Criticize and deconstruct to your heart's delight!
ELIZABETH
To Lady Elizabeth Marsham
For Her Eyes Only
Do you remember, my lady? Do you remember me, that tall boy with delusions of manhood?
You will have heard certain falsehoods from the suitors who no doubt are sniffing around you like dogs. They will say “Wrexham is a coward, Wrexham is a pansy.”
Do not blame them over much, my lady. It is the nature of Man to spread falsehood and slander against his betters. You will recall the great lie perpetrated by the rogue Titus Oates about a supposed Jesuit plot to unseat our late king Charles and replace him with James as a puppet of the French.
However, it is the duty of all good persons to glean the truth amidst the lies like a diamond in coal. I pray your ladyship will do the same and read this letter.
It is rather long, but I must do my duty and take as much time as needed so that your worship will know the truth, and spread it for all decent men to hear.
Where do I begin? I suppose I must start the first time I laid eyes on your ladyship.
It was a rainy and foggy night in the beginning of July of the year 1688. I had just departed my own humble manor near yours in Duxton after visiting my ailing mother, Lady Cecilia. I was about to embark on my carriage and be on my merry way back to London, but then I remembered my friendship with your brother the Earl of Duxton at St. Edmund’s Public School. Accompanied by my old friend, Percival Darcy, I decided to pay his lordship a short visit. You will have known him by now. He was a younger boy, one form beneath us. He was ever a cunning lad, tricking his way out of work and beatings at school. We became friends when he told me how to trick our form-master, old Henderson, into breaking his lash when trying to lash me for disobedience.
Your manor that night... it was like a stark white island in a sea of darkness.
We knocked at the door of his lordship’s residence, and a radiant golden-haired woman opened the door to let our dripping and miserable forms inside. It was you, Lady Elizabeth Marsham.
When I saw you, I could not help but smile.
And weep, as though to fill the pools of your blue eyes.
I entered, as though entering a great cathedral, bathed in holy light.
I forgot, most shamefully, that I had been looking for his lordship, or that I was in your manor in the company of Percival Darcy. I forgot that my ailing mother did not have much longer to live, or that the Bishops were unjustly committed to the Tower by King James, awaiting trial.
I found that I was shaking. Was I afraid? A man should not be afraid in the presence of such beauty, I believed.
To my relief, it transpired that it was in fact Darcy, shaking me as if I had truly drowned. I opened my eyes and beheld the reddish-gold light of the great fireplace in the entrance hall. But I could not see your ladyship. The blood welling behind my cheeks did not recede for a moment as I my eyes cast around for you.
You were standing by the entrance to the dining hall, and looking disaffected as you endured the conversation of a man standing next to you. He was tall and black-haired, and although I could not see his face, I surmised he must be very handsome to hold your ladyship's company for so long . I tried to ask you where his lordship was, but a cast-iron cannonball stuck itself in my throat and proceeded to choke off all speech. Darcy came up behind me and whispered something in your ear, then withdrawing before the man's glare.
“Prince's sitting in the Netherlands, waiting for the call like a dog for his master.” the man said, “We're waiting to drive him into the sea! You write that in your next letter to Lord Phillip, never you let him worry. You like writing letters, don't you?” the man asked. At the moment I could not care less about princes or dogs. “Yes,” you said with just a hint of weariness. “I wouldn't tell that to Phillip, though. He's been going on about the perfidy of King James since he threw the Bishops in the Tower.”
Despite this talk of treason, I could not help the feeling that spread through me like smoke when the wind fans it your way. There was lust in it, certainly, but something more than lust as well. Something higher.
I approached the three of you slowly and shyly, like a frightened bird. Hearing my steps you turned around, forming a half-circle in front of me. Some strange compulsion took over my knees and forced me to the ground in front of the half-circle of Darcy, the man, and your ladyship. Seeing the unknown man's face now I saw that I was right. He must have been an English Adonis in the eyes of women, long black hair sliding down his shoulders like a snake. He greeted me with a reluctant nod, as did you, golden hair swaying slightly.
“What's your name?” he snapped at me.
“Sir John Wrexham.” I answered, almost too fast to be audible
“Thomas Runthorpe.” he enunciated, as though I was a recalcitrant pupil.
I decided to draw the dull blade of my wit. “You sound like someone whose greatest achievement is having an ancestor mentioned in the Domesday Book as 'vagrant'.”
For a moment his face was blank, as though he didn't understand. “Your greatest achievement is somehow entering my sight. Get out!”
To this day, I do not know what caused his instinctive dislike of me. Ever obedient, I slinked out the door of your manor, shooting one final look at your ladyship's beauty.
I seem to recall you looking back at me, seeming somehow sad as you turned to continue your tedious conversation with Runthorpe.
*******************************************************
I hope your ladyship has left London by now. It's said in coffee-houses in all the county, from Landsowne's to Exeter, that the Dutch will break out of Nottingham as soon as the rains start in earnest. Have you returned to Holland with your brother following the recent hostilities? I have not seen your ladyship since the coronation of the Prince of Orange and Princess Mary.
Those thoughts have been on my mind since I left your ladyship's manor that rainy night. Darcy went back to his lodgings at the edge of town, and so I was left practically alone in my mother's house, seeing as it was far too late to start back to London. My mother called for water as soon as I entered, so I had to wake Florham the butler to fetch her some. I went straight up to the room I pined for in my early nights at St. Edmund's, and I did not know what to do when I closed the door with an empathetic whump.
I pranced around the room like a wounded animal, stewing in my own filth and self-pity.
The heavens wept that night; so did I.
*******************************************************
The following morning found me a different man. Not a wiser man or a stronger one, but a purged man. I felt like the hot soup you had cooked in my stomach had been poured out and devoured by a host of hungry beggars, and I was now ready to face the world. I sent for the physician to take stock of my mother's condition and went myself out the door of our still-wet manor. This time I elected to ride the horse myself rather than take a carriage to Darcy's lodgings. It was as if I needed to be in control of something after I had lost it last night.
