"What do they think they're gonna find out there?"
"Who knows, but sure ain't gonna be no fox, that's the bastard truth."
"They should just have a shoot."
"Nah, The Prince of Wales wants no guns around him – mighty nervous that one is, if you ask me."
"Thinks he seeing comets in his dreams, do ya?"
"Ain't you a little old to be believing all that nonsense they write about in 'The Sketch' these days."
"Ah, my Sally is filled with it, by God. She's says to me … 'Ernie, when I read about this here 'Comet' fella, I bet you could do half as good as he.' That's what she says to me, no word of a lie. Like being the Assistant Groom to His Lordship ain't nothin."
"I'll tell yea, that Lady Hexham and her fables is ruining any chance an honest hard-working bloke has with a lass, fill'in their head with all that fantasy rubbish. Next thing, a lass will want a body to fetch them some ancient queen's jewel from a Grecian Tomb out yonder before she'll get a drink with ya at a pub, and the like."
"O'right, I'll just pop on down to Wallachia and cut the signet ring from Alexander-bloody-Grayson's hand myself, no problem. You know, I have half a mind to go over to that Roman nosed pair of tits and give her a piece of me mind."
"You might just get your chance. I saw her drive up tonight with ole Lord Hexham … and, to be honest with ya, she had the most gorgeous pair of tits I've ever seen tonight."
"No doubt, but they ain't fatter than that head of hers."
The flickering of gaslit lanterns upon the walls caught the slow falling flurries of the frigid Mid-December night, giving each tiny flake a crystalline sparkle as if the sky was sprinkling stardust. And it was there, moving against their numerous shadows upon the stone courtyard stables, two large silhouettes trudged to the double doors at a menial pace. The soft flickered light of the still atmosphere was broken by the brighter and harsher desaturation of a lit hand lamp that was being held loosely by a tired figure deep in conversation. They sparred irritably with each other while passing an unmarked bottle of liquid between them that could as easily be tanning oil for bridle and saddle as it could be disguised alcohol. Each man, short and tall, was sharing in its drinking, as they bleary eyed their way through one of the doors into the main outbuilding.
Inside they were greeted with a more pronounced smell of both animal droppings and must from their fur. All about them, in the stone warehouse, were kennels filled with sleeping hunting hounds. Lifting up the light overhead, they could make out the pile, the mound, of limbs and floppy ears, nestled deeply in the hay and to each other for warmth from the bitter cold of the early winter night. Splotches and spots of black on white fur bodies, pink padded feet, and brown droopy ears were all amassed into a disorganized dog pile – literally – of fluffy and pooched bodies. They watched the occasional leg twitch into the air, the sound of slippery slobbery licking noises of a tongue wetting a dry mouth. And, oh, how they envied them.
It was going to be a hard day tomorrow for the likes of the two-legged members of the game keeping staff. They had just got everything ready for the hunt that was supposed to take place later in the day. Which meant that they only had a few hours of sleep for themselves before they had to make sure that the wood was clear and teeming, that the guests' mounts were geared and ready, and that the hounds were all gingered up. It was a rule of thumb that when His Lordship and the Princess were entertaining, when they were trying to create the most fun, was when their staff had the least of it.
It was all hands on deck everywhere on the estate. They hadn't even finished the massive renovations to the house when they got the letter from the Prince of Wales himself that they'd be entertaining not only the entirety of Yorkshire Society, but much of the Royal Family – including the King-Emperor and the Queen themselves. One would've thought that they were preparing for an invasion the way that the entire place, from Kitchens to stables, were in an uproar. The household staff inside had spent days trying to find room, trying to clear space. While all of them outside were looking out places to hide the construction scaffolding. The imposition was going to cost His Lordship dearly in the pocketbook for the delays to the building around the estate, but it couldn't be helped. It was what being in the Royal Family was all about.
Several of the hunting hounds stirred with sleepy whines at the sharp clacks of two pairs of shoes that receded to another section of the building. The door squeaked and creaked with a half-drunken and half-uncaring entrance of the two grooms. Immediately were they blinded by familiarity with the place they knew so well that they rarely saw anything anymore. The reins, saddles, and bridles had become almost invisible in their day to day. After seeing a place nearly as much or more than their own cottages on the estate, things become more instinct than detail. Overhead the large wooden beams arced and arched against the stone masonry of the Georgian stable house that sported at least two dozen slots, enough to garrison a Hussar Squadron. And one might have been mistaken in the thinking of it tonight.
In the glow of the hanging lamps, they found the stables entirely occupied by stallions of exceeding worth. It seemed every great family in Yorkshire – the entire North of England – was representing with at least one or two steeds for the hunt. It was terribly out of season for such things – most people go in for the shoot at this time of year. But while queer as it was, it was terribly rare for the King and Queen to be visiting Yorkshire, and certainly around the Christmas Season when most of the family – including His Lordship and the Princess – went to Sandringham. And with invitations being sent out to all the great houses of the North, it did imbibe a deeper curiosity over what this was all about. A great Christmas ball, a hunt, and a royal dinner. It was all worth a few hours, an afternoon, freezing one's britches off for a chance to share in a little out-of-season royal splendor.
"You reckon it's true … what they say?"
"About what?"
"About Lady Hexham and "The Comet"?"
"You whah? Ain't he but Nine? Ten?"
"So? He's a Toff, ain't he? Him having a drink of milk right straight from his banger of an aunt's tap ain't the weirdest thing them Poshies get up to behind closed drawing room doors, yeah?"
"Oh, now you're sounding like my Sally, you are!"
"Youse is saying that if your aunt looked like ole Lady Edith that you wouldn't?"
"If I had an aunt like Edith Pelham, I wouldn't be making a living grooming no lord's horses."
"Come on …"
"Right, look it here! I'll believe that Lady Edith polish's her ward's knob, yeah? Right after I believe he fought them 'Man-Apes' at the headwaters of the Nile. And that's all I'm saying."
"Which is?"
"I think that the Prince of Wales is flinching at a ghost made up from the fantasies of Lady Hexham's imagination. And that a lot of good men that died on them fields of Flanders would be spinning in the mud to know that their kith and kin is to be ruled by a giant girl's blouse who's afraid of a nine-year-old boy who wouldn't even know what to do with Lady Edith's perfect tits if she did let'em play with them."
"I know I would …"
"Dracula's Castle, The Man-Ape, The Serpent Ring of Set, The Sorceress Ayesha, none of it, none of them, is real, yeah?! And especially not this "Comet" character! It's all a bunch of stuff and nonsense to sell girly paper."
It was then that they were interrupted by the sound of a snorted whicker from down the stables. Lifting up the lamp, they were made aware of the sound of buckling harness and zipping of leather that was echoing faintly down the narrow path. As they passed each stall, they were more and more suspicious as each steed of immaculate breeding and top dollar were fast asleep in their hem. However, at the center of the stone stable house, they paused when they saw a large regal looking stallion wide awake, chewing a midnight feast of oats. The sleek beast was bridled, and it sounded like it was being saddled by someone within the stall.
"Oi!" The groom called, motioning his friend to follow as they stalked forward.
When they reached the gate of the stall they were met with a threatening snort and cry of the white stallion. Immediately, they both flinched. The snout of the horse battered at them if they got too close, as if they were threatening his young colt. Stepping away, the smaller of the two held the light up to look inside. There they found a shadowy figure buckling a sleek leather saddle to the immaculate piece of horse flesh that was not kindly to the interruption of its feast, nor the aggressive attitude they had toward the figure inside its stall. However, they couldn't seem to get a good look at him. All they could make out was a flat cap, a long scarf wrapped and looped snuggly about his neck, and a suede like double breasted jacket with the collar done up in the back.
"What'd you doin?" The taller of the two asked threateningly.
"Lady Mary Crawley's orders." There was a hard bitten, gravelly sounding, Yorkshire twang to what looked and sounded like a boy.
"And what would be those now?" The smaller asked suspiciously.
"Have her horse fed and ready for a morning ride … she wants to inspect the hunting grounds." The youth replied.
Both grooms shared a suspicious look before turning back to the kid that continued to saddle the horse. They dared a bit further, closer, keeping a wary eye on Lady Mary's beautiful beast which was proving to be as temperamental as his mistress.
"And why would she be doing that?" the taller asked.
