Oisín McGann - Ancient Appetites

'King Arthur?' Francie suggested.

'Tha's the fella. King Arthur. Anyway, we're turnin' over a new leaf. From now on, we're goin' to be like him.'

'So are we goin' to be givin' to the poor, then, Da?' Francie asked sceptically.

'One leaf at a time, Francie.' Shay gave him a sly look. 'One leaf at a time.'

He was about to go on when an old man came over to them with a glass of stout in his hand. Placing it in front of Shay, the man slapped his shoulder and gave him a nod.

'Good on yer, son,' he muttered. 'Have one on me. It's about time the swells got what was comin' to 'em!'

Without another word, he turned and walked back to a group of men who were leaning against the worn wood of the bar. They looked over in Shay's direction and there were a few winks and some of the sideways nods of the heads that passed for a salute in this part of the country. Giving his son a smug look, Shay raised the glass to them. They raised theirs in return.

'What was all that about?' Francie asked.

'It's been goin' on for a few days,' Shay replied under his breath. 'Word must've got about in Fenian circles that I was in on the explosion in the cemetery. They think I'm startin' a revolution or somethin'. My arse! Still, it's good for a few pints, wha'?'

Francie felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. First his father blows a Wildenstern funeral to smithereens; now he was trying to pull the wool over the eyes of the Fenians. They wouldn't take kindly to being fooled – and there'd be hell to pay if any of them ended up in Kilmainham Gaol or the cellars of Dublin Castle because of his da's explosive cock-up. And then Shay leaned over, slipped an envelope into Francie's hand and explained what he wanted his son to do.

That was when Francie finally decided that his father was completely off his head.

Nathaniel hit the floor hard, landing on his back with Clancy gripping his arm and shoulder. Nate kicked the older man in the chest before the arm-lock came on, and wrenched his arm free, flipping back onto his feet and putting some distance between them. He was breathing hard, but Clancy was panting in short bursts and Nate knew there wasn't much left in him.

'You're losing your touch, old man,' he taunted his manservant.

'It's not lost just yet, sir.'

The servant closed on him again, jabbing with his left and then aiming a front kick at Nate's groin. Nate pivoted around it and landed a spectacular double roundhouse kick, striking Clancy's calf and then his ribs, winning a grunt of pain from his opponent. He had little time to enjoy it – as his foot pulled away, Clancy caught the ankle and rammed the heel of his hand into his master's sternum. The blow stopped Nate long enough for Clancy to sweep his other leg out from under him and send him crashing to the floor again.

'You've got to watch those high kicks, sir,' Clancy told him, bending forward and wincing as he rubbed his bruised ribs. 'You don't want to be standing on one foot for too long.'

They were in the family's gymnasium, sparring on the wooden floor, dressed only in loose trousers and undershirts. It was a room about the size of two tennis courts, with a high ceiling and small square windows along the very tops of the longer walls. Motes of dust floated in the shafts of late afternoon light that painted oblongs across the floor. Around the edges of the room was a wide range of training equipment for gymnastics, as well as for fencing and other fighting arts. A large selection of weapons lined the wall at one end.

'I'll have you winded before long,' Nate retorted.

'Not much good if you keep ending up on the floor, Master Nathaniel.'

Nate had sparred with Clancy since he was a boy, and he relaxed the master-servant formalities while they were fighting. It was no fun having an opponent who did whatever he was told. They had both outgrown their various instructors and Clancy had proved himself useful as an all-round coach. Indentured into the service of the Wildensterns as a child, the footman had been training in these skills for most of his life.

'I'm out of practice,' Nate breathed as he got to his feet. 'Didn't get much while I was away. One more round?'

'I am at your disposal, sir.' Clancy took up a defensive stance.

They were about to go at it again when Silas walked through the door. With his thin frame, his mop of dark hair and his pale skin, he was an older, less flamboyant version of his brother Gerald. Silas shared much of his little brother's intellect, but none of his imagination. It made him the perfect choice for the position of Edgar's private secretary and one of the family's chief accountants.

'Nate, you were supposed to be up in my office half an hour ago,' he said stiffly. 'Your father told me to run over the books with you.'

'I don't want to run over the bloody books,' Nathaniel answered back, relaxing his stance for a minute. 'The books can take a flying bloody leap for all I care.'

'And what should I tell the Duke?' Silas regarded him with an expectant expression. 'He'll doubtless want to know why the accounts are taking a flying leap. You know how he pays attention to these things.'

Nathaniel swore under his breath. He glanced at his manservant.

'What?' he snapped. 'I know you were going to say something.'

'I wouldn't presume to comment on your affairs, sir,' Clancy said.

Nate made to turn away, but the footman continued:

'After all, this is your business, sir. And I'm sure you'd want to keep it that way – seeing as you are so determined to be your own master, sir.'

There was a barely perceptible raise of his eyebrow. Nate stared back at him, grinding his teeth. There were times when he could swear his manservant was attempting some kind of hypnosis with these coded messages of his. Sometimes it wasn't clear who was really in charge.

'Tomorrow,' he said, turning to Silas at last. 'I'll take a look at the books tomorrow… after breakfast. How's that?'

'Splendid,' Silas replied. 'I'll have them waiting.'

He strode back out, closing the door behind him. Nate sighed, picturing the pile of leather-bound ledgers with their columns upon columns of figures. If there was a hell on Earth, he was sure that accountancy was involved somehow. Bouncing on his toes, he raised his guard and nodded to Clancy.

'Right, now I'm really going to trounce you.'

Neither had time to land a blow before Gerald burst through the door, sweating and dishevelled.

'They-!' he gasped, then ran out of breath and started coughing, holding up his hand for them to wait for him to finish.

Nate and his footman stood there as Gerald got over his coughing fit and tried to catch his breath.

'Couldn't wait… for the… elevator,' he explained in panting breaths. 'Ran down… the stairs.'

Nate worked it out. His cousin had obviously run full-tilt down fourteen flights of stairs and crossed from the other side of the huge building. No wonder he was out of breath.

'They're awake!' Gerald managed at last. 'They're talking!'

He didn't need to say who.

'Well, then,' Nate replied, picking up his shirt. 'Let's go meet the ancestors.'

He charged out of the door, dragging Gerald with him, and together they ran back up to the laboratory.

By the time they reached it, Gerald was staggering forward on rubbery legs, wheezing like an old woman. Nate didn't care what the doctors claimed, there was no way smoking could be good for the heart or lungs. They pushed through the door to find the room shrouded in a gloomy light, the sun having passed to the far side of the building. The lamps had yet to be lit. Sitting on a bed in the corner was a hunched figure, being supported by an uneasy-looking young footman. The figure looked frail and cold; shivering despite the blankets wrapped round his shoulders. With an achingly stiff movement, the man turned his head to look at them.