Absolute Honour (29 page)

His hair, hard to tame at the best of times, hung in knotted black shanks down his pale face, and there were purple bruises
beneath his eyes. Sighing, he turned again to the water he had not yet drunk, washed again, found his
comb and did what he could with his hair, tying it back. Then he sought out his best clothes, the ensemble he’d worn at the
opera. There was no need to don the wig. But he would look as well as he could when he faced his inquisitors.

They came within the hour. Two remained outside the door.

‘Good morrow to you, me boy,’ Red Hugh said as he strode in. Jack saw that, like himself, the Irishman had been about his
toilet. Gone was the beard, the black garb. Though his hair was not the red cascade it had been and he sported a wig, his
clothes were once more the beautifully pressed display Jack had so envied aboard the
Sweet Eliza.
‘Are ye well there?’

‘Well enough. And ready.’

‘For what.’

‘For whatever it is you intend to do to me.’

Red Hugh sat on one of the two chairs that faced each other, the table between. He produced a flask from one pocket, two small
glasses from another. Extracting the cork with his teeth, he began to pour, speaking around the obstacle. ‘And what is it
you think I intend, dear heart? Come over, have a drink and tell me.’

Jack did not move. ‘I am your enemy. I presume you want information from me.’

The cork was laid down. ‘You are my friend, Jack, one who spared my life. Our differences in politics, well …’ He shrugged.
‘And there is nothing you have that I do not already know.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Well, let me see.’ Red Hugh leaned back on the chair legs, still holding out one of the glasses. ‘Come and sit; let us consider
the matter.’

Jack came. He did not want to drink with this man. He wanted to kill him. But since that was plainly impossible for
the moment and since, despite the reassurance, Jack was convinced that torture was but a few moments away, he might as well
take a drink. It might help dull the pain that was coming.

He sat.
‘Slainte,’
said Red Hugh, knocking back the glass, immediately pouring another. ‘I hate to tell you this – and I hope you won’t feel
too bad about it – but I already know it all.’ He held up a fist, counted out the fingers. ‘Your scoutmaster in England is
Colonel Turnville. You do not know the one here, they would not have trusted you with that information. Am I not right?’

Jack shrugged.

‘Ah, lad.’ Eyes sparkled at him, a finger went up. ‘He communicates via the tree on Monte Pinchio. We read the messages first,
as we do your replies. Which reminds me …’ He fished again into the seemingly bottomless pockets, extracted the copy of Herodotus
and placed it on the table. ‘It’s always Herodotus or bloody Virgil. All you classical-inclined Englishmen! You should tell
’em to show a little more imagination. Sure, there are some fine Irish writers they could use. Still,’ he patted the volume,
‘they’ll be bound to change their crib since your capture so you may have this. Should distract you in the time you have ahead.’

‘My final hours?’

Red Hugh laughed. ‘I know you have a low opinion of me, lad. But do you really think, after all we’ve been through, that I’d
be so unfriendly as to torture and then kill you?’

Jack bit back the retort that came on a surge of anger. Anger was not what he needed here. ‘So what is to become of me?’ he
said.

‘I wish, me boy, that I could say you were free to go. We both know that is not going to happen. Nor can I tell you how long
you must remain here. But I can tell you that your stay will not be too onerous, howsoever long. I could not, in
all conscience, spend Jacobite gold on your hospitality. But it seems only right that what was extracted from the cloak you
tried to snare me with should provide you with a little comfort to start you off. And for the rest of the time, if you would
just sign this paper …’ From within his jacket, a piece of parchment was pulled out, unfolded and set down alongside a quill
and ink pot.

‘What’s this? My confession? I wouldn’t sign one for Turnville and I’ll be damned if I sign one for you!’

Red Hugh shook his head. ‘Read.’

Jack read to himself.

I, Jack Absolute, do hereby relinquish all my shares and disbursements in the
Robuste,
captured in the late action against the
Sweet Eliza
and give them, without let or hindrance, to Hugh Patrick Fergal McClune of Broad Street, Bristol. I state that there has been
no coercion in this assignment and is in return only for services rendered by the aforementioned Hugh McClune, Esq.

He looked up. ‘No coercion?’

The Irishman shrugged. ‘None. You must stay a prisoner, Jack. It’s your choice if you do it at my expense, for which you will
reimburse me, or … well, there are other places that are far less comfortable, I can assure you.’

