Medi-Evil 3 (3 page)

 
Captain
O’Calligan
shrugged. “I’m merely a soldier, my lord. These great political events pass me by.”

 
“Well, that’s a novel way to
rationalise
it,” Lord
Lightbourne
responded. He was seated directly across the table from
O’Calligan
, and had been glowering at him since the meal had begun. “If I were you, I’d consider myself lucky that Lady
Foxworth
is in such forgiving mood.”

 
“No, no, no, I won’t have that,” Lady
Foxworth
interrupted in her delightful, sing-song tones. “Captain
O’Calligan
was always a most gentlemanly
gaoler
.”

 
“A
gaoler
, my dear,” Lady
Lightbourne
said, “is a
gaoler
.”

 
Lady
Foxworth
waved the business aside as though it was all best forgotten. “And
Silvercombe
was a most comfortable dungeon.”

 
There were nods and smiles at this. The assembled guests had no desire to spoil their hostess’s gay mood. If she was inclined to pardon those who had wronged her, who were they to disagree? At present she was as happy as a schoolgirl, as beautiful as a butterfly. An inner-light seemed to shine from her, which, after the uncertain years of James’s reign, they could all now comfortably bask in.

 
Only Jack
O’Calligan
had difficulty appreciating it. Thanks to the Arctic conditions outside, it was only a small gathering of
Exmoor’s
minor nobility at the
Silvercombe
Hall feast that night, but the tall, good-looking Irishman was uncomfortable all the same. Of Lady
Foxworth’s
guests, Lord
Lightbourne
and his wife, Loretta, long-time Whigs, were openly against him, while Lord
Chillerton
, though a Catholic and a Tory, was past ninety now, and his wife, Lady Barbara, much older, so there was little support to be had there. Even Judge Prendergast, who’d presided alongside Lord-Chief Justice
Jeffreys
at the Bristol Assizes, was keeping a low if corpulent profile at the far end of the table; he hoped to retain his office on the West Country circuit, and was thus being as obsequious as possible to the incoming administration. In any case, even had
O’Calligan
been seated among close companions, his position here would have been
invidious.
Up until the last week or so, as a captain in the King’s Horse Guards, he had been charged with keeping Lady Hannah
Foxworth
under strict house-arrest. (Three years earlier, her younger brother, Rupert, had taken part in Monmouth’s ill-fated rebellion and had then dashed treasonously overseas to find service with the Dutch navy, which had not reflected well on her in King James’s eyes). Granted,
Silvercombe
Hall, her ancestral home, had made a luxurious prison, but she hadn’t been permitted to leave it under any circumstances, except for those frequent occasions when she’d been summoned to Court to answer trumped-up charges of seditious libel. Her time had been exceptionally difficult, and
O’Calligan
was the one who’d enforced it. As such, he had no appetite. The repast that evening was delightful – roasted goose stuffed with cherries, a saddle of pork garnished with apples, and all manner of pies, tarts and puddings – while several excellent clarets had been produced from Lady
Foxworth’s
famously well-stocked cellar, but it was more than the Irish soldier could do even to sip at his brimming goblet.

 
“Conciliation will be the order of events in the New Year, Captain
O’Calligan
,” his prisoner-turned-hostess said, leaning towards him. “You needn’t worry so.”

 
He glanced sidelong at her. Even at forty-four years old, and two years his senior, she was extraordinarily handsome. Gemstones sparkled on her bosom, but were dull compared to the sapphire
lustre
of her eyes. Her golden hair, which she wore high and layered in thick curls, shone in the firelight. Her perfume was intoxicating.

 
“If you’ll excuse me, my lady,” he said, pushing his chair back. “I’ll take some air.”

 
She smiled and nodded, and watched him as he withdrew from the dining room.

 
“By God, I’d have my pack on his heels by now if I was you, Hannah,” Lord
Lightbourne
remarked.

 
She tittered. “Oh Randolph, you do change with the tides.”

 
He looked hurt. “I beg your pardon?”

 
“Come now,” she said. “You weren’t so committed a rebel when the Duke of Monmouth and his army arrived at Lyme Regis.
And especially not after the Assizes, when they were all being marched to the gallows.”

 
At the end of the table, Judge Prendergast gazed awkwardly down at his plate.

 
Lord
Lightbourne
was no less discomforted. “In my opinion it was an ill-considered enterprise … with all respect to your family’s involvement.”

 
“That respect is duly noted,” Lady
Foxworth
replied, and she smiled teasingly, which caused Lord
Lightbourne
to fumble with his cutlery, and his wife – who, compared to their hostess, was owlish and plain-looking – to scowl through her powered blusher.

*

Silvercombe
Hall was a great rambling structure.

 
It had originally been constructed during Henry VIII’s reign from local stone, and at the time cast a grim, functional shadow across the bleak wilderness of northern
Exmoor
. Now, thanks to the
Foxworth
family’s profitable sea-faring exploits, it boasted parkland and lush, manicured gardens, while its interiors had been paneled throughout in richest oak and hung with portraits and hunting-trophies, and at this time of year, of course, were decked with evergreens.