Darcy was fully awake and ready to go when the landlord, a short, pudgy man by the name of Maramaduke Daniels admitted me into Darcy's room. Since he already knew what had gone on last night it did not take too long to explain my situation. He was nodding and smiling the whole time as if my life was one grand jest I had as of yet failed to grasp. When I had finished he scratched his head for a bit, rather puzzlingly, and then said: “The way out of your conundrum is quite simple, old chap. Eliminate the opposition.”
I grasped his meaning immediately.
“My father loved to tell his story of how he won my mother in a duel with a Parliament soldier during the Great Rebellion of 1642. He would prate it at me every time I wrote home about some girl who took my fancy.”
“Hopefully it is not only the sins of the fathers that are passed down to the sons.”
My height, I knew, would be both a detriment and an aid. On the one hand, it would give me an obvious high ground. On the other, it would make me a larger target.
I was tempted to refuse. My father had almost died at least four times between 1642 and 1649. One time he lay between Heaven and Earth for a month before he woke up. This was the story he would lecture me with every time I told him I had been whipped at school.
But then I remembered something my father told me, during the Christmas break of my first year at St. Edmund's. I had told him I was a bad shot,
“John, life is never easy. No one will ever give you anything. I used to think they would, that just because my father was rich the rest of my life would be a stroll in the country.
“I learned otherwise at Edgehill in 1642. Within minutes of the first shot every single one of the friends I'd made in training were dead. Many of them were knights and some had already inherited their father's lands.
It didn't help. Musket balls collect no ransoms. Cannons have no honor. Somehow, a force other than birth kept me alive. Probably it was luck, or maybe God had a plan for me after all.
“Remember that, John. Birth will buy you a manor. Money will buy you a woman, for a night at least.
But neither will buy you happiness, or love, or success.
Strength will buy them all. A woman's love, pliant servants, the respect of your peers.”
Sir Jacob Wrexham was killed in a charge at the battle of Sedgemoor four years ago, fighting the Duke of Monmouth's rebellion. Later, I overheard from a visitor to our manor who'd fought alongside my father that “he was a brave man to the last. Too brave, too strong, that will kill you quicker than the plague.”
Presently, I said to Darcy : “You'll be my second, I presume?”
Since you are of the gentle sex, you would not know that a second is a friend of each dueler who accompanies him to ensure the duel is fair, and sometimes even to continue the duel if the dueler is no longer capable. Darcy nodded eagerly.
Running out of the room, I called for two cups of wine, and two minutes later Percival Darcy and I drank to Sir John Wrexham, brother-in-law of the Earl of Duxton.
********************************************************
Runthorpe did not hesitate for a moment when I challenged him.
He had a room beneath Darcy's in Daniels's lodgings. I told him he had impinged on my honor by insulting me in your ladyship's presence, and thus I must have satisfaction of him in a duel. Despite the fact we had woken him only five minutes earlier, he was practically shooting already when I finished talking.
“Tomorrow! Hell, why not now! I'm worth two of you and twice more on Sundays!”
We ignored his boasts, simply telling him to meet us on the Duxton town common the next day at noon.
My lady, there was no night longer, not even the one after.
***************************************************************
The sun was putting on an unusually bright show when Darcy and I got off our carriage. There was no sign of Runthorpe to foul up the green town common -yet. Clearly he took a special delight in killing those made to look foolish. Not that he would achieve either.
Darcy inspected my pistol to kill time, rather too fastidiously. He looked as though he were a child, pawing a shiny object as he was.
Finally, another carriage arrived behind us, horses grunting as they came to a stop. Runthorpe descended with a short, rat-faced man who immediately shot me what he intended to be a suspicious look, although from my vantage point it seemed more like a worshipful one. I took him for Runthorpe’s second. With them was a doctor to treat wounds or proclaim one of the duelers dead.
And then you followed, slowly and gracefully descending from the idling carriage. I supposed you would want to attend a duel over a matter somewhat related to yourself, but to see you with Runthorpe...if we had been dueling for first blood he would have won in that moment. Fortunately, Darcy had persuaded me to accept no satisfaction until the insolent rogue had found rest in Christ, or (hopefully) in Satan.
With Runthorpe staring at me as if at some new pet in the King's menagerie I could do nothing but grit my teeth and get down to the business of death.
Darcy took out a paper from his pocket, and read out the terms of the duel: to the death. Runthorpe shook his head impatiently in agreement. We took our positions: Darcy and I facing the town of Duxton, and Runthorpe with his rat-faced second facing us.
Then you spoke, from your vantage point . “So I am but a toy for our big little boys to fight over? Have you never read the Bible? Not by strength nor by power, but by My spirit-”
“-saith the Lord.” finished Darcy, quoting the book of Zechariah. “A pious woman-” he said in a sort of surprised admiration. “-she shall be praised. Shouldn't I?” you finished for him this time.
The scene was looking more ridiculous by the moment, Runthorpe tapping impatiently on the grass with his foot, with myself throwing confused looks back and forth between your ladyship and Darcy.
Then, the storm broke, as did you. Into laughter. As the rapid peals of your mirth sounded, Darcy raised a great foolish grin, and even Runthorpe and his second managed a sneaky little smirk.
Runthorpe had won. He had tried to make me look a fool by making me wait, but the sight of myself fingering the cold steel in my holster, as everyone but me laughed , did the work nicely enough. I turned my back to the four of you and headed back to town, vainly seeking a carriage.
I glanced back as I walked, and I think I saw your face, no longer laughing.
It seemed sad.
*************************************
That night, I ran sleepless and desperate to Daniels's lodging house, to seek Darcy's counsel.
The blanket of darkness that spread over Duxton was a mirror into my mind, where despair crushed any vestige of logic.
Despite his moans and continued rolling on the floor, I shook and pulled him up until he could not return to sleep easily. Then, I sprung the trap.
“What shall I do?”
His eyes seemed to somehow spark in spite of their grogginess. “Abide in me, my friend, abide in me.”
And I did. Woe is me, I abode in Darcy.