‘I’m sure you’d know,’ muttered Jack, reaching for the quill, dipping it into the well, signing. He had no choice. He had
been in an English cell and it was a hole. He suspected that an Italian one would be far worse.

Red Hugh leaned forward with an approving grin. ‘Now date it, there’s the thing. Marvellous! You won’t regret it.’ He blew
on the ink, waved the parchment in the air. ‘Not sure when I’ll make it to Bristol but …’

Jack swirled the contents of his glass, then drained it. ‘And you cannot tell me how long I am to be imprisoned?’

‘Alas, I cannot. Who knows where the Cause will take me now?’

‘Back to England to kill the King?’

‘I think not. That was merely a piece of opportunism when I heard of his forthcoming visit to Bath. Besides, kill one Hanoverian,
there’s always another nearby to place his fat Teutonic arse on the throne.’ His eyes focused above Jack. ‘You know, I’ve
always dreamed of doing something that would not just shake the throne but pull it down entirely. Something … spectacular.’
His gaze returned. ‘I’ve got a few thoughts on it, and must be about them now.’ He smiled. ‘But don’t you fear, I’m always
back in Rome every two or three years.’

Jack could not help the gasp that came. ‘You would hold me for three years?’

‘It’s not so long, for a youth like yourself. Wasn’t I prisoner to the Turks for as long? And in conditions far removed from
these, I’ll be telling you.’ His hand came to rest on Jack’s arm. ‘For your gold will buy you wine and good food, and the
guards have instructions to bring you whatever you like.’ He winked. ‘I’ve warned them of your appetites, my boy. Good clean
girls will be provided and changed as often as your linen.’

Jack stared back, revolted. Coldly, he said, ‘I think I have had enough dealings with whores, don’t you?’

It was the first blow he’d landed on the Irishman and he saw him wince. ‘Now, Jack, you wrong her. You—’

Jack shook his head. His anger, so banked down but always present, came out now. ‘Your own cousin,’ he spat. ‘How could you?
Did you give no thought at all to the honour of a man you said was your friend but that you could lead to a trough where you
had guzzled?’

Red Hugh stared back. Jack could see he had hurt him again. Anger and sorrow duelled on the man’s face. Both were mastered
– slowly, painfully – before he spoke. ‘I’ll tell
you something of my cousin, Absolute. She does what she does for greater reasons than you could ever comprehend.’

‘For the Cause?’ Jack’s voice was sharp with mockery. ‘What cause is it that can turn a girl into a whore and you into her
pander?’

He thought the Irishman was going to go for him then, saw his colour change, his hand drop to the sword at his side, almost
wished him to draw it. He knew he couldn’t take this man, not yet, but a part of him wanted just one more try, and he pushed
himself away from the table to give himself room.

Once more, Red Hugh controlled his temper. It took some deep breaths before the sword hilt was released and the Irishman rose
to his feet. ‘I know a little of what you are feeling,’ he said. ‘For I have felt such madness myself, born out of war and
killing, jealousy and betrayals, as you see them.’ He put a hand to the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes. For one insane
moment Jack was tempted to leap at him. Then the eyes opened again. ‘It was after one such time, only two years ago, that
I returned to my country half-crazed and there I met a beauty and a kindness I had not encountered in years.’ He shuddered.
‘I abused that kindness, took what I had no right to take, a sin that has sent me to the priests in search of a forgiveness
they can never grant, one that I can only strive to atone for in my own way.’ He leaned down, his voice now a whisper. ‘But
I assure you, boy, if you are tormented, then welcome to my circle of hell.’

He turned to the door, and Jack thought he’d go through it and that would be that. Instead, he paused, turned back. ‘Shall
I tell you something else, Jack Absolute, before I go? About my cousin? And Bath?’

Jack nodded.

‘The plot I laid against you there, with regard to her, I’d hoped to separate entirely from my political affairs. I simply
wanted to make amends to one I love and had sinned
against; and to make you truly appreciate one worth the appraisal. I thought to help you both to marry for love
and
money. Oh aye, Honourable Jack, for money has always to be a part of it when you are as poor as she is.’ He shook his head.
‘But I did not order her to seduce you in Bath. And she did not tell me or anyone of your approach to her in the church here
or of your rendezvous. Indeed, she slipped the guard I placed on her. For she needed you to know one thing at least – that
if you were betrayed, she was not the betrayer.’

