Ancient Appetites

XX

Daisy had never seen Trom up close before. It was kept in an island paddock with a moat crossed by a massive drawbridge to keep it from wandering, but unlike the engimals in the Wildensterns' zoo, she had never been tempted to go and look at it. Now she couldn't take her eyes off it.

It was the size of a large locomotive; a broad, squat shape with a hide of grey, banded in places with zigzagging yellow and black stripes. Its skin was marked all over with scars, including the near-indestructible shovel that jutted out in front of its head like a massive metal jawbone. Like many engimals, it had wheels for feet, but Trom was one of a breed known as bull-razers; creatures that could use their shovel to ram through anything in their path. Bull-razers had thick, hinged belts that rotated round their wheels like a caterpillar, which gave them incredible traction. There was little that could stand in their path once they went on the rampage.

'I don't know about you,' Roberto muttered beside her, 'but that thing gives me the willies.'

The Wildensterns used Trom for evictions, and Daisy was accompanying her husband to oversee the first one under his stewardship. As she rode with Roberto in an open-topped coach behind the bull-razer, Daisy felt a sick fear at what they were about to do. It wasn't a very cold day, but there was a chill in the wind and the sun was hidden behind a ceiling of pale cloud.

The engimal rolled ahead of them, its dull brain following commands from Slattery, who stood with a couple of his men in a sunken area on its back, holding its reins. Even sitting up in the coach, she could feel the vibrations from the ground caused by the movement of the engimal's huge mass. Berto sat beside her, gripping her hand and looking very queasy, his free hand playing with the buttons of his waistcoat. Nathaniel rode alongside them on his own beast. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking; his face was a careful mask of indifference. It was a mask that many gentlemen wore when they ventured out into the less fortunate world. Behind them came a wagon filled with Slattery's men, in case extra muscle should be needed.

Daisy smoothed out the folds of her peacock-blue dress as she wrestled with the conflicting emotions over what was about to happen. The tenants of three of these cottages had not paid their rent for months and so they had to be evicted. She had run a business and knew that there were times when you had to make hard decisions in order to maintain your profits. When her father had run his factories into the ground, she had been the one who had made the decision to shut some of the factories so that the rest could be spared. She had laid off loyal workers – many with families – to save a business that might still provide for many others.

If someone was not paying their rent, then they had to make way for someone who would. You couldn't have something for nothing – not in this life. But Daisy knew it wasn't that simple. Most of the Wildensterns' tenants did not pay their rent with money; they paid with labour. These people were allowed to live on the land as long as they used it to produce enough crops or livestock for their landlords every year to cover the cost of their rent. In return, they could build a stone or turf cabin and keep a small patch of the land for themselves, on which they grew the nutritious potatoes that formed the main part of their meagre diet. If they could manage to grow enough to sell on the side, they were lucky. Then, along with the potatoes they might enjoy some milk, cabbage and sometimes butter or even a bit of bacon.

Trom rumbled and clanked along the road, crushing the verge on either side under its rolling feet. There were few roads in the country that could accommodate its tremendous size. It snorted steam, grunting and growling with each pull on its reins. The sound of it brought people out of their houses to watch it pass. Everyone knew what it meant and everyone hoped the engimal wasn't coming for them. Slattery snapped the reins to lift the creature's head and gave the onlookers a gracious wave. Daisy looked away in distaste.

All the food the peasants grew for their masters on the fertile land – the corn, wheat, beef, poultry and any number of other things – was sold in the cities or exported. As people grew more discontented and rebel raids on farm stores increased, armed soldiers were being used to guard goods being transported to the docks.

The Wildensterns had been demanding more and more from their tenants, leaving them with less land and less time to grow their own food. Hungry people did not work well and many were failing to meet their landlords' demands. Evictions were increasing. People were getting angry. Daisy shook her head as she gazed out on the countryside. It was bad business – you couldn't keep squeezing your workers dry. Sooner or later, something would have to give.

And using creatures like Trom and men like Slattery could only make things worse. The strange caravan of vehicles had travelled a few miles west from Wildenstern Hall and came to a stop near a clachan of five thatched cabins huddled together off a narrow road on a low hillside. Slattery handed the reins to McHugh and climbed down from the engimals back. Striding over to the carriage, he took off his hat and bowed his head to Roberto.

'This won't take long, sir,' he said. 'Once their houses have been tumbled, they'll get the message.'

