The Legacy of Marshall Cousins

Prologue-2

“Henri, my boy, sleep the rum off,” the father advised the son with a wide grin.

Henri slowly and unsteadily wobbled toward the stairs, but collided into the wall. He frowned at the settee, lurched himself towards it, and collapsed face down. He lay still before raising his head and clawing his way to a seated position, leaning forward to pull off his boots. He barely caught himself from falling down on his face and attempted to lie down. He realized that his short sword was between him and the back of the settee. His fingers gripped the backrest of the settee as he worked his way again to a sitting position and then carefully lay down on his other side, his sword dragging on the floor. Upon completing these intricate movements, Henri immediately fell asleep.

“He is a very practical young man.” Francis proudly winked at Henrietta and focused his attention to Charlotte. “What news are you bursting to share, my girl?”

To the accompaniment of Henri's soft snoring, Charlotte's delivered a detailed account of the altercation. The account was complete with unnervingly exact demonstrations of Henrietta's moves.

“Why are you upset tonight?” Francis unerringly read Henrietta's mind when they retired to their sleeping room. “Punching out a couple pisspots, who – mind you, deserved it! - cannot possibly bother your conscience.”

“I can hardly believe Charlotte's lack of fear! Did she even comprehend the danger? Or is she unable to obey? Take your choice!” Henrietta shared her exasperation with her husband. “I instructed her to run if there was a scuffle. Did she do that? No! There were no signs of fear, Francis. For a moment there, I was concerned that she would jump in the fray to assist me!…” Henrietta trailed off. “I was terrified to see her exposed to danger.”

Her husband was unperturbed. “I assume her account of the skirmish was accurate.”

“It was a precise military report!” Henrietta paced back and forth in time to the beat of the heavy rain ranging outside. “But she is only ten years old, Francis.”

“She has confidence in you, my dear. Charlotte is wise beyond her years. She has an excellent sense of self-preservation. After all, the girl inherited your determination and de Brangelton blood.” He pulled Henrietta into an embrace. “Now hold still while I untie your laces.”

“Good morning, father, mother.” Charlotte sat at the breakfast table. She had parted her thick, straight black hair in the middle and evenly combed it into the shape of a hood. “And a very fine morning to you, brother. Is your head all clear?” She ignored his incredulous stare.

“What did you do to yourself?!” Henri croaked.

“I look more like mother this way,” Charlotte explained. “I will be just like her when I grow up.”

Henri rolled his eyes.

Francis smiled indulgently at his girl. “Your mother devoted time and effort to become the extraordinary woman she is today.”

“What do I have to do, father?” Charlotte, oblivious to the platter of food in front of her, eagerly asked.

“Learn to pass for a boy.”

“I had no choice!” Henrietta interjected. Her husband, the man known as devil de Brangelton among the adventurers and cutthroats in all of France and outside its borders as far as the New World, was wrapped around the little finger of their daughter, and he unreservedly encouraged her to do anything she pleased.

Charlotte glanced in her direction. “I can do that,” she responded to her father.

“I doubt it.” Henri rubbed his temples.

His sister frowned at him. “Being a boy is easy.”

Henri dropped his face into his hands. “You have no idea,” he raised his head. “Just how will you accomplish that?”

Charlotte waved her arm in a dismissive gesture. “I will behave like you.”

“Stop it,” Henri moaned. “I have a headache, so do not compound it with your daft whims. Don't even think about it.”

“Don't worry, I will never admire girls as you do.” Charlotte waved a spoon at him.

“Just how much does she understand?” Henrietta wondered again. Henri was at ease in any company. In fact, he lacked any sense of shame or embarrassment, and his amorous behavior among the young women, and even the older ones, had already caused neighbors to have concerns about their own daughters. “He is on his way to ripen into a distinguished womanizer, maybe even worse than my brother,” Francis had gloomily predicted.

“I dread the day when you start to admire boys,” Henri replied.

Charlotte picked up a slice of buttered bread from her plate. “This will never happen. There is nothing to admire about them,” she declared.

Her brother snorted.

“I certainly hope she feels this way for a few more years,” Henrietta silently prayed.

St. Domingue, New World – June 1712

Captain Mathew Johnson appraised the pathetic and scrawny carcass of the man in front of him. The gaunt face bore a slight resemblance to the fanatic who had escaped from him years ago, but there was no recognition, no comprehension, and no intelligence in the hollow eyes. The tropical sun mercilessly beamed down on his scrawny body covered with filthy rags, the warm breeze blew his dirty hair into his dark face, and the insects buzzed around his face, but the man did not seem to notice. He stood still as a statue.

“What is this?” Mathew asked the Governor. “I am searching for the Indian warrior, and this is a vagabond.”

“When he disembarked on my island, he was dressed like a Maharaja. Jewels on his turban and sword hilt.” The Governor fanned himself with a silk handkerchief. “Then he dismantled that cursed house and lost his reason.”

