The never less aptly named Roland stuttered for a moment as
he was subjected to the wrathful glare of his mentor. With an exasperated sigh
Gabriel turned back to the subdued prisoner. Wrenching at the buckle he
unfastened the belt from the man’s waist, divested it of the neatly concealed blade
and looped it about the man’s wrists, binding him tightly.
After the heady rush of a hard-won fight Gabriel felt the
fatigue creeping into his aging body. Shepherding the remainder of his strength
he pulled both himself and his captive to their feet. He was displeased to find
himself slightly unsteady and his manner became curt to offset any sign of
weakness.
“Here.” He said, brusquely thrusting the prisoner towards
the younger man. Roland fumbled for a moment before eventually catching hold of
one elbow, so that between them they were able to manoeuvre the Frenchman off
the street. “We need to get him away from here and quickly.” Gabriel felt
uneasy at their conspicuous apprehension of the spy in broad daylight. He was
far more used to working under the cover of darkness or at least with some attempt
at secrecy. Here, however, they had left themselves open to all sorts of
speculation and the likelihood of discovery by the other two criminals.
Clumsily they weaved towards the wharf where a boat would
take them across the city to their employer. As they reached the edge of the
river Gabriel began to feel pinpricks of unease as the unnatural quiet of the
place seeped into his consciousness. He could hear only the squawk of the gulls
as they swooped and skimmed over the grey water and there was no sign of the
promised transport. Their prisoner had woken up from the slap of cold wind that
brushed across the water. He mumbled incoherently, his wits still reeling from
the blow Gabriel had rendered him.
The crossbow bolt came from nowhere. The only warning was
the stirring of the air as it propelled past them. Too late Gabriel yelled at
the stricken Roland who still clung to the Frenchman. The force of the impact
had pushed them both to the ground and blood oozed from the wound that punched
through the prisoner’s chest. Gabriel’s gaze swept the perimeter swiftly but there
was no obvious trace of the shooter. Desperation brought him to the side of the
Frenchman and he shook the stiffening body.
“Where is he?” He demanded forcefully. “Where will you bring
him tonight?” Silenced by his compatriots the Frenchman was unable to provide
any answers. “Damn it.” Gabriel punched his fist on his thigh. “Now we have no
way of stopping the French getting hold of those plans.”
Roland was paying scant attention to his mentor’s words as
he scrubbed anxiously at the blood which stained the expensive Flemish wool of
his tunic. As he looked up from his efforts he blinked against the sudden glare
from one of the buildings. He acted with spontaneous recklessness, knocking his
mentor aside.
Gabriel hit the floor awkwardly, his knee wrenching from his
sudden topple. Cursing as he realised what had happened he grabbed hold of
Roland’s tunic at the neck and dragged them both behind the protection of
several sturdy barrels. If he had not been so desperate to obtain information
from a corpse he would have commanded that they seek cover immediately. The boy
was still alive but from the position of the bolt Gabriel knew that death was already
waiting.
“Thank you.” His voice was uneven as the weight of
responsibility settled over him. “You saved my life.” The boy’s smile was
tremulous.
“At least I did something right for a change.” Gabriel had
not the heart to deny him a gallant ending. Roland had acted like a bloody fool,
wasting his life and believing it made him a hero. Yet Gabriel was experienced
enough to know that there was nothing heroic in death.
Sunday 24 February 2013
Sunday 17 February 2013
Sunday 10 February 2013
Agent Of The Crown...
October, 1358
The drink burned his throat as he gulped and slammed the beaker back onto the sticky wooden table. His eyes blurred with hot tears and he swallowed convulsively before the bitter aftertaste dissipated and a pleasant glow ignited in his chest. He flicked his fingers casually and the empty beaker was quickly replaced with one brimming over the edges. The things he did for his job, Gabriel thought with wry amusement.
The tavern in which he now found himself was an insalubrious establishment. The whores looked as unsavoury as the gone-off meat which had been stuffed into gritty pastry and served to him. It would take at least several more beakers of the strong and foul tasting brew before he would consider sampling the pie. This would not have been his first choice for refreshment, but the man he had been ordered to apprehend seemed less fastidious.
It was not hard, however, to recognise the logic behind the criminal’s preference. The tavern was dimly lit with only a few guttering tallow candles, rendering the corners shadowy lairs for all sorts of illicit activities. The noise was generally high and there seemed to be an almost constant influx of customers from the several entrances. Incidentally this all also provided the perfect cover for a spy who made his living from eavesdropping and informing.
Gabriel’s current mark was in huddled conference with two others. He had been instructed only to monitor the activities of the man, as more information could potentially be gleaned from covert surveillance than from capture. The three men were now hunched over their ale, dark brows drawn downwards, discouraging any interference from outsiders.
