Clash of Empires Page 6

  “You have feelings for her,” Frost says.

  “I have spoken of no such thing,” Willem protests.

  “Yet when you speak of the rescue, it is always her name that you utter first,” Frost says.

  “You have been too long with the Intelligence Office,” Willem says. “You find meaning where there is none.”

  “Are you betrothed to her?” Frost asks.

  Willem shakes his head.

  “Are you promised?” Frost asks.

  “I am not anything to her,” Willem says. He sighs. “Except a fool when I am around her and incomplete when I am away from her.”

  “I thought as much,” Frost says with a smile.

  “You see far and deeply without eyes,” Willem says. “Jean would have laughed at me. He’d have said there are many maidens to woo before settling on one.”

  Speaking of Jean brings back memories of him, Willem’s truest friend, murdered by his own cousin, François. It is a painful memory. Frost seems to sense his discomfort and they travel for a while in silence.

  They skirt the old London wall, built by the Romans around the original city of Londinium to keep out wandering saurs. It is high and imposing, made of thick stone. Willem wonders if saurs were larger in those days, or perhaps more numerous.

  Everywhere they see soldiers in small groups or marching in lines. They are a constant reminder that Napoléon’s army is held back from London by just a short stretch of water. Not that the city needs reminding. Unease is everywhere: in the expressions on people’s faces, on the pages of the newspapers, in the shop owners boarding up their shop windows in preparation for the imminent invasion.

  They pass one news-seller with copies of the Times, holding up a hand-drawn poster of a dinosaur that looks more like a large rat.

  “I heard that Napoléon is going to fly his battlesaurs over using giant balloons,” Frost says with a smile.

  “And I heard that the French are digging a tunnel beneath the English Channel,” Willem says.

  “Flying dinosaurs,” Jack says. “Imagine if one did its bottom business. I wouldn’t want to be standin’ under that.”

  They all laugh.

  * * *

  The carriage finally turns into a wide tree-lined driveway on the grounds of an imposing building. It pulls to a halt outside a large gate in a curved wall, between two heavy pillars. On top of the pillars are statues, two reclining men with faces contorted by madness.

  Jack seems immediately uncomfortable at the sight of this place. “I’ll stay here and mind the carriage, if you please,” he says.

  “Come with us, Jack,” Frost says. “I need your eyes.”

  Jack hesitates, then says, “Mr. Willem has eyes too, sir.”

  “Jack, I could use—” Frost begins.

  “I’d rather not go in there, sir, if it’s all the same to you,” Jack says abruptly.

  Willem is surprised by the outburst. “Do you know this place?” he asks.

  “I seen it before,” Jack says. “It’s a bad place.”

  “It’s a hospital,” Frost says. “They help sick people.”

  “Bad things happen in there,” Jack says. “I feel it.”

  “Héloïse is in there,” Willem says.

  Jack looks terrified. “Please, sir, Lieutenant Frost, sir,” he says.

  “But—” Willem begins.

  “Jack, stay here,” Frost says. He hands him some coins. “Here is the payment for our driver. Hold it for me and see that he does not leave before our return.”

  It is Willem’s turn to be Frost’s guide. He takes the lieutenant’s arm and leads him through the gates toward a heavy stone wall, topped by four Roman pillars. Set into the wall is a narrow door.

  “That was unlike Jack,” Willem says as they walk.

  “Decidedly,” Frost agrees. “Something about this place has affected him deeply. Perhaps it is not entirely unknown to him. A family member, perhaps?”

  They stop at the door, which is locked. A rope to one side pulls a bell and they wait as the sharp tones fade in the cool morning air.

  “Not long ago, you could pay tuppence to visit the madhouse and laugh at the lunatics,” Frost says. “It was considered a fine entertainment.”

  “That seems cruel,” Willem says.

  “Times have changed,” Frost says without conviction.

  A nurse greets them and invites them into a small waiting room, where she writes their names in a visitors’ book. She is a sharp-faced but stout woman, with one eye that constantly weeps.

