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Authors: Tessa Harris

BOOK: The Dead Shall Not Rest
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Chapter 4
O
n the second day of the fair the showman sat on the steps of his painted wagon after the evening’s performance, swigging beer from a pot. His large hat was planted on the back of his head. The heavy kohl makeup that lined his eyes was smudged and his rouged lips had bled at the edges. He let out a loud belch and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
As he drew closer, Count Boruwlaski could make out the faded letters painted in gold on the side panel of the wagon. T
HE
G
REATEST
W
ONDERS
OF THE
W
ORLD
, they proclaimed. A few feet away a large red and yellow tent was pitched. Inside, lights had been lit, and he knew the giant was inside because he could see his silhouette on the canvas. It made him appear even more enormous, but the dwarf was not fazed. Without hesitating he grasped hold of the tent flap and drew it aside. The giant did not notice him at first. Nor did the crookbacked youth. They were both sitting on the floor, eating hunks of bread like ravenous dogs.
The little man glanced around the tent. In the far corner he could make out a large wooden crate. He could hear a low growl, and from the stench of it, he guessed it held an animal. He did not wish to alarm the giant, nor the youth, but neither had noticed him, so he cleared his throat as loudly as he could.
The giant, who was sitting cross-legged, swiveled ’round on his rear and looked up toward the tent opening. At first he did not spot the little man in the shadows. “Who’s th-there?” he spluttered through a mouthful of bread.
The dwarf was fearful he would alert the showman. The crookback turned awkwardly and also looked toward the opening. Straining his eyes, he could make out the small form of the count.
“Who’s there?” he repeated, rising and limping toward him.
The count drew himself up to his full three feet three inches, puffing up his chest and sticking out his chin. “I wish to speak with Mr. Byrne,” he said in a strange accent that marked him as a foreigner.
The giant frowned, looked at the crookback, and then peered down at the dapper dwarf. His eyes filled with wonderment, like a child seeing its first flakes of snow fall.
“Come closer where we can see you,” ordered the youth.
The little man held his nerve and stepped forward so that the light from the rush lamps clothed him in a soft glow. He, too, could see more clearly. There was a large carpet on the ground, such as he believed came from old Araby, and in the far corner the crate did, indeed, hold an animal—a black cat the size of a wolf. He had seen something similar at the court of the Holy Roman Empress Maria Theresa in the Hofburg in Vienna, but it had broken loose and killed several peacocks. The creature fixed a stare on him and growled, louder this time, probably anticipating its next meal, thought the little man.
“What do you want with me, dwarf?” boomed the giant. His voice was as deep as a rumble of thunder but he spoke slowly and deliberately, as if each word needed to be shaped with the utmost care. He did not mean to be frightening, but the sound he made was so great that the dwarf jumped and put his tiny finger up to his lips in the hope that the giant would speak more softly. He looked over his shoulder to see if the boom had alerted the showman, but satisfied it had not, he continued. “Permit me to introduce myself, sir. I am Count Josef Boruwlaski from Poland,” he said in a hoarse whisper.
The crookback let out a shrill laugh and pointed a mocking finger. “You, a nobleman?”
“Indeed I am,” he replied haughtily. “And I am come to make you an offer, sir,” he said, addressing the giant. He tugged hard at his brindle waistcoat, which had risen above his plump midriff.
“And what might th-that be?” asked Byrne.
“I, too, am blessed with”—he gave a self-conscious little cough—“with unusual physical attributes. But I have used them to my very great advantage.”
“You have?” mocked the crookback.
“You have?” echoed the giant. The count nodded, puffing out his chest.
“Yes, but I am pleased to say I have confined my activities to polite society: ladies and gentlemen of considerable breeding, who are indeed curious, but never crude; patronizing, but never plebian.”
The giant shook his head. “There’s naught to choose ’twixt a rich man’s stare and a poor man’s,” he said, adding ruefully, “They can both wound.”
“True, but surely the pain is more bearable if it is paid for handsomely?” countered the little man.
The crookback nodded. “You could eat proper. Not just the scraps he gives you,” he suggested to the giant.
“Indeed so,” replied the count. “Whole capons and mutton pies could be yours.”
The idea of a plentiful supply of food was clearly appealing to the colossus.
“And just where might I f-find these ladies and gentlemen?” he asked, shifting on his haunches.
“Why, in London, sir!” cried the count.
The giant’s eyes widened, but he remained silent, as if trying to grasp the prospect of traveling to the capital city of England. Thinking he might need a little more persuading, the count went on: “Just think of the fine clothes and the soft bed and . . .”
“That matters not,” spat Byrne, spraying the dwarf with his saliva.
The little man was taken aback. “Forgive me, sir.”
The giant shook his head. “ ’Tis not wealth I am wanting,” he moaned.
The crookback limped forward and put a hand on his shoulder. “ ’Tis justice he is after, sir,” said the boy.
“Justice?” repeated the count. “How so?”
Charles Byrne took a deep breath and motioned to the little man to sit beside him in a gesture of friendship. “I seek a royal pardon for my da.”
The dwarf raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?” The count frowned, looking at Charles.
“He says he does,” chimed in the crookback. “Says he needs to speak with King George himself.”
Boruwlaski nodded sympathetically and then smiled. “You see this ring?” He held up his hand and pointed to a large diamond twinkling in the torchlight. “It was given me by the daughter of the great Empress Maria Theresa, Marie Antoinette. She is the Queen of France now.”
The crookback lunged forward, grabbed the dwarf’s digit, and bit the diamond hard. “ ’Tis real,” he cried gleefully.
