I intend to post draft copies of my work here for my fans to comment, and will remove all but the first chapter when I publish. All rights reserved, no copying of any portion of my writing without permission. Copyright Sarah J Waldock.
Chapter 1
Julian Ravenscar was not drunk. Not even bosky. Maybe a little mellow, or well to live. Therefore, when driving towards his country house after a ball he had escaped from shortly after midnight, he was certain that he was not dreaming to see a slender figure descending from an upper storey of a house on the outskirts of the city. A figure which he was not too drunk to guess was female, even if it was in male garb.
The house was a messuage, surrounded by a stone wall, but one side of the wall was partly taken by the side of the house, a blank, windowless wall save for a tiny window in the gable up under the roof.
The rope was not long enough.
Julian drew his gig to a halt, and got out.
“I don’t think you’re a burglar, young lady, and if you are eloping, your swain has deserted you. But if you would care to drop, I will catch you, and then, you will owe me a story whilst I drive you to wherever you want to go.”
There was a soft gasp, and then the figure dropped. Julian caught her securely and set her down. She was trembling violently.
“I hate heights,” she said.
“Then I salute your bravery, if not your common sense,” he said. “Have you luggage?”
“There should be a bag I dropped; it’s not much but it’s all I could muster.” Her speech was educated, well-modulated; she was plainly reared as a lady. Julian saw the shadow of the bag and picked it up, and slung it under the seat. He climbed back into his gig, to extend a helping hand. She climbed up behind him, and he clicked his tongue to the horses to walk on.
“I’m not mad,” she said, defensively. “At least, I don’t think so; not now the laudanum and the red mushrooms have worn off.”
“Well, that’s an intriguing opening,” said Julian. “My name’s Ravenscar; Julian, Viscount Ravenscar. And as you gasp, I see you know the name.”
“You have a certain reputation, my lord,” she said. “But somehow, I expected you to be dark and brooding, maybe with a duelling scar, not to look as if you walked out of a depiction of a Botticelli angel.”
He laughed.
“Oh, now I have to take that as an honest assessment, though I assure you, I’m anything but angelic. I do have a duelling scar, but I never show it on first acquaintance. You see, it’s underneath me when I am seated. Not romantic at all.”
“But probably very painful.”
“Oh, it was. I was a stupid young chub and hot-headed and my opponent was kind enough to merely chastise me at, as he said, the seat of my idiocy. It was a stupid duel for a stupid reason, and I lived to thank him for his forebearance. I don’t usually tell people that, though, but a confidence for a big confidence. What is your name?”
“Anne Bonnet,” she said, defiantly.
He lifted an eyebrow.
“You don’t seem very piratical.”
“Not Bonnie; Bonnet, with a French pronunciation. My father’s father got out from the Revolution before it got too bad and managed to transfer a good part of his fortune as well, to use as a startup stake in his new land. He invested in industry. I’m an heiress, which is why all this came about. When my parents died in a coaching accident, I was at school, and I found myself withdrawn at the end of the term to live with my mother’s brother and his wife. Uncle Thomas and Aunt Amelia. And at first, I was pampered, which was not what I was used to, not allowed to lift a hand, a stifling sort of life, but I did not complain, I thought it was their way of displaying grief, and it would have seemed ungrateful. Then, one night, my hot chocolate was a little bitter, and I woke, cold, in a garret with an old dress my only thing bar a thin nightgown, being chivvied into working to scrub the floor and stop my foolish delusions that I was someone. Well, I worked hard, trying to make sense of what was happening; and this… alternated. And some days, I had strange waking dreams, which my aunt later admitted was applications of that red toadstool with white spots. And apparently, I started undressing in front of the vicar and other upright citizens, and so I was committed. The house I left was a private lunatic asylum for troubled girls; and some of them are, but I think there are others like me who have been put away for their inheritance.”
“The devil!” said Julian. “I believe you; it was desperation driving you to escape.”
“I’m afraid that if I spend too much time with other mad people, I will also go insane,” said Anne.
“Yes, quite,” said Julian. “Would you like to be my mistress?”
“I don’t know,” said Anne. “I don’t know you well enough to consider whether it would be worthwhile throwing up my reputation for you; though I suppose my reputation is in tatters already because of my supposed madness.”
“Which proves you more level headed than most of the population,” said Julian. “And most young women would have said ‘yes’ without thinking. I am going to do what I can to help you, because I’m impressed by your bravery and dignity about the whole affair. but I am not sure where to start, and moreover, I am not entirely sober. How did you escape?”
