Walter Jon Williams - Wall, Stone, Craft

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Williams, Walter Jon - Wall, Stone, Craft.htm

WALL, STONE,

CRAFT

Walter Jon Williams

She awoke, there in the common room of the inn, from a brief

dream of roses and death. Once Mary came awake she recalled there

were wild roses on her mother’s grave, and wondered if her

mother’s spirit had visited her.

On her mother’s grave, Mary’s lover had first proposed their

elopement. It was there the two of them had first made love.

Now she believed she was pregnant. Her lover was of the opinion

that she was mistaken. That was about where it stood.

Mary concluded that it was best not to think about it. And so,

blinking sleep from her eyes, she sat in the common room of the inn

at Le Caillou and resolved to study her Italian grammar by

candlelight.

Plurals. La nascita, le nascite. La madre, le madri. Un bambino, i

bambini…

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Interruption: stampings, snortings, the rattle of harness, the barking

of dogs. Four young Englishmen entered the inn, one in scarlet

uniform coat, the others in fine traveling clothes. Raindrops dazzled

on their shoulders. The innkeeper bustled out from the kitchen,

smiled, proffered the register.

Mary, unimpressed by anything English, concentrated on the

grammar.

“Let me sign, George,” the redcoat said. “My hand needs the

practice.” Mary glanced up at the comment.

“I say, George, here’s a fellow signed in Greek!” The Englishman

peered at yellowed pages of the inn’s register, trying to make out

the words in the dim light of the innkeeper’s lamp. Mary smiled at

the English officer’s efforts.

“Perseus, I believe the name is. Perseus Busseus—d’ye suppose he

means Bishop?—Kselleius. And he gives his occupation as ‘te

anthropou philou’—that would make him a friendly fellow, eh?—”

The officer looked over his shoulder and grinned, then returned to

the register. “ ‘Kaiatheos.’ ” The officer scowled, then straightened.

“Does that mean what I think it does, George?”

George—the pretty auburn-haired man in byrons—shook rain off

his short cape, stepped to the register, examined the text. “Not

‘friendly fellow,’ ” he said. “That would be ‘anehr philos.’

‘Anthropos’ is mankind, not man.” There was the faintest touch of

Scotland in his speech.

“So it is,” said the officer. “It comes back now.”

George bent at his slim waist and looked carefully at the register.

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“What the fellow says is, ‘Both friend of man and—’ ” He frowned,

then looked at his friend. “You were right about the ‘atheist,’ I’m

afraid.”

The officer was indignant. “Ain’t funny, George,” he said.

George gave a cynical little half-smile. His voice changed, turned

comical and fussy, became that of a high-pitched English

schoolmaster. “Let us try to make out the name of this famous

atheist.‘’ He bent over the register again. ‘ ’Perseus— you had that

right, Somerset. Busseus—how very irregular. Kselleius—Kelly?

Shelley?” He smiled at his friend. His voice became very Irish.

“Kelly, I imagine. An atheistical upstart Irish schoolmaster with a

little Greek. But what the Busseus might be eludes me, unless his

middle name is Omnibus.”

Somerset chuckled. Mary rose from her place and walked quietly

toward the pair. “The gentleman’s name is Bysshe, sir,” she said.

“Percy Bysshe Shelley.”

The two men turned in surprise. The officer—Somerset—bowed as

he perceived a lady. Mary saw for the first time that he had one

empty sleeve pinned across his tunic, which would account for the

comment about the hand. The other—George, the man in byrons—

swept off his hat and gave Mary a flourishing bow, one far too

theatrical to be taken seriously. When he straightened, he gave

Mary a little frown.

“Bysshe Shelley?” he said. “Any relation to Sir Bysshe, the

baronet?”

“His grandson.”

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“Sir Bysshe is a protege of old Norfolk.” This an aside to his

friends. Radical Whiggery was afoot, or so the tone implied. George

returned his attention to Mary as the other Englishmen gathered

about her. “An interesting family, no doubt,” he said, and smiled at

her. Mary wanted to flinch from the compelling way he looked at

her, gazed upward, intently, from beneath his brows. “And are you

of his party?”

“I am.”

“And you are, I take it, Mrs. Shelley?”

Mary straightened and gazed defiantly into George’s eyes. “Mrs.

Shelley resides in England. My name is Godwin.”

George’s eyes widened, flickered a little. Low English murmurs

came to Mary’s ears. George bowed again. “Charmed to meet you,

Miss Godwin.”

