Ancient Appetites (17 page)

'That's it, isn't it, boy?' he said softly. 'Let's just have a look and see what yev got there.'

It was a piece of rusty wire, wrapped around the axle joint where it met the wheel. It had probably got caught up out on the road somewhere. He tugged carefully and Flash flinched again and growled.

'It's all right there, lad,' Francie reassured it. ''S just a bit o' wire. Not to worry – we'll have it out in no time.'

Getting a better grip, he pulled the end out and, with tender movements, unwound the rusted wire. He could see where it had chafed against the engimal's metal skin. The last tangled length of wire grated against the wheel and Flash let out a sudden snarl, slamming Francie back against the wall. The boy winced as the back of his head whacked off the wood, but he didn't panic as the wheel crushed his torso against the wall. The wire had cut the crook of his index finger and he sucked on it, eyeing the machine. There were flecks of rust in the cut, and he stretched over and washed the finger in the water trough. He took his time doing it, determined to show he wasn't afraid of the engimal.

Flash did not release him, but it didn't lean any harder either. With its weight, it could have crushed his chest like a matchbox. Stroking the wheel that was pressed against his ribcage, he reached in and finished unwinding the offending wire, pulling it free.

'I'm sorry, I'm sorry. There now,' he said at last. 'How's that for yeh?'

The velocycle hesitated for a moment and then backed away. It made a noise that sounded like a mixture of apology and grudging appreciation. Francie stared at the magnificent machine with a hint of a smile on his face.

'You 'n' me,' he said breathlessly. 'We're goin' to be friends . . . aren't we?'

F
rancie met his father in the smoky atmosphere of McAuley's, a pub not far from the Wildenstern estate. This was the first time Shay had ever come up here to meet him. Francie sat on a stool at a rough wooden table beside his father, sipping on a pint of warm stout and wiping away the foamy moustache it left on his top lip.

'There'll be no more robbin' from nibbies and clodhoppers,' Shay was saying to him in a lowered voice. 'It's rich folk and nothin' else for me from now on. Absolutely deffiney – no more small-time. What's the point in robbin' from them as don't have a ha'penny worth takin', Francie? Sure it's these toffs' fault that we're thieves in the first place, yeh know what I mean? I wouldn't be such a gouger if I hadn't been oppressed since I was born.'

Francie listened quietly, wondering what his father wanted. He didn't point out that his mother had been born into the same circumstances as Shay, and was as saintly as any woman alive. Being poor didn't make you a thief. His ma had never stolen a thing in her life and she'd tried to teach Francie to be the same. There wasn't a hope of that with Shay around.

'We're goin' to be like that English fella from the stories,' his father was saying. 'Yeh know . . . the one who lived in the woods and robbed the rich to give to the poor. Wha' was 'is name?'

'King Arthur?' Francie suggested.

'Tha's the fella. King Arthur. Anyway, we're turnin' over a new leaf. From now on, we're goin' to be like him.'

'So are we goin' to be givin' to the poor, then, Da?' Francie asked sceptically.

'One leaf at a time, Francie.' Shay gave him a sly look. 'One leaf at a time.'

He was about to go on when an old man came over to them with a glass of stout in his hand. Placing it in front of Shay, the man slapped his shoulder and gave him a nod.

'Good on yer, son,' he muttered. 'Have one on me. It's about time the swells got what was comin' to 'em!'

Without another word, he turned and walked back to a group of men who were leaning against the worn wood of the bar. They looked over in Shay's direction and there were a few winks and some of the sideways nods of the heads that passed for a salute in this part of the country. Giving his son a smug look, Shay raised the glass to them. They raised theirs in return.

'What was all that about?' Francie asked.

'It's been goin' on for a few days,' Shay replied under his breath. 'Word must've got about in Fenian circles that I was in on the explosion in the cemetery. They think I'm startin' a revolution or somethin'. My arse! Still, it's good for a few pints, wha'?'

Francie felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. First his father blows a Wildenstern funeral to smithereens; now he was trying to pull the wool over the eyes of the Fenians. They wouldn't take kindly to being fooled – and there'd be hell to pay if any of them ended up in Kilmainham Gaol or the cellars of Dublin Castle because of his da's explosive cock-up. And then Shay leaned over, slipped an envelope into Francie's hand and explained what he wanted his son to do.

That was when Francie finally decided that his father was completely off his head.