Then he was gone, his footsteps reverberating down the stairs before the door was closed and bolted again. Jack was left to
his thoughts and, after only a short while, some tears.

It took three days to climb out of his despair, back to his anger. Three also to acquire the words he knew he’d need from
his little-used Italian grammar. When he was ready and the least taciturn of the guards, a fellow of about his own years,
came with his supper, he asked him. The man had a little English but he found Jack’s request hard to understand, immediately
presuming it was of the kind Red Hugh had said the young man would require.

‘Woman,’ he said, smiling lasciviously.
‘Il signor
want woman,
si?’

‘Woman, no,’ Jack replied. ‘Man.’

The guard looked surprised, then shrugged.
‘Uomo? Va bene.’

‘No, no! Signor, not … I need …’ Jack stepped closer, searching for the newly acquired words.
‘Il maestro … di spada.’
He made a gesture as if lunging with a sword. ‘For exercise, yes?’ He breathed deep, raised his arms beside him and shook
them.
‘Exercismo, si?’

Understanding came. ‘
Ah, capito. Exercismo! Con il spaddacino. Si!’

He turned to go but Jack halted him.
‘Molto importante,’
he said.
‘Il maestro sinistra. Capiche? Sinistra.’

The man nodded, understanding the request if not its reason. ‘
Ah, si, si, capito!’

Glad you do, thought Jack, as the door closed. For what I need most in the world is a left-handed fencing master.

Desperately Jack flung himself back, his feet pumping to drive him away, the speed of them the only thing keeping the sword
point from his chest. His own blade – though he moved it frantically – was almost useless. He’d allowed the man to get close
in again; once there, he was rarely dislodged without striking.

Sucking in his chest, he lunged back, bringing his blade up almost horizontal to his body and jerking his wrist hard right.
The threatening point of his opponent went outwards, just enough. Coming
en garde
again in
sixte,
Jack maintained contact, held his opponent’s weapon there. The man halted, and Jack’s other hand reached back for balance
– and encountered wallpaper.

Damn the fellow, Jack thought, breathing deep, watching the man’s eyes. A flick of them, signalling renewal, and he’d have
to find something else, though it was hard to think what. In the eternity of the previous ten seconds he’d driven all the
way across the room, had the Italian almost as cramped as he was now … and then, somehow he’d given it all away, failed to
make that final thrust, been driven all the way back.

‘So,’ the man said, slowly disengaging his blade. He walked back to the centre of the room. ‘Again.’

Jack came forward, wiping the sweat onto his sleeve. It was hot work anyway, but early summer had brought back the intense
Roman heat he’d almost forgotten through the long winter and chill spring.

He saluted, came
en garde.
Immediately the master took one step back. For months now Ubaldi had done thus, compelling Jack to attack. This was done
at Jack’s request, for he knew that if he ever again crossed swords with the man who’d incarcerated him there, he would have
to be the one to take the initiative. But it was hard always to act first, not react. It was also the lesson he needed to
learn. Twice now the Irishman had taken him, easily. It could not happen a third time.

The pace back signalled something else. Ever since Jack had told
il maestro
that the man he sought had trained in the French school, the Italian’s national pride had been stirred. It was the only time
Jack had seen him expressive about anything, explaining and demonstrating how the French liked to stay out of distance, picking
off their opponents as they came in, or exploding in a sudden charge and lunge. The Italian way – the superior way, Jack was
assured – was to get in close and let wrist, blade, speed and sudden changes of tempo do the work: stop him getting to you,
close in and kill. With his step back, Ubaldi was once again assuming the French – the Irish – role.

Jack waited till his breath was close to normal. Then he stepped a pace right, assuming the position he must have if he was
to take a man with a sword in his left hand – for that man, used to fighting right handers, delighted in keeping them square
on and open. The right hander, to have any hope, had to deny him that advantage. He was ready to attack, yet he waited. In
the first months of tutelage, with the impetuosity of his years, he’d gone at it hard and immediate.
And he’d been punished, not only in a swift riposte against him, but in the manner of it, the steel of even these blunted
small swords whipped hard against the over-extended arm, the foolishly exposed shoulder or breast. In those months Jack’s
body had been a tapestry of blue and yellow bruises. Not so lately.
Il maestro
hit him, of course, but less often and only direct. The need to punish foolishness had passed with the snow.