– Anonymous
SIR HENRY WALLACE, IN HIS GUISE AS THE ELDERLY PRIEST, hobbled slowly across Threadneedle Street. He paused a moment in a doorway, leaning on his cane, pretending to rest as he watched the commotion outside the Four Clovers. The constables arrived with much blowing of whistles and a great show of energy. They promptly arrested several people who had nothing to do with the affair, including the two gentlemen who had been attempting to revive the fainting ladies, and the serving girl who had crashed into Rodrigo on the grounds that she had helped the miscreants escape. The crowd lingered in hopes of seeing the body and eventually the constables emerged from the cafe bearing the corpse on a shutter. Although his face had been decently covered with a handkerchief, Sir Henry recognized James Harrington. He watched impassively as they carted his dead agent away, most likely to a pauper’s grave, since he had little money and no one would claim the body. Certainly not Sir Henry, who pronounced James Harrington’s epithet.
“Bloody fool!”
Sir Henry had entered the Four Clovers that day in a good mood. Alcazar’s brother’s ship, the Silver Raven, was due to sail into port tomorrow. He and the journeyman could at last leave Westfirth. Sir Henry had heard from one of his underworld contacts that inquiries were suddenly being made around Westfirth regarding a man named Sir Henry Wallace. A well-dressed, well-spoken, handsome young man and a former mob enforcer were both looking for Wallace.
Henry had no idea who these people were-agents of the countess, agents of the grand bishop? It didn’t much matter. He cursed Harrington, whose stupidity had set the hounds on his trail. He did not think they would be able to find him, for he had taken excellent precautions, but his good mood had evaporated.
Henry waited a moment hoping to see if the constables were going to arrest Captain de Guichen. He did not see them hauling the captain away, and he thus gathered gloomily that the captain had escaped.
Sir Henry resumed his walk. He hobbled down the street until he found a small, neighborhood church and went inside. The church was empty except for two old women in black shawls who were lighting candles for the dead. Both made a reverence to the elderly priest as they passed him on their way down the aisle and out the door. He waited until they were gone, then sat down in a pew near an open window and fished out the folded letter sent to him by Sloan.
Sloan’s handwriting, usually so neat and precise, was in some places almost illegible.
My lord, I run the very great risk of writing to you, which I would never do were the matter not of the greatest importance. A dire and most terrible event has occurred. Before I relate the circumstances, I want to assure you that your lady wife and unborn child are both safe. By the grace of God, the family was not in residence. Your lady wife, feeling lonely in your absence, decided on a whim to accept the long-standing invitation of Her Majesty the Queen to return to court for her lying-in. If she had not made this sudden decision, I would not be writing this to you. I would be dead.
As it was, I traveled with your lady wife to court. Seeing her safely settled in the palace with every comfort, I returned to the manor alone. I arrived before dawn to find a horrific sight. The roof of the manor house was ablaze. The exterior walls were charred and blackened as though they had been struck by cannon fire, which was what I first thought had occurred. And then I beheld the real cause-demonic looking creatures with eyes of orange flame riding on gigantic bats, hurling green fire at the walls. (The words “green fire” had been heavily underscored.)
My horse was crazed with terror and nearly threw me from the saddle. I managed to regain control and rode into the woods before the creatures saw me. I remained in hiding, watching, until the bats and their riders left with the rising of the sun.
Once I was certain the attackers were gone, I rode to the manor house to see if there was anyone who could tell me what had transpired. I am not a squeamish man, having seen much in the service of my country. Yet the horrible sight that met my eyes nearly caused me to lose my senses. The people who had not died in the fire had been slaughtered in a most gruesome manner. I found limbs and even heads scattered about the blood-soaked grass. The bats had torn apart the bodies and undoubtedly devoured them.
We were fortunate, my lord, that there has not been much rain and that the grass was dry. I helped the flames spread and saw to it that the fire consumed the bodies and wiped out all traces of the true nature of the attack.
