The Monsters

1567

Edinburgh

“I’ll gie ye a skelpit lug!”

His father followed through on his promise, landing a slap on Brod’s ear so hard it made the inside of the young boy’s head ring like a great bell.

Brod began keening, tears running down his soot-smudged cheeks.

“Haud yer wheesht, and stop yer greetin'.” Donald Munro gave his son a squint-eyed glare under bushy eyebrows above a great, big, bulbous, broken-veined drunkard’s nose. “Dae ye want the whole hoose tae wake up and catch us in th’act o' thievin'?”

Donald Munro gave his son a hard shove. Brod fell down onto the cellar floor, curled up, still crying, but without a sound.

“Ye wee bairn, feart o' yer ain shaddie. Whitfor canna ye be braw and stark like Angus?”

Brod saw his father’s heavy work boot next to his head, joined by his twin brother Angus’s smaller boot. Presently his father’s boot was gone, but his brother’s remained.

Then that little boot came down on Brod’s throat, and Angus put his whole nine-year-old weight behind it.

“Brod, ye clot-heid, yer na guid,” Angus whispered as he ground the boot into his brother’s thin neck. “Ah weish ye wis deid.”

Brod wrestled free, scrambled up, and ran out of the cellar into the cold night air.

***

1604

London

The Bow bells had rung the curfew more than three hours ago. It was near midnight and he could see his breath in the cold air. His left foot was freezing.

The thief found the window cracked open, as the scullery maid had promised.

Once inside the nobleman’s townhouse, the thief lit his covered lanthorn and held it up in his good right hand.

He limped down the hallway, then entered the Great Hall.

“Stand still, sir.”

Feeling the prick of the rapier at his throat, the thief took one quick in-breath, then froze in place.

“You are a sight, sir.” A cultured voice. “Not so bad when approached from the dexter, but from the sinister ….”

The thief felt the rapier blade caress his neck and up the mass of scarring on the left side of his face, the point coming to rest momentarily at his missing left eye.

Then the owner of the cultured voice came into view, moving in a half circle, while the flat of the blade lightly touched the bridge of the thief’s nose, the point coming to rest again, under his one good right eye.

The man facing the thief looked to be in his forties, long ginger hair pulled back and tied in a queue, long face made longer by a pointed beard.

“Who … are ye?”

“You do not know your host?”

“The Viscount?”

“In the flesh. And you are … no, do not say, let me practice my prestigiation. Your father was … Donald. Your last name is … Munro.”

The thief automatically made the sign of the cross with his damaged left hand, the one with just a thumb and little finger remaining after the gunpowder blast all those years ago.

The Viscount chuckled. “No, no, I am not the Devil, not even a minor demon.” Then in a broad Scottish brogue: “Och, Angus, dinnae ye ken yer ain brother? It’s me, Brod.”

***

1567

Edinburgh

Brod ran through the bitter February night, away from the cellar, towards the nearby stable.

Neir agin, he thought. I’m na gaun back.

Once inside the stable, he caught his frosty breath.

Abruptly his feet left the stable floor. A strong man had snatched him up by the collar.

“What’s this? A rat?” The man wore a black silk mask covering his whole face.

“Leave him be, Bothwell, he’s just a small boy.” The speaker, also masked, was a woman, but dressed in men’s clothing. She was as tall as a man.

“Small boys have big voices.”

“He won’t tell.” She moved closer, stroked Brod’s cheek with a silk-gloved hand. “Will you?”

Brod shook his head.

“Put him down.”

“Your Majesty’s wish is my command.”

The man set Brod down carefully.

On the floor were two bodies, dead men, partially undressed.

***

1604

London

“Bothwell?” Angus took another sip of the very fine claret and stretched out his legs, moving his cold feet closer to the fire. “And he saiz ‘yer Majesty’? Are ye sain it wis her, the Queen Mary, her ain sel, murther’d her ain husband?”

“Or at least she was there to supervise the murder,” the Viscount said in his cultured voice. Angus couldn’t quite bring himself to think of this nobleman seated by the fire next to him as ‘Brod’, his brother.

“But how d’ye ken? They wis wearin' thon masks.”

“After that night, she took me in as a servant in her court at Holyrood Palace. That is how she would keep me from revealing her wicked deed, by pulling me close, keeping me charmed.” The Viscount smiled, sipped the claret. “Or so she thought.”

“But ye did?” An ugly smile, two front teeth missing, cracked Angus’s scarred face. “Ye telt on her?”

“No one would believe the tall tales of a servant boy. She was counting on that. But she kept these letters, you see, in a golden casket.” The Viscount took another sip of wine. “Though, I was sad to do it. I heard her called a monster, but she was not. In spite of being a murderess, she was a good woman, a fine lady, was Queen Mary, and kind to me.”

“Why’d ye dui it, then?”

“It was the right move at the right time. Father taught me to always look after my own skin.”

“Aye, faither wis thatwey.”

“And that is what I have done all these years, and see where it got me.” The Viscount leaned back in his chair and spread his arms wide. Then he leaned forward, face close to Angus, and spoke in a low voice. “Queen Mary should have let Bothwell kill me that night.”

“S’pose it’s na eith tae murther a wee nine-year-old lad.”

“I suppose not. But if she had, perhaps you would have been spared — you and our father. Maybe in another life. You see, it was me who set off that gunpowder blast.”

Angus’s eyes widened.

“I did not light the fuse.” The Viscount stood up, looking down on Angus. “But it was me who told them the Old Provost’s House was empty, though I knew you and father were there, thieving. And so they set off the gunpowder blast, as they had planned, to create a commotion and cover their tracks. Father died and you … just look at you.” He switched back to his Scottish brogue. “Yer a right oogly scunner!”

Angus charged like a bull.

The Viscount stepped back and, with an easy, practiced movement, swept the legs from under Angus.

Then Brod’s boot was on Angus’s throat, the rapier pointed at Angus’s one good eye.

“Angus, ye clot-heid, yer na guid,” Brod whispered as he ground the boot into his brother’s scarred neck. “Ah weish ye wis deid.”

Then he stepped back.

“Do you remember? That was the last thing you said to me.”

Angus was quiet, his one good eye glaring.

“Get up, Angus, I have more to say. By your leave, I shall keep this at the ready.” Brod flourished his rapier.

Angus got up off the floor and sat down in the chair by the fire, still glaring.

“You wished me dead, brother. Well, I wished you dead too,” Brod said. “But I am sorry, now, to see you in this state. It was not your fault, the way you acted towards me. It was him, our father. We learned from him, both you and I. He was a monster. He made us in his image, his monsters. Maybe in another life, with another father, we would not have become monsters, you and I.”

“Ah’m nae monster.”

“Well, you were a monster to me back then. And you look the monster now. But I assure you, I am a monster too, and I freely admit it. I have lied, cheated, stolen, killed, harmed, maimed, betrayed every loyalty, set friend against friend, lover against lover, all to get where I am, to look after my own skin, just as father taught me.”

Angus softened some. “Yer sairry for this?” He held up his mangled hand to his scarred face. “In truith?”

“As sorry as this monster can be.”

Angus stretched out his legs, moving his feet closer to the fire. His left foot had the toes blown clean off in that gunpowder blast thirty-seven years ago, but he could still feel all five ghost-toes, and they were always cold.

He took another sip of the very fine claret and imagined his brother’s fire warming the long-lost toes.