The count rubbed his hand. “I do not lie,” he retorted, darting a contemptuous look at the ruffian who had yanked at his ring finger. “I enjoyed great favor in the courts of Europe.” Then, turning back to Charles, he said: “There are ways of gaining an audience with His Majesty King George.”
The giant’s usually vacant face broke into a broad smile. “Then, sir, I will come with you,” he said, and he proffered his hand to the little man, whose own hand would have fitted inside at least a dozen times.
“You’re not going anywhere,” came a voice from the entrance. All eyes turned to see the showman, dark circles of kohl under his eyes, standing, glaring at them. There was no trace of the broad grin he had worn on the stage and in his right hand he held a long cane. “Well, well, well: a giant and a dwarf. What a pretty pair you make,” he cried, his voice tinged with menace.
Charles Byrne’s shoulders slumped and his head bowed instantly, as if he had become a child again as his master drew nearer. The showman rested his gaze on the count and looked him up and down mockingly.
“So, dwarf, you would steal my giant for your own troupe, would you?” he sneered, stroking the count’s head condescendingly, as if he were a cat.
Boruwlaski swallowed hard. “I did not know that you owned Mr. Byrne, sir.”
The showman narrowed his eyes. “Indeed I do,” he said, circling the little man and throwing the cane from one hand to the other like a baton. But the count refused to be intimidated.
“Then you must tell me your price,” he said, looking upward to meet the showman’s gaze.
“So you would bargain with me, dwarf?”
“Indeed I would, sir.”
“But you are in a very weak position.”
“How so?” asked the count disingenuously. The showman let out a cruel laugh and bent down so that his face leveled with the dwarf’s.
“Can’t you count, Count?” he sneered. “There are three of us and,” he sniggered, “only half of you. We could feed you to that cat over there and it would still be hungry.” He pointed to the crate with his cane. The creature growled and the dwarf began to feel decidedly uneasy.
“I have money, sir,” he blurted as the bully continued to circle.
“I am sure you do,” the showman agreed, gesturing to the crookback, who limped forward and rifled through the count’s coat pockets. He pulled out a drawstring purse and held it aloft before handing it to his master. The showman tossed it in the air and caught it.
“A goodly weight.” He smiled.
“Twenty guineas,” informed the count.
“Twenty guineas,” repeated his tormentor. “So you would buy my giant for twenty guineas?”
At these words, Byrne, who had sat passively on the carpet until this point, looked up. “I am n-not
your
giant,” he said slowly, and with that he began to rise, uncrossing his legs and kneeling up, so that he was now the same height as the showman.
“What did you say?” the showman asked incredulously.
“I am not
your
giant,” he repeated, only this time more assuredly. “My ancestors were kings in Ireland, great leaders of men. I’ll be doing your bidding no more.”
The showman sneered once again. “We’ll see who’s the master,” he cried, raising his cane above his head to strike. The giant, however, was too quick for him and stayed his hand. Then, taking the cane, he snapped it in two in front of his shocked master’s eyes.
“You do not
own
me,” repeated the giant. “And Charles Byrne cannot be bought. I will go with the dwarf to L-London.” With those words he eased himself up, still bending forward so that his head did not touch the canvas of the tent, and began to walk toward the entrance.
“Not so fast,” cried the showman, darting in his way. “Crookback, the cat!” he shouted, pointing at the crate.
“Are you mad?” exclaimed the count.
The boy, too, simply looked at his master as if he had lost his senses.
“The cat!” he screamed. “Open the cage.” The animal let out a roar as if it scented blood, but the urchin remained transfixed. “Then I will do it myself,” shouted the showman above the creature’s tumult, and he strode toward the crate.
He grasped the lever and was just about to pull up the hatch when suddenly there came a woman’s voice at the entrance of the tent.
“I would not do that if you value your life, sir,” cried Lydia above the din.
The showman stopped dead in his tracks and turned to see the gentlewoman, standing perfectly poised a few feet away.
“And who might you be?” he asked, looking askance at the diminutive figure draped in a long, black, hooded cloak.
“I, sir, am Lady Lydia Farrell, and I own the land on which you stand,” she replied.
The showman began to walk toward her, smirking. “You do, do you?” he chided.
“Indeed I do, and unless you go immediately, leaving the giant here, I will have you arrested for the theft of twenty guineas.”
The showman unclenched the hand that held the purse and looked at it for a moment. He then leered at her before throwing it down hard to the ground. “Curse you,” he muttered under his breath.
“Now leave, before I call the peace constables,” she ordered in a voice that belied her size. “Men have hanged for much less.”
The showman began to mouth oaths. “A curse on you and your seed,” he said as he charged past Lydia, cuffing the count on the head as he went.
“I want you off the Boughton estate within the hour, otherwise I will add assault to the charges,” she called after him as he stormed off to his wagon.
The crookback began to follow sheepishly, but just as he was at the entrance to the tent, the count caught hold of him by the waist of his breeches.
“Here’s two guineas, boy,” he said, shoving the coins into his dirty palm. “Use them wisely.”
The startled servant smiled, showing a mouthful of yellow tombstone teeth, and limped off in the opposite direction to his master, leaving Lydia and the count with the giant standing in shocked silence, none of them quite believing what had just passed.
Feeling a sudden shiver, Lydia drew her cloak around her.
“You are cold, my lady,” remarked Boruwlaski.
“Yes, a little,” replied Lydia, knowing that she was shaking with fear and anger rather than the chill. She looked up at the giant. He was, indeed, so amazingly tall and yet she could see in his eyes that he was so very vulnerable at the same time. “You are in good hands now, Mr. Byrne,” she assured him. “On the morrow, God willing, Dr. Silkstone will arrive and all will be well.”

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