*****************************************************************
You know the rest, no doubt. Darcy came to your manor to speak to you, and I never saw him for months.
Nor did I see you. I hope you will not punish your butler overmuch for responding to a bit of monetary prodding, telling me you had gone to the Netherlands, as had Lord Phillip.
There is not much to tell of the next few months, bar one matter. My mother, Lady Cecilia Wrexham, died peacefully in her sleep in September. Before she entered her final short sleep before the long one, she called for me as though possessed by some oracle of the future. “John,” she said, taking a few moments to collect her breath. “John, do.. don- don't matter what your fa..fath..father told you. Was good ma-man. Living man. Before he star..started listening to himself.”
Those were the last words she ever spoke in this life.
Mostly, though, as autumn crept on, I thought of you, I dreamt of you . I sent several couriers by ship to Amsterdam, at dear cost, in search of news of you and Darcy. I suppose they were held by the authorities to prevent them from bringing word of the Prince's invasion.
When news came to Landsowne's that the Prince of Orange had landed at Torbay in November of 1688, I bought a copy of his Declaration that the excitable lad who had brought the news had in his possession. It denounced King James's reign and “evil councilors and Jesuits” for “overturning” the “whole constitution of the English government” and exhorted all the people to support the Dutchmen.
As your brother was away with no word of his location, I took up the temporary lordship of Duxton pending his return. Nobody complained much. I suppose nobody really cared or noticed.
I did not come to join up with the Prince, but nor did I ride to oppose him.
My father fought for King Charles in the Great Rebellion that began in 1642 and only truly ended in 1666 with that villain Cromwell's death (making way for my birth a year later). Thanks to this, our family was left alone by James's attempts to turn England into a Catholic nation on the order of France (even though my father died at the beginning of James's reign). No soldiers were quartered in Wrexham Manor.
Nevertheless, I was outraged as all good men surely were when the Bishops of the English Church were committed to the Tower of London without fair trial, in flagrant defiance of habeas corpus.
Since the Prince was a little too close for comfort, I returned to London, whiling away those stormy days of near-war pining for you.
In February of the next year, as you are doubtless aware, William and Mary were crowned at Westminster Abbey, and my world was changed forever. As was the course of our history.
***************************************************************************
I arrived late at the procession. It was an ugly, grey day so regrettably common in London. By the time I shoved myself, pistol shaking like a driven leaf, to the front of the crowd left of the procession, I saw that the coronation was already done with. What looked like hundreds of Dutch soldiers paraded down the cobblestones, with the royal procession behind them, closer to Westminster Abbey than to myself. I searched for anyone I knew, but the crowd seemed to have not many face, but one, unknown and unknowable as the face of God.
Someone shouted “James! James! No Dutchmen in Westminster!” The guards in the midst of the procession fired a warning shot at the direction of the shout. Blissfully, it flew into the air, hitting no one.
Various dukes and duchesses and earls and countesses passed by, in a period of time that seemed to be ages, waving or glowering depending on their mood. Most glowered. I looked to my left, towards the Abbey, and there I saw a large cordon of helmeted guards who must have been guarding the new-made royal couple. I had never met a king before and I wanted to make myself known to the new king.
Then I saw my father, regarding me with a severe look from the other side of the procession.
Before I could protest the obvious impossibility, he said: “John, no one will give you anything. You must take everything you want.” For a moment, I truly believed I was a child again, whipped once by a schoolmaster's whip and once by a father's words.
Then, somehow my father had disappeared, to be replaced by the visitor whom I had overheard, his face grim and strangely blushing, as though the blood in his face was threatening to burst out. “A brave man, always killed his enemies,” he said, and this time I knew he meant me. “Too brave, too strong.”
My face was heating up quickly as the visitor disappeared. Time seemed to be a ridiculous rambling of a village idiot out for a night in the pub as he was replaced by someone altogether more welcome.
Or so I thought.
It was indeed you, your hair blowing in the unforgiving wind. “Not by strength and not by might,” you said, then you too began to vanish. I tried to shoot out a hand to touch you one first and last time, but I could not. It was as though my arm was being executed by being pitched into the sea with a stone tied around it.
This time, Darcy appeared, and time was once more a reasonable proposition. He did not say anything nor even seem to realize I was looking at him. But I knew that this time he was actually there.
And so were you.
To his immediate right, you stood, cheeks rosy from the cold.
I knew now what you had for months. Darcy. That viper so foul he could have poisoned the Serpent of Genesis. That faithless 'friend' who lives for nothing but to steal from better men.
I fumbled for my pistol as a large, richly adorned horse trotted by. My height meant I was in the line of sight of the rider, though I could not see him as I cast my eyes for my weapon.
Finally, I somehow found the wooden stock amidst the red cloud over my thoughts. I drew it out, and quickly loaded it, fearing that they would see, they would see. Loaded and cocked so fast that I thought I was dreaming, I pointed it at Darcy's general direction, and pulled the trigger.
Bang. Smoke rose from the barrel. A scream. Two. Three. Then dozens. I looked at the other side of the procession, to make sure Darcy would not rise to commit any more betrayal.
He was gone. But he was not on the ground. I looked down, and saw a crown still clattering on the cobblestones. A man with a face I'd seen in several wood engravings was lying on his back, sightless. He had a large hole in his forehead.
I ran. Had I truly done this? I, John Wrexham, who slew nothing but the odd hart in the woods when my father felt the urge to take me with him?
I suppose I did, for I am here and William of Orange is rotting in his pretty little grave under Westminster Abbey.
I killed him, yes. In all probability I have, through that one shot, killed thousands by now and probably thousands more, until this accursed war is over and King James is safe on his throne. I weep sometimes for those I've killed with one misaimed shot.
The truth of my single important action in life is there for you to consider now, my lady. Do with it what you will, but please do not listen to the lies of evil men, especially those who falsely claim to love you. Remember, though, there are those who do not lie when they express their love of you.
Your brother, Lord Phillip.
Myself.
May this letter find you soon and in peace.
God save King James.