“When will the shipment arrive?”
“The cargo will be loaded before dawn.”
Gabriel strained to follow their guttural German amongst the incessant hum which filled the room. Yet even this was not enough to disguise their terrible accents. At first glance they were simple Germanic traders discussing the delivery of their wares, but he was trained to detect their French intonation and carefully coded phrases. Gabriel knew, for example, that the ‘cargo’ in question was an Oxford academic, who was said to have designed an innovative new weapon. Rumours abounded that it would decisively end the protracted war against France.
As he raised his hand to take another swig Gabriel noticed that his partner was staring intently at the group of men. There could be no innocent reason for such attentive study and Gabriel observed with disgust the moment when the Frenchmen registered that they were being watched. Their cover was blown.
He cursed the stupidity of his lack-wit partner as the men overturned their table, sending warm and thick ale over the floor. As they ran for the door they intentionally knocked against the drunkest patrons, so that when Gabriel set off in pursuit he was hindered by the brawl which began around him.
Eventually he barrelled out of the door, grimacing against the sharp iciness of the wind. He took a moment to survey his surroundings before hastening after the figures. It wasn’t long before they made the decision to split up and he doggedly followed his original mark. Though he had been commanded to avoid detaining the man, Gabriel realised that he could not return to his employer empty handed. There was the possibility still that under duress the Frenchman might confess the whereabouts of the kidnapped academic.
The man ducked down a small lane between two sharply inclined properties and Gabriel had to turn abruptly to continue his pursuit. As they raced towards the end of the path a cart rumbled past, spraying up mud from its turning wheels. The man slipped and as he attempted to rise he was tackled to the ground once more by Gabriel. They wrestled in the mud, their hands sliding over each other as their clothes became slick and wet. Each sought purchase on the other in order to gain some sort of advantage. Gabriel flinched as the man’s fist barely missed connecting with his jaw. Rolling once more he regained the uppermost position and finally managed to press an elbow into the man’s throat, successfully pinning him to the ground. He thrashed violently until his eyes rolled back and Gabriel released him, knocking his head against the ground to render him truly senseless.
Breathing hard Gabriel sat back on his haunches, nursing his side where the old wound felt tight and sore after his exertions. The rain dribbled down his face, creating tracks across the muddied surface.
“What took you so long?” He snapped irritably as his partner skidded to a halt before him. Sweat had collected across the young man’s pasty looking brow, and Gabriel was speared with the now familiar feeling of annoyance at being saddled with such an incompetent fool.
The drink burned his throat as he gulped and slammed the beaker back onto the sticky wooden table. His eyes blurred with hot tears and he swallowed convulsively before the bitter aftertaste dissipated and a pleasant glow ignited in his chest. He flicked his fingers casually and the empty beaker was quickly replaced with one brimming over the edges. The things he did for his job, Gabriel thought with wry amusement.
The tavern in which he now found himself was an insalubrious establishment. The whores looked as unsavoury as the gone-off meat which had been stuffed into gritty pastry and served to him. It would take at least several more beakers of the strong and foul tasting brew before he would consider sampling the pie. This would not have been his first choice for refreshment, but the man he had been ordered to apprehend seemed less fastidious.
It was not hard, however, to recognise the logic behind the criminal’s preference. The tavern was dimly lit with only a few guttering tallow candles, rendering the corners shadowy lairs for all sorts of illicit activities. The noise was generally high and there seemed to be an almost constant influx of customers from the several entrances. Incidentally this all also provided the perfect cover for a spy who made his living from eavesdropping and informing.
Gabriel’s current mark was in huddled conference with two others. He had been instructed only to monitor the activities of the man, as more information could potentially be gleaned from covert surveillance than from capture. The three men were now hunched over their ale, dark brows drawn downwards, discouraging any interference from outsiders.
“When will the shipment arrive?”
“The cargo will be loaded before dawn.”
Gabriel strained to follow their guttural German amongst the incessant hum which filled the room. Yet even this was not enough to disguise their terrible accents. At first glance they were simple Germanic traders discussing the delivery of their wares, but he was trained to detect their French intonation and carefully coded phrases. Gabriel knew, for example, that the ‘cargo’ in question was an Oxford academic, who was said to have designed an innovative new weapon. Rumours abounded that it would decisively end the protracted war against France.
As he raised his hand to take another swig Gabriel noticed that his partner was staring intently at the group of men. There could be no innocent reason for such attentive study and Gabriel observed with disgust the moment when the Frenchmen registered that they were being watched. Their cover was blown.