  “I must ask you to remove your swords,” she says. “No weapons are allowed inside, lest the lunatics take hold of them and use them to harm themselves or others.”

  Frost unbuckles his scabbard and hands it to the nurse, who places it in a cupboard. Willem follows suit, and the nurse locks the cupboard.

  “We have come to see Antoinette de Forêt,” Frost says.

  This is the name by which Héloïse has been admitted to the asylum, to keep her real identity secret.

  The nurse consults another large, leather-bound book, wiping at her damp eye.

  “I am afraid Miss de Forêt is not available,” she says.

  “We have come a long way, and have only a little time,” Frost says. “Might I ask that she be made available?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, she is in treatment,” the nurse says. “You can see her after that.”

  “Perhaps we can see her while she is in treatment,” Frost says. “As I said, we are pressed for time.”

  “My apologies, good sir, she cannot be disturbed,” the nurse says. “Therapy is not for spectators.”

  “I have tuppence if it is required,” Frost says coldly.

  The nurse sets her mouth and closes the book.

  “Might we at least see the asylum?” Willem asks. He does not wait for an answer but steps past the nurse and opens a door into a wide gallery.

  Asylum is the wrong word for this place, he thinks. This is clearly not a place of shelter. Nor is it a refuge or a sanctuary. Madhouse is the better word, for this is truly a house of chaos and madness.

  As soon as the door is opened he can hear babbling, wailing, and the clanking of chains. The stench of human waste is like a solid hand pushing him backward.

  As Willem enters—with Frost at his heels, holding the back of his coat for guidance—an elderly man with wide, staring eyes turns to see them. He has one look at Frost and begins to laugh, pointing at Frost’s face. Perhaps it is the twin eye patches that he finds so funny. His laughter turns to cackles and is infectious; others around him also turn and snigger or giggle.

  “What are they laughing at?” Frost asks.

  “Nothing,” Willem says. “They are just laughing.”

  The main hall is nothing but a stone-walled barn. The floor is covered with straw. The walls are lined with barred cells. Some of the inmates stand at the bars, staring out into the main gallery. Others lie on wooden beds, or are curled into balls in corners of their cells.

  In the main gallery, men and women roam aimlessly with dazed expressions, others with melancholy eyes. One or two are crying. Some undertake small pastimes like card games or hand-knitting.

  One man is completely naked except for a straitjacket. He stands facing a wall, gibbering like a monkey. Uniformed orderlies move among the inmates, separating those who seem on the verge of fighting, mopping up urine, and scraping vomit and feces off the floor. The orderlies wear wooden batons in loops on their belts. One is standing, baton raised, over a man who is curled into a ball on the floor. The patient’s arms are bruised and bloodied.

  “What do you see?” Frost asks.

  “There are times when I envy your lack of eyes,” Willem says. “I see things I would rather erase from my sight.”

  “You are free to wander anywhere on this level,” the nurse says, behind them. “But the upper level is private. That is for our most dangerous—”

  She is cut off by a scream that echoes down a sta
irwell. It is a shrill shriek that slices through the babble of groaning, moaning, and cackling.

  “Héloïse?” Willem asks uncertainly, looking at Frost.

  “You know her voice better than I,” Frost says.

  There is another scream and it does sound like Héloïse. Willem has heard her scream many times.

  He finds himself moving toward the stairs without really thinking about what he is doing. The nurse moves to stop him but he steps quickly around her. He feels a touch on his arm and looks back to see Frost close behind him.

  “That area is forbidden!” the nurse calls after them. When Willem looks back, she is scurrying away, to summon help no doubt.

  Another scream comes echoing down the stone walls of the staircase. The steps are uneven, as if the building has shifted since it was built. On the next level the walls lean at strange angles and part of the ceiling is collapsed. At the top of the stairs is a long corridor, lined with cages, from which hands protrude, grasping and clutching at the two men. Moans and grunts from the cages are interspersed with laughter and shrieks, an unnerving cacophony of insanity.