I remain your humble servant,
Sir John Wrexham,
15 March, 1689
********************************************************************
John was fiddling with his pistol in his dark drawing room. There was no point now in getting any light in there.
He'd only returned from Landsowne's an hour previously, with only one goal in mind for this final visit to his home.
He'd spent the last half hour in Landsowne's Cofee-house saying goodbye to Landsowne and a few other old friends. Apparently, the Dutch had finally taken London for Queen Mary, William of Orange's widow. John was not surprised. Just one more reason to do the one final thing he'd come home for.
Quietly, he'd left a guinea coin on the counter. One could never have too much coin, with London fallen.
He was going to load the pistol, but somehow this time it wasn't going very well. Mysteriously, he had forgotten the entire procedure, never mind the location of the bullets and the gunpowder. Somehow he wanted to forget.
On the other hand, when he was done, he'd forget everything. The one man he'd killed accidentally, the thousands more he had probably slain with only one stray bullet.
After ten minutes of confused and half-hearted fiddling, he put down the pistol, and dreamt of better days. Days that never were. He dreamt of a golden-haired woman who quoted the Bible. He dreamt of a good and loyal friend. He would never have either again.
Finally, those dreams motivated him to try the pistol again. This time, he could have been the King's armorer for all he knew of gunpowder and loading of pistols.
Then he sat and waited.
Really, he thought, this is ridiculous. What is there to wait for? Am I so noble I know nothing of killing? I've killed more men than poor old James ever did.
Disgusted with himself, he picked up the pistol.
He pointed it at the door, at the wall, never sure yet all too sure of his target.
There was a knock on the door.
Still clutching the pistol as if it was a lover's hand, John strode towards the door. Slowly, he opened it, almost jumping at the creak of the door.
Nothing prepared him for the sight that awaited him on the other side of the door.
Phillip Marsham's crooked features were locked in a malicious grin. Behind him, John could make out The Earl of Duxton didn't have to tell John to drop his pistol. The very sight of him, in the Dutch blue coat, pried loose his stranglehold on the pistol. It clattered harshly to the ground.
“Et tu, John?” Marsham asked, clutching an all-too-familiar letter.
*****************************************************
The orange, white, and blue flag of the Dutch Republic already flew over the town hall of Duxton as John Wrexham was led away to the Dutch camp. Lord Phillip Marsham had returned to his seat with not a shot fired. The people of the town took one good look at the Dutch soldiers pouring through the streets, and boarded themselves up in their homes. With no resistance, Marsham and his officers set up headquarters in the earl's manor. John Wrexham, however, would enjoy no soft bed or lord's table.
“No chains for this coward.” Marsham had said when he condemned John to the camp with the ordinary soldiers. “He'll be too scared to run. If he tries, just point a musket in his general direction, and he'll scamper back like a beaten dog, piss running down his leg.” The bitterness in the voice of John's former friend had been as infinite as the sea.
“It won't be too bad,” Peter said, his musket hitting John's back with every other step. “We won't kill you right now. We'll wait for your precious James to give up. Then, we'll get some nice trials going. First him, then you. Your verdicts will be quick in coming, and merciful. Hanging, perhaps. Or beheading, like what you English did to his father.” Peter was one of the soldiers assigned to guard John. He spoke with almost no accent at all; he might have been a crony Marsham picked up in Amsterdam.
They pitched him into the first currently unoccupied tent, and left him. He didn't dare leave. All he did was sleep, and dream.
*************************************************
When he awoke, night had fallen over the camp, and Duxton only a few hundred yards south.
Peering out timidly from the opening of the tent, he could see fires burning and hear jokes and laughter, all over the camp.
He resolved to get some more sleep. He would need as much energy as he could to face what would come tonight. More abuse from Marsham? Worse things from his soldiers?
He rested his head on the soft ground, and closed his eyes. Then, he realized it was going to be a very long night.
Peter's blond head appeared in the entrance of the tent. “Hello, coward. I come bearing gifts.” The worst thing about his face was his seeming complete lack of emotion. A little drab of light was spilling into the tent, presuambly from an unseen torch Peter was holding
In a flash, there was a piece of parchment on the soft Devon ground. “It's too dark to read.” John said, almost in a whisper. He thought he knew who it was from, but he dared not ask.
Peter obliged: “Lord Phillip's sister. She's aching for you Here, I'm feeling merciful. I'll leave you to her letter.”
The little light fled in a moment, leaving John in almost total darkness with the letter. Sometimes mercy is the cruelest thing of all.
It would be a long night.
He wanted so badly to sleep, to forget, to retreat into a comfortable darkness where he felt no pain. Or fear.
Coward...
Coward...
He looked at the spot where he supposed the letter must still be, though it was all but invisible.
Elizabeth... she wrote me a letter. She cared...
Unable to sleep, he peered out the tent entrance. One by one, the meal fires and the jolly conversations faded away to embers and whispers.
There was no one nearby.
They trust in fear to guard the coward.
When the last visible fire went out, John went out the flap.
The Dutch soldiers had been quite negligent; nobody expected an attack, not with London fallen and Duxton so docilely surrendered. Moonlight allowed him to find the stables, guarded by soldiers perched on an abyss between awareness and sleep. Since Lord Phillip would not allow the beasts in his own lordly manor, they were exiled to this camp together with the ordinary soldiers.
John got on the saddle of a midnight-black horse, slowly but surely.
Having gotten his sleep for the night early, he was lucid enough to realize he should not ride very fast; that would serve only to wake the sleeping Dutch. No one was chasing him, and few knew or cared about him.
After what seemed like five eternities, John Wrexham was sitting astride a horse out of sight of the Dutch camp. He had mumbled a few Dutch words he had picked up at William of Orange's coronation, and was dully waved ahead by the guards.
Moonlight spilled amidst the hills of Devon. Sitting there, he felt a curious freedom. Freedom from the Dutch, obviously, yet it was more than that. Freedom from fear, freedom from the strength his father had tried so hard to instill in him.
Not by strength nor by might... he thought, riding through the moonlight to a future yet unseen.