"She hasn't ridden this far north before, and she wants to be sure of the footing." The youth replied matter-a-fact.
"Ain't she the female "York and Ainsty" champion for two years running now?" The taller of the two enquired with a baiting tone.
"You'd know better than me, boys …" The youth shrugged easily. "I was brought here to do a job-" He grunted as he fastened the strap of the saddle. "And a Job I'm doing." At the aggressive action, the horse snorted and paced in its stall. Quickly, steadying the mount, muttering under his breath in a musical sounding foreign language, the youth gave a pat on its flank comfortingly.
For a long moment they watched the kid work. They were not convinced of him. Though his Yorkshire drawl was uncanny, the words were a bit too enunciated for a poor Yorkshireman. Yet, also, there was a concede that neither could quite imagine to what point or purpose someone had stealing Lady Mary Crawley's horse out of all the others – including the Royal pedigrees. These days everyone used motors, and only the posh and upper classes put stock in horse flesh – discounting the poorer farmers with their plow animals. Anyone would be hard pressed to find a place to fence such a magnificent beast, much less hide him.
Also, being horsemen, they could not ignore the fact that "Trumpeter" – the horse itself – was not only familiar with its groom, but seemed almost protective of him, snapping, and snorting at anyone that got too close to the kid. The fondness and familiarity, the devotion of the animal, was unspoken but clear enough for two experienced stable hands to figure that whether he was a cheat or a thief, there was a whole lot of truth in there somewhere.
And if push comes to shove, they'd report to His Lordship that they were abed if that beautiful white beast turns up missing in the morning.
Yet, there was one last thing that seemed to bother the two stable hands. And it remained that they couldn't get a good look at the kid. The more that they tried to shine a light on the youth, the more it seemed that he became a shadow. It was like getting lost while trying to untangle the mystery of an optical illusion. His jacket and scarf blended into the dark, matching the hue of the contrast of the lamp, and deflecting its light till there was a cowl of shadows about him. It was like nothing they had ever experienced or seen before.
"Something else?"
Sensing their prying eyes, the youth's voice had taken on a deeper and darker tone that had an element of peril that they hadn't expected from one so young. It was then, pausing his work, that the kid turned his head slightly and tilted it up. The glare of the hand lamp caught the glistening refraction of cerulean colored eyes. It was then, in the glare, that a chill went up their spine. For in the shadows, in the impenetrable darkness about his unseen countenance, they were met with an elemental gaze of an unlooked-for fierceness.
They espied, through their voyeur's gaze into the windows of a bright fiery soul, the constitution of one that had seen much of horror and wonder at too young an age to truly understand them. Thus, their scars and blemishes were ever afresh and languishing as the day they were laid upon him in some deed or adventure of which a child should not have been upon nor seen. But above all else, there remained a dangerous and powerful aspect in his gaze as unending and merciless as the tempest eye of Jupiter. A short lifetime of anger and tragedy was shown by an ever-distant rumble of thunder and the omnipresent flashing threats of searing lightning bolts of a black typhoon of rage. And it was, at the wrong word or misthought action, that such a tempest could be summoned forth - regardless of the consequences and utterly unmastered in its destructive powers.
Of how one so young could gain such an aspect was beyond the two grooms of lowly means of whom served King and Country ahorse in both Orient and Palestine in the war. And while such terrible marring's upon the heart had not been strange to men such as them, they had not expected nor dared to find such veterancy of horror and human suffering in that of a youth. Therefore, like a child wearing the clothing of an adult but claiming such responsibilities and maturity with unmistaken authority, were the two grooms unnerved mightily.
The mismatch of stature and age with the hardened elemental peril in the eyes of a lost innocence brought a knee jerk of the supernatural. To glance a child but not see fully a child whispered insipidly into their hearts the superstitious terrors of demon and devilry – of which there had been no shortage about and among the Royal Family these days. Thus, whether by the late hour or the dominance of drink, the two men wanted no truck nor more of this acquaintance of such a phantasmal figure in these hours of Mab. And slowly, they paced away till the light of their lamp disappeared.
For a long time, the figure held in the stall, listening to their footsteps recede. If they picked up pace quickly, he would know that he had scared them off. But if their pace quickened only by a half and they went left, that would mean they had gone to warn the Stable Master. If that happened, then he'd have to move up his timetable and find another means of exit. But, after what felt like an eternity, he let out a slight exhale when he heard the two grooms go straight toward the bunks on the other side of the stone complex. They were going to bed. It was both a hard lesson, but an essential one. One could not undersell nor underestimate how wholly uninterested most humans were at getting stuck into things they didn't understand. It didn't matter how many times they could be rescued from dark forces, could be told what was truly out there, or how much danger they were in year after year …
The world didn't care.
He placed a saddlebag over the back of Trumpeter, of whom shifted in unfamiliarity. When it craned its head backward it was met with an affectionate barb of being clapped on its neck playfully. A beast bred for beauty and swiftness, of which much of the expendable profit of Lady Mary Crawley's earnings was spent upon the magnificent creature's vanity, had never known what it was to be packed down. It was meant to glide across fields of green in competition or leisure, to carry upon its back a creature no less, if not more, beautiful, and magnificent as itself … not carrying things nor stuff.
The horse snorted at him in what could be translated as indignation as the youth picked up a pack of fine dark brown leather that had a rolled blanket of bluish grey textile under flap. Strapped to its right side was a leather thong of a long bullwhip that was coiled like a slumbering serpent. On the left of the pack was the silvery hand guard and pommel of a short blade Sikh Rajput saber that was sheathed in a shabby brown leather scabbard. Once the pack was attached to the saddle bag harness, the youth slid out both whip and sword.
From under his suede double breasted jacket he produced an ancient and sleek dagger of an elegant craftsmanship that had been unseen in many ages of man. The ornate and one-of-a-kind ancient weapon was sheathed in an old brown shabby scabbard that matched the Rajput's. Having spent years now under the mentorship of a Sikh science pirate upon his clockwork submersible, the youth had picked up the ways of his master. And though devoted in his Catholicism, the youth none-the-less had taken the Sikh vow to always carry a blade that would guard the innocent and protect the helpless. Though, of his chosen weapon of the Atlantean dagger, would it have been the size of a Bowie Knife on a man grown. However, being wielded by the hand of a child, it was more akin to a Roman Gladius.
After attaching his saber to the weapon's belt, he girded it on easily and familiarly under jacket. The silver buckle with Celtic embroidery inlaid into the metal gave a satisfying click as it was tightened to the youth's hips. Favoring a cross draw with a dominant left-hand being his sword hand, the boy took his coiled bullwhip and placed it on his left hip. Opening the flap of his pack of fine leather, he reached inside to the noise of jangling contents inside. After a moment, he pulled out a folded black canvas of textile material with golden embroidery and exchanged it with his flat cap inside the pack. With everything he needed, he made a quick check of the saddle harnesses, tightened the bridle, and made sure the pack was closed and secure. However, when he made to leave, he was harassed by the affections of Trumpeter that nipped at his hair and nudged his cheek.
"Alright, alright …" The youth gave a scoffed chuckle, the gravelly Yorkshire drawl suddenly disappearing to reveal an accent that was educated but … not entirely English anymore. Reaching into his pocket, he produced an apple.
"Don't ever say I didn't do anything for you, Ya big fop." He whispered as the horse ate the fruit from his palm, giving him just enough of a distraction to get out of the pen. When the apple was gone, he didn't shut the gate but left it ajar slightly.
"Hey …" He said seriously, as a wet tongue smelling of apples and oats darted on his cheek and a snout nipped at his nose affectionately. "Hey listen to me …" He whispered, taking hold of the horse's head, looking into his eyes.
He could see the affection, the love, in the beast's gaze. And he wondered what it was, and why it was there. Trumpeter had not been particularly familiar with him. In fact, for years, he was not allowed to go anywhere near him. Yet, on the off chance of any interaction, the horse had rushed to him always, sniffing his hair, bobbing its snout against his cheek, and getting aggressive at any of the staff for going near the youth. Of his owner, was she sorely unhappy about the interactions - perhaps afraid that her most prized possession, her favorite thing in the world, loved someone more than herself. Or, more insidiously, that her most hated rival was intending to steal him from her. Yet, perhaps, it never came into his heart that of Trumpeter's affections had they been merely an imprint from Lady Mary's truest feelings for one whom she loved above all else in heaven and on Earth.