He cursed the stupidity of his lack-wit partner as the men overturned their table, sending warm and thick ale over the floor. As they ran for the door they intentionally knocked against the drunkest patrons, so that when Gabriel set off in pursuit he was hindered by the brawl which began around him.
Eventually he barrelled out of the door, grimacing against the sharp iciness of the wind. He took a moment to survey his surroundings before hastening after the figures. It wasn’t long before they made the decision to split up and he doggedly followed his original mark. Though he had been commanded to avoid detaining the man, Gabriel realised that he could not return to his employer empty handed. There was the possibility still that under duress the Frenchman might confess the whereabouts of the kidnapped academic.
The man ducked down a small lane between two sharply inclined properties and Gabriel had to turn abruptly to continue his pursuit. As they raced towards the end of the path a cart rumbled past, spraying up mud from its turning wheels. The man slipped and as he attempted to rise he was tackled to the ground once more by Gabriel. They wrestled in the mud, their hands sliding over each other as their clothes became slick and wet. Each sought purchase on the other in order to gain some sort of advantage. Gabriel flinched as the man’s fist barely missed connecting with his jaw. Rolling once more he regained the uppermost position and finally managed to press an elbow into the man’s throat, successfully pinning him to the ground. He thrashed violently until his eyes rolled back and Gabriel released him, knocking his head against the ground to render him truly senseless.
Breathing hard Gabriel sat back on his haunches, nursing his side where the old wound felt tight and sore after his exertions. The rain dribbled down his face, creating tracks across the muddied surface.
“What took you so long?” He snapped irritably as his partner skidded to a halt before him. Sweat had collected across the young man’s pasty looking brow, and Gabriel was speared with the now familiar feeling of annoyance at being saddled with such an incompetent fool.
Sunday 3 February 2013
The Month Of Courtship...
London, 1812
There was something hopeful about the month of February, thought Lady Penelope Worthington, considering the calendar for the first time with a philosophical bent. There was some mysterious quality of February-ness which made the sun brighter, the sky clearer and the spirits higher. January was a month as grey as the slush (the closest to snow London could muster) which blanketed the bleak collection of thirty-one days. Discontent bred in those short and cold days, with the only warmth being the dimming memories of Christmas past. February, however, held possibilities. It was the month, after all, of courtship.
She was of course not thinking of herself. Good heavens as a widow of eight-and-twenty, with sufficient means and independence, there was precious little that would induce her to throw it all away and marry again. Instead she was thinking of her younger sister, whose current suitor Penelope now smiled at benevolently over her teacup. Mr Nathaniel Barrett would never be a great man, but he had all the potential to be a generous husband. Lucinda seemed quite enchanted with the softly stammering country gentleman, his stable of horses and litter of hounds. Their afternoon tea, in which Penelope was acting as both chaperone and guardian, was progressing smoothly and talk had turned to the respective benefits of April and May. Matrimony, she felt sure, was less than a chaste kiss away.
At precisely the moment she had arranged, and neither a moment too soon nor too late, Blean the butler tapped respectfully on the door. Upon entry into the feminine domain he said exactly what they had practised earlier,
“There’s been a housekeeping emergency, my Lady.”
Penelope set down her teacup with an inward smile of satisfaction. If there had been a real emergency it would have provoked more than this bland and vague instruction from the staid butler. It was, however, the perfect excuse to leave the two young people to their courtship for a moment of pivotal privacy.
“If you’ll excuse me.” She murmured, before offering Mr Barrett an apologetic smile and Lucinda a subtle squeeze on the arm. Exiting the room she left the door ajar as respectability required, but not so wide that it would detract from the courage of a nervous suitor.
As there was no actual emergency Penelope found herself at a loss as to what she should do next. She had left her book behind in the sitting room and though there were plenty in the library she did not wish to stray too far from her sister. She regarded herself as a good judge of character and Mr Barrett seemed to her an honest and uncomplicated young man. Yet it was wise to err on the side of caution where the safety of her sister was concerned. If the engineered seclusion was to morph the earnest Mr Barrett into a lecherous ogre, then she would be close at hand if any monsters needed slaying.
There was no doubt then that she should wait. However Penelope had never been very good at waiting, or patience, or indeed keeping still. Any of her close acquaintances would be able to quote verbatim her favourite maxim: if you want to get somewhere, there’s absolutely no point in getting there slowly. And so it was that she began to pace the entrance hall. Every time she made a full circuit of the marbled floor she would glance at the antique grandmother clock. How long did a ‘moment’ take? She chewed her lip as she considered. Not that she believed herself an expert on matters of courtship and Sir Bartholomew’s proposal had been made nigh on eleven years ago when she had been an even more inexperienced seventeen year old.
The pacing was not helping her to settle. Forcing herself to stand still, Penelope slouched against the banister. In lieu of the pacing her fingers began to drum an impatient beat against the wood.