THE END
ELIZABETH
To Lady Elizabeth Marsham
For Her Eyes Only
Do you remember, my lady? Do you remember me, that tall boy with delusions of manhood?
You will have heard certain falsehoods from the suitors who no doubt are sniffing around you like dogs. They will say “Wrexham is a coward, Wrexham is a pansy.”
Do not blame them over much, my lady. It is the nature of Man to spread falsehood and slander against his betters. You will recall the great lie perpetrated by the rogue Titus Oates about a supposed Jesuit plot to unseat our late king Charles and replace him with James as a puppet of the French.
However, it is the duty of all good persons to glean the truth amidst the lies like a diamond in coal. I pray your ladyship will do the same and read this letter.
It is rather long, but I must do my duty and take as much time as needed so that your worship will know the truth, and spread it for all decent men to hear.
Where do I begin? I suppose I must start the first time I laid eyes on your ladyship.
It was a rainy and foggy night in the beginning of July of the year 1688. I had just departed my own humble manor near yours in Duxton after visiting my ailing mother, Lady Cecilia. I was about to embark on my carriage and be on my merry way back to London, but then I remembered my friendship with your brother the Earl of Duxton at St. Edmund’s Public School. Accompanied by my old friend, Percival Darcy, I decided to pay his lordship a short visit. You will have known him by now. He was a younger boy, one form beneath us. He was ever a cunning lad, tricking his way out of work and beatings at school. We became friends when he told me how to trick our form-master, old Henderson, into breaking his lash when trying to lash me for disobedience.
Your manor that night... it was like a stark white island in a sea of darkness.
We knocked at the door of his lordship’s residence, and a radiant golden-haired woman opened the door to let our dripping and miserable forms inside. It was you, Lady Elizabeth Marsham.
When I saw you, I could not help but smile.
And weep, as though to fill the pools of your blue eyes.
I entered, as though entering a great cathedral, bathed in holy light.
I forgot, most shamefully, that I had been looking for his lordship, or that I was in your manor in the company of Percival Darcy. I forgot that my ailing mother did not have much longer to live, or that the Bishops were unjustly committed to the Tower by King James, awaiting trial.
I found that I was shaking. Was I afraid? A man should not be afraid in the presence of such beauty, I believed.
To my relief, it transpired that it was in fact Darcy, shaking me as if I had truly drowned. I opened my eyes and beheld the reddish-gold light of the great fireplace in the entrance hall. But I could not see your ladyship. The blood welling behind my cheeks did not recede for a moment as I my eyes cast around for you.
You were standing by the entrance to the dining hall, and looking disaffected as you endured the conversation of a man standing next to you. He was tall and black-haired, and although I could not see his face, I surmised he must be very handsome to hold your ladyship's company for so long . I tried to ask you where his lordship was, but a cast-iron cannonball stuck itself in my throat and proceeded to choke off all speech. Darcy came up behind me and whispered something in your ear, then withdrawing before the man's glare.
“Prince's sitting in the Netherlands, waiting for the call like a dog for his master.” the man said, “We're waiting to drive him into the sea! You write that in your next letter to Lord Phillip, never you let him worry. You like writing letters, don't you?” the man asked. At the moment I could not care less about princes or dogs. “Yes,” you said with just a hint of weariness. “I wouldn't tell that to Phillip, though. He's been going on about the perfidy of King James since he threw the Bishops in the Tower.”
Despite this talk of treason, I could not help the feeling that spread through me like smoke when the wind fans it your way. There was lust in it, certainly, but something more than lust as well. Something higher.
I approached the three of you slowly and shyly, like a frightened bird. Hearing my steps you turned around, forming a half-circle in front of me. Some strange compulsion took over my knees and forced me to the ground in front of the half-circle of Darcy, the man, and your ladyship. Seeing the unknown man's face now I saw that I was right. He must have been an English Adonis in the eyes of women, long black hair sliding down his shoulders like a snake. He greeted me with a reluctant nod, as did you, golden hair swaying slightly.
“What's your name?” he snapped at me.
“Sir John Wrexham.” I answered, almost too fast to be audible
“Thomas Runthorpe.” he enunciated, as though I was a recalcitrant pupil.
I decided to draw the dull blade of my wit. “You sound like someone whose greatest achievement is having an ancestor mentioned in the Domesday Book as 'vagrant'.”
For a moment his face was blank, as though he didn't understand. “Your greatest achievement is somehow entering my sight. Get out!”
To this day, I do not know what caused his instinctive dislike of me. Ever obedient, I slinked out the door of your manor, shooting one final look at your ladyship's beauty.
I seem to recall you looking back at me, seeming somehow sad as you turned to continue your tedious conversation with Runthorpe.
*******************************************************
I hope your ladyship has left London by now. It's said in coffee-houses in all the county, from Landsowne's to Exeter, that the Dutch will break out of Nottingham as soon as the rains start in earnest. Have you returned to Holland with your brother following the recent hostilities? I have not seen your ladyship since the coronation of the Prince of Orange and Princess Mary.
Those thoughts have been on my mind since I left your ladyship's manor that rainy night. Darcy went back to his lodgings at the edge of town, and so I was left practically alone in my mother's house, seeing as it was far too late to start back to London. My mother called for water as soon as I entered, so I had to wake Florham the butler to fetch her some. I went straight up to the room I pined for in my early nights at St. Edmund's, and I did not know what to do when I closed the door with an empathetic whump.
I pranced around the room like a wounded animal, stewing in my own filth and self-pity.
The heavens wept that night; so did I.
*******************************************************
The following morning found me a different man. Not a wiser man or a stronger one, but a purged man. I felt like the hot soup you had cooked in my stomach had been poured out and devoured by a host of hungry beggars, and I was now ready to face the world. I sent for the physician to take stock of my mother's condition and went myself out the door of our still-wet manor. This time I elected to ride the horse myself rather than take a carriage to Darcy's lodgings. It was as if I needed to be in control of something after I had lost it last night.