But he dared not hope nor see the wisdom in such things after the hateful words she had spoken to him … and certainly not by this very night's end.
"Remember…"
The youth spoke in a flowing and musical ancient language unheard since it was lost before the breaking of the world in the pre-histories of the fathers of men. Then, he pressed his forehead to Trumpeter's and closed his eyes, as if sharing some mental vision with the majestic beast of which his will was conveyed. There was a sad whicker of parting when watching the boy quietly roll away the trough of oats to make space. The white horse craned its head out of its stall and watched its young colt began quietly setting ajar the gates of every stall in the stable, while unlatching every door on the opposite side – careful not to awake the sleeping horses.
One floppy ear stuck up instinctually from the kennel when it heard the door open and close with the slightest creak. Yet not a field hound stirred, for there was no tread in the footsteps. Quietly, he unhooked the kennel gates and cracked open the doors. Though, with a whirl of alert instinct to an unseen presence, he found that his actions were being espied by a pair of slit pupils within green eyes that glowed in the dark. And it was there, atop of a barrel, that the queenly feline of fuzzy thick black fur watched with puzzled interest at this stranger.
The intruder and stable cat matched a glance for only a moment before the sentry was easily defeated. With a yawn and stretch, the cat busied herself with licking her forearm. She proved both an indifferent and traitorous guardsman as she was bought with a measly neck scratch that fluttered her eyes closed in pleasure. For such homage, did the long-haired cat turn a blind eye to the stealing of the huntsman's brass trumpet that she had been coiled about. With sleepy purrs the black cat watched from its barrel as the flutter of a hooded cloak being unfurled conjured a curtain of invisibility that melded with the dark as the figure disappeared into the night through the backdoor …
As if no one had been there at all.
1928
Harewood House
The glitter of the snowflakes falling gently in the mid-December night were reflected on the surface of the vast moated lake, making the cold clear water sparkle like a bedrock of diamonds. In the distance, the entirety of the hilled valley of the picturesque Yorkshire Countryside, crowned in sparse white wigs of frost, was lit by the golden hue emanating from the Georgian Manor of Harewood House. The vast Estate of Lord Lascelles, The Sixth Earl, with its tall crystal windows, reflected the warm light of the evening festivities like a large lantern in the bleak cold of the dark night.
The shadowed flicker of the flaming columns that ringed the entrance and outer perimeter of the house was like the winking of a pretty deb calling you forward to find a place to scratch your name on her full dance card. The garland wrapped stone balconies, and glitter of Yule ornaments, created a deep and warm atmosphere that attracted many a wild and weary thing from out of the dark toward this beacon of jubilee. For it was here that they were celebrating more than just the Holiday Season.
It was heralded as a new dawn for the Imperium. It had been now a decade since the end of the war to end all wars. And on such an auspicious anniversary – give or take a month – it was time to move the Empire in a new direction, a modern direction. For too long, according to the King-Emperor, had Britian relied on the old traditions, the old ways of doing things. But after the near collapse of the economy during the war, and the reliance on the American Republic's many loans to rebuild it, they must find a new way to rejuvenate the spirit of their great nation-state. Yet, even as they clapped, there were many suspicious bystanders that gave puzzled side-eyed looks to wives and old friends. Modernity? Innovation? New voices? That didn't sound like any platform that King George V supported in his eighteen-year reign.
The monarch had sworn to return dignity and honor to the office of the Sovereign after the debouchment and womanizing antics of both his late father King Edward and his eldest brother Prince Albert. And his life-long resentment and hatred toward "Old Tum-Tum" and humiliation of being forced to wed his dead brother's fiancé had made 'The Spare' resolute to be both as boring and traditional as possible. So it was that when the King-Emperor exalted both Lady Edith Pelham, Marchioness of Hexham, and her sister Lady Mary Crawley as being bold innovators in the future of the imperium – something didn't exactly track.
Yet, all too soon, was it becoming clear to those that had an ear to the ground that something big was being planned. Reforms to the British Army through demilitarization – with the excuse of the Treaty of Versailles – had suddenly begun with the destruction and disbanding of decentralized units across England. Gone were the old cavalry regiments that had been a part of the British Military since the Napoleonic Wars, the shipyards in Liverpool had gone quiet, and they began dismantling county garrisons. A smaller, quicker, and more centralized army under The Crown's explicit command was to be organized.
For the first time mercenary units and contractor companies would be employed to police the commonwealth and provinces newly acquired from the Paris Accords. Of their pay would they use the old military budget to employ them – sold as a budget-cut now that they did not need to pay for equipment. However, when asked poignantly by reporters – led by Laura Edmunds - of the appearance that the demilitarization of the Imperial Army looked more like a power grab, they were scoffed at. The idea of military force in the hands of a few – explicitly large international London banks and investment firms who owned the mercenary Corps and contractor companies – was waved off by White Hall that this was 'the dawning of a new age'. That the days of the old empire were swept away on Flander's fields and change was inevitable.
The same had come for the administration in the state of national affairs. Stripping away the 'obsolete' decentralized intelligence services of the British Imperium, a new overarching scheme was put in its place. Called "The Secret Intelligence Service" or known cynically by the wiser old men as "His Majesties Secret Service", it was headed by a new dark and mysterious figure known simply as "M". The shadow organization at the heart of the new administrative state tasked itself with overhauling and reorganizing the old British Intelligence apparatus. Their authority fell upon the Foreign Office, Home Office, and White Hall. Their intention had been to form a cohesive 'shield' against those that harmed or threatened British Imperial interests both abroad and at home in this 'unprecedented era of world peace'.
Of the memo that was sent to all departments had "M" expressed the new Royal Platform's need for modernity and a new way of thinking. That no longer could Britania and her colonies rely upon singular figures of dubious reputation and skewered loyalties to protect her interests. Men such as Allan Quartermain, Captain Nemo, and even Mr. Sherlock Holmes. The age of the adventurer, the explorer, and the fighter was at an end. England now needed the suave and sophisticated statesmen, the businessmen, and Oxbridge chap – those that had a vested interest in England and her promise, not outlaw mercenaries.
And that new era began with the sudden and inextricably systematic destruction and hunting down of the members of the "League of Extraordinary Gentlemen".
Both Allan Quartermain and Ms. Mina Murray were killed on an unknown expedition mere months before the new scheme went into operation. Of Doctor Henry Jekyll had they chased him to Hong Kong, which was shortly followed by a mass destruction event of the like's unseen before in the ancient city's history. But when the carnage and mayhem finally came to an end, they were assured that the "beast" had been eradicated. Though, those shadowy figures in the halls of power throughout London had not fully completed their mission. They may have finally put an end to the monstrous Mr. Hyde, but they had failed to gain his alter-ego's many scientific notes and formulas.
Yet, Shrimpie MacClare, Marquess of Flintshire, questioned that if they were in an "unprecedented era of world peace" than what was the Imperium's need to recreate a serum that turned a meek and mild-mannered scientist into a fell and murderous hulking beast. The answer to Lord Flintshire's question to Charles Blake was the same answer that everyone in the foreign office and White Hall was now being told.
The order came from "M's" Office.
They had suspected Doctor Jekyll had sent his life's work – his curse - away to the last two members of "The League" that were left. Thus, it was no surprise to Lord Flintshire that the Admiralty – despite decommissioning several destroyers – had been ordered by "M" and Buckingham Palace to place "H.M.S Hood" and "HMS Prince of Wales" on deployment to begin scouting operations to identify the known whereabouts of the "Nautilus" – breaking a long-held treaty with the Science Pirate, Captain Nemo. However, the alternative answer to the problem was that Doctor Jekyll's notes and formula were with the most unlikely guardian of the two ... who was an unseen complication.
George "The Comet" Crawley, despite his appearance, attitude, and demeanor, was not an outlander mercenary. The youth was the 38th Lord of Downton, and heir to the 7th Earl of Grantham. His grandfather and mother were members of the Royal Court. No matter how they might denounce and deny him in public, they could not change the fact that George Crawley was a nobleman, gentleman, and heir to the largest agricultural concern on the English Isle – rivaling the plantations of The British Raj.