Nathaniel hit the floor hard, landing on his back with Clancy gripping his arm and shoulder. Nate kicked the older man in the chest before the arm-lock came on, and wrenched his arm free, flipping back onto his feet and putting some distance between them. He was breathing hard, but Clancy was panting in short bursts and Nate knew there wasn't much left in him.

'You're losing your touch, old man,' he taunted his manservant.

'It's not lost just yet, sir.'

The servant closed on him again, jabbing with his left and then aiming a front kick at Nate's groin. Nate pivoted around it and landed a spectacular double roundhouse kick, striking Clancy's calf and then his ribs, winning a grunt of pain from his opponent. He had little time to enjoy it – as his foot pulled away, Clancy caught the ankle and rammed the heel of his hand into his master's sternum. The blow stopped Nate long enough for Clancy to sweep his other leg out from under him and send him crashing to the floor again.

'You've got to watch those high kicks, sir,' Clancy told him, bending forward and wincing as he rubbed his bruised ribs. 'You don't want to be standing on one foot for too long.'

They were in the family's gymnasium, sparring on the wooden floor, dressed only in loose trousers and undershirts. It was a room about the size of two tennis courts, with a high ceiling and small square windows along the very tops of the longer walls. Motes of dust floated in the shafts of late afternoon light that painted oblongs across the floor. Around the edges of the room was a wide range of training equipment for gymnastics, as well as for fencing and other fighting arts. A large selection of weapons lined the wall at one end.

'I'll have you winded before long,' Nate retorted.

'Not much good if you keep ending up on the floor, Master Nathaniel.'

Nate had sparred with Clancy since he was a boy, and he relaxed the master–servant formalities while they were fighting. It was no fun having an opponent who did whatever he was told. They had both outgrown their various instructors and Clancy had proved himself useful as an all-round coach. Indentured into the service of the Wildensterns as a child, the footman had been training in these skills for most of his life.

'I'm out of practice,' Nate breathed as he got to his feet. 'Didn't get much while I was away. One more round?'

'I am at your disposal, sir.' Clancy took up a defensive stance.

They were about to go at it again when Silas walked through the door. With his thin frame, his mop of dark hair and his pale skin, he was an older, less flamboyant version of his brother Gerald. Silas shared much of his little brother's intellect, but none of his imagination. It made him the perfect choice for the position of Edgar's private secretary and one of the family's chief accountants.

'Nate, you were supposed to be up in my office half an hour ago,' he said stiffly. 'Your father told me to run over the books with you.'

'I don't want to run over the bloody books,' Nathaniel answered back, relaxing his stance for a minute. 'The books can take a flying bloody leap for all I care.'

'And what should I tell the Duke?' Silas regarded him with an expectant expression. 'He'll doubtless want to know why the accounts are taking a flying leap. You know how he pays attention to these things.'

Nathaniel swore under his breath. He glanced at his manservant.

'What?' he snapped. 'I know you were going to say something.'

'I wouldn't presume to comment on your affairs, sir,' Clancy said.

Nate made to turn away, but the footman continued:

'After all, this is
your
business, sir. And I'm sure you'd want to keep it that way – seeing as you are so determined to be your own master, sir.'

There was a barely perceptible raise of his eyebrow. Nate stared back at him, grinding his teeth. There were times when he could swear his manservant was attempting some kind of hypnosis with these coded messages of his. Sometimes it wasn't clear who was really in charge.

'Tomorrow,' he said, turning to Silas at last. 'I'll take a look at the books tomorrow . . . after breakfast. How's that?'

'Splendid,' Silas replied. 'I'll have them waiting.'

He strode back out, closing the door behind him. Nate sighed, picturing the pile of leather-bound ledgers with their columns upon columns of figures. If there was a hell on Earth, he was sure that accountancy was involved somehow. Bouncing on his toes, he raised his guard and nodded to Clancy.

'Right, now I'm really going to trounce you.'

Neither had time to land a blow before Gerald burst through the door, sweating and dishevelled.

'They—!' he gasped, then ran out of breath and started coughing, holding up his hand for them to wait for him to finish.

Nate and his footman stood there as Gerald got over his coughing fit and tried to catch his breath.

'Couldn't wait . . . for the . . . elevator,' he explained in panting breaths. 'Ran down . . . the stairs.'

Nate worked it out. His cousin had obviously run full-tilt down fourteen flights of stairs and crossed from the other side of the huge building. No wonder he was out of breath.

