'Not yet, sir. Gerald wanted to tell you first.'
'Tell Gerald to do whatever he needs to do to keep Brutus alive,' the old man said. 'But now to the real business at hand. You have a few more weeks before you leave for America. When you are not working with Silas, I want you to act as Hugo's tutor. He is ignorant of the world around him, so you will educate him in how we live. He has been given rooms to himself, as have his sisters. Eunice and Miss Melancholy will take care of the women; Hugo is your responsibility.'
'Yes, Father,' Nate replied reluctantly.
He had no wish to be anybody's nanny. He was still no closer to finding out the truth about Marcus's death, and with little time left before his departure, he had been planning a trip up to the Mourne Mountains to see where his brother had died. Now he would have to cart that ancient relic up there with him.
'Father, can I ask something?'
'What is it?'
'If Hugo really was a Patriarch, isn't he… couldn't he-?' Nate's nerve failed him for a moment, but then he tried again: 'Why did you let him live?'
His father exhaled noisily, staring down at the top of the desk for a few moments.
'That is none of your concern, boy'
Nate ground his teeth, struggling to contain his temper. Here he was, taking on the responsibilities of the Heir, and still he was being treated like a child.
'You will teach our honoured ancestor everything he needs to know to pass for a modern man,' Edgar went on. 'And bring him up to date on the history of the family. However… I do not want him knowing the full extent of the family's wealth just yet.
'He and his sisters hail from more turbulent times, when life was lived by the sword and empires were built by kings rather than trading companies. There may come a time when I choose to give him a role in our business, but first he must learn to understand modern politics and economics. Silas can assist you with whatever learning is beyond your limited expertise. But Hugo
'Do you understand what I am telling you?'
'Yes, Father,' Nate answered with the hint of a smile on his face. 'You're saying that Hugo must not discover America.'
XXI
'The hand has to come off or he'll die,' Gerald told their ancestor, and Nate got the impression that he had been telling the old man this for some time now. 'The flesh of his hand is dead and the decay is producing toxins that are poisoning his blood. It is only because of your brother's extraordinary powers of healing that he is not dead already. But that will not last. The same flesh that can manage such a remarkable recovery is also producing a remarkably powerful toxin. The hand must come off.'
Nate took his place at Gerald's side. He had aided his cousin in minor operations before, but never something so drastic. They waited at Brutus's bedside for Hugo to finish.
'If it must be done, then so be it,' Hugo said at last, in a choked voice. 'I can only hope that he will forgive me for allowing him to be crippled so. This sword-arm was the most feared in Ireland.'
He wiped his eyes and stood back, a look of abject misery on his face. Gerald waved to four waiting servants, and together they lifted the giant over onto the operating table. Hugo watched Gerald set out a number of blades on a side table.
'Don't worry' Gerald reassured him, his attention already focused on the job at hand. 'He won't feel a thing.'
A bottle of laudanum stood on the side table, in case Brutus should suddenly wake up. Gerald placed a bone- saw beside the other blades. Hugo put a hand to his mouth and hurried out of the room.
'It's true, what he said,' Gerald muttered to Nate as he tied a tourniquet around Brutus's arm. 'I finally found a mention of them – in just one book, a rare family journal from our own library. But our dear old ancestors were hard to find – almost as if they had been erased from history. They were a mongrel breed who came over with the Normans in eleven seventy to try and help Dermot MacMurrough – that disgraced King of Leinster – to win back his lands. In return, he promised them land of their own.' He swabbed Brutus's wrist with alcohol. 'MacMurrough couldn't deliver, but the Normans took what they could by force of arms anyway.
'The Wildensterns were among them. Brutus is said to have killed nearly a hundred men in one day of battle. He was unstoppable. They seized land south of Dublin and held onto it by sheer ferocity. Hugo was a master strategist, apparently; but he was merciless – a complete bloody tyrant. Anyone who spoke out against him had their tongue cut out. The same went for any other body parts that offended him. Nearly forty years after he moved in, some fanatical monk convinced everyone that Hugo was the devil himself and led the people in an uprising against him and his family. They tortured the four of them for days, buried them alive and then tried to destroy every trace of their existence. Nearly managed it too, by the looks of it. I've always thought the Wildensterns didn't get here for decades after that. The ancestors we know about must just have followed these valiant pioneers. It seems we have Hugo to thank for starting the family on the road to greatness.'
Gerald picked up a scalpel and prepared to make a cut just above Brutus's right hand.
'Oh, I almost forgot,' he said to Nate. 'Take a syringe and go and ask Hugo if we can take some of his blood. Our mighty friend here is going to lose quite a bit and hopefully we can use Hugo's to replace some of it.'
As Nate picked up a syringe, he watched Gerald press the scalpel into Brutus's flesh, drawing the first blood.
'I wouldn't want to be around when he wakes up and finds someone's chopped his hand off,' he observed.
'These are extraordinary times,' Gerald replied. 'Who knows? Perhaps it'll grow back.'
Hugo's education began the following morning. Nathaniel's new charge wanted some sword practice and Nate, who was fast becoming convinced that the house was full of rebel spies, was happy to oblige. It was clear that he would need to stay on his toes if he was to survive long enough to make his trip to America – or rather, to solve Marcus's murder and then flee to wherever he could escape his father's influence. Hugo would hardly be a challenging opponent, old and decrepit as he was, but every bit of practice helped. And besides, it was more fun than teaching history or politics.
Nate led the old man to the gymnasium, noticing that Hugo was steadier on his feet than he had been the day before. His movements were becoming more and more confident as time passed.
The first argument started over which swords they were going to use. Hugo immediately chose a hefty longsword, the weapon of his time. Nate refused, on the basis that the old man was far too weak to be swinging four and a half pounds of metal around. It would also require the use of a buckler – a small shield – and Nate doubted that Hugo would be able to even lift a longsword with one hand, let alone swing one.
The old Patriarch persisted in demanding a heavy sword, pointing first at a Scottish claymore, then a cleaver- like falchion, and then finally a six-foot two-handed sword, which sent Nathaniel into fits of laughter. He could barely hold that one up himself. Instead, Nate took down a pair of epees; light and blunt and ideal for training. He handed one to Hugo, who looked at the flimsy sword in disdain.
'Do people commonly fight with knitting needles in this new age?' he grunted.
'It's built to develop speed, not to chop horses in half,' Nate replied. 'Let's see what you remember.'