Darcy was fully awake and ready to go when the landlord, a short, pudgy man by the name of Maramaduke Daniels admitted me into Darcy's room. Since he already knew what had gone on last night it did not take too long to explain my situation. He was nodding and smiling the whole time as if my life was one grand jest I had as of yet failed to grasp. When I had finished he scratched his head for a bit, rather puzzlingly, and then said: “The way out of your conundrum is quite simple, old chap. Eliminate the opposition.”
I grasped his meaning immediately.
“My father loved to tell his story of how he won my mother in a duel with a Parliament soldier during the Great Rebellion of 1642. He would prate it at me every time I wrote home about some girl who took my fancy.”
“Hopefully it is not only the sins of the fathers that are passed down to the sons.”
My height, I knew, would be both a detriment and an aid. On the one hand, it would give me an obvious high ground. On the other, it would make me a larger target.
I was tempted to refuse. My father had almost died at least four times between 1642 and 1649. One time he lay between Heaven and Earth for a month before he woke up. This was the story he would lecture me with every time I told him I had been whipped at school.
But then I remembered something my father told me, during the Christmas break of my first year at St. Edmund's. I had told him I was a bad shot,
“John, life is never easy. No one will ever give you anything. I used to think they would, that just because my father was rich the rest of my life would be a stroll in the country.
“I learned otherwise at Edgehill in 1642. Within minutes of the first shot every single one of the friends I'd made in training were dead. Many of them were knights and some had already inherited their father's lands.
It didn't help. Musket balls collect no ransoms. Cannons have no honor. Somehow, a force other than birth kept me alive. Probably it was luck, or maybe God had a plan for me after all.
“Remember that, John. Birth will buy you a manor. Money will buy you a woman, for a night at least.
But neither will buy you happiness, or love, or success.
Strength will buy them all. A woman's love, pliant servants, the respect of your peers.”
Sir Jacob Wrexham was killed in a charge at the battle of Sedgemoor four years ago, fighting the Duke of Monmouth's rebellion. Later, I overheard from a visitor to our manor who'd fought alongside my father that “he was a brave man to the last. Too brave, too strong, that will kill you quicker than the plague.”
Presently, I said to Darcy : “You'll be my second, I presume?”
Since you are of the gentle sex, you would not know that a second is a friend of each dueler who accompanies him to ensure the duel is fair, and sometimes even to continue the duel if the dueler is no longer capable. Darcy nodded eagerly.
Running out of the room, I called for two cups of wine, and two minutes later Percival Darcy and I drank to Sir John Wrexham, brother-in-law of the Earl of Duxton.
********************************************************
Runthorpe did not hesitate for a moment when I challenged him.
He had a room beneath Darcy's in Daniels's lodgings. I told him he had impinged on my honor by insulting me in your ladyship's presence, and thus I must have satisfaction of him in a duel. Despite the fact we had woken him only five minutes earlier, he was practically shooting already when I finished talking.
“Tomorrow! Hell, why not now! I'm worth two of you and twice more on Sundays!”
We ignored his boasts, simply telling him to meet us on the Duxton town common the next day at noon.
My lady, there was no night longer, not even the one after.
***************************************************************
The sun was putting on an unusually bright show when Darcy and I got off our carriage. There was no sign of Runthorpe to foul up the green town common -yet. Clearly he took a special delight in killing those made to look foolish. Not that he would achieve either.
Darcy inspected my pistol to kill time, rather too fastidiously. He looked as though he were a child, pawing a shiny object as he was.
Finally, another carriage arrived behind us, horses grunting as they came to a stop. Runthorpe descended with a short, rat-faced man who immediately shot me what he intended to be a suspicious look, although from my vantage point it seemed more like a worshipful one. I took him for Runthorpe’s second. With them was a doctor to treat wounds or proclaim one of the duelers dead.
And then you followed, slowly and gracefully descending from the idling carriage. I supposed you would want to attend a duel over a matter somewhat related to yourself, but to see you with Runthorpe...if we had been dueling for first blood he would have won in that moment. Fortunately, Darcy had persuaded me to accept no satisfaction until the insolent rogue had found rest in Christ, or (hopefully) in Satan.
With Runthorpe staring at me as if at some new pet in the King's menagerie I could do nothing but grit my teeth and get down to the business of death.
Darcy took out a paper from his pocket, and read out the terms of the duel: to the death. Runthorpe shook his head impatiently in agreement. We took our positions: Darcy and I facing the town of Duxton, and Runthorpe with his rat-faced second facing us.
Then you spoke, from your vantage point . “So I am but a toy for our big little boys to fight over? Have you never read the Bible? Not by strength nor by power, but by My spirit-”
“-saith the Lord.” finished Darcy, quoting the book of Zechariah. “A pious woman-” he said in a sort of surprised admiration. “-she shall be praised. Shouldn't I?” you finished for him this time.
The scene was looking more ridiculous by the moment, Runthorpe tapping impatiently on the grass with his foot, with myself throwing confused looks back and forth between your ladyship and Darcy.
Then, the storm broke, as did you. Into laughter. As the rapid peals of your mirth sounded, Darcy raised a great foolish grin, and even Runthorpe and his second managed a sneaky little smirk.
Runthorpe had won. He had tried to make me look a fool by making me wait, but the sight of myself fingering the cold steel in my holster, as everyone but me laughed , did the work nicely enough. I turned my back to the four of you and headed back to town, vainly seeking a carriage.
I glanced back as I walked, and I think I saw your face, no longer laughing.
It seemed sad.
*************************************
That night, I ran sleepless and desperate to Daniels's lodging house, to seek Darcy's counsel.
The blanket of darkness that spread over Duxton was a mirror into my mind, where despair crushed any vestige of logic.
Despite his moans and continued rolling on the floor, I shook and pulled him up until he could not return to sleep easily. Then, I sprung the trap.
“What shall I do?”
His eyes seemed to somehow spark in spite of their grogginess. “Abide in me, my friend, abide in me.”
And I did. Woe is me, I abode in Darcy.
*****************************************************************
You know the rest, no doubt. Darcy came to your manor to speak to you, and I never saw him for months.