“You really are the worst fidget Penny.” The familiar amused voice startled her so much that she jolted away from the banister and nearly overbalanced. Alexander the Earl of Woodbridge, or Woodbridge as he was known to the rest of society, handed his hat and stick over to Blean, who had as always managed to silently enter the room without Penelope’s knowledge. If she wasn’t so fond of the old butler, she might have been a bit scared by his propensity to startle her.
“What are you doing here so early?” She questioned, greeting the Earl with the improper familiarity born out of years of friendship.
“It’s past two in the afternoon.” He remarked dryly.
“Precisely.” She said, embellishing the word with a raised eyebrow which made it clear that she knew exactly how his evening activities necessitated not rising until well after noon the next day. His rakish exploits were common fodder for the ton’s inexhaustible appetite for gossip.
There was something hopeful about the month of February, thought Lady Penelope Worthington, considering the calendar for the first time with a philosophical bent. There was some mysterious quality of February-ness which made the sun brighter, the sky clearer and the spirits higher. January was a month as grey as the slush (the closest to snow London could muster) which blanketed the bleak collection of thirty-one days. Discontent bred in those short and cold days, with the only warmth being the dimming memories of Christmas past. February, however, held possibilities. It was the month, after all, of courtship.
She was of course not thinking of herself. Good heavens as a widow of eight-and-twenty, with sufficient means and independence, there was precious little that would induce her to throw it all away and marry again. Instead she was thinking of her younger sister, whose current suitor Penelope now smiled at benevolently over her teacup. Mr Nathaniel Barrett would never be a great man, but he had all the potential to be a generous husband. Lucinda seemed quite enchanted with the softly stammering country gentleman, his stable of horses and litter of hounds. Their afternoon tea, in which Penelope was acting as both chaperone and guardian, was progressing smoothly and talk had turned to the respective benefits of April and May. Matrimony, she felt sure, was less than a chaste kiss away.
At precisely the moment she had arranged, and neither a moment too soon nor too late, Blean the butler tapped respectfully on the door. Upon entry into the feminine domain he said exactly what they had practised earlier,
“There’s been a housekeeping emergency, my Lady.”
Penelope set down her teacup with an inward smile of satisfaction. If there had been a real emergency it would have provoked more than this bland and vague instruction from the staid butler. It was, however, the perfect excuse to leave the two young people to their courtship for a moment of pivotal privacy.
“If you’ll excuse me.” She murmured, before offering Mr Barrett an apologetic smile and Lucinda a subtle squeeze on the arm. Exiting the room she left the door ajar as respectability required, but not so wide that it would detract from the courage of a nervous suitor.
As there was no actual emergency Penelope found herself at a loss as to what she should do next. She had left her book behind in the sitting room and though there were plenty in the library she did not wish to stray too far from her sister. She regarded herself as a good judge of character and Mr Barrett seemed to her an honest and uncomplicated young man. Yet it was wise to err on the side of caution where the safety of her sister was concerned. If the engineered seclusion was to morph the earnest Mr Barrett into a lecherous ogre, then she would be close at hand if any monsters needed slaying.
There was no doubt then that she should wait. However Penelope had never been very good at waiting, or patience, or indeed keeping still. Any of her close acquaintances would be able to quote verbatim her favourite maxim: if you want to get somewhere, there’s absolutely no point in getting there slowly. And so it was that she began to pace the entrance hall. Every time she made a full circuit of the marbled floor she would glance at the antique grandmother clock. How long did a ‘moment’ take? She chewed her lip as she considered. Not that she believed herself an expert on matters of courtship and Sir Bartholomew’s proposal had been made nigh on eleven years ago when she had been an even more inexperienced seventeen year old.
The pacing was not helping her to settle. Forcing herself to stand still, Penelope slouched against the banister. In lieu of the pacing her fingers began to drum an impatient beat against the wood.
“You really are the worst fidget Penny.” The familiar amused voice startled her so much that she jolted away from the banister and nearly overbalanced. Alexander the Earl of Woodbridge, or Woodbridge as he was known to the rest of society, handed his hat and stick over to Blean, who had as always managed to silently enter the room without Penelope’s knowledge. If she wasn’t so fond of the old butler, she might have been a bit scared by his propensity to startle her.
“What are you doing here so early?” She questioned, greeting the Earl with the improper familiarity born out of years of friendship.
“It’s past two in the afternoon.” He remarked dryly.
“Precisely.” She said, embellishing the word with a raised eyebrow which made it clear that she knew exactly how his evening activities necessitated not rising until well after noon the next day. His rakish exploits were common fodder for the ton’s inexhaustible appetite for gossip.
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