  Willem tries not to look in the cages, but when he does, he sees more things he would rather not have seen. A man standing at the bars, his arms outspread, his face turned upward and contorted with pain like Christ on the cross. Several of the patients are naked, their clothes strewn around their cells. Some are covered in feces. Some are crying, others snarling, some are silent, staring with hollow eyes.

  Another turn, and the corridor changes in color and tone. There are no cages here, nor inmates. It is brighter, wider, and the doors are not barred. A sign above one door says COLD WATER THERAPY. Willem shudders to think what that might be. The screams do not come from here but from two doors down, where a closed door has a sign that says ROTATION THERAPY.

  Willem shoulders the door open and Frost follows him inside.

  In the room is a contraption from a bad dream. A large wooden frame, from the center of which is suspended a chair at the end of a rope.

  A girl is strapped into the chair, unable to move, her arms constricted by a grimy straitjacket. At first Willem is not even sure that it is Héloïse.

  Her hair, once long and wild, is almost completely gone. Only short stubble covers her head. Her arms are blue with bruises and covered with black splodges. It takes Willem a moment to realize they are leeches. The chair is spinning and the girl’s face is contorted in fear and pain.

  Willem is speechless. It is Héloïse. He is sure of it. The girl whose life he once saved from a firebird and whom he will forever feel responsible for. The girl who repaid the debt by defending them all from the madness of François. A girl of the wilderness, happiest only in the sunshine, with the trees, birds, and small saurs of the forest. Yet here she is a prisoner in a straitjacket; locked in a lopsided, stone-walled madhouse; kept away from the sun and fresh air; forced into a contraption that spins her to such incoherent giddiness she can barely scream. Even her cave in the dinosaur lair beneath the Sonian Forest was better than this.

  A large man in the uniform of an orderly stands by the side of the frame spinning the chair by turning a handle.

  “Stop that!” Willem cries.

  The man looks at him, but otherwise does nothing. He has a hooked nose and small, haunted eyes. His hair is pure white, although he seems no more than middle-aged.

  “Stop that!” Willem cries again.

  The man turns away and begins to wind the handle faster. The chair becomes a blur of movement.

  All he has seen of this place suddenly explodes inside Willem and in a surge of anger he runs forward, pushing the orderly backward with two flat hands to his chest. The man stumbles and falls to the ground, knocking his head on a small wooden table behind him. The spinning chair starts to slow.

  The orderly raises himself to a sitting position. He puts a hand to his scalp and it comes up bloody. He grins, a lopsided, unhinged smile. He stands and moves toward Willem.

  Willem backs away slowly. There is a strangeness about the man’s small eyes, as though something evil and animal lurks just below the surface.

  Willem backs into Frost and stops. He is frightened, but he will not abandon Héloïse.

  “What is it?” Frost asks. “What do you see? What has happened?”

  “An orderly,” Willem says. “A rather large one, and I fear I have angered him.”

  “Is Héloïse here?” Frost asks.

  “She is,” Willem says.

  “You are an officer,” Frost says. “Act like one.”

  And all at once Willem straightens his back and steps forward, seemingly unafraid.

  “Sir, I am Major Johannes Lux of the Third Netherlands Infantry Division. I apologize for my anger, and the cut to your head, it was an accident.”

  “It were no accident,” the orderly snarls, continuing to advance, drawing his wooden baton from its loop on his belt.

  Frost pushes past Willem. “Sir, I suggest you back away,” he says. “We are officers in the king’s army.”

  “You need a blind boy to do your fightin’?” the orderly says, his eyes fixed on Willem.

  “I choose to fight,” Frost says. “Are you such a person as would strike a blind man?”

  The orderly hesitates, then abruptly reaches out and pushes Frost to one side, the baton in his other hand swinging toward Willem. Willem ducks under the blow and dodges away from the man, darting around the back of the apparatus, behind Héloïse in the still-turning chair.

