The Historian’s Novel

Grace wanted to murder someone.

   And that someone was named Gregory Rutherford. An idiot of a man who had almost managed to ruin Amelia’s life. A self-absorbed, arrogant noble who might now only have learnt what consequences were thanks to his new pair of eggshell shattered legs.

It incensed her, to know Gregory would survive his return trip home. After hearing of how the man had had a healing potion on his person; a tool she could only see as a means for hiding premeditated abuse, Grace couldn’t see him as any better than a rabid dog.  Did the Marquess of Rutherford know how much of a shit-stain his son was? Or could it be he already knew, and had sent his son to visit regardless? How exactly would the Marquess react to finding out what had become of his son?

   ‘Twas concerns too large for Grace. Since Havoc’s return, all that mattered were her duties as Amelia’s handmaiden.

   Familiar with alcohol, drugs, and their dangers, the first thing Grace did while directing the Strightsworth maids, had been to wake Amelia using smelling salts, then induce vomiting through the tried-and-true method of getting the person with the smallest hands to stick a pair of fingers down their lady’s throat.

   Grace could appreciate the fact Havoc hired women who’d seen battle. With none of them squeamish, the cleaning, dressing, and settling in bed of their lady went like clockwork. Which presently left Grace not at Amelia’s bedside where she would have preferred stay, but on her way to answer the summons of a man who could care less he had effectively, crippled a high-ranking noble’s son.

   Also, Thompson. Thompson Brown walked with her as well for some reason.

   “I heard something happened,” Thompson said, trying for the third time since having crossed paths with Grace to start a conversation, “For the Baron of Strightsworth to call for both of us… Do you think it’s anything bad? The reports I got before going to bed claimed he’s still at the frontline.”

   “None of your business,” Grace said, trying to chase him away so she could continue being furious with herself for not having insisted a doctor be fetched the moment Amelia showed signs of an alcohol overdose following only two cups of wine. She had let status affect her judgment and subsequent actions. The correct choice ought to have been caving in Gregory’s jaw with a brick the moment the man made it clear he wanted to be with Amelia alone. Then, she would rip off Gregory’s prick, force him to watch her peel it apart like the skin of a fruit, and shove every piece down his throat, one part at a time, slowly.

   Before she’d light the whole meaty pile of human garbage on fire.

   “No need to be rude,” Thompson said, though by going silent he demonstrated his ability to know when not to ask more.

   “I’m balancing on a wire right now, it isn’t you,” Grace said, as they exited the manor; continuing to follow an immense trail of dried blood leading from carpet, onto grass, and ending at the base of a basin within which a butcher of men sat, under the moonlight.

    Behind Havoc, with a strip of fabric wrapped protectively round his lower face, stood Heimdall; busy carving away melted chunks of armor that under intense pressure, had welded onto the baron.

   “See, this is why I don’t like armor,” Havoc said, to which his aid grunted and continued to work.

   “Next time, take a millisecond to remove your armor first.”

   “There won’t be a next time.”

   “You know what I mean.”

   Avoiding the pooling puddles, Grace approached the unashamedly nude man whose body outmatched that of an ogre’s. Finding it bizarre such a creature could ever father Amelia of all people.

   “We’re here, what do you want, Havoc?” Grace asked, causing both Heimdall and Thompson to look at her in shock.

   “That’s lord Strightsworth to you, show respect,” Heimdall said sharply, with Thompson nodding his head in agreement while nervously keeping tabs on the baron.

   Havoc didn’t show any signs of taking offense. Instead, he reached for what must have once been a portion of pauldron and ripped the large chunk of metal off before standing. Unlike Heimdall’s more prudent approach, the Baron’s method tore with it a good pound of shoulder.

   “I care not.” Havoc said, taking a white towel that should have probably been a different color from a standing maid. “Titles are meant to be signs of respect. It would be remiss of me to fault Grace, when the woman has no title for myself to address her by in return.”

   “She’s involved?” Heimdall asked, his tone softer.

   “Yes.” Havoc said, taking from a different maid’s platter a cigar which he cut with his teeth. A smoldering inhale enough to make it clear a lighter would not be needed.

   “Any questions?” he asked, exhaling above him before ascertaining the three.

   Grace raised her hand, “Are we sure the Marquess of Rutherford’s son will survive his trip home?”

   Thompson’s face blanched. Whatever his guesses on what was going on, they must have been wrong.            