“I made myself be passive, and just sit, until they stopped watching me,” said Anne. “I shared a room with another girl, in a huge four-poster bed. She’s an arsonist, which was nervous, so a lot of my passivity was dozing, so I could be awake at night to watch her. We are… were… kept on a low dose of laudanum, but I managed to switch out the contents in the bottle for our room with water, and I gave Jenny a heavy dose whilst I had none on some nights, so I could investigate the room. The window is over the garden, but I climbed on top of the tester canopy, and the roof was beams and plaster. And I spent time cutting away the plaster with the edge of the coal shovel, which I sharpened on the fire surround. When I had a hole big enough to crawl through, I found it went into the attic, and there are trunks and trunks, belonging to years and years of girls and women. And the window overlooked the street. So, I constructed a rope from what old linens I found in the attic, working at night. Fortunately, Jenny is also stupid. She noticed nothing. And the ceiling is dirty enough not to show a hole near the wall.”
“You’re enterprising. I take it you found your rather old fashioned male attire up there?”
“Yes, it was what gave me the idea. I did not think I could climb a rope in a gown. I stuffed a few into my bag, and underlinen, but I don’t have much.”
“Where were you planning to go?”
“Well, to be honest, I had not got that far,” admitted Anne. “I found a pipe – for playing, not smoking – in one trunk, and I thought that I might go into the city and beg, with music, and raise enough to eat. It’s not very satisfactory as plans go, is it?”
“It’s a start, if nothing else, and you would be free, which is better than otherwise,” said Julian. “However, for now, you are coming to my house, where you can recover your sangfroid, and we can plot.”
“Why are you helping me?”
“I’m intrigued by your story, outraged at the unfairness, and impressed by your resourcefulness. And I’m bored. Which is probably the main reason; and I’m drunk enough to be honest about it.”
“Well, thank you for your honesty. If they find you have me, they will make you send me back, you know; I am a minor.”
“I’m sure we can get over that; but we will plan tomorrow.”
The moon shone down on the gracious house they approached up a drive. It had the characteristic ‘E’ shape of an Elizabethan mansion, with fantastical twisted chimneys, and tiles under a portico around the roof with gothic lettering on the glazed tiles.
“They are a lovely bright turquoise with gilded lettering, in daylight,” said Julian, seeing her trying to puzzle it out. “It says ‘Numquam tangas corvum quiescentum,’ which means ‘Never touch a resting raven.’ It’s a more whimsical version of the old ‘Nemo me impune lacessit,’ or ‘Nobody offends me with impunity.’”
“Or, in other words, you are harmless until offended.”
“Precisely. And your relatives offend me.”
“I… I should be your mistress in gratitude.”
“No, Anne Bonnet, you may be no pirate but I think I’m going to loot you. I will need you to rehearse me on every detail about your family because I’m going to open by asking to see my bride, because your father arranged our marriage. That ought to put the cat among the pigeons.”
“I can copy his handwriting,” said Anne. “Would that help?”
“Undoubtedly! I am going to marry you, because I have to marry sometime, and I don’t think you will ever bore me.”
“You had better sleep on that thought; you might change your mind when you are sober.”
“I don’t think so, but you are wise to suggest it. Right, hop out and take your bag; I’ll be back in a moment. My groom is waiting to see to my horse, but we’ll introduce you to as few people as possible at first.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Julian. I want you to call me ‘Julian.’”
“Yes, Julian,” said Anne.
Julian drove his gig round to the stableyard, where the dozing groom who was waiting for him took over. “Sorry to leave it to you, I have things to do,” said Julian, surprising the man. Not so much for the apology; the viscount might have a reputation for rudeness to others of his kind, but he was unfailingly polite to his servants, and often left Robbie, the groom, sleeping in his bunk to see to his own horse and put his vehicle in the coach house. The grooms had quarters in a block between the stables and the coach house, but the viscount had standing orders that one of them was on duty at all times in the stable itself. He could sleep in a bunk there, pegged into the wall against the tack-room, but since horse thieves had got in and managed to set the stables on fire when Julian was a small boy, his father and he had wanted a man in the stables at all time to raise the alarm, a bell above the bunk, against any trouble. Robbie Hobson claimed the privilege when his lordship was out, being the same age as Julian, and having fought the fire beside his master’s son, to get to the horses, and lead out such as they might. Robbie had privileges beyond the normal grooms for his work that day, having mounted the old viscount’s favourite bay to ride the animal through flames, getting burned himself in doing so, whilst Julian led the frightened beast. Both had been burned, but Robbie had a scar on his face and neck, from a burning beam. The bay had survived the experience to the delight of the boys, but many of the horses had not. Robbie knew that Julian also heard the screams of the dying horses in his head at times. Robbie woke at the slightest sound, but often his master would tell him to go back to sleep. Usually when the idiot aristos – Robbie’s idiom – had irritated the viscount, who found currying his horses soothing before going into the house.