Nor did I see you. I hope you will not punish your butler overmuch for responding to a bit of monetary prodding, telling me you had gone to the Netherlands, as had Lord Phillip.
There is not much to tell of the next few months, bar one matter. My mother, Lady Cecilia Wrexham, died peacefully in her sleep in September. Before she entered her final short sleep before the long one, she called for me as though possessed by some oracle of the future. “John,” she said, taking a few moments to collect her breath. “John, do.. don- don't matter what your fa..fath..father told you. Was good ma-man. Living man. Before he star..started listening to himself.”
Those were the last words she ever spoke in this life.
Mostly, though, as autumn crept on, I thought of you, I dreamt of you . I sent several couriers by ship to Amsterdam, at dear cost, in search of news of you and Darcy. I suppose they were held by the authorities to prevent them from bringing word of the Prince's invasion.
When news came to Landsowne's that the Prince of Orange had landed at Torbay in November of 1688, I bought a copy of his Declaration that the excitable lad who had brought the news had in his possession. It denounced King James's reign and “evil councilors and Jesuits” for “overturning” the “whole constitution of the English government” and exhorted all the people to support the Dutchmen.
As your brother was away with no word of his location, I took up the temporary lordship of Duxton pending his return. Nobody complained much. I suppose nobody really cared or noticed.
I did not come to join up with the Prince, but nor did I ride to oppose him.
My father fought for King Charles in the Great Rebellion that began in 1642 and only truly ended in 1666 with that villain Cromwell's death (making way for my birth a year later). Thanks to this, our family was left alone by James's attempts to turn England into a Catholic nation on the order of France (even though my father died at the beginning of James's reign). No soldiers were quartered in Wrexham Manor.
Nevertheless, I was outraged as all good men surely were when the Bishops of the English Church were committed to the Tower of London without fair trial, in flagrant defiance of habeas corpus.
Since the Prince was a little too close for comfort, I returned to London, whiling away those stormy days of near-war pining for you.
In February of the next year, as you are doubtless aware, William and Mary were crowned at Westminster Abbey, and my world was changed forever. As was the course of our history.
***************************************************************************
I arrived late at the procession. It was an ugly, grey day so regrettably common in London. By the time I shoved myself, pistol shaking like a driven leaf, to the front of the crowd left of the procession, I saw that the coronation was already done with. What looked like hundreds of Dutch soldiers paraded down the cobblestones, with the royal procession behind them, closer to Westminster Abbey than to myself. I searched for anyone I knew, but the crowd seemed to have not many face, but one, unknown and unknowable as the face of God.
Someone shouted “James! James! No Dutchmen in Westminster!” The guards in the midst of the procession fired a warning shot at the direction of the shout. Blissfully, it flew into the air, hitting no one.
Various dukes and duchesses and earls and countesses passed by, in a period of time that seemed to be ages, waving or glowering depending on their mood. Most glowered. I looked to my left, towards the Abbey, and there I saw a large cordon of helmeted guards who must have been guarding the new-made royal couple. I had never met a king before and I wanted to make myself known to the new king.
Then I saw my father, regarding me with a severe look from the other side of the procession.
Before I could protest the obvious impossibility, he said: “John, no one will give you anything. You must take everything you want.” For a moment, I truly believed I was a child again, whipped once by a schoolmaster's whip and once by a father's words.
Then, somehow my father had disappeared, to be replaced by the visitor whom I had overheard, his face grim and strangely blushing, as though the blood in his face was threatening to burst out. “A brave man, always killed his enemies,” he said, and this time I knew he meant me. “Too brave, too strong.”
My face was heating up quickly as the visitor disappeared. Time seemed to be a ridiculous rambling of a village idiot out for a night in the pub as he was replaced by someone altogether more welcome.
Or so I thought.
It was indeed you, your hair blowing in the unforgiving wind. “Not by strength and not by might,” you said, then you too began to vanish. I tried to shoot out a hand to touch you one first and last time, but I could not. It was as though my arm was being executed by being pitched into the sea with a stone tied around it.
This time, Darcy appeared, and time was once more a reasonable proposition. He did not say anything nor even seem to realize I was looking at him. But I knew that this time he was actually there.
And so were you.
To his immediate right, you stood, cheeks rosy from the cold.
I knew now what you had for months. Darcy. That viper so foul he could have poisoned the Serpent of Genesis. That faithless 'friend' who lives for nothing but to steal from better men.
I fumbled for my pistol as a large, richly adorned horse trotted by. My height meant I was in the line of sight of the rider, though I could not see him as I cast my eyes for my weapon.
Finally, I somehow found the wooden stock amidst the red cloud over my thoughts. I drew it out, and quickly loaded it, fearing that they would see, they would see. Loaded and cocked so fast that I thought I was dreaming, I pointed it at Darcy's general direction, and pulled the trigger.
Bang. Smoke rose from the barrel. A scream. Two. Three. Then dozens. I looked at the other side of the procession, to make sure Darcy would not rise to commit any more betrayal.
He was gone. But he was not on the ground. I looked down, and saw a crown still clattering on the cobblestones. A man with a face I'd seen in several wood engravings was lying on his back, sightless. He had a large hole in his forehead.
I ran. Had I truly done this? I, John Wrexham, who slew nothing but the odd hart in the woods when my father felt the urge to take me with him?
I suppose I did, for I am here and William of Orange is rotting in his pretty little grave under Westminster Abbey.
I killed him, yes. In all probability I have, through that one shot, killed thousands by now and probably thousands more, until this accursed war is over and King James is safe on his throne. I weep sometimes for those I've killed with one misaimed shot.
The truth of my single important action in life is there for you to consider now, my lady. Do with it what you will, but please do not listen to the lies of evil men, especially those who falsely claim to love you. Remember, though, there are those who do not lie when they express their love of you.
Your brother, Lord Phillip.
Myself.
May this letter find you soon and in peace.
God save King James.
I remain your humble servant,
Sir John Wrexham,
15 March, 1689
********************************************************************
John was fiddling with his pistol in his dark drawing room. There was no point now in getting any light in there.