George pointed to each of his companions with his hat. “Lord

Fitzroy Somerset.” The armless man bowed again. “Captain Harry

Smith. Captain Austen of the Navy. Pasmany, my fencing master.”

Most of the party, Mary thought, were young, and all were

handsome, George most of all. George turned to Mary again, a little

smile of anticipation curling his lips. His burning look was almost

insolent. “My name is Newstead.”

Mortal embarrassment clutched at Mary’s heart. She knew her

cheeks were burning, but still she held George’s eyes as she bobbed

a curtsey.

George had not been Marquess Newstead for more than a few

months. He had been famous for years both as an intimate of the

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Prince Regent and the most dashing of Wellington’s cavalry

officers, but it was his exploits on the field of Waterloo and his

capture of Napoleon on the bridge at Genappe that had made him

immortal. He was the talk of England and the Continent, though he

had achieved his fame under another name.

Before the Prince Regent had given him the title of Newstead,

auburn-haired, insolent-eyed George had been known as George

Gordon Noel, the sixth Lord Byron.

Mary decided she was not going to be impressed by either his titles

or his manner. She decided she would think of him as George.

“Pleased to meet you, my lord,” Mary said. Pride steeled her as she

realized her voice hadn’t trembled.

She was spared further embarrassment when the door burst open

and a servant entered followed by a pack of muddy dogs—whippets

—who showered them all with water, then howled and bounded

about George, their master. Standing tall, his strong, well-formed

legs in the famous side-laced boots that he had invented to show off

his calf and ankle, George laughed as the dogs jumped up on his

chest and bayed for attention. His lordship barked back at them and

wrestled with them for a moment—not very lordlike, Mary thought

—and then he told his dogs to be still. At first they ignored him, but

eventually he got them down and silenced.

He looked up at Mary. “I can discipline men, Miss Godwin,” he

said, “but I’m afraid I’m not very good with animals.”

“That shows you have a kind heart, I’m sure,” Mary said.

The others laughed a bit at this—apparently kindheartedness was

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not one of George’s better-known qualities—but George smiled

indulgently.

“Have you and your companion supped, Miss Godwin? I would

welcome the company of fellow English in this tiresome land of

Brabant.”

Mary was unable to resist an impertinence. “Even if one of them is

an atheistical upstart Irish schoolmaster?”

“Miss Godwin, I would dine with Wolfe Tone himself.” Still with

that intent, under-eyed look, as if he was dissecting her.

Mary was relieved to turn away from George’s gaze and look

toward the back of the inn, in the direction of the kitchen. “Bysshe

is in the kitchen giving instructions to the cook. I believe my sister

is with him.”

“Are there more in your party?”

“Only the three of us. And one rather elderly carriage horse.”

“Forgive us if we do not invite the horse to table.”

“Your ape, George,” Somerset said dolefully, “will be quite

enough.”

Mary would have pursued this interesting remark, but at that

moment Bysshe and Claire appeared from out of the kitchen

passage. Both were laughing, as if at a shared secret, and Claire’s

black eyes glittered. Mary repressed a spasm of annoyance.

“Mary!” Bysshe said. “The cook told us a ghost story!” He was

about to go on, but paused as he saw the visitors.

“We have an invitation to dinner,” Mary said. “Lord Newstead has

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been kind enough—”

“Newstead!” said Claire. “The Lord Newstead?”

George turned his searching gaze on Claire. “I’m the only Newstead

I know.”

Mary felt a chill of alarm, for a moment seeing Claire as George

doubtless saw her: black-haired, black-eyed, fatally indiscreet, and

all of sixteen.

Sometimes the year’s difference in age between Mary and Claire

seemed a century.

“Lord Newstead!” Claire babbled. “I recognize you now! How

exciting to meet you!”

Mary resigned herself to fate. “My lord,” she said, “may I present

my sister, Miss Jane—Claire, rather, Claire Clairmont, and Mr.

Shelley.”

“Overwhelmed and charmed, Miss Clairmont. Mr. Perseus

Omnibus Kselleius, ti kanete?”

Bysshe blinked for a second or two, then grinned. “Thanmasia

euxaristo,” returning politeness, “kai eseis?”

For a moment Mary gloried in Bysshe, in his big frame in his

shabby clothes, his fair, disordered hair, his freckles, his large hands

—and his absolute disinclination to be impressed by one of the most

famous men on Earth.