Robbie wondered what had happened; his lordship was in a brown study over something, and the gathering of what the staff referred to as ‘Stormcrow’ about his face. Robbie shuddered. When irritation moved into Stormcrow, someone was going to be very unhappy indeed.
Unaware of his childhood crony’s ruminations, Julian collected Anne from the front steps, and led her to the front door. He tapped lightly rather than wake the house with the great door bell, and the door swiftly opened, a greeting dying on the lips of the young man who opened it.
“Jem,” said Julian, “I need your help. I’ll probably need Robbie’s as well, but for now I need secrecy.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Jem Watkins, his eyes wide. His master was usually punctilious in calling him ‘Watkins,’ and only used his first name when he had trouble.
“This young lady, who is a lady, a maiden, and quite unimpeachable, is all in from her exertions in escaping from… well, from being mistreated. I want you to wake up that parlourmaid you’re courting – Meggie, ain’t she? – and tell her to be quick and quiet, and shift her things to be Miss Bonnet’s maid, in the nursery, and to be quick about seeing that there’s decent bedlinen. You can light a fire; warm for the time of year it may be, but the child is half in shock, and there’s nothing like a cheerful fire. Meggie is to wait on her, and prepare her food. You can tell your mother about it in the morning so she can connive to make sure that Miss Bonnet is not compromised. I’m going to marry her, but I don’t want a thread of scandal. You can tell anyone who asks that I have a witness to a crime in protective custody, which is true enough. And you make sure Meggie doesn’t look at her askance for being clad so; it was the only way she could escape. She has gowns with her. And bring something for her to eat; hot milk or chocolate and something she can eat easily, I doubt she’s been fed properly.”
“Gruel or scrag end stew with beans,” said Anne. “Thank you, Mr Jem, and please apologise for me to Meggie in case I fall asleep before I can make my appreciation known.”
“I’m Watkins, miss, and I’m sure Meggie will be glad to see to your needs,” said Jem Watkins, who knew a lady when he saw one, and so he would make clear to Meggie, and to his mother, Mrs Watkins, the housekeeper. “Oh, my lord, what have you got yourself into now?”
“Someone poked a drowsy raven,” said Julian, with a whimsical smile. “I’ll sort myself out for bed, but I’ll sort out a meal for the lady first for you to take up; then you can truthfully say it was me messing in M. D’Aubert’s domain.”
Watkins grinned.
The French cook could wax irritable if his kitchen was disrupted, but could hardly complain about the master doing so.
"They shall not grow old as we that are left grow old. At the going down of the sun, and in the evening, we shall remember them."
God save the King.
Slava Ukraini.
Poppies, a villanelle
The poppies grow where blood once fell;
Scarlet, their coats in brave array,
Remind us of those years of hell.
Ravaged the scene, where once did dwell
The peaceful farmer day by day;
The poppies grow where blood once fell.
Ravaged and torn by shot and shell;
A landscape torn in shades of grey
Remind us of those years of hell
And in the church the single bell
Tolling the cost of this affray;
The poppies grow where blood once fell.
In hope, for a better world they sell
Young lives, a bitter price to pay;
Remind us of those years of hell.
For those too numerous to tell
Respect for sacrifice this day;
The poppies grow where blood once fell
Reminding of those years of hell.
Chapter 23 Exfiltration
I gave a sharp knock, on Plunkett’s door, and walked in, with Jason behind me.
Plunkett stared.
“Who the hell are you?” he asked.
Oh, yes, I was wearing my Jay Silverheels face.
“You probably know of me as Horace Tiber,” I said, pleasantly. “You made the mistake of having my sister snatched off the street, and that made it personal.”
I was not undertaking a piece of bombast, I was using a level tone to be able to cross the floor faster than he was anticipating. He reached for a panic button, but not fast enough as I jumped over his desk to slam him backwards with my feet, an easy enough move when in low gravity.
