were a lonely place at night. Waves lapped against the wooden pylons and the empty moored boats creaked in the wind. The strangled call of a night-bird sent shivers down one's spine. The city, for all accounts and purposes, had become a graveyard. Empty, cold, yet through some unearthly force, alive. Trudgwick's body was tense like a tightly coiled bundle of nerves. He had made arrangements to escape the capital under cover of darkness, but as he approached the pier he felt a sting in his heart. There was no boat awaiting him. The river was undisturbed.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The footsteps rang out in the shadows, causing Trudgwick to start. They were slow at first, each one resonating like a ghostly wail before the next one fell. Even when they seemed to be right in front of him there was no sign of their owner. Trudgwick felt cold all of a sudden, as if he were floating in some sunless void. A small hand touched his shoulder and Trudgwick yelped and spun on his heels. When he saw the imp-like boy behind him, he cursed himself for showing such a reaction. It was not until they locked eyes that he realised his initial feelings were indeed warranted. After all, it took only seconds for him to turn his gaze off to the side.

"What do you want, you short-stacked little goblin?" he snarled.

"Careful, Mr Trudgwick," replied the imp. "You might hurt my feelings. Are you going somewhere? Now that won't do. I want to play a game with you."

"A game? What are you, four-years-old?" Trudgwick sneered. "Be off with you, I don't have time for this." The imp chuckled and pointed matter-of-factly at the tall boy.

"Your friends played with me," he grinned. "Wouldn't want to be left out now, would you?" Trudgwick paled at the thought of his friends' collective fates, which the imp took as a cue to continue. "Mr Johnson is currently recovering from the most dangerous game of tennis in human history…and as for Mr Hogan, the one you left behind…" He tossed a wrapped package at Trudgwick's feet, and the young man reluctantly lifted it. When he opened the package, he gasped and threw the contents down. It was a severed hand, the flesh already grey, hard and wrinkled from dehydration. Sticking out of the open palm were five sharp, silver pebbles.

"He just couldn't play the rules," the imp shook his head.

"You vile hell-spawned fiend!" Trudgwick squawked.

"Close," said the imp, "but not quite. Now let's play." He reached into his pocket and retrieved a blindfold. This he held out and added, "A pleasant round of Blind Man's Buff. If you win, you can take my life. I won't even resist."

"Won't be much sport…give me that!" Trudgwick spat, snatching the blindfold and donning it. Oh, he was going to enjoy this, and no mistake. He would catch this miniature monster and tear him limb from limb like a rabid dog for what he had done to his followers.

He heard the imp take a few steps back and say, "Let the game begin." He already began to walk in the direction of the steps, and when he heard them move to the left he reached out a huge fist, only to wrap it around thin air. "Must try harder!" the imp goaded and giggled. "Find me! Find me!" Trudgwick reached to the right, then in front of him, then twisted round to grab again, but still to no avail. Why was he doing this? Why had he agreed to this stupid game?! "Oh, and by the by, sir," the imp spoke up, "I forgot to mention that this is a Shadow Game." Shadow Game? What idiocy was that? He was blind and it was the middle of the night, no shadow could make it any darker! Then it struck him. Shadows. If he could just get the tiniest of glimpses beneath the blindfold, he could catch the tiny terror's shadow against the moonlight and that would be the end of it.

"May I scratch my nose?" he mumbled.

"If you must," the imp replied impatiently. Trudgwick reached up to perform the action but while he carried out what he thought to be a brilliant cover, he used the edge of his finger to lift the lowest part of the blindfold, only for a strong wind to whip it off and carry it away. He was paralysed by confusion. The city was gone, the docks were gone, the boy was gone! The sky above was a deep purple and the river had expanded into an obsidian ocean that stretched on for eternity in every direction. His only support was a small wooden platform barely big enough to lie down on him, and the sole illumination was a dim oil lamp by his feet. The only sensible thing to do was lift the lamp in order to get a better view. Perhaps it was all a joke, some hallucinogenic drug laced into the blindfold by his aggressor. Yes, that was it. Trudgwick bent down to pick up the lamp but as his fingers barely touched the handle, its light was snuffed out, and all was black, and very, very cold.

"No!" he screamed, despair taking hold of him. "Help me! Somebody! HELP ME!"

XXX

Beyond the heavy iron door lay a beautiful field. Hills rose and sank, and all around were beds of lavender, honeysuckle and heather, their fragrances bringing a great sensation of calm. Birds sang in the sky and a gentle, warm breeze blew. On one of the hills, under the shade of a blossoming tree, Gwendolyn sat on a decorative blanket, surrounded by games and books in a tidy circle, as well as plentiful thread and fabric. When she felt the other presence she looked up from her stitch-work and smiled up at it. Contrary to previous beliefs, it was not a boy, but another girl who looked startlingly like the young lady-in-waiting, only more accustomed to the MacWood disguise. On her it looked quite natural. She bowed to Gwendolyn and politely took off her hat, allowing her hedgehog bangs to bounce out to their full, almost impossible length. The newcomer sat on the blanket beside the field's owner and began sorting through the neatly stacked piles of Duel Monster cards.

