"Cometh the hour, cometh the man, isn’t that what they say Perkins?”
He was standing in the main hall of Dublin Castle, a modest accommodation compared to the homes of the nobility in England. Yet by his very presence it seemed to be grander.
Perkins, his manservant did what he always did with his masters: agreed, nodded and said nothing more. That was what he had always done.
“Yes, Sir”
He had served the Lord Lts for his whole life and never aspired to nothing more. And now his master was Henry Fitzroy.
He had arrived from England just 2 days ago. They had been without a master for several weeks following the departure of Piers Butler, tail well between his legs, limping back to London to face the music. The battle beyond the Pale, fought by most of Dublin’s available Knights and militia had been a disaster, something that the local administration was doing its best to downplay. While the force that left Dublin had been described as an army, it had now just been a routine patrol that had met with some unfortunate luck. Regrettable but inevitable was the line. But the truth was well known to everyone in side the wall. The lie was mostly for French and Spanish ears.
He had remembered Butler’s last days in the castle. Constantly ill and pale, Butler had collapsed upon hearing news of the defeat. ”We are lost!” he had told Perkins dramatically, “and I am finished.”
And here was the replacement. Fitzroy was young, not even 20, but the very image of his father, only paler, almost sickly. He wore all black. Pierkins had never seen the King in person. Hell, he’d never been outside the Pale much, but now he had a chance to compare the two.
The younger Henry was staring at the portrait of his father in front of him, hung over the fireplace, dominating the room as kingly portraits tended to do. Henry VIII had a stocky body, a large face and a distinguishing beard. His illegitimate son was dwarfed by him, smaller in every way, and judging by his face, not yet old enough to match his fathers facial hair. But the resemblance was clear.
“This land needs putting to rights.” Fitzroy wasn’t looking at Perkins or even talking to him really. Just speaking his mind. Like they all did.
“Yes, milord.”
“First thing, is to get those damn Fitzgerald’s off their arses. I don’t know why they’ve hesitated so long. They have troops we could use. They‘re was something about their son wasn‘t there? He ran off or something?”
“Yes, Sir. Missing for many months now.”
“Idiot. Probably wandered into the forest” he said with disdain. “Typical Irish. Well, no more of that. Kildare needs to know who‘s boss.”
He moved to the table and the latest reports, his back to the painting. He had the kingly air all right, Perkins thought. But a bastard was a bastard.
“O’ Neill moving south, Desmond missing, soldiers few…” he muttered to himself. “This island must be cursed. Those men here yet?”
“Not yet milord. They docked only an hour ago.”
“Hmm. it’s a damn disgrace, being forced to hire these mercenaries. What we need is good English soldiers led by good English blood. But he” - at this he cast a look at his father’s visage - “is too busy in France to lend me any support. Typical.”
Perkins said nothing.
“Scots, Dutch, Germans…They better be worth it.”
He walked to the window, looking out on Dublin. It was a rainy day and Dublin, never a very beautiful town, looked even drearier then normal.
“We’ll move as soon as we can. First thing is Fanning. This rebellion of his is the most insidious. We’ll head south and relive Cork, get Desmond back onside. Then Limerick will fall…”
He continued to talk, conjuring up images of armies and conquest, of movements and strategy. Butler had been the same, always talking without realising just who was listening.
…and if O’ Neill doesn’t bow, I’ll have his head. Maybe then…” He turned to gaze at his father again, speaking softly.
“Maybe then…”
If he thought the campaign here would get him on the throne in England, Perkins thought, he really was too young.
“You know Perkins, Lord Butler spoke very highly of you in his report.”
Perkins was caught of guard.
“Ah…yes milord”
“Said you were an excellent servant, always on hand for whatever his need was. He even said you were present at his councils. He must have trusted you deeply.”
What was he getting at?
“I suppose milord. I did only what I was supposed to do.”
Fitzroy smiled and looked at him for the first time.
“Of course. I can only hope that I will come to hold the same opinion of you. You may go now.”
Perkins bowed and took his leave.
…
His cramped quarters located in an out-of-the-way nook of the castle was modest but neat. Perkins scribbled quickly on a small piece of paper. They really were all as bad as each other. Butler used to ramble on about his troops movements and where the best point of attack was and always found Perkins to be an able listener. And now this fop, this bastard, was the same.
Perkins sighed as he finished and went to the window. It took no pleasure from assuring the deaths of men, but the reward was exceptional especially from his benefactor.
He tied the note, detailing Fitzroy’s plans and numbers precisely to the birds leg and sent it off fluttering into the Dublin air. It would not take long to reach its destination.
He had turned when he heard a horrid shriek from outside. Looking out, he watched in horror as his pigeon was torn asunder by a giant, sharp beaked hawk.
The door to his room crashed in. Instantly he was surrounded and pinned by several men-at-arms. His struggles were useless and soon subsided.
Henry Fitzroy, dressing immaculately, hands clasped behind his back walked slowly into the room. His black robes seemed to make his sin look all the paler.
“Ah Perkins. Loyal and dependable, always on hand. isn’t that what that wretch Butler thought?”
He crossed to the window and stuck his arm out. Presently the hawk, a magnificent creature landed on his arm. In its talons were Perkins note and the remains of its carrier. Fitzroy read it carefully.
“Oh dear, oh dear. Loyal Perkins, say this is not as it looks” he said mockingly, smiling in triumph. “Do you know, I wondered how our troops were ambushed so easily a few months ago. It almost seemed as if our enemy knew exactly where they would be and what their strength was. And then I read how Butler was always spilling his guts to his ever present servant.”
Perkins drew up his courage. He was a dead man anyway.
“He was a fool. Just like all the English. You think a few mercenaries will be enough to pacify this land? You’re dreaming.”
“That’s not your concern anymore.” He drew a uniquely curved knife from a scabbard at his hip.
Perkins braced himself. “Kill me then. But know this. You’ll never be King, you mongrel.”
Fitzroy’s demeanour changed. He landed a savage blow on Perkins face with his left hand, knocking him to the floor.
“Kill you? No, no. First you’re going to tell me just who you’re sending those notes too. Then you’re going to write to him and tell him just what I want you to say, if you have any fingers left to write that is. I told you this country needed seeing too. It needs a leader, someone to do what is necessary.”
He bent down, looking directly into Perkins eyes. For the first time, looking deep into those globes, Perkins was strong by the utter blackness there. Fitzroy grinned, an evil grin full of malice.
“The hour cometh. Cometh the man.”
Party of Five, a brilliant show, and often made me cry uncontrollably, suffered ultimately from a lack of rocket launchers.
- Joss Whedon
Never take life seriously. Nobody gets out alive anyway.