He looked over and waved to McHugh, who turned the engimal off the road and urged it up the hill. The bull-razer pushed through a dry-stone wall as if it wasn't there, crushing the stones into the earth. Its treads churned up the soil as it climbed the sloping field towards the small group of houses. Slattery shook his head in disdain as people appeared from inside, shouting frantically to others, their voices high with shock and fear.

'There's always a few as'll put up a fight,' the bailiff told his young master, an eager smile flashing his gold teeth. 'We used to burn the roofs off the hovels. But we find this makes more of an impression. Everyone gets out sharpish when they see Trom coming.'

The stone cabins looked like tiny, fragile constructions before the might of the huge engimal. It would be on them in seconds. It was absurd – this behemoth could smash through the legs of a railway bridge and here they were, sending it to demolish a few tiny cottages. Daisy could see some men standing in its path, waving at it to stop. McHugh paid them no attention. Slattery chuckled, shaking his head dismissively.

'I'll thank you not to laugh, Mr Slattery' Berto said curtly.

'Yes, sir.' Slattery's face immediately adopted an expression of utmost solemnity, which only made his men grin more widely.

Daisy watched them sourly. Her husband rarely chose to exercise his authority and, as a result, he had not earned the respect of these hard men.

'Roberto, somebody could be hurt,' she whispered. 'There must be another way of doing this.'

She saw Nathaniel glance at her, but he said nothing. Berto did not take his eyes off the bull-razer. She knew he was horrified by what he was seeing. His hand was clutching hers so tightly her fingers were going numb.

'Bugger this,' he hissed. 'They can keep the bloody houses. What do we care? We have a thousand more like them. What does it matter if we give away a few hovels and a patch of land? They can keep 'em! That'll give the old man the hump.'

'No!' said Daisy. 'Your father's given you power, so use it! Do you want him to think he can't even trust you to collect some rent? How can you help anybody then? Come up with another way for them to pay, but first stop this madness before somebody gets killed!'

Two men dived out of the engimal's way moments before its shovel slammed into the first house, driving through it as if it were a pile of leaves, tossing roofbeams and straw thatch into the air and crushing stones and furniture underfoot. Daisy caught her breath. There might have been people still in there. A woman was running down the road towards them.

'Please!' she cried. 'Please, my mother is in our house. She can't be moved. She has the fever and she can't be moved. For the love of God, please call off your animal!'

The woman was dressed in a worn skirt and blouse; a tattered headscarf hung down her back, where it had fallen as she ran. She made it as far as the door of the carriage, seizing Roberto's hand before Slattery dragged her away.

'Don't mind her, sir,' he said as he pulled her back. 'If the woman's old, she's dead anyway. We'd be doing her a mercy. The fever'll finish her off whether she's outside or in.'

'Take your hands off that woman!' Roberto snapped at the bailiff. 'Let her speak!'

With a barely concealed scowl, Slattery released the woman, who darted back to the side of the carriage. She was about to speak when Trom swivelled and lunged out of the ruins of the first cabin, crashing straight into the second one. The woman let out a whimper.

'My mother, sir.' She addressed Roberto. 'She's in bed with the fever in the middle house there. If we move her, it could kill her. No one else will take her in – not in the state she's in! They'd be puttin' their own at risk and I wouldn't ask it of 'em. Please, sir. Don't take our home!'

She pressed her cheek, wet with tears, against Berto's hand.

'Don't take our home! It's all we've got! We'll work harder for yeh. We'll make more than ever for yeh next year… just don't take our home!'

Berto withdrew his hand, self-consciously wiping it against his jacket. He looked sickened, but Daisy could see the resolve setting on his face. McHugh was steering the bull-razer across the yard towards the middle house.

'Slattery!' Berto said in a clear voice. 'Call off your man.'

'That's not a good idea, sir,' the bailiff told him. Roberto started to interrupt, but Slattery talked over him. The Patriarch had warned the bailiff about his errant son. 'It'll set a bad example. Take it from me, sir. They've all got sob stories if you stop to listen to 'em. Give them half a chance and they'll have the bloody parish priest out here screamin' blue murder. Don't go givin' them the idea they can-'

'My brother gave you an order, Mr Slattery!' Nate barked. 'Now do as you're bloody told!'

They all turned to look at him. His command hung there for a moment, and for that instant Daisy saw a look of his father about him. The air of a man who would not be defied. And Slattery saw it too. He pulled a whistle from his pocket and blew hard on it. McHugh did not hear it and Slattery blew again, twice more. Trom's driver glanced over to see his boss waving him back. He hauled in on the engimals reins just before it ploughed into the third house. McHugh looked at them in confusion and then pulled the engimal round and headed back down the field towards them.

Daisy