The Emperor of All Things - By Paul Witcover Page 0,212
were bound and gagged no longer. Now they faced him, swords drawn.
And they were not alone. A dozen men or more stood with them, some holding torches, others swords or crossbows.
Quare skidded to a halt.
‘Well, if it ain’t Mr Quare,’ said Starkey with a grin that promised all sorts of unpleasantness. ‘What’s yer ’urry, eh?’
‘Where’s Grimalkin?’ Cornelius demanded, gesturing with his sword. ‘I’ll whittle ’im down to a splinter, see if I don’t!’
‘Oi, look, ’e’s ’oldin a watch!’ Starkey said before Quare could reply, turning to address someone behind him. ‘I told yer they was goin’ ter fetch it right to yer, didn’t I?’
‘So you did, Mr Starkey.’ The man pushed forward into view.
It was Aylesford.
‘Surprised to see me, Quare?’ Aylesford asked as he drew his blade with a flourish.
Quare felt the hunter pulse in his hand. He groaned in despair. ‘Run,’ he gasped out. ‘All of you – before it’s too late!’
This provoked a chorus of mocking laughter and catcalls.
‘I’ve got a better idea,’ said Aylesford when the general mirth had subsided. ‘Hand over the watch, and I’ll spare your life.’
‘’Course, me and Corny might not be so mercerful,’ added Starkey.
‘I don’t feel much inclined in that direction, to be sure,’ Cornelius admitted.
Quare drew his sword. ‘You should have left London, Aylesford. You should have gone back to France and kept on going.’
‘Oh, I mean to return – just as soon as I have the hunter.’
‘It is the hunter that will have you,’ Quare said grimly. ‘All of you.’
‘He’s barmy,’ someone said.
‘Just shoot ’im,’ another voice suggested. ‘Make ’im inter a pincushion!’
Aylesford raised a forestalling hand. ‘You may do what you like with him once I am through, gentlemen. But I have the prior claim. Quare and I have unfinished business.’
‘Go on, then,’ Cornelius said. ‘’Is Majesty said you was ter ’ave carte blanche, Mr Aylesford, and carte blanche you shall ’ave.’
‘His Majesty is most gracious. I won’t forget it … and nor will my prince.’
‘This man is a cowardly murderer and an agent of the French,’ Quare said, glancing over the knot of men arrayed against him. ‘By helping him, you are aiding the enemies of your king and country. Is there no loyal Englishman among you?’
‘We’re Morecockneyans,’ Cornelius answered. ‘This is our country. Not up there – down ’ere. And we’ve got our own king, fank yer very much.’
‘Enough words,’ Aylesford said, advancing on Quare with his sword at the ready, the tip inscribing tight circles in the air. ‘I prefer to let my blade do the talking.’
Quare readied himself. He knew from his previous encounter with Aylesford that the Scotsman was the better swordsman, but that would not matter now. Aylesford was in for a nasty surprise. They all were. The throbbing of the hunter had grown stronger, more insistent.
Quare’s hand rose of its own accord, elevating the hunter like a beacon. It cast a blood-red light upon Aylesford, who came on with a resolute expression despite the fear Quare saw in his eyes. He was right to be afraid. He just wasn’t afraid enough. Quare almost pitied him.
Aylesford was gripping the hilt of his sword with both hands now. He shouted something in his own language that was incomprehensible to Quare as he stepped up and swung with all his might.
Quare watched as if from a safe remove as the blade passed through his wrist. His severed hand spun through the air in a spray of blood. Absurdly, he tried to reach for it, to catch it, with the stump. Yet he felt as if he were the one being cast away, as if his own hand had rejected him.
Then the pain took him. He dropped to his knees with a strangled, disbelieving cry, cradling the stump to his chest as if to smother the flow of blood. Aylesford meanwhile darted to where the hand had fallen. It lay on the ground like something hewn from a statue, the fingers still locked tight about the hunter.
‘Stand back!’ Aylesford cried out in warning to the Morecockneyans, who needed no encouragement on that score and were retreating en masse from the grisly trophy as if from a fizzing grenado. ‘Mr Starkey, if you please.’
Starkey edged forward, holding out a sack of some kind at arm’s length.
Aylesford reached for it …
And someone stepped to block Quare’s view. He glanced up dully. Cornelius loomed over him. ‘Nighty-night, Quaresie.’ The pommel of his sword came down hard on Quare’s skull,