I had contemplated letting him die by explosive decompression, but I’m a pro. Having slammed him backwards, I followed up by reaching for his head to break his neck. It went with a nice, clean snap. I hung him from the light fitting with an executioner’s knot, as a demonstration.
Then I went looking for his personal space suit. I found it.
“Here we are,” I said. “You’ll fit this well enough, Jason; it’s easier to use than the balloon suits. The butt plug isn’t very comfortable, but it’s better than not using it.”
“Butt plug?” he said, nervously.
“Valve for crapping through,” I said. “I don’t know how may days we might be stuck outside before we can get a taxi home.”
I helped him get into it.
“It’s not too bad,” he said.
“Good,” I said. “It’ll get worse, over several days, but that’s what we’ll be paying a proctologist to take care of back on Earth.”
“So long as they get to the bottom of the problem,” he said.
I clapped him on the shoulder.
“Good lad,” I said. “Always keep a joke in mind and you can survive almost anything.”
I scanned Plunkett’s papers to see what plans he might have for reviving the umpteenth Reich, photographed anything I thought Tarquin might be interested in, and sent the rest through the shredder. No point stirring up the guards for nothing.
“Hoods up and sealed,” I said to Jason.
“Why, are we going outside?” he asked.
“Yes, and you are under orders, remember?” I said.
“Sorry,” he said.
I attached our mics and earpieces with a wire to keep our conversations private.
One side of Plunkett’s office was a massive window. A very thick massive window, but it was still a window.
All the doors were designed to seal if there was a leak, so there would be no risk to the rest of the station.
I put thermite round an area big enough for us to walk through, and set it going. It fizzled and crackled its incandescent way around the door I was cutting, until it had completed its circuit.
I kicked it out. Everything in the office attempted to exit. The door sealed with a reproachful ‘squmph’ noise, and klaxons went wild.
“And now we run?” asked Jason.
“Hell, no,” I said. “Come on, while the ground is still disturbed by the air exiting.” I led him out, our footsteps literally blown away behind us. “Lie down,” I said, a few yards out.
He gave me a startled look, but lay down. I put the camo net over us, and we disappeared. We were far enough away from the outer wall that people coming round in suits would not stand on us, but we were staying put.
“Why?” he breathed.
“What would you do on your own to make a break for it?” I asked.
“Run,” said Jason.
“Exactly,” I said. “They are going to be looking for footsteps leading away. There aren’t any, but they are going to assume we managed to brush over them, and will look further out. There are footsteps – mine – from having surveyed the place, but I was careful to cover them near where I made my base. We stay here until the hue and cry dies down.”
“Now I see why we need the butt plug and motorman’s friend,” said Jason. “I’m going to get the jitters.”
“No, you’re not,” I said. “You can replay old movies in your head to entertain you and test yourself on your memory.”
“Yes, sir,” he said.
“We can talk, if we are alone,” I said. “If there are visitors, there’s a chance they’ll pick up static, so better to stay quiet.”
“Yes, I see that,” he said.
We did have company, of course. They couldn’t get into Plunkett’s office, so several guards came round the outside, and discovered that somebody should have a citation for littering. They stared at the hole, and thought a lot, and decided that it was a hole.
At some point they were also going to do a head count and discover that Jason’s cell-mate was dead, and that Jason and Hackenbohm were missing.
Probably they would manage to connect the two sets of circumstances, and would go looking for us. We hunkered down while the place buzzed like a wasp’s nest, including an arial search in the runabout the Governor used to go to the base, and the cargo vessel for supplies and prisoner transport. I had been scrupulous to rake regolith and dust whenever I left the tent; and I had dragged Hackenbohm’s body to some distance and raked dust over it.
Jim’s voice crackled on our private channel.
“Incoming solar flare due,” he said laconically.
“Will the tent be enough?” I asked.
“No; I’m coming for you.”
“I’ll get to the tent – it’s over the horizon so you won’t have to confuse their ECM as much,” I said.
“Roger that,” said Jim. “I’ll keep the channel open; holler if you need a closer pick up.”
The activity had died down, and Jason and I got going.
He was fit enough, and used to moving on the moon. He was more used to moving on the moon than I was, if it came to that.
The powers that be had probably decided we had had help to bust out, and was alerting everyone and their kid brother; but Jim’s machine was a ghost as far as most detectors were concerned.
We dodged from one irregularity to the next, and reached the tent as the Condor skimmed over at zero feet. I pulled the plug on the inflatable tent to deflate it and bundle it into the cargo hold; no point abandoning good kit.