   “Survive?” Havoc answered, “If you can call it that. He doesn’t have an unbroken bone in his body. He’ll be shitting the bed all the way back to his father’s healers.”   

   “Uh…” Thompson said, hesitantly, “Mind telling me what the guy did? Because for the love of God it feels kind of… important.”

   Havoc raised two fingers, “Gregory Rutherford intended to lay hands on my daughter,” he said, lowering the first, “and for your own good, never mention God out loud in my presence or near my daughter,” he added, lowering the second, “Because I won’t be able to help should he take notice.”

   For the religious, the Baron’s words were downright sacrilegious. When spoken by Havoc, they held a certain gravitas, which made it clear how serious he actually was. Grace didn’t care. Even if Havoc’s concerns were well founded, God hadn’t showed up when Amelia had needed him most.

She took a step back upon noticing the clip-clopping of hooves. Giving room to the horse which trotted near their group with a knight leading its reigns. Heimdall threw the towel he used to clean his hands on the basin’s edge before taking the horse from the knight.

   “Got business somewhere?” Thompson asked.

   Climbing onto his horse, Heimdall considered the horizon showing signs of morning sunlight.  “We sent Gregory off only a few hours ago. I should have plenty of time to pass his escort and set up a landslide.”

   “No,” grunted Havoc, and to Heimdall’s chagrin, the horse he’d just mounted bowed on one knee: throwing him off.

    “And why not!” Heimdall yelled at Havoc, spitting out a mouthful of dirt. “If you think I’m not going to do anything, you’re crazy!”

    “Because Amelia doesn’t want us to.” Grace said, clicking her tongue in annoyance.

   Long had she debated whether the right move had been to follow Amelia’s decision to keep Gregory among the living.

   It would have been so easy. Havoc hadn’t noticed what Amelia wanted. Amelia herself would have forgotten in an hour… all Grace needed to do was not listen to the woman tripping absolute balls!

   But she couldn’t.

   Because that went against the promise Grace had made with herself: That no matter how silly, or nonsensical her lady might be at times, she would fulfill every one of Amelia’s wants, as the woman’s handmaiden, and friend.

   Heimdall’s face distorted into a shape resembling how Grace felt. “We’re… Surely we’re ignoring her?”

   Thompson cleared his throat, unwilling to be let out of the conversation any longer, “Are you saying… Amelia was taken advantage of by the exact nobleman she made me run a background check on?”

   “Almost. Not was,” Havoc said, as if to himself, “And yes, I am.” Narrowing his eyes at Thompson, Havoc gave Heimdall’s horse a slap on its rear, sending it scurrying off. “Then you, are the merchant my daughter picked up? I don’t believe we’ve properly met.”

   “Thompson Broker, Sir Strightsworth sir!” Thompson said loudly, bowing before the Baron while retrieving his business card, “Amelia may very well have saved my life. My gratitude is willingly yours as repayment.”

   “I’ve heard as much,” Havoc said, glancing towards his aid who Grace knew sent daily reports. “Apparently, my daughter… snuck out to meet you?”

   Audibly gulping, Thompson put away his card. Appearing to have realized how unlikely his meeting with Amelia sounded. “Didn’t know about that part,” he admitted, “all I know is she found me.”

   Grace, enjoying his predicament, for the man was the reason her lady had been placed in a dangerous situation to begin with, added fuel to the fire.

   “Wait… How did Amelia know you were trapped in a basement?” she asked, making her question appear like an innocent thought accidentally spoken out-loud.

   Now panicking, Thomson shied away from Havoc as if worried he wouldn’t be allowed time enough to defend himself.

   “I have witnesses who can corroborate the fact I’ve been missing for multiple days,” he said quickly, managing to trip over his own feet and land ass on grass, “My lord, I swear on my life I’ve not a single malevolent bone in my body! Nor any thoughts of your daughter in my soul!”

   His apparent sincerity, irked Grace who knew only how to live using lies.

   “Malevolent? No, I know your type,” Heimdall said, closing in on Thompson whose sheepish smile faltered, “That’s not how you would frame it…”

   “H-hey now, I might be a bit opportunistic, but that isn’t a bad thing.”

   “Then why choose Amelia? I found that list of connections you left her. A single letter asking for refuge to any of those figures would ensure immediate help. Why stick near a young woman? Because she saved your life? Not willing to grow a pair and stop relying on her?”

   Thompson adjusted his tie. Loosening what must suddenly have felt like a garrote wire under the Baron’s examination. Heimdall might be talking, but everyone knew whose verdict mattered.