At first, most of the Secret Service thought it preposterous. The most glaringly obvious problem was that if one had a formula to create beastly hulking monsters that could be used to dominate battlefields … one would not trust it with a child. Indeed, the smarter play was to send it to a former colleague whose life was lived tens of thousands of leagues under the sea. Also, having access to the "League's" files, they found that while Doctor Jekyll and "The Comet" had a cordial and productive relationship, Mr. Hyde and the youth could not stand one another. There were countless on file incidents of the blustering foul-mouthed hulk and the young apprentice sparring in insult and clashing in tempers. Hyde and Crawley disliked one another to their very cores, and it was only through the intervention of Ms. Mina Murray that often ended near violent confrontations between the savage monster and the young swordsman.
The Beast thought "The Great Mouse Detective" a naïve toff playing at boy hero because his ice sculpture mamma wouldn't let him back on her tit. While the youth thought Hyde a perverted, deviant, mindless animal that needed to be put down like a rabid dog – with as much dignity. It was a wonder that the beast and the youth had not tried to murder each other while on missions or adventures, much less fight and work together in tight spots and close shaves. But the savage black heart of Doctor Jekyll's alter ego was given to the beautiful and mysterious Ms. Murray, of whom she had been his closest and only friend. And of the love she held for her young swordsman had been both soul deep and deathless. Thus, the monster drew back it's darker instincts when confronted by Mina's "Mouse Detective" – if only to hold the affection of the forlorn ageless female surgeon.
Yet, while the wisdom was to send the serum formula to the bottom of the sea, locked in the vaults of the neigh uncatchable Nautilus, the psychological profiles had a different story to tell. Nemo was a wild card. Perilously intelligent, charismatic, and a prince among men. Yet, he was prone to outbursts of madness and violence in a darkened heart that was easily corrupted by vengeance for his murdered wife and daughters. For how long would the serum stay locked away before the science pirate began tinkering and toying with Doctor Jekyll's work?
However, the same could not be said for his apprentice. The Comet's aptitude for chemistry might have been kindled and mentored by Doctor Jekyll himself, but he had not the age, maturity, nor education to replicate the serum. Also, what better way to prevent the making of monsters than to put it into the trust of one who hated deeply its results. Thus, it was, despite the rest of the Secret Service being agreed that they should deploy more of the fleet to search out the Nautilus, it was "M" that decided that he would deal with the "Comet" himself …
Fore, he owed him for their last meeting.
The orchestration of waltzing music echoed in bass reverberation over the formal Victorian gardens and across the dark yard that was shaded against the soft light. The glittering sparkle of the night's snow flurries were like a starfield in the gloomy background. The grounds were crusted with the bite of the new winter's conditions, the lawn crackling and crunching under trod like gravel. Yet, the snows had been spars – despite the unseasonably cold weather – allowing no glow nor visibility out beyond the ringed flames of the decorative Victorian torch stands. And it was there, stationed on the Terrace overlook of the stone outworks of Harewood, that the Royal Guard of George V, King-Emperor of the British Imperium, had only given sparing glances out into the night. They kept a stricter guard of the many glass and crystal doors of the open-air estate of Lord Lascelles and Princess Mary. The contrast between the warmth of the ballroom and the frigid dark of the unforgiving Yorkshire night air had made them huddle closer, constricting the ring. After all, they were warned not to stray far from their outposts, away from the light.
That was how "The Comet" would get them.
Indeed, these veterans of many an Imperial battlefield, from The Somme to the Russia Intervention, to the liberation of Tanganyika, felt it beneath them to be warned of such a danger. The Comet? It was a fitting name for perhaps the most preposterous of foe they were called up to fight. It seemed overkill for men of such skill in combat and soldiery to be stationed in such unfriendly weather just for glorified sentry duty against the most unlikely enemy they ever faced. More so it was ridiculous that they couldn't even call him by his real name.
The Prince of Wales could not and would not abide by it being said in front of him. Neither still were they permitted to speak it aloud in this place, at this Yule Ball, fore there were plans within plans tonight, and every man in slouched beret and woolen uniform would not impede them by giving the game away by speaking a name so prominently … and in front of those who knew him well. Of what the reasons were, the game being played tonight? They were not sure. But for their service would they be offered double promotion – which would be reflected in their pay – and all for the simple task of making sure that … he doesn't escape.
There was a hardened expression on the stern face of the professional soldier who took the lit cigarette from his comrade. After a deep draft of smoke, he caught a glance of his partner while he looked over shoulder. From a distance, across the Victorian gardens, over the top of the fountain statue's head, they both caught just the flickered silhouette of the sparkling twirling figures in sumptuous and opulent satin and silk ball gowns. All the while they could hear the clear ringing of a bombastic orchestra reach its crescendo.
Both men exchanged ill-favored looks as the performance of either musicians or dancers upon the marble floor was met with a thunderous applause. They both shook their heads in unison with disgusted glares of the inequality of their dueling positions. Shouldering his rifle, a ruddy faced corporal sighed with visible misty breath and left his fellow soldier behind, rubbing his hands together to generate warm friction and reflipping his coat collar up against the cold. For a captive moment, the sergeant watched him go, sucking out the last few draws of smoke left on the burnt-out cig they had been sharing most of the hour.
With a languid turn, his hardened brown hazel eyes danced across the shadowy hue of the icy lawn from the stone balcony of the Terrace. Eventually, he settled on the lapping waters of the lake just behind the screen of the wood. He could see the sparkling edges and ripples stagnating inward. It was starting to freeze up. He had heard that Princess Mary and the boys liked to ice skate on the lake deeper into the winter, and that there was a much vaulted and highly spirited hockey game that mother and sons played with the servants. That would be a thing to see, no mistake. It was better than the dumb wanker who thought it was a good idea to have a hunt tomorrow. He bet it was that piece of work Lascelles.
Always ill-tempered, always fastidious – to an unpleasant degree. Particularly, had he been most insufferable when he was told that his estate, his house, and his ball, would be used for whatever plans or operations were to be executed tonight. He had been barking at the Royal Guard all day, as if they took his orders. Lascelles had been high-strung and imperious. And, as usual, the King-Emperor and the Queen didn't seem to notice nor care. For years now they had let the standards slip, let the Princes and the Dukes run the place more and more these days – allowing their many relations to abuse and run ragged the Royal staff and guard with impunity.
Staring at the freezing lake, watching its banks slowly solidify, it was all ill omens for what would be a brutal and out of season hunt tomorrow. Judging by the taste of the air, the freezing lake, and an ache in the old war wound, temperatures would be dropping, the hounds would be unruly, and Lord Lascelles would be shaken up by the disorder and chaos into fits of ill-tempered passive aggressive cruelty. Of the likelihood that they'd find their fox – animal or foe – was nil to none. Both creatures were quartered for the winter, and all anyone would get out of the unwanted exercise was colds, sore ears, and an evening spent trying to defrost in front of the fire. And all for what? To play cloak and dagger with a shadowy figure that slipped the hook months ago. For all they knew he was in New York by now, hell he could be as far as Luxor. Yet, here they were, out in the cold, missing a perfectly good Christmas Party put on by the toffs, and all for what? To wait on a train that ain't gonna come?
"Damn kid …" He tossed away the lit nub of his cig over and walked away with a clank of his rifle over shoulder.
The smoke fell with a soundless tap at the bottom of the terrace stone wall. Its lit end gave one last sauntering steaming haze through the thicket of hedges before it was quietly crushed out by the heel of a boot. The sparkle of the amber reflection of torch light was caught in cerulean irises that looked up from the space between hedge and stone railing. The silhouette made not a sound, stepping carefully to sidle across the narrow space. They put an ear out and listened intently, glancing through the sparse bare limbs of the autumn ravaged hedge to track the tall shadows of the Royal sentries that were cast from the balcony onto the frozen yard by the backing of fire light. Seeing not a face from his angle below nor a shadow upon the lawn, The Comet was sure that the two guards had moved on.
With just the slightest shuffle of foliage's rustle, a pair of frowning eyes were level with hands covered in padded rust-colored fingerless gauntlets that gripped the lower railing of the terrace wall. With a flicker of right to left, the youth's eyes scanned the stone outwork of the Harewood Terrace to make sure it was clear. However, the sound of boots on the gravel walking path of the lawn caused the barely visible figure to hang low, squatting on bent knees of planted feet on the stone garden wall he climbed. Glancing over his shoulder, The Comet caught sight of a pair of Royal Guards walking the perimeter below him, their teeth chattered as they groused bitterly at the weather and their job. And while their unseen and unlooked for foe sympathized deeply on account of the weather, it did seem an inopportune time to join them in commiseration.