'They're awake!' Gerald managed at last. 'They're talking!'

He didn't need to say who.

'Well, then,' Nate replied, picking up his shirt. 'Let's go meet the ancestors.'

He charged out of the door, dragging Gerald with him, and together they ran back up to the laboratory.

By the time they reached it, Gerald was staggering forward on rubbery legs, wheezing like an old woman. Nate didn't care what the doctors claimed, there was no way smoking could be good for the heart or lungs. They pushed through the door to find the room shrouded in a gloomy light, the sun having passed to the far side of the building. The lamps had yet to be lit. Sitting on a bed in the corner was a hunched figure, being supported by an uneasy-looking young footman. The figure looked frail and cold; shivering despite the blankets wrapped round his shoulders. With an achingly stiff movement, the man turned his head to look at them.

Nathaniel found himself staring into the grey, filmy eyes of a man who had once been a corpse.

'My God!' he whispered.

Gerald pushed him forward and together they approached the huddled old man. Despite his frail state, he looked extraordinarily well. His skin was dry and creased with wrinkles, but it was no longer the colour of the peat bog; blue veins were visible beneath, and bone and muscle had redeveloped to the point where he could move by himself to a small degree. His eyes were clearly working – they moved about, trying to focus on the faces around him; however, Nate doubted that the old man could see very well. It was a noble-looking face; long, with high cheekbones and a prominent brow over a narrow, hooked nose. His hair was a bleached brown, but there was an inch of black at the roots. His original hair colour was growing back.

'He said his name is Hugo,' Gerald said in a low voice. 'I haven't been able to get much sense out of him though. He's very confused – as you'd expect from someone who's been dead for centuries. The two women are awake too, but they've just been lying there babbling so far.'

Nate looked over at them, lying in their beds. He could see that their eyes were open and their lips were moving, their heads rolling weakly from side to side. The second man still lay unconscious, the slight rise and fall of his chest the only sign that he too was alive.

'Elizabeth,' the old man said abruptly in a feeble rasping voice, reaching out for the black-haired woman in the bed next to his. 'Oh, what have they done to thee? What have the beasts done?'

Nate caught him before he fell forward and gently pushed him upright. The woman turned her head and looked in the direction of the voice, mumbling incoherently.

'Do you know who this is?' Nate asked him.

'It is Elizabeth, my sister.' Hugo gestured to her with his hand. 'Is she dying?'

'Quite the opposite, in fact,' Gerald told him. 'She is . . .You are
all
making miraculous recoveries. There are four of you altogether. Can you tell us anything about the others? Can you tell us what happened to you?'

Hugo looked round at the other beds, his underdeveloped eyes squinting at the shapes.

'There is a red-haired woman and another man . . . a huge man,' Nate prompted him.

'Brunhilde . . . my younger sister,' Hugo gasped. 'And Brutus, my brother. Ahhh, Brutus . . . they hated him most of all. What a warrior he was! He fought like a lion before he was overcome! He must have cut down a dozen of the vermin – no . . . more. He was like a mighty lion.'

It was the longest speech he had uttered so far and it seemed to leave him exhausted. Gerald and Nathaniel looked at each other.

'Can you remember who attacked you?' Nate pressed the ancient man. 'You were found with gold stuffed down your throat. Can you tell us what happened?'

'Peasants,' Hugo spat, his face screwing up with hatred. 'Heretic peasants led by a mad monk. We were betrayed by our guards and by our servants. They came in the night like rats and took us in our beds.'

'Some things never change,' Gerald quipped, taking out his cigarette case.

Hugo's hand went to his throat as he struggled to remember. 'I . . . I fought, but the cowards had taken my sword. I was held down . . . Some of them wanted to burn us. Then the monk . . .' His voice drifted off. 'The monk said we should go into the ground. But not before they had made us suffer.'

He went quiet for a moment, tired and out of breath. His head hung as if his mind was lost in the moment of his death, centuries ago.

'We all cursed them; we showed no fear of the vermin,' he continued in his weak rasp. 'Brunhilde bit the nose off one of them, and we laughed at them then! But they hurt us . . . for days they put us through pain.' He paused, lifting his head. 'And then they threw us into deep holes and tossed soil on our faces.' He went silent again. 'And now we are alive again. Truly we have been blessed with a miracle. Only God himself could have done such a thing.'