   “Amelia offered a deal I couldn’t refuse!” Thompson said, his voice cracking “I… I can’t tell you what — ask Amelia for permission, not me — but I promise if you knew, then this talk about how I hedge my bets opportunistically would only prove my innocence further!”

   Grace’s distaste for Thompson grew even greater upon learning Amelia shared a secret with him she knew nothing about.

   “Oh?” she said, covering her mouth with a hand, “then is that also the reason you’ve been staring at her like a dog would a bone?”

   In complete disarray, Thompson looked to Grace with trembling lips which wondered what on earth he could have possibly done to offend her.

   “Lord Strightsworth, I implore you, hear me out,” Thompson said, forgoing arguing in lieu of beseeching directly, “My first impression of your daughter was not a reaction to beauty, but of me questioning the actions which led to a whimsical red-headed fay offering me freedom for the chance of a lifetime. She knew who I was immediately, despite us never having once met and my rule against being painted. The way she talks… The way she acts… It’s like Amelia knows of future events we can’t even see coming! Judge me for being a merchant, but you can’t show me a walking pile of money then tell me to ignore it!”

   Havoc broke his silence, “Then the secret Amelia shared with you, it’s worth keeping from her own father?” he asked, sadly.

   “A contract once struck… I don’t care who you are, unless your name is on the initial agreement, to me, you’re an outsider.”

   The fact Grace agreed with Thompson’s assessment of her lady failed to change what she thought of the man.  In fact, his confession only cemented her belief the merchant shouldn’t be anywhere near Amelia if it turned out the woman could really foretell. A single abduction might not demonstrate a proclivity for it, however if Thompson ever found himself in distress and at the mercy of those wondering how he could have stumbled onto a ‘walking pile of money’…

   Should she be working to get rid of the man? Better to wait. At least until the details of his agreement with Amelia came to light.

   “Help Thompson Brown where you can,” Havoc ordered Heimdall, “As long as his words hold true, then I am content in remaining proud my daughter is taking the initiative to make something of herself… You are dismissed until further notice,” he continued, not batting an eye when Grace remained after the two men and maids had left.

   “I’m still waiting to hear it,” Grace said, folding her arms to show she wouldn’t budge till Havoc gave her what she wanted.

   Havoc stared impassively at Grace. “I’m not sure I… understand. What is it you want? My personal thanks? You have it. Money? It’s yours, no matter the sum.”

    Grace looked to the sky in exasperation. “I’m waiting to be told how and when you intend to console your daughter.”

   Now Havoc blinked. His nearly drawn cigar trembling slightly before its life was sucked out. Giving Grace the satisfaction of having finally figured out how the man worked. Simply put, Havoc was dense. When not on the battlefield, his simple mind would always get in the way when problem solving anything social. Forever confounding his own perception of life, onto lesser beings he could never possibly understand.

   She’d seen enough signs to guess Havoc cherished Amelia. Only he expressed it in every way other than being physically present. A king’s ransom for an allowance, an acre of garden professionally maintained for more than a decade after the passing of its owner, Amelia essentially held free reign to do whatever she wanted in the Strightsworth manor; A building which only allowed maids on the inside, and had all men except Heimdall posted on guard duty outside…

   “Don’t tell me,” Grace said, looking down on the man despite being a quarter his size, “you thought so long as you make sure it doesn’t happen again, everything will be fine?”

   Frowning, Havoc took his time in responding, “Are you saying that isn’t the case? Because I’m not changing my mind. While I might have allowed you to make sure any memories of what happened are… buried, I insist any true removal will be done only after obtaining Amelia’s explicit permission.”

   Rather than dragons, Grace began to wonder if Havoc was instead a descendent of a brick wall.

   “No, what I’m saying,” she said, clapping her hands twice in his face, “is that right now, Amelia’s crying out for help in her sleep. Trauma affects everyone differently. Don’t force how you view the world on your daughter.”

   The Baron stiffened. Throwing down the butt of his cigar, he stomped on it. “What must I do?” Havoc asked, while his true emotions caused the grass around him to catch fire. “What must be done to ensure no scars remain on my daughter’s subconscious.”

   God what a bundle of misunderstandings, Grace thought, as she stepped away from the flickering circle of flames.

   “There’s no easy fix,” Grace said, after making sure the hem of her dress hadn’t been caught by a spark, “But I can help make sure you’ve at least a chance to let her know how much you love her.”

   “How will that help?”

   Simple minded indeed.

   “Trust me, it will.”