He'd only returned from Landsowne's an hour previously, with only one goal in mind for this final visit to his home.
He'd spent the last half hour in Landsowne's Cofee-house saying goodbye to Landsowne and a few other old friends. Apparently, the Dutch had finally taken London for Queen Mary, William of Orange's widow. John was not surprised. Just one more reason to do the one final thing he'd come home for.
Quietly, he'd left a guinea coin on the counter. One could never have too much coin, with London fallen.
He was going to load the pistol, but somehow this time it wasn't going very well. Mysteriously, he had forgotten the entire procedure, never mind the location of the bullets and the gunpowder. Somehow he wanted to forget.
On the other hand, when he was done, he'd forget everything. The one man he'd killed accidentally, the thousands more he had probably slain with only one stray bullet.
After ten minutes of confused and half-hearted fiddling, he put down the pistol, and dreamt of better days. Days that never were. He dreamt of a golden-haired woman who quoted the Bible. He dreamt of a good and loyal friend. He would never have either again.
Finally, those dreams motivated him to try the pistol again. This time, he could have been the King's armorer for all he knew of gunpowder and loading of pistols.
Then he sat and waited.
Really, he thought, this is ridiculous. What is there to wait for? Am I so noble I know nothing of killing? I've killed more men than poor old James ever did.
Disgusted with himself, he picked up the pistol.
He pointed it at the door, at the wall, never sure yet all too sure of his target.
There was a knock on the door.
Still clutching the pistol as if it was a lover's hand, John strode towards the door. Slowly, he opened it, almost jumping at the creak of the door.
Nothing prepared him for the sight that awaited him on the other side of the door.
Phillip Marsham's crooked features were locked in a malicious grin. Behind him, John could make out The Earl of Duxton didn't have to tell John to drop his pistol. The very sight of him, in the Dutch blue coat, pried loose his stranglehold on the pistol. It clattered harshly to the ground.
“Et tu, John?” Marsham asked, clutching an all-too-familiar letter.
*****************************************************
The orange, white, and blue flag of the Dutch Republic already flew over the town hall of Duxton as John Wrexham was led away to the Dutch camp. Lord Phillip Marsham had returned to his seat with not a shot fired. The people of the town took one good look at the Dutch soldiers pouring through the streets, and boarded themselves up in their homes. With no resistance, Marsham and his officers set up headquarters in the earl's manor. John Wrexham, however, would enjoy no soft bed or lord's table.
“No chains for this coward.” Marsham had said when he condemned John to the camp with the ordinary soldiers. “He'll be too scared to run. If he tries, just point a musket in his general direction, and he'll scamper back like a beaten dog, piss running down his leg.” The bitterness in the voice of John's former friend had been as infinite as the sea.
“It won't be too bad,” Peter said, his musket hitting John's back with every other step. “We won't kill you right now. We'll wait for your precious James to give up. Then, we'll get some nice trials going. First him, then you. Your verdicts will be quick in coming, and merciful. Hanging, perhaps. Or beheading, like what you English did to his father.” Peter was one of the soldiers assigned to guard John. He spoke with almost no accent at all; he might have been a crony Marsham picked up in Amsterdam.
They pitched him into the first currently unoccupied tent, and left him. He didn't dare leave. All he did was sleep, and dream.
*************************************************
When he awoke, night had fallen over the camp, and Duxton only a few hundred yards south.
Peering out timidly from the opening of the tent, he could see fires burning and hear jokes and laughter, all over the camp.
He resolved to get some more sleep. He would need as much energy as he could to face what would come tonight. More abuse from Marsham? Worse things from his soldiers?
He rested his head on the soft ground, and closed his eyes. Then, he realized it was going to be a very long night.
Peter's blond head appeared in the entrance of the tent. “Hello, coward. I come bearing gifts.” The worst thing about his face was his seeming complete lack of emotion. A little drab of light was spilling into the tent, presuambly from an unseen torch Peter was holding
In a flash, there was a piece of parchment on the soft Devon ground. “It's too dark to read.” John said, almost in a whisper. He thought he knew who it was from, but he dared not ask.
Peter obliged: “Lord Phillip's sister. She's aching for you Here, I'm feeling merciful. I'll leave you to her letter.”
The little light fled in a moment, leaving John in almost total darkness with the letter. Sometimes mercy is the cruelest thing of all.
It would be a long night.
He wanted so badly to sleep, to forget, to retreat into a comfortable darkness where he felt no pain. Or fear.
Coward...
Coward...
He looked at the spot where he supposed the letter must still be, though it was all but invisible.
Elizabeth... she wrote me a letter. She cared...
Unable to sleep, he peered out the tent entrance. One by one, the meal fires and the jolly conversations faded away to embers and whispers.
There was no one nearby.
They trust in fear to guard the coward.
When the last visible fire went out, John went out the flap.
The Dutch soldiers had been quite negligent; nobody expected an attack, not with London fallen and Duxton so docilely surrendered. Moonlight allowed him to find the stables, guarded by soldiers perched on an abyss between awareness and sleep. Since Lord Phillip would not allow the beasts in his own lordly manor, they were exiled to this camp together with the ordinary soldiers.
John got on the saddle of a midnight-black horse, slowly but surely.
Having gotten his sleep for the night early, he was lucid enough to realize he should not ride very fast; that would serve only to wake the sleeping Dutch. No one was chasing him, and few knew or cared about him.
After what seemed like five eternities, John Wrexham was sitting astride a horse out of sight of the Dutch camp. He had mumbled a few Dutch words he had picked up at William of Orange's coronation, and was dully waved ahead by the guards.
Moonlight spilled amidst the hills of Devon. Sitting there, he felt a curious freedom. Freedom from the Dutch, obviously, yet it was more than that. Freedom from fear, freedom from the strength his father had tried so hard to instill in him.
Not by strength nor by might... he thought, riding through the moonlight to a future yet unseen.
THE END
its hard to convey a sense of sympathy while criticizing ober the internet etc.)