Cassandra's Lantern

Chapter 8: An Exsanguination of Leeches

 The figure had been stood still, silent and unmoving upon the quayside for such a length of time that the ever busy gangs of stevedores and longshoremen had long since grown tired of either staring at him like a curiosity in a travelling menagerie or else cursing him for taking up space that was not essentially vital to their work, but could have been under different circumstances and so made his insistence upon occupying it vaguely impertinent to their minds. Not even the steady downpour which had begun perhaps an hour into the actual evening seemed to have made an impression upon the man, the rain simply running in a constant stream over the edge of his wide-brimmed hat and down the waxed overcoat that covered his tall and not inconsiderable frame.

A large part of the reason he had not been challenged to explain himself or move out of the way could have been explained by that very stature, enough to impress hardened and infamously burly dock workers into leaving well enough alone. Another was the long-bladed rapier that hung at his waist, glimpsed by some and related to others as it could be seen occasionally jutting from beneath the coat that he wore. The man’s face may have remained neutral and impassive, but the quality of his clothing and weapon as well as the disciplined silence that he maintained marked him out as an armsman, retainer to a person of substance or rank and entitled by law to defend his master with lethal force of arms.

No one had seen him arrive, but he had done so before the imposing presence of the steamliner named the Jord had been led to its anchorage at Jarrow by a stalwart tug. Once the boat was secured and the gangways rose to allow its passengers to disembark, the armsman continued to stand on the same spot, watching without comment or it seemed movement as the orderly queue moved past him. Even when the line dwindled to only the occasional knot of people or single individuals, he did not either make an effort to scan the promenade decks above or cast his head about in search of whomever he was charged to await.

Any other poor soul who had found themselves stranded thus in the rain and upon a notoriously cold quay would have soon attracted the sympathy of a passing official, and most likely found themselves hustled out of the open to receive a warm drink whilst efforts were made to find the party they had been told to meet. But such was not the case for an armsman, rightly given a wide berth on account of their profession; they were also considered a dying breed in an age of organised armies that marched for the state. As the very last remnant of the household troops kept in the service of the nobility, many were proud at best and twitchy at the very worst about their diminishing status and resentful of a progressive society that saw them as an anachronism. And a twitchy man trained to kill with the weapon at his side was not likely to be invited inside anyone’s office to dry off and sip a mug of Bovril.

So instead he waited, aware all the time of the thoughts that swirled through the heads of those around him.

It was a matter of little consequence for him to cause those who passed to see the craggy face of a tired veteran soldier, a visage that fitted with the image most held in their minds when they thought of the average armsman these days. Quite what they would have made of the silken death’s-head mask that actually looked out from beneath his hat was a speculation that often intrigued him, and more than once he had been tempted to drop the façade for a moment and see what the reaction would have been.

But he would not; not when he was here in payment of a debt which meant so much to him.

“You, I take it are the man I am to address as ‘Templeton’?” the voice was accented almost to the point of being indecipherable, though the speaker’s command of English was very good indeed.

The armsman turned to see that he had been joined on the quayside by a short man who was dressed in what might have been either a creative and fanciful interpretation of a western style greatcoat or some unfamiliar form of smothering robe that almost swallowed its wearer whole. Framed above by a heavy fur cap, complete with flaps that fell down to cover the ears and below by a thick black beard over a foot in length, was an animated face that would have looked more at home upon a fairy tale imp than belonging to a person who actually lived in the real world.