George searched his mind for a moment. “Polu kala, euxaristo. Tha

ethela na—” He groped for words, then gave a laugh. “Hang the

Greek!” he said. “It’s been far too many years since Trinity. May I

present my friend Somerset?”

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Somerset gave the atheist a cold Christian eye. “How d’ye do?”

George finished his introductions. There was the snapping of coach

whips outside, and the sound of more stamping horses. The dogs

began barking again. At least two more coaches had arrived. George

led the party into the dining room. Mary found herself sitting next to

George, with Claire and Bysshe across the table.

“Damme, I quite forgot to register,” Somerset said, rising from his

bench. “What bed will you settle for, George?”

“Nothing less than Bonaparte’s.”

Somerset sighed. “I thought not,” he said.

“Did Bonaparte sleep here in Le Caillou?” Claire asked.

“The night before Waterloo.”

“How exciting! Is Waterloo nearby?” She looked at Bysshe. “Had

we known, we could have asked for his room.”

“Which we then would have had to surrender to my lord

Newstead,” Bysshe said tolerantly. “He has greater claim, after all,

than we.”

George gave Mary his intent look again. His voice was pitched low.

“I would not deprive two lovely ladies of their bed for all the

Bonapartes in Europe.”

But rather join us in it, Mary thought. That look was clear enough.

The rest of George’s party—servants, aides-de-camp, clerks, one

black man in full Mameluke fig, turned-up slippers, ostrich plumes,

scarlet turban and all— carried George’s equipage from his

carriages. In addition to an endless series of trunks and a large

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miscellany of weaponry there were more animals. Not only the

promised ape—actually a large monkey, which seated itself on

George’s shoulder—but brightly-colored parrots in cages, a pair of

greyhounds, some hooded hunting hawks, songbirds, two forlorn-

looking kit foxes in cages, which set all the dogs howling and

jumping in eagerness to get at them, and a half-grown panther in a

jewelled collar, which the dogs knew better than to bark at. The

innkeeper was loud in his complaint as he attempted to sort them all

out and stay outside of the range of beaks, claws, and fangs.

Bysshe watched with bright eyes, enjoying the spectacle. George’s

friends looked as if they were weary of it.

“I hope we will sleep tonight,” Mary said.

“If you sleep not,” said George, playing with the monkey, “we shall

contrive to keep you entertained.”

How gracious to include your friends in the orgy, Mary thought.

But once again kept silent.

Bysshe was still enjoying the parade of frolicking animals. He

glanced at Mary. “Don’t you think, Maie, this is the very image of

philosophical anarchism?”

“You are welcome to it, sir,” said Somerset, returning from the

loud in his complaint.”

“I’ll have Ferrante pay him off.”

“See that you do. And have him pistol the brains out of that mastiff

while he’s at it.”

“Injure poor Picton?” George was offended. “I’ll have none of it.”

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“Poor Picton will have his fangs in the ostler next.”

“He must have been teasing the poor beast.”

“Picton will kill us all one day.” Grudgingly.

“Forgive us, Somerset-laddie.” Mary watched as George reached

over to Somerset and tweaked his ear. Somerset reddened but

seemed pleased.

“Mr. Shelley,” said Captain Austen. “I wonder if you know what

surprises the kitchen has in store for us.”

Austen was a well-built man in a plain black coat, older than the

others, with a lined and weathered naval face and a reserved manner

unique in this company.

“Board ‘em in the smoke! That’s the Navy for you!” George said.

“Straight to the business of eating, never mind the other nonsense.”

“ If you ate wormy biscuit for twenty years of war,” said Harry

Smith, “ you’d care about the food as well.”

Bysshe gave Austen a smile. “The provisions seem adequate

enough for a country inn,” he said. “And the rooms are clean, unlike

most in this country. Claire and the Maie and I do not eat meat, so I

had to tell the cook how to prepare our dinner. But if your taste runs

to fowl or something in the cutlet line I daresay the cook can set you

up.”

“No meat!” George seemed enthralled by the concept. “Disciples of

J.F. Newton, as I take it?”

“Among others,” said Mary.

“But are you well? Do you not feel an enervation? Are you not

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Williams,WalterJon-Wall,Stone,Craft.htmWALL,STONE,CRAFTWalterJonWilliams1Sheawoke,thereinthecommonroomoftheinn,fromabriefdreamofrosesanddeath.OnceMarycameawakesherecalledtherewerewildrosesonhermother’sgrave,andwonderedifhermother’sspirithadvisitedher.Onhermother’sgrave,Mary’sloverhadfirstproposedthe...

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