"Are you finished?" asked the first Gwendolyn.

"For now," replied the second Gwendolyn.

"I'm quite certain I should feel more distressed by all this," said the first, returning to her work.

"I assure there's no reason for that," said the second.

"And why would that be?" asked the first. "And what are you, miss?"

The second Gwendolyn smiled and looked at her. "The vengeance you cannot attain alone," she told her. "I am the shadow at the threshold of your soul, the shape of things to come. Other than that, a-heh-heh, I really don't know."

"Then…" the first Gwendolyn began, looking up at the sky where the clouds appeared to decorate the blue yonder, "may I call you 'MacWood'?"

The second nodded, "I would like that a lot. Now, you've been courteous enough to lend me your body, it's only right that I give it back when I'm done." Her eyes flashed, and Gwendolyn sat up, now back in one of the armchairs in the waiting room. At least the strange little creature – she considered him a sort of pixie or hobgoblin in her mind – was well-mannered enough to change back into her dress and hide their Millennium Puzzle first. Seeing nobody else was in the room with her, she took the coveted golden object from beneath her clothes and stared thoughtfully into its single eye.

XXX

Several hours had passed since the great exodus to Hatford House. Nobody realised that the killer they all feared had not only come with them, but her joining them was actually ensured by the Queen herself! Presently, Sir Francis was down in the spacious wine cellar, sampling a bottle of good plonk while he listened diffidently to Cecil's conspiracy ramblings. The monarch's coach was pacing up and down like a madman while the spymaster started on his second glass, claiming it would steady his nerves (despite it being his own suggestion, the mass excursions played havoc with his mind).

"Apart from us," said Cecil, "no one left London last night, if Trudgwick intended to escape, he did not succeed. In all likelihood he's been claimed as the fifteenth victim."

"Indubitably," said Walsingham, swirling his glass.

Cecil was now wringing his hands as he continued, "The Queen barely survives an assassination attempt and now London is under the oppressive yolk of a lunatic. I'd bet my life there's a connection!"

"My dear Mr Cecil," Walsingham sighed, "when a man like this runs amuck in the capital of all places, there would be similarities, the poisoning of Her Majesty was a calculated move, while the savage nature of these attacks, to my mind at least, are closer to the beating dealt to your servant Mr Blackwood and his friends."

"No!" snapped Cecil. "That assault was simply to injure, not to kill. These incidents are occurring far too close to one another to be mere coincidence. The clean severing of heads and limbs plus the lack of clues to his identity, are proof that the assailant knows what he's doing, he is not only ruthless and cruel, but also very intelligent."

"Ah!" Walsingham pointed to the younger man. "Still, you should keep a watchful eye out for the beaters before they strike again, for they too may escalate in their severity."

"Maybe, but I doubt it…" Cecil stroked his beard and took several strides around the wine cellar. He raised a gloved hand and vocalised his next deduction. "Traitor's Gate! This could be a political incident!"

"I know I'm going to regret asking this, but go ahead and indulge me. If it is political," Walsingham humoured him, "what was the message?"

"Don't you see it you old fool?!" Cecil hissed. "Prince Ambros, the Freiherr's master!"

"Not this again," Walsingham shook his head. "The prince is happily married."

"May I remind you that the Queen's father went through six wives and countless speculated mistresses?!" demanded Cecil with a flourished wave of his arms. "I don't believe for one second that Prince Ambros or his blood-lustful attack dog would just take such a defeat and roll over! A man who would sharpen his own teeth into knife-points would not give up so willingly so when his pride, and his undefeated reputation, are on the line! Marriage and happiness are two very different things, Walsingham!"

"I heard the good Freiherr is simply following the latest German fashions," Walsingham chuckled. Cecil stamped over to him and snatched away the wine glass, pouring the contents over the stone floor.

"And I thought you were the sensible one," he grumbled. "You never could hold your wine, could you? Well, you're welcome to stay down here and drink yourself stupid, but both that German giant and that disreputable Sir Douglas MacWood have something to hide, and when I find out the truth and expose them, you'll soon find yourself serving a new royal spymaster." With that, he flew up the stairs, slamming the door behind him with enough force to knock the bottle off the little wooden table. Walsingham rubbed his forehead and pursed his lips in aggravation.

Author's Note(Hikari):Please read and review, thank you