News spread quickly, however. Everyone in the village had seen the flames and smoke and rushed to view the destruction. I rode swiftly to Haever to apprise your lady wife and Her Majesty of what had occurred before they heard any wild rumors. Though I pleaded ignorance as to the attackers, I hinted at the Rosians. Her Majesty is already blaming them, and there is talk of war.
Finally, I paid a call upon your former associate. You will know of whom I speak and also why I mention her in connection with this tragedy. Her house is still as it was eight years ago-closed, empty, vacant. I made discreet inquiries and learned that a young associate of hers, a depraved young man of about seventeen, who calls himself the Warlock and is wanted in connection with a string of gruesome murders, is known to be in Westfirth and is making inquiries regarding you. I urge you to take precautions, my lord. (That was also underlined.)
I await your orders.
Franklin Sloan.
The letter slipped from Sir Henry’s nerveless fingers. Sweat broke out on his neck and chest. He stared, unseeing, into the chancel. His first thoughts were of his wife and child and he found himself trembling at the thought of how narrowly they had escaped a horrible death. Sir Henry muttered a heartfelt prayer of thanks and then, chastising himself for his weakness, pulled himself together and began to think about the incident coldly and rationally. What did this portend? Who had attacked him? He discounted Sloan’s incredible tale of demons. The man had ridden all night. He’d been short on sleep. Sloan’s final paragraph at the end of the letter hinted at an answer-a very disturbing answer.
Ten years ago, Sir Henry had met an extremely attractive and mysterious woman named Eiddwen, a Trundler name, though she was not a Trundler. With her blue-black hair, gold-flecked black eyes, and olive complexion tinged with dusky rose, she appeared to be of Bruond extraction. An orphan raised by nuns in a Freyan orphanage, she did not know her parents. Judging by her way of shrugging off the matter, she did not care to know them. She had been given her name by the nuns, who told her that Eiddwen meant “blessed” or “holy.” She had no surname.
“I am a child of every man,” she said. She always smiled when she said it, but by the arch in her black brows and the shimmer of the golden flecks in her eyes, she was more than half serious.
Sir Henry was introduced to Eiddwen at the hunting lodge of the Baron of Gahllendale, Lord Brobeaton, during the shooting season. Like many single young women of no family and no means, Eiddwen was serving as a hired companion to the baron’s mother, an elderly woman confined to her wheeled chair. The old woman had been passionately fond of hunting in her youth and though she could no longer ride to the hounds, she enjoyed listening to the horn calls and the baying of the dogs and reliving her most memorable moments. Eiddwen’s duties were light; she read to the old lady, pushed her about the garden in her wheeled chair, and listened patiently to her tales.
The baron had invited a great many guests to his lodge and the men were united in their opinion that Eiddwen was one of the most beautiful women they had ever seen. The women were united in their jealousy of her, but that soon faded. The twenty-six-year-old young woman was not flirtatious. She evinced no interest in “catching” a rich husband, nor was she prone to stealing the husbands of others. Men and women alike thought her too severe, too serious-minded. Some proclaimed her “dull.”
Eiddwen’s clothes suited her station in life. Her dress was simply cut of black, serviceable cloth, with tight sleeves to the wrist, a form-fitting bodice that buttoned from the waist to the neck unrelieved by even a hint of lace, and a long skirt that fell from the V-shaped bodice. Her plain attire served to emphasize her striking appearance.
Eiddwen did not “do” her hair, for she had no ladies’ maid. She twisted it in a chignon. During the day, long tendrils of black curls would often escape from their captivity and twine down her long, slender neck. Her only adornment was a slender golden chain she wore around her neck from which hung some sort of pendant that appeared to be a sea-going knot done in gold. She termed it a good luck charm.
Eiddwen was not a flirt, but she did have the ability to fascinate, and Sir Henry found himself fascinated. He was, at the time, unmarried. He was considered an eligible catch, and he was prepared to be caught by Eiddwen, for he was rich and powerful enough to overlook the fact that she had no family and no money. He was pleased to find out that she was interested in him, then astonished to discover that her interest had nothing to do with