When they passed, weighted gauntlets made not a sound on the stone as they climbed the railing of the terrace. With a barely audible slushing crunch of boot soles, a short lithe figure vaulted onto the walled plateau in a low crouch with a hand anchored on the gravel. The Comet's face was shaded under hooded cowl but for a flicker of torch light that framed a single cerulean eye. He wore a black hooded cloak with powerful sorcery from the Ancient Egyptian "Book of the Dead" that was embroidered upon the bordering in gold and the "Eye of Horus" upon its back in red thread. Underneath the mysterious cloak he wore a suede-like double breasted rustic jacket with a strange hieroglyph stitched onto the shoulder sleeve. A long dark blue scarf was wrapped and looped about his mouth and nose warmly, the lingering lovely sent of Ms. Mina Murray was a comfort to one of whom she loved most. As he crouched, his hand lingered on the pommel of his sword as he glanced one way and then the other.
Through the flicker of the firelight, he could hear the soft conversation of soldiers on the boarders of the elevated garden and within. He had chosen his moment purposefully, knowing – for once – the temperament of his foe. He waited deeper into the night, to the midnight hour, when the ball would be past its peak, and a melodic boredom set in for the attendees who, after dancing and drinking for some hours, would be drawn into the micro-universe of the ballroom – blind to all else in the world. Meanwhile, the cold weather and ever slow burning resentment of the guard outside - an hour before the watch changed - would breed a seething and ill-tempered sentry. The hours in the cold within the sight of the upper classes in yule merriment would not induce an environment in which guardsmen would be putting any effort into doing anything but dreaming of when their watch would end.
It was arrogance, apathy, and classist resentments – all staples of the late British Imperium – that the intruder would use to get past every net set against him this night.
Hearing the sound of two pairs of combat boots climbing the stairs to the veranda, the youth sprang with just a crackle of gravel crunching under trod. When the two soldiers stopped, they paused only for a hesitation, seeing what looked like a shadow flit between the torches into the garden. But just when they heard the orchestra start up again, a deeper resentment of dismissal came over their hearts. A strange flicker of the torches picked up by the winter breeze is what they'd say and continue on. Meanwhile, they walked mere paces from an outcropping of shadows by crafted hedge where the very foe they sought could've reached out to steal a canteen right off their harnesses. When they passed none-the-wise, the youth disappeared into the night like smoke rings in the dark.
("Turpin Hero" – Jake Bugg)
Trained in the art of frontier ranging by Allan Quartermain himself and taught the primal art of stealth and stalking by the ghost tribes of darkest Africa's greatest huntsmen, the youth's woodcraft was unrivaled upon the great island kingdom. His trod made not a sound, and neither still did cloak, sleeve, nor sheath catch a bramble or limb of hedge. Cold and bitter emotions of the best of the Imperium's soldiers were held close in the hedges and secret out coves of Harewood's Victorian gardens. Yet, not even one of their best saw nor heard the phantasm that moved and slid between the borders of their senses and instincts. He was, indeed, a breed apart, the last apprentice of an old world, an old empire, who chose to forget. In him still were the lessons, the life's work, and regrets, of great masters who saw a valiant young boy as a last chance to repent, to pass on their knowledge of both right and wrong. And their tales and their skill lived afresh in the youth's blood and memories. And though still young – some may say far too young – such advantages of education and extreme training had built the foundations of a monument to their collected abilities in a solitary young boy.
Gathered on the right-hand side of the gardens was a collection of soldiers that had taken shelter from the cold in a crescent hedge that had a stone bench within. There they stomped their feet, traded smokes, and spoke of old war stories. There was a rather debate between which was colder, the trenches of the Somme or the forward outposts of the Russian Intervention during that Civil War after the death of the Czar and his family. Their voices were quiet, well versed – even after all these years – in making sure they didn't carry over No Man's Land. Up turned palms hid match light and burning ends of cigarettes in the dark. Yet, with every precaution taken, they were still making enough noise to be scouted by one who was taught how to sneak into a lion's den and cut the heart from the pride leader without waking his lionesses.
Tempers flared unexpectedly when each time the debate over Somme or Russia was tabled, someone chimed in under their breath with some rude remark that continued it. A lifetime in a British lower class which was obsessed with humility and a sense of stagnate – good enough – social progress had bred defensive ticks of inferiority. Therefore, deeper inherent resentments easily cropped up at what was perceived as both not being believed as well as the imagination of putting on airs. This powder keg was lit momentarily, egged on by whispered retorts and snarling insult that set off the small group against one another. Though, later, no one could remember who said what … not realizing that they were drawn into an argument entirely manufactured by a singular shadowy figure behind the hedge. However, by the time that the color sergeant had come to break up the infantile ridiculousness, it was enough of a distraction for the instigator to cross the large open lawn to the secondary wall and staircase undetected.
A kaleidoscope of golds and ambers stained the gravel, throwing shadows upon the stone railing of the overlook wall at the back entrance of Harewood House. Here the soft warm glow from the crystal windows of the palatial estate mixed and turned with the torches in their saucers. The strobing clash made it harder to see in the depths of the witching hours. And here, also, was where guard and guest mingled. In the boredom of the hour, many an attendee braved the cold to get a change of scenery. Many a serious, trivial, or romantic conversation was had in stroll, in sight of the midnight garden frosted in mid-December snow. Their attentions captured in wonder by the frigid glister of the icy fountain's crystal refraction of the steely night sky twinged with flickers of the torch light in the distance. Never noticing, in their frolic, the stone-faced soldiers that stood close to the outcroppings of the masonry. The attendees thought it a purposeful position so that they might not be seen by the guests of the Royal Ball.
But when they came upon them, they were suddenly repelled by the strange vacant look, cataract-colored eyes in the dark, and chalky sallow pale colorless skin. Their uniform was of a dark grey with black epilates that matched with a slouched beret and black cloth that covered their mouths and noses. They were hired mercenaries, the first look by many an investor to what the new constabulary of many a county and province of empire would look like in the demilitarization of the British Army. But of greeting, conversation, or simple civility, they had not a word. Stone as statues was their manner, speaking and hearing nothing, though their strange pale eyes under slouched beret and covered mouth and nose followed the guests silently as they passed like wary guard dogs that glance strangers outside the perimeter of the fence.
This practical but inconvenient wisdom to guard the most populated and crowded rooms in Harewood had left the perimeter integrity completely undefended on the western edge of the estate. The prevailing wisdom had been completely superficial by both the Earl and Princess. For it was upon the western edge of the estate, behind tall hedge and trees, that they had hid the scaffolding for the building and renovations that this impromptu Royal Ball and visit had interrupted – and just as they were preparing to pack for Sandringham. The collection of wood plank and steel beam were crowded in an unsteady line against the windows and just under the balconies. From the disorganized clutter, it felt rather like a rushed job – as if Princess Mary had swept dust under the rug before her Mamma and Papa entered the room. Such a last moment instinct to hide the equipment by the House of Lascelles for purely aesthetic reasons as not to draw ire of parents nor in-laws was an oversight that was certainly plausible …
Or so it seemed.
Quietly, the wooden boards squealed under light pressure as a hooded and cloaked figure climbed the scaffolding. The gliding shadow against the closed and shuttered darkened windows was unseen as the figure leapt from one scaffold to the other, climbing higher toward the second level. With a grunt, a leaping hand grasped the stone railing of an upper balcony before another joined it. The dark figure pulled himself up and perched like a gothic gargoyle. After a detailed survey, he slipped off the railing with a soundless clap onto the tile. There, taking a low crouching center of gravity, he rushed to the doorway, peering through sheer curtains that were drawn within the French doors. The room was dark and empty with strips of desaturated winter light framing on the rounding walls.
The tingle of unsettled instinct came over him when he turned the knob to find the French doors open. It bothered him internally that with so much of the estate guarded by Royal Soldiers and mercenaries, the privacy of this, the most private of all the rooms, was left unattended by sentry or even locks at its entrance. The hinges of the doors to the brand-new room made not a noise as the youth slowly entered cautiously. His senses were enveloped in a heady rush of the scent of fresh construction and perfume. It was an oval domed shaped suite that had been whitewashed but was still waiting for paint coding. Despite it still in limbo - mostly built, but not ready quite yet – the youth saw both vanity and mirror along with a cherrywood wardrobe placed within. With the furniture set up haphazardly, he realized that he was exactly where he wanted, needed, to be.