  The orderly smashes his baton against the wooden framework of the device. He does it again and Héloïse screams. Behind him Frost grabs at his arm but the man pushes him off easily, sending him crashing into a corner.

  Willem moves quickly away from Héloïse. He does not want to put her in any more danger. He reaches the small table and puts that between him and the orderly.

  The man grins and thrusts forward across the tabletop with the baton. Willem jumps to one side. The baton misses him by inches.

  The man feints a couple of times, testing Willem’s reactions, then lashes out with a sideways blow. Willem manages to dodge, but only just, circling the table.

  Frost is shouting at the man, but neither Willem nor the orderly seems to hear him.

  Now the man grabs one end of the table, upending it, removing Willem’s meager defense. He steps forward, trapping Willem in the corner. He raises the baton and smashes it down. Willem can do nothing but block it with his arms and the sudden pain raises black spots in front of his eyes.

  The orderly again raises the baton above his head and Willem braces himself for the next blow. But when the man’s arm slashes down once again his hand is empty and there is a look of surprise on his face.

  The orderly turns to face some unseen threat behind him, then collapses, stunned, as his own baton smashes down on his forehead.

  The man stays down, blood pouring from a new deep cut on his head, as Jack hovers over him, the baton raised ready for another strike.

  “I told you bad things happen in this place,” Jack says.

  “Thank you for coming, Jack,” Frost says pleasantly, as though welcoming Jack to a party.

  Willem cradles one arm with the other. It is not broken, he decides, but still the pain is intense. His forearm is throbbing and he feels dizzy.

  “I realized I couldn’t let you come in here alone,” Jack says. “On account of something bad might happen to you.”

  “As it nearly did,” Frost says.

  The chair has come to a stop, bringing Héloïse around to face Willem. Héloïse’s eyes are full of fear, but when she sees Willem her expression changes to one of hurt and anger.

  Willem lowers his eyes, ashamed. He has left her to be tortured in this awful place. Caught up in the training, in his own importance, he has neglected her. He moves to unfasten her from the chair but stops at the sound of a new voice from the doorway.

  “What is the meaning of this?”

  Willem turns to s
ee a stout man, stately and dignified, fashionably dressed in a double-breasted coat, tight pantaloons tucked into boots, and a high collar and cravat. He holds a cane topped with a silver lion’s head. He is flanked by the nurse with the weepy eye.

  “Who are you, and why are you interrupting this therapy session?” the man asks. He now sees the man on the floor. “Adams? What is going on?”

  Adams tries to get up but stops as Jack waves the baton threateningly.

  “He assaulted us,” Frost says.

  “Then I am sure he was provoked,” the man says.

  “Not unnecessarily,” Frost says.

  “He would not stop this torture when asked,” Willem says. He still cannot look at Héloïse.

  “Torture? You only show your ignorance of modern medicine,” the man says. “The rotation is well proven to excise madness.” He turns to Frost. “Lieutenant Frost, is it not?”

  “You have me at a disadvantage, sir,” Frost says. “I confess that I do not recognize your voice.”

  “We have not met,” the man says. “But your fame precedes you. There can be few blinded artillery lieutenants who still wear the uniform. You are the saur-slayer. I am Doctor Thomas Monro, the principal physician of this asylum.”

  “Dr. Monro, I implore you to stop the treatment of this girl immediately,” Frost says.

  “I must not,” Monro says. “For her own good.”

  “I insist,” Frost says.

  “You have no right to insist. Nor the medical knowledge to understand the treatment,” Monro says. “I will ask you to leave.”

  “We will not,” Willem says. “We urgently need this girl’s assistance.”

  “I am afraid that she will be of no assistance to you or to anyone else,” Monro says.

  “This is a matter of vital military importance,” Frost says.

  “Even if it was life and death, it would make no difference,” Monro says. “The girl cannot speak except in animal sounds.”

  “I am not surprised,” Willem says, “considering the conditions here and the treatment you force on her.”