“You picked up a friend?” said Jim.
“Jason tried to take down an enemy of mine and was fitted up,” I said.
“Ah? I know about that,” said Jim. “I’m skimming round to the dark side to hunker down whilst the flare is active.” He was playing a really old piece of music as we lifted off; odd piece, opened with the sound of a heartbeat.
He sang along.
“And if the cloud bursts, thunder in your ears
You shout, and no-one seems to hear;
And if the band you’re in starts playing different tunes
I’ll see you on the dark side of the moon.”
“Is he quite sane?” asked Jason.
“Of course not,” I said. “Are you?”
He blinked, considered this, and pulled a rueful face.
“No, I suppose not,” he said.
It’s really dark on the dark side of the moon. I mean, really, really dark.
The sky was a treat, though. Everything was so clear and bright. The milky way was quite obvious, and the moons of Jupiter naked-eye objects.
Jason did not like it.
“It gives me vertigo,” he said.
I got that. There’s a very great deal of space when you get to look at it in the raw, as it were. I think you have to have enough contentment in yourself not to feel intimidated.
I wanted to show it to Willow.
I wanted to make love under that glorious canopy in the tent without any net over it so we could see out.
We spent the day or so that the flare was flaring watching old movies and eating popcorn and drinking beer. It was quite convivial.
There was news chatter from the base; escaped criminals Lewis Hackenbohm and Jason Tickbush, who had murdered Governor Plunkett, were believed to have perished as a result of the solar flare and the search for them was called off.
“We’re in the solar wind,” I said, happily.
It did not mean that Jim was any less cautious – or even paranoid – about our descent to earth.
Is it a descent, when part way we are ascending from the moon? Linguistic convention and physics do not always agree.
We slid over the Pacific at wave level, and up the Puget Sound at around two in the morning, looking, according to Jim’s signal, like a stray seahawk farting. I’m not surprised he’s on the death lists of at least twelve countries; Muscovy, from whom he stole the technology, Britain, for whom he stole the technology, which repaid him by fitting him up for theft, and the sundry kingdomlets of United Califate for rescuing slaves.
Though I have to say, his disgrace at the hands of Britain has always seemed a little suspect to me, and I suspect him of being a deep cover agent, who is meanwhile deniable. It was, after all, while I was working for George the Ninth that I first met, and worked with Jim.
It suits me, whatever.
I was amazed, when we came in to land, and disembarked, leaving both space suits for Jim, that most of the ruddy Rubble had turned out to cheer.
I had a big lump in my throat, and my eyeballs were threatening to sweat.
And Willow threw herself, Quin and all, into my arms.
“Dadadadad,” said Quin.
What a welcome home!
I cuddled Quin in one arm, and used the other for Willow, and kissed her like there was nothing else in the world.
For me, there was nothing else more important, anyway, and my people protect us all. We got another cheer.
Of course, it was Algy, who picked up my thoughts of coming home, I have no doubt. Jim seemed a bit shaken to be given a hero’s welcome as well, and was rapidly wearing Oscar.
I was wearing Amy and Puss, with Orville trying to fit into my pocket, which he has long since grown too big for.
We went home to the Dojo, though Jim insisted on leaving. He’s like that. Jason was bemused, but pliant, and all the dogs amongst the Forgotten came to sniff him to learn his scent. I think he was a bit freaked out, poor lad.
I confess to sleeping the clock right round.
I would like to say I got a substantial bonus from Tarquin.
But we always knew that was never going to happen, didn’t we?
He arranged for the clearing of Jason’s name, at least, and told me in that dry and pedantic way of his that with the percentages I had got from the Yakuza hits, I had more money than I knew what to do with.
And what he didn’t know was that Willow had arranged for us to be majority share holders of the companies of the parents of the Bratpack, as they, being in jail, and essentially disappeared, did not need it.
It gave me the ability to swan in and use that anywhere there was trouble; and the money to deal with such trouble.
We lived well, without even attempting to reach opulence; we had no need of it.
But I could afford to support a heap of kids who needed a hand up, in addition to my own collection of youngsters.
I was looking forward to a nice, peaceful retirement, as Horace Tiber, mild-mannered schoolmaster, with a few exotic hobbies.
The end?
The phone went.
It was Tarquin’s number.
“Rick, I need a favour….”
This is the last chapter. I need to write another book before I find out what Tarquin's favour was. I have a Regency ready to post but I'm thinking of taking the weekend off