Princess Mary's Dressing Room.
He darted soundlessly across the newly finished boards toward vanity and mirror. Bottles and vials clattered and clanked while he searched the darkened desk. The sudden deluge of guests – in the middle of renovation – meant that whether the room was ready or not, the Princess would be forced to use it when she gave up her own rooms to her mother. Yet, that remained the crux of the youth's problem. He knew the rough layout of Harewood - having stolen blueprints of late from construction sites. But he knew not where everyone was staying. Which is why he was needing the guest ledger. But going downstairs to steal it from Harewood's housekeeper's clipboard was more akin to suicide. However, he had known enough of House Party protocol from being a fixture downstairs at Downton Abbey all of his life to know how these things work. There were two lists, one for the housekeeper and one for the hostess. And Princess Mary would've had her copy in her dressing room somewhere.
Some minutes later, the door opened suddenly, and the clip clack of heels paced over to the vanity. The de-saturated steely hue of the night was pushed back by the soft golden light of a lamp being switched on. The sparkle of the Princess Royal's tiara in her golden tresses glistered on the walls of the whitewashed room as she flittered about for a moment in anxious ministration. There was deep frustration in the whispered words that she swore that someday she'd speak aloud to dearest Mumsy and Papa.
To come, unannounced, to her home – knowing of the imposition – and then to not even stay for the whole ball! Who did they think they were fooling? Did they think when they left, shortly followed by 'her', that no one down there in the ballroom knew what was going on? And what they are doing – in her house?! In the house where her boys sleep and play! It was shameful for two people of their age, with a woman young enough to be their … a woman named after the queen herself who has a young son named after the king!
Everything was getting to Princess Mary tonight, the Ball, the Hunt, and the Royal Garrison all over her grounds. Not to mention the odd and terrifying automaton soldiers of fortune that were inundated within her halls. Now, the blasted lipstick was running out! She slammed the brass cylinder on the dresser and gave a guttural snarl. She closed her eyes and tried to think of the words that Tom Branson told her at luncheon the other day. She could hear the man's steady voice in her head. To think the Princess Royal, Countess of Harwood, took her best advice from a Republican Irishman who was quickly becoming one of her closest friends. Life was strange in that way. And, perhaps, that, in itself, was the lesson. But when she opened her eyes, she suddenly frowned.
Princess Mary found herself staring at a piece of paper that she had been sure that she hadn't left out. Her eyes flicked down the list of guests and where they were staying for the night – along with the valets and lady's maids they were attached too. With a crumple of paper, she picked it up, flicking down at it one last time. She puzzledly lifted her head and glanced around the spartan room, being acutely aware of the sudden draft. Rubbing her bare arms, she noticed that one of the French doors was left ajar, announcing itself quietly with tapping against the frame in the half-breeze against the tree screen beyond the balcony. Still rubbing her arms, the princess stepped out into the night, studying her surroundings, looking for any obscurities or changes. Her silver heels clacked to the railing as she stared out at the trees behind the walled overlook of the estate grounds.
"I don't know where you are …" She said aloud. "But go home, darling." The princess's clipped accent had a maternal worry that came from being the mother of young boys. "I know not what it is that they have planned, but it certainly is meant for you." She warned. "If you'll take my advice, then, please, my darling, do not test them." She said with a genuine admiration and affection, of which she often spoke toward and of him.
Not a shadow stirred in the stillness of the night while the midnight flurries continued to fall without break.
"And if not …" She sighed guiltily – trapped to allegiances blood deep that she wished she could exclude from her heart. "May you at least go with the blessing of one mother." For a long beat she lowered her golden head as if pained. Then, after a mournful pause, she nodded to herself with some salvaged strength, convinced that she had at least spoken her heart aloud, even if it was simply to the trees, hedges, and the watchers upon the doors of night.
"Good luck."
With one last worried rub of her arms, she paced from the balcony back through the door to her dressing room. However, Princess Mary would not be seen again that night at the ball to play hostess. Instead, she would be found in the nursery abed with her boys of whom she nestled to her breast, holding them close. Her mind would be transfixed on the dark machinations that had infiltrated her family, the unholy alliance her father and eldest brother were brokering, and those evils that were now weaving their iniquitous webs within her own halls. But most of all, she wondered and worried for her children, her boys, in the uncertain and dark days to come. And as chaos would soon erupt in her home, she'd mourn the thought that any child should be drawn into such a life and have such a burden of the world upon their shoulders.
But it was, at her departure, that a shadowy figure crouched atop the sloped roof touched his fingers to his forehead in salute to his princess's blessing as she passed.
The front lawn of the Georgian Manor House had a white gloss of snow that was avoided at all cost by those that hid in the tree line and irrigation ditches for fear of their footsteps being visible from higher elevation. For hours, since the first veil of darkness had dropped on the auspicious night, the grouping of shadowy figures in dark face paint and muted uniform had been positioned, keeping the tarps on the equipment, and their rifle actions clear. From time to time their officer took out field glasses and shared the view of their forward scouts. All eyes converged on a single window and balcony on the second floor.
But as midnight rolled about, it was getting harder and harder to keep their focus. A quiet bet was starting to circulate in the hidden positions if their wolf's head would even show up versus the idea that he already knew of their presence. Yet, all were now starting to deeply resent the restriction of movement as they lay and crouched in the dark, waiting – hope beyond hope – for the signal as the hours passed without event or sight. And it was, in the midnight hour, among bored and sleeping armed men, that they nearly missed it – or otherwise did not believe what they were seeing – when word was given. For it was there, silhouetted in contrast against the cold blue hued night sky, that they caught just a flicker of a figure upon the roof. Suddenly hand signals were sent up the line and the sound of cocking rifles and the flutter of uncovering equipment began.
Above, the cloaked figure unlatched his bullwhip from his left hip. The quiet of the winter night was rented by a snap and crack as the brown leather tendril wrapped tightly a slender chimney. The youth pulled the whip taut to make sure it was secure. Then, turning his back and gripping the handle, he slowly climbed down the retaining wall backward, propelled slowly down the front of Harewood House. He was careful to avoid the windows of the servants' rooms in the attics as he walked down. The leather whip stretched elastically like a bungee cord as the youth pulled in resistance. The unique material it was made from, with its elastic core, had come in handy as a secondary weapon for the young swordsman as a way to catch an enemy, pull them close, and control their movements. Now, as a climbing and scaling rope, the youth was cautious to keep his weight on it, least he be yanked up and thrown.
Only a few feet from the second-floor balcony, at the ledge to the doorway, the youth flicked his wrist and yanked. There was barely a sound when he landed in a crouch at the center of the balcony, the whip uncoiled and hanging over the railing as it fell limply. Immediately, he noticed a lamp light inside and heard noises from within. Distractedly, the hooded avenger coiled his whip as he cautiously approached the French doors. Crouching low, he peered inside to see what the commotion was. There his eyes narrowed at the creaking squeaks of what sounded like someone jumping on the bed.
He immediately flinched and darted for cover when he saw the figure of a female standing right on the other side of the glass doors. When he glanced over again, more cautiously, he made out the outline of an old woman. She was slender, graceful in baring, with just a pooched belly of old age under a violet robe of silk that was half opened to just tease a wrinkled smooth pale nude body and sagging cleavage. Queen Mary of Teck still had her hair done up in a large bun with an ornate pearly decorative clip for the ball. She was saying something that the youth could not make out over the squeaking bed and grunting noise that was getting louder. The old queen was in the middle of fixing herself a drink of alcohol, cigarette in her mouth – its amber glow reflecting a gloss of sweat on her stern German countenance. When she was satisfied, Queen Mary walked back to her daughter's bed. The youth's gaze followed her till he saw something that tightened his chest and caused an explosion of anxiety.
Deeper into the bedroom, a bearded fat man with hair covering his chest and gut was nude as the day he was born. Laying back on the bed, his face was contorted in a grimace of pure ecstasy, sweat pouring down his face and matting his chest hair. Atop and astride him, the cloaked figure saw the ivory pale back of a slender woman with long tresses of unclasped silky chocolate fallen curls bounding up and down atop of her King-Emperor. Of her face he could not see, but her back was arched and slickened with sweat, the old king's hands slipping and sliding worshipfully all over her creamy ivory skin.