 
As he walked down the entrance hall, Captain
O’Calligan
felt conspicuous in the presence of such grandeur. He hadn’t deemed it appropriate to dress for dinner, and still wore his riding-boots and red regimental coat; knee-length and trimmed with gold at the collar and cuffs, but old and weather-stained. His pistol and
sabre
hung at his hip, but were purely symbolic now that he had no office to enforce with them. Outside the hall, he found Cedric brushing snow from the porch. Cedric was Lady
Foxworth’s
oldest retainer, and the senior member of the three household servants she’d been allowed to keep during her period of confinement. Cedric had seen countless years: he was a tall but crooked fellow, with a thin, mournful face and long white hair. Compared to the stockings, wigs and dandified ruffles of his betters, he still preferred the Puritan garb of yore: the dark trousers and doublet with starched white collar spread broadly over the top. Despite this, possibly because of their lowly birth and uncertain status in an ever-changing world, the Catholic Irishman and the Protestant Englishman had become – if not friends – polite acquaintances.

 
“You’re a long way from home, Captain
O’Calligan
,” the servant said.
“Especially on Christmas Eve.”

 
“Duty calls, Cedric.”

 
Cedric eyed him curiously. “Unless I’m mistaken, your duty fled with your lord and master?”

 
O’Calligan
peered across the snowy wastes. An icy wind whipped up flurries of feather-sized flakes. “Until I receive official notification that my post is terminated, I’ll stand my ground for King James.”

 
“You’re a strange kind of Irishman, and that’s a fact.”

 
O’Calligan
acknowledged this, though as far as he was concerned he’d had good cause to serve the English crown so loyally. “You remember me telling you about when I was a child in Drogheda?”

 
“Aye.
That I do.”

 
“I saw every member of my family slain, Cedric.”
O’Calligan’s
eyes misted as he recalled the grisly event. “It was Cromwell’s Ironsides, who did it. I was three years old at the time. That’s the only reason I was spared … but I remember it like it was yesterday.” He paused to swallow his emotions. “I learned early that Catholic England’s fight was Catholic Ireland’s fight too. I’ve seen nothing since to change me of that opinion.”

 
Cedric continued to brush. “Let’s just hope that fight’s finally over, eh?”

 
O’Calligan
agreed. The religious wars had drained too many men of their humanity, but despite his dismay at the recent turn of political events, at least this latest revolution had been bloodless. That had to be a good sign, he thought.

*

It was in the darkest, coldest hour of the night when hellish screams woke the household. The wind blew shrilly all around the ancient building, whistling through its chinks and rafters, but there was no mistaking what could only be cries of unimaginable horror.

 
Several minutes passed before
O’Calligan
and Cedric, both of whom arrived on the upper floor of the east wing at the same time, carrying flaming candelabra, were able to locate the source of the sound, which appeared to be the guest-room allocated to Lord
Chillerton
and his wife. By this time the screams had ceased, and an eerie silence followed. The two men tried to force entry, but the door was locked from the other side. They knocked and shouted, but received no answer. By now, Lord
Lightbourne
, Lady
Foxworth
and Judge Prendergast had also appeared, huddled in their caps and bed-robes but white-faced in the early morning chill. Cedric, on the orders of his mistress, went for a hammer and chisel, and they finally broke the door down.

 
Inside, the once elegant room was more like an abattoir.

 
Even from the low fire in the grate and a guttering candle on the mantel, it could be seen that blood daubed everything: the bed-hangings, the curtains on the window, the Persian rug. Lord and Lady
Chillerton
lay like broken mannequins in a heap of bedclothes, their faces frozen
rictuses
of agony. In each case, a deep and fatal wound had been gouged across the throat.

 
Lady
Foxworth
promptly fainted into Cedric’s arms. The other would-be rescuers stood there with stunned disbelief. Numerous items were out of place: a night-stand had been thrown over, its garments scattered; a chamber-pot was broken, its odious contents seeping into the floorboards. Despite that latter, rather foul detail, another stench was in the air – something pungent and carrion-like – though the intruders were too appalled by what they were seeing to even comment upon it. In truth, utter confusion and Bedlam followed. No-one could make sense of the situation.

 
“Here’s a curious start to your loyalist fight-back!” Lord
Lightbourne
shouted, rounding on
O’Calligan
.
“Cutting the throats of your own
toraidhe
companions!”

 
The Irishman stared at him uncomprehendingly. It was Lady
Foxworth
, who’d now recovered somewhat, though her pallor was sickly white, who retorted. “Lord
Lightbourne
!” Her voice quavered with emotion. “I’d appreciate it if you’d refrain from making wild accusations.”

 
“And I’d appreciate it if you’d put this Irish devil-dog under lock and key!” Again,
Lightbourne
rounded on the soldier. “Tell me,
O’Calligan
, isn’t it true that as a young trooper you pursued the brigand Colonel Blood through the
Wicklow
Mountains, then later through the marshes of the Low Countries? That you also hunted robber bands in Scotland who’d disguised themselves as Covenant rebels?”

 
O’Calligan
said nothing. But it was true; they all knew it.

 
“Isn’t it also true that you’ve developed something of a talent for clandestine warfare?”

 
“My experiences served me well,”
O’Calligan
said.

 
“So I see!”
Lightbourne
bellowed. “Throat-cutting must
come
second nature to you.”

 
“Randolph, this is your prejudice speaking,” Lady
Foxworth
chided him.