was suddenly struck by the sense of what Nicholas had said. It was like a shaft of sunlight breaking through clouds. There was a momentary sense of dislocation, of transposition, during which Ben felt the weight of his own life for the first time. He had never realised before that he carried his own life about with him, that it was his life and no-one else’s, and now that he thought about it, he could not deny that there was a certain poetic justice about what Nicholas had done in robbing the robbers. And given that they would never report the robbery to the authorities, he had to acknowledge that the matter had been wrapped up.
‘Nicholas, I’m starting to think that you’re corrupting me,’ he said, shaking his head.
‘I’m always glad to help,’ Nicholas said with an air of satisfaction.
‘Well, it’s over and done with anyway,’ Ben said.
‘Probably.’
‘What do you mean probably?’
‘I mean it’s not guaranteed, that’s all.’
‘How can it not be guaranteed?’
‘Well, I think we should both keep our eyes open in case we run into those robbers again, who might after all want revenge. Especially you. Me, they might not attack, but if they find you on your own, well, you’ll be on your own, that’s all.’
‘Well, that’s great,’ Ben complained. ‘Now I have to watch my back every minute of the day.’
‘Don’t you do that already?’ Nicholas asked curiously. ‘I mean, I do. I thought everyone did.’
Ben said nothing for a while but just looked at him before saying, ‘No, Nicholas, it’s just you and those like you. The rest of us don’t worry about suddenly being unexpectedly attacked.’
‘I’ve been trained to be ready to be unexpectedly attacked since I was seven,’ Nicholas said, shrugging slightly. ‘That’s where we’re different, I suppose.’
Ben got off the bed and moved to the door. He opened the door, and just before he stepped through it he turned to Nicholas and said, ‘When I have time I will list our differences, and I assure you, there will be more than one item on the list.’ With that he stepped through the door and closed it behind him.
Nicholas smiled to himself. He remembered now that Ben always liked to have the last word.
TWO
The Proposal of Lord Percival Breckenridge
to Lady Isabel Grangeshield
3:20 PM, Monday 2 May 1544 A. F.
Isabel Grangeshield sat contentedly in her magnificent garden, her fan held lightly in her hands as she contemplated the world at large. The sky was as blue as blue could be, with fluffy white clouds moving across it like clots of cream sliding down the sides of a bowl. Behind her, Grangeshield House rose up into the air like a ship surging through the blue sky overhead, the Grangeshield banner with its two red lions waving in the gentle breeze.
Isabel was looking her best, which was to say formidable. Her dark brown hair had been carefully coiled into a spiral pattern held together by green and white gemstones which had been carefully chosen to augment the dark green dress she was wearing. This dress was cut low to display the cleavage of Isabel’s large breasts, then pulled in tight at the waist in order to balloon into cascading skirts which only ended their fall in order to display the demure tips of two shoes peeking forward where they were positioned on the ground. Isabel’s large warm brown eyes were framed by darkened eyelashes, her full lips painted a deep red, her rounded cheeks gently rouged to emphasise the sweetness of her face, her bare neck and shoulders gleaming in the sunlight as she sat straight-backed in her chair on this day on which her latest suitor would propose to her.
Beside her sat Lord Percival Albert James Algernon Breckenridge, Count of Anthored, Keeper of The Sixth Key, Knight Exalted of the Council of Rondreth, and the fifth richest man in Anglashia. He cut a striking figure, with a magnificent moustache and carefully combed reddish hair, blue eyes and the proportions of his nose, mouth and brow all combining to form the regular and pleasing features of his handsome face. His clothes were a glorious fusion of blue and yellow, his ancestral colours, from the gleam of his highly polished shoes to the faded sheen of the carefully folded scarf around his neck.
Isabel and Percival were seated in the ornately carved Grotto of Peace on red velvet cushions at right angles to each other. Discreetly out of earshot at some distance away to Isabel’s left sat Lord and Lady Easton in chairs placed within the hexagonal Pavilion of the Sun. With them were Lady Breckenridge, the mother of Percival, and Percival’s bored younger brother, the seventeen year-old William. The tableau was not set by accident, for there was a design to it, and the centerpiece of the design were the two figures of Isabel and Percival.
Isabel sat composedly, her hands in her lap holding her fan, which she twirled now and then. Percival himself was anything but composed, fidgeting in his chair continually, straightening in his chair and then slouching down, his legs crossed, the heel of his right foot occasionally tapping at his left calf.
They had exchanged pleasantries, enquired after each other’s health and also after the health of various relatives and friends. They then both expressed concern about the international situation, which was bad, as usual. Percival had then spoken at length about harmony, mutual understanding and the merging of destinies. He appeared to have memorised certain quotes because his eyes would slightly glaze over at times as he brought forth segments of highly polished prose containing the wit and wisdom of the ages. Isabel nodded as if attentive to everything he said, the picture of an appreciative audience. In point of fact, she was hardly listening to a word he was saying, but she was enjoying herself nonetheless.
She always enjoyed being proposed to no matter who the suitor in question was. They were all one to her because she had absolutely no intention of accepting any of their proposals. She was twenty two years old and frequently badgered about getting married by her guardians, Lord and Lady Easton, but she was not getting married for several reasons. One was that she enjoyed her independence, another that she enjoyed being chased after by every eligible bachelor in New Landern, and another was that she had never yet met a man who she wanted to marry.
She knew that the Eastons had particular hopes for this match. Percival was twenty-eight, good-looking with a very handsome moustache, from one of the noblest families in the land and incredibly rich. They felt that this match had everything going for it, including the undeniable fact that it was definitely time for Isabel to get married. While never complaining about their own roles as chaperones, it could not be denied that this was also part of their reasoning. They would then have their own time back to themselves rather than being obliged to be Isabel’s guardians, but to their credit this was a secondary consideration for them.
Percival had fallen silent for some time while Isabel had patiently waited.
‘Isabel,’ Percival said, ‘well, here we are.’
Isabel saw that he was getting his nerve together to make his proposal. She always enjoyed this part. Her suitors varied in their degrees of anguish, and they each took their varying times about working themselves up to the moment of truth, but when the time came she took a certain interest in watching them go about what they had to do. The sight of the pain, her suitors were going through gave her a warm and pleasurable feeling. She said nothing, her eyes demurely downcast, twirling her fan in her hands.
‘So here we are, are we not, Isabel?’