The youth made a shuttered anxious breath of haunted memories as the queen sauntered over to the two of them. The woman said something that the youth recognized as German. There was … not admiration, not even desire, but pure unadulterated obsession in the gaze of the old queen as she watched the darked haired woman ride her husband. She wanted her. Yet, it was not simply a sexual desire, not just a bodily want, but a need for the woman's very soul. She was both a golden treasure hoard and beautiful virgin to this insatiable dragon. There was a craze of lust and avarice in the former German Princess's eyes as she beheld the woman in the throes of sexual passion. The youth had seen that look before, not so long ago. It was the way that Mirada Pelham had beheld Sybbie, the madness of her degeneracy at the prospect that she might be taken away from her. Then, she had been perilous and deranged, driven to the lunacy that if she could no longer have Sybbie – body and soul – then no one could.
It was because of that look that he was now an Outlaw in his own home.
He watched with a sickness in his stomach as the old woman, with a feral look of desire, lifted her glass of alcohol and carefully poured a helping down the sweaty glistening collar bone of the woman. She tensed at the liquid that her queen watched with anticipation as the little stream of alcohol traveled down her chest and over breast. Then, with desire, the old woman leaned in and took a formed thick pink nipple in her mouth and sucked both sweat and port from it. The woman riding the King-Emperor let out a cry of surprised sensitive pleasure, arching and throwing her head back at the queen's suckling.
A rust-colored fingerless gauntlet immediately reached for his Atlantean blade in reflex from the trauma of memories. For just a moment, he was standing in the doorway of his Aunt Edith's bedroom at Brancaster Castle. Inside, a young girl – the girl he loved most in the world – lay broken and defeated. Her naked body had been lathered in sensual oils; her wrists tied to the headboard of a bed of silk. But above all, he remembered the death, the want of it, when she saw him standing there, the boy she loved, seeing her so defiled and sullied beyond salvage. She believed in that moment, in him seeing her that way, that he would never love her again - that no one could ever love her again. After what the cruel hag did to her that night and so many others, there was no life, no future, for her. That evil and vile woman had broken a beautiful loving soul, shattered her into a million pieces. But the most painful remained from what emerged from that wreckage. That girl of whom he loved most had betrayed him, named the boy who cut her free, who saved her life, who avenged her, a liar and outlaw.
A shallow breath was visible in the cold of the midnight hour, his hand placed to his heart – feeling it hammering in his chest – as he pressed his back against the masonry next to the doors. What degeneracy was to be found in that room, his fear and hatred of it in terrible memories, was not why he was here. In fact, it was the better part of a plan gone side-ways. No one was supposed to be in the room, they were supposed to be down in the ballroom with everyone else. But now with this … distraction, he could still achieve his objective. It would just take a bit more finesse. With a determined breath that frothed visibly, he convinced himself that this wasn't Brancaster. Inside that room wasn't Mirada Pelham, that naked beauty wasn't Sybbie, and the King and Queen were simply run of the mill pompous jack holes with a taste for deviancy – like every other royal he met. He needed to focus on what was important, why he was here …
To even the odds.
He peeled himself away from the wall and toward the balcony edge. Once more he uncoiled his whip and planted a foot onto the railing. With a snap and crack he coiled the end onto a protruding design above an adjacent window just under the maid's rooms in the attic. Climbing up and over, he leapt off the railing, giving a wide swing off the balcony. His trajectory looped about till he braced his legs just under the outer sill of the adjacent window with his boot soles. Slowly, with frothing grunts muffled behind scarf, he used his whip to scale up the stone till both his feet were planted firmly on the glass window of the adjacent room to the Princess's bedroom.
From within the room a large looming shadow was seen creeping slowly into the silhouette of a hooded figure. The voices and sex noises from the adjoining room drowned out the sharp ring of drawn steel from the milk glass blade with elegant runes of the Downfallen Kingdom that sparkled in the dim light - reflecting across the desk of the Earl's Dressing Room. For a short time, there was a rattle and click as the point of the Westernesse dagger slipped between the double panes and forced the latch up.
Then, carefully as he could, the youth jumped back. The force of the weight opened the double windows before he swung smoothly into the room on the momentum. With twist and pull, he freed his whip, letting it slap soundlessly out the window. After sheathing his dagger and once more coiling the tendril, the youth shut the windows quietly, before the occupants in the other room felt the chill in their … exertions. He kept an ear peeled for movement, focusing all his sense to the double doors to the left. In the meantime, he glared about the Earl's dressing room, finger arched under nose and gripping his chin thoughtfully. It was here somewhere …
The safe.
He had seen it on the construction schedule and noticed that it was something that was put in last minute – after the Royal visit was confirmed. If there was a special request by the King-Emperor to install a safe, it meant that he was carrying something important on him everywhere he went. Important enough to stick his pain-in-the-ass son-in-law with a hefty bill. And if they were that important – so much so that they could not be left at Windsor or Buckingham Palaces – then they were certainly worth looking at. By royal decree had this preening fat man with daddy issues driven the hooded figure from his home, and by royal decree would he force the German Tyrant to eat his own shit, so help him God.
The smell of dry walling and fresh paint lingered in the room. Acutely aware of the creaking bed, moaning, and baby talk in German echoing behind the closed door, the youth looked about the dressing room. He tapped and rapped lightly on the walls around the dresser, the headboard, and behind the writing desk. He sniffed, trying to find the source of the fresh paint and dry walling. He paused at a discarded saucer and cup of tea that lay on the dressing room desk. Out of instinct he grabbed the empty cup, making sure that it wasn't hot or even warm – a tell-tale sign that someone might come back for it. But when he lifted it up to his nose to sniff, his eyes narrowed to a glare. He immediately stuck his fingers into the cup, coating them with the residue. It was slick and slimy while he granulated and rubbed it. Lowering the scarf just a moment, he lifted them to his nose and sniffed again.
"Almonds …" The youth muttered suspiciously as the first twinge came that nothing was what it seemed tonight.
Almonds was not an ingredient found in any blend of tea … but its taste and smell was synonymous with something far more dangerous.
Placing the cup down, there was a heightened sense of alertness of the troubling discovery. Now cautiously did he continued to pace the room, following his nose to the new construction. And it was there that he paused at a painting on the wall. It was a watercolor scenery of a windmill on the Spanish plains – he'd find the irony of it all rather apt years after this night. Fingers slid and moved about the golden frame, feeling the dampness of the hunter green paint that bordered underneath it. Eventually, a small smirk touched his covered lips when he felt the secret latch. Like a door, the painting swung open to reveal a brand-new steel combination safe the size of a cubby. It wasn't large enough to hide immense riches of gold and silver. But it was big enough to set fire to an Empire with the ammunition hidden within.
However, at that very moment, it occurred to the youth that the noises from the other room had stopped. His head snapped unconsciously with trained alertness to the door when he felt the tremor of heavy footfalls approaching before he ever heard it. The light switched on to the dressing room with a bright glare that a hefty sized man with groomed beard and sweat soaked hair groaned under after the last hour in a darkened room. The smell of exertion and debouchment lingered in the must of his dressing robe he tied about himself. Time passed while he wandered deeper into the room in puzzlement. For a long pause he sighed in annoyance, glancing around, unsure where to go, his eyes transfixed on the painting of the windmill in confusion … then he remembered.
CLLLRRRACKT
"UGH!"
The old man let out a loud booming and angry noise of pain that echoed through the room. He immediately retreated, collapsing on the dressing room bed. Cursing under his breath, he grasped his foot and began rubbing it furiously. With a dark glare, he looked down at the floor and saw a turned over toy train and track that had been laid out. It was then that the grandfather of the owners found the doting and worshipful devotion of his daughter to her sons to be quite unacceptable. Where was discipline? Where was the pedigree? For a mother to be so absorbed by her affections was unbecoming of the royal house. He would have a word with that girl, teach her that she could not hope for her sons to become men if she treats them like dolls!
"What happened?!"
"That girl happened!"
"Did she kill you?"
"She might some day!"
"Well as long as it isn't tonight."
The King-Emperor bickered with a stern German accented voice in the other room as he lumbered to his feet. After a long-grumbled pause of annoyance with the mother of that troublesome girl, he walked over to the writing desk in the corner and snatched a newspaper off it. After reading the headline of Richard Carlisle's evening edition, he folded it under his arm, and moved away. Opening a side door into a watering closet, he shut it behind him. In all that time, rubbing and grumbling, the King-Emperor of an imperium of which the sun could not set did not realize one of his greatest foes was but a pace away.
The youth threw off the shadowy invisibility from the folds of his cloak and stepped back into the light. He first turned to Lord Lascelles restroom, before looking over his shoulder to Princess Mary's Bedroom – powerful with the scent of sweat, sex, and the growing odor of cigarette smoke. He figured that both restrooms were occupied, leaving the Queen alone in the bedroom. It was a small window, but he doubted that neither the "Royal Girl-Toy" nor the Queen was bound to wander inside as long as he didn't make noise. Thus, he once more stalked toward the painting and opened the latch door.
He bit his lip behind scarf covering, tilting his head, while he stared at the safe in thoughtful congress. He didn't know the combination, nor did he have the time and resources to crack it the traditional way he had been taught. He would have to guess the combination with some degree of education. Of everything the hard school of his adventures had impressed upon him, Mina Murray had always advised her assistant that people kept tokens and reminders close by, so they never forgot combinations of passwords. It was all … a-matter-of-recognizing-it.
The youth slowly looked over his shoulder onto the ground where the overturned toy train lay.
'7-2-23'
It was a date that was forever offered and rejected on the youth's social calendar. Yet, Princess Mary did not stop trying. It was George Lascelle's birthday, and since the dark avenger was five years old, she had been trying to get him to come to her son's parties. When the boy was younger there had been knock down drag out fights with his granny about such things. He did not like birthday parties – not even his own. He had always found other aristocratic children tiresome brats who endlessly showed off and talked without education of a world they considered themselves to have lived in. His family had tried to force him, so he ran away to his Grams. They tried to guilt him, so he was shameless. And finally, they tried to make him jealous by sending Sybbie and Marigold to show him their goody bags they came back with, of which he was sardonically unimpressed. However, his family had given up long before Princess Mary had.
Though there was no cache in having "The Comet" attend her child's birthday party, and it certainly wasn't fashionable by any standard of High-Society, the invite remained withstanding. Always had the Princess Royal felt rather deeply the isolation and tragedy of the youth, especially in the latter years of a close relationship and ties to the House of Grantham – especially with Tom Branson. Having deeply loved her own boys, of whom were of age with the youth, she often despaired at the thought of her children in similar circumstances. And, thus, the princess had felt it a kindness to ever leave the door open for the youth to enjoy any semblance of childhood normalcy that had been robbed from his life by circumstances beyond his control. It remained a generosity of which his mamma and the princess's own husband would forever oppose and resent with bitter jealousy.
He clenched his teeth and looked over his shoulder when the safe gave a heavy clank when he turned the latch. But when nothing stirred from the other room, he finished opening the steel door. Inside, were several boxes that were neatly piled atop of a giant manila satchel. It wasn't much of a surprise to find that in each box there remained the "State Jewelry" that the Queen wore at official occasions. Diamond studded chokers, flashing emerald earrings, yellow cut pearly egg necklaces – all of it worth the operating budget of a province of empire. Yet, even with riches undreamed at his fingertips, the youth took none of it. There were plenty of things that people could and have said about "The Comet". Rebel, traitor to his class and his House, free-trader, privateer, rabble-rouser, and brawler. But unlike the Queen of England of whom had a compulsive desire for things of beauty that did not belong to her – sundry, ornament, or Earl's daughter – the youth was no thief.
Showing a boyish disinterest in all things girly and feminine, the youth shoved aside the priceless royal jewelry with great annoyance and instead reached for the satchel. He unlooped the wire rope that closed the flap and glanced inside to see a collection of leather-bound folders in alphabetical organization. They seemed to be some sort of documents of state or contracts. Retrieving one – giving a quick flick of a glance to the occupied toilet door – he began scanning the document.
It was a royal decree that gave authorization to … he glanced up again at the bathroom with disturbance. He exchanged it with another and read. Then, another, and read. Intelligence Agencies, International Banks, Aristocratic Investors, all given executive autonomy by the Crown. Together they formed a secret alliance, an unanswerable and unregulated shadow council of colluding private entities married into government offices. The entire imperium's direction both militarily, financially, and diplomatically, taken over by a governing body of unelected heads of both finance, government, and peerage, that would operate out of the influence and circumvent not only Parliament but the people they deemed to rule. It was the beginning, the foundations, of what would be – in time - an iniquitous web and international cabal of whose titular name would forever live in infamy in the history of not just Britain but the world itself: "Special Executive for Counter-intelligence, Terrorism, Revenge and Extortion".
SPECTRE
"Dirty, fat, kraut, son of a bitch …" The boy said under his breath as he reviewed the latest document.
This was not what he came for, and it certainly wasn't what he had been expecting to uncover. Indeed, he had suddenly found himself far beyond the looking glass and into a mightily perilous realm of which he was completely over his head. He had only come to even the odds, to find something to use against the Royal House for leverage. What he found instead was a secret shadow initiative that threatened the rights and sovereignty of an entire empire and her citizens. And for a long moment, despite the danger of discovery, the boy froze at the sudden weight of the world that fell upon him.
Who was he supposed to go to with this? Who could he go to with this? Was there even anyone left? Or was he completely alone now? Was it all up to him? The loneliness and fear of a child overcame him in that anxious realization. Was he really all that was left? The last man standing out of his company and mentors? And it was in that moment of doubt that a young boy felt so deeply the loss of paternity. There really was no one left in his life that he could go to anymore.
Captain Quartermain had been decapitated in a fight to rescue Mina Murray from an arcane ritual of pure evil in the ruins of the Dark Lord's Temple within Sunken Westernesse. Mina had given her life to save her apprentice when he had been nearly killed in a duel defending her when Captain Quartermain and the rest of their company fell. Captain Nemo since the failed expedition and death of their company and many of his crew had fallen into darkness. He brooded endlessly within the impenetrable gloom of the silence of his underwater throne, caring nothing for the troubles of the empire that conquered his kingdom and murdered his loved ones long ago. The youth's own family had abandoned him, or worse, would condone the conspiracy as ardent monarchists. The sudden fear and isolation, the indecision, was nearly crippling to a child who suddenly found himself alone in a world that he did not fully understand. And it was not often that he thought of such things, but at that very moment his heart was overcome with a sorrowful avalanche of longing for what had been missing so fundamentally in his life for so long.
For it was, in his sudden evil plight, that a young boy yearned greatly for the comfort and assurance of a man he never knew, yet whose love he wished for with all his heart – his father, Matthew Crawley.
When he heard the restroom door to Princess Mary's bedroom open and close, he was compelled by training to move quickly. Opening each leather folder, he removed the documents within. After collecting the ones that were most damning into a good packet of decrees and authorizations, he folded them in half and stuffed them into his inner coat pocket. He placed everything back into the safe as they had been, losing time to make painstakingly sure that it looked as it had when he found it. There were voices coming from the bedroom when he grinded his teeth in cringe of the shutting safe door, looking over his shoulder to see a formed shadow of a tall woman on the floor just past the doorway. Giving a clicking spin of the safe dial and shutting the painting, the youth took the return of the unknown girl-toy as his cue to make himself scarce.
A fingerless gauntleted hand gripped tightly the latch to the window while the other unhooded his coiled whip when he heard the queen speak to her girl-toy in the other room.
"Ever since that night at Downton Abbey, I've wanted nothing more."
The hand remained unmoving in grip on the latch while, slowly, inch-by-inch, a hooded head turned toward the open door to reveal a shadow cross George Crawley's suddenly darkened countenance.
Interlude Music
"The Wee German Lairde" – Traditional Jacobite Song
Editorial Note
Due to my computer crapping out and having to switch over to my new one, in the transfer of files, I found a formerly thought lost two-part chapter that I've been working on through illness and extreme writers block to finish for the last few months.
This two-part interlude will be posted down here for now, but when I post the epilogue chapter of this story, they will be moved to be the new Chapters 16 and 17 while the Epilogue will be Chapter 20.