“What cursed house?“ Mathew moved into the sparse shade of a palm tree. The Governor followed his example, but the vagabond remained standing in the same spot.

“Have you not heard? An evil spirit moved into the abandoned house. The house itself, it stood over…over there,” he said as he pointed to the heap of rubble. “The most terrible howls arose from that house day and night. No one dared to approach that ghastly place…” He took off his hat and fanned himself.

Mathew followed his example. The heat was unbearable. “So what happened?”

“One day, the howling just stopped. Some young hot heads decided to investigate. And there he was.” The Governor gestured at the vagabond before continuing, “He was scrambling through the remnants of a fireplace with his bare hands and screaming in his savage language.”

“Does he speak English?”

“He spoke it well enough before he lost his mind in these ruins.” The Governor poked the man in the ribs with his walking stick. “He just repeats a few phrases now.”

The vagabond's body twitched, but his eyes remained void. “Mountain of Light,” he wailed. “It's God's wrath. My Sacred Oath.”

The Governor pushed back his wig. “We threatened him with torture, offered a bribe, filled him with liquor, but nothing worked to loosen his tongue. That's all he says.”

This shadow of a man could indeed be bloody Kumaryan; there was a distant resemblance. Was he pretending or had he gone mad indeed? “How long ago did it happen?”

“About a year.” The Governor fanned himself with both his hat and stained handkerchief. “He has been searching through the rubble ever since. He moves stones back and forth and digs in the dirt.”

Mathew stepped back into the shade. “How does he survive?”

“People here are kind-hearted. They are thankful to him for destroying the house and expelling that spirit.” He pointed at an old jug and cracked wooden plate on the ground. “Some bring him food. These howls were frightening…”

“Where did the spirit go?” Mathew watched the vagabond carefully. Why would a warrior pretend to be mad on this forsaken island?

The Governor plopped his hat back on his head. “The priests say that the spirit went away when this infidel destroyed the house, but his madness is the spirit's revenge.” He clenched his hands together. “I pray for him to leave my island.”

“Buy his passage to England, and I will take him there.” Mathew seized his chance.

“Why would anyone want him there?” The Governor forgot his prayer.

“The doctors at Oxford University might be interested in examining him.”

The Governor contemplated the prospect. “You should pay me.”

“What happened to his jeweled turban and sword?”

“How would I know?” The Governor sounded indignant, but Mathew would wager that the jewels were divided between the curious hot heads and the Governor.

“I might lose him at sea, or the doctors may not bother with his sorry hide, but either way I have to feed him during the voyage,” Mathew reasoned.

The Governor shook his head. “You can take him off my island for a case of French Burgundy wine.”

“You pay his passage to England, plus give me a barrel of rum,” Mathew bargained. “In case this crazy spirit leaves his body and moves to someone else's during the voyage.”

Dalmatia - July 1712

Honore de Courbet had served as a Knight of St. John's order for nearly 20 years. He had begun his career as a young warrior on a ship sailing the Mediterranean Sea to protect the Christians from heretics, to protect Western trade from infidel raids, and to promote himself in the world. He was respected and trusted, his dedication and reputation were beyond doubt and reproach, and he was rewarded with a task to negotiate the acquisition of St. Elias' relics from a dysfunctional monastery of the Byzantine church in Dalmatia. Honore had spent the past two years in that God-forsaken place, had patiently endured long and winding discourses, had watched, waited, and maneuvered his way among the riddles and lies, and was finally in full possession of St. Elias' skull and two rib bones, securely arranged in a small casket with a glass top. He had not taken his eyes from the bundle since the Archdeacon had closed the lid, sealed it, and had it wrapped in a thick cloth and transferred to Honore. To protect it further, Honore hid the casket inside a nondescript cargo trunk, and stored it in his room.

Honore patted the verification papers in his pocket, opened the cargo trunk, and unwrapped the cloth to once again behold the sacred acquisition for the Knights of St. John. He was not certain of his superiors' plans to house St. Elias' relics. The powers from Tours, Rouen, and Reims were willing to pray and pay for the privilege, but Honore had his own agenda: Bourges.

Honore once again admired the craftsmanship of the artisans who made the casket. The construction was solid and surely no one could touch the relics without breaking the seal, but the mosaic of glass windows on the lid afforded one the chance to view the contents inside the casket. The lock and seal would be broken when the relics were delivered, in order to retrieve the authentication papers inside. The papers inside were identical to the ones in his pocket. He prayed for his success. He braced himself to avoid falling under any suspicion by his superiors in the Knights of St. John, to never allow them to suspect that he was forcing their hand to grant these relics to St. Etienne's Cathedral in Bourges. However, he was confident of himself and his allies within the Church.

He lingered in his prayer, in his gratitude to the providence for his formal instructions. His suggestion to conduct the transfer of relics to France in a completely anonymous manner had been accepted. While St. John's elders and Church officials would officially negotiate which city was the most worthy to possess St. Elias' relics, the relics would be delivered to Marseille and would be stored in Montpellier.

That's when the most delicate part of the deal would occur. Upon disembarking French soil, Honore would send a quiet word to his contact in Bourges. The cardinal, on pretense of research at the University, would come to Montpellier, accidentally discover the relics, and claim St. Elias' relics for St. Etienne's Cathedral.

Honore crossed himself and carefully wrapped the cloth around the casket again. He cushioned it with straw on the bottom, and, to protect the casket from shifting inside, he used his personal assets - five rolls of silk, two Persian rugs, and four large bedcovers that had been embroidered in India. He bundled his clothing to protect his other treasures - the small paintings of St. Stephen and St. John inside a double frame of gold, enamel, and pearls; the gilded bowl and salt and pepper set decorated with rubies and sapphires; the silver tray with six matching plates; two porcelain vases from the Orient; a fine Venetian crystal decanter and six glasses; an onyx and ivory chess set in a rosewood box; and five bags of hashish and opium. These herbs helped him to hear God when God spoke to him.

Marseille, France - August 1712

Rene Prassal had begun his life as an honest man, but he failed to comprehend the subject of his studies for the law, and thus he drifted in his youth, earning his living alternatively the best he could manage. In his checkered youth, he had been a warehouse clerk, a soldier, a courier, a coachman, an armed escort, and even the manager of a boarding house, until finally good luck – and his father's connections - brought him to his current master's employment. This position paid well. At first his duties were straightforward - he was only responsible for the young nobleman's comfort and general provisions for the household. The future seemed promising and secure. When the young Marquis had come into his position and inheritance, Rene's duties had expanded to cleaning up the Marquis' messy love affairs with demanding mistresses and dealing with disgruntled husbands and irate relatives. A lot of money was squandered there, as Rene witnessed again and again. One scandalous affair ended in a duel and forced the young Marquis into exile, and Rene loyally endured years away from France. The Marquis' sins were eventually forgiven and forgotten, and Rene was looking forward to return to their native land, but the Marquis suddenly involved Rene in an affair which had the potential to lead Rene straight to the gallows. This latest assignment entailed acquiring five paintings from the house of a Viennese nobleman without the current owner's permission. The Marquis assured him that the theft was perfectly justified, that these portraits were originally stolen from their rightful owner, and that he, Rene, was compelled to obtain the paintings in order to reunite them with the original owner. Rene cursed the day he was employed by the young Marquis and even thought of quitting the service, but the Marquis promised a large award for risking his neck. He informed Rene when the Viennese nobleman was absent from home, and Rene was lucky enough to break into the house and leave without anyone spotting him and raising an alarm. To Rene's relief, they departed from Vienna within a week. When they arrived in Marseille, the Marquis added six more paintings, each individually wrapped and sealed, for the delivery to the same illustrious personage in England. There was too much secrecy around a pile of canvases for Rene's taste, but if the Marquis and noble Lords generously paid for the paintings and the secrecy…

“So here is the plan,” Rene whispered to his brother-in-law, to make certain that not even one drunkard at this dirty tavern could overhear their conversation. “I will arrange for a small escort for the cargo. You put together a small group to attack…”

“Attack?!”His brother-in-law's paunchy figure shook as he crossed himself. Durrant's wit was limited, but Rene needed an accomplice and Durrant knew where and how to contact men willing to do anything for a few coins and to remain silent about it.

“Be quiet!” Rene hissed, but no one paid them any attention. “I will make certain that no fighting will need to take place.”

Durrant emptied his mug. “Your Marquis will search for these paintings.”

“He will send me,” Rene said as he took a swallow of his sour wine.

“How can you be so certain?” His brother-in-law scratched his head.

“I know him and I understand the ways of nobility,” Rene replied dismissively. “We hide these pictures now. In half a year, we - I – will tell him that a friend of mine met a Captain from the New World who is selling these paintings, but no questions asked. This is an easy way for us to make money.” There was more to his plan, but he did not dare reveal it.

“I… I don't know,” Durrant mumbled. “What will we do if the Marquis does not buy them back?”

“You are a fool! He will retrieve his property! The price we will ask – I mean, the Captain from the New World will ask - is nothing to him! Don't you see? My plan is secure! We are about to miss a fortune!” In exasperation, Rene slammed his fist on the table. He swiveled his head to check if they attracted any attention, but no one cared. There were only five portraits appropriated by Rene for his master, and Rene privately wondered if the additional paintings would be of the same content.

“What are these pictures of?” Durrant again exhibited inconvenient curiosity.

“Portraits,” Rene answered vaguely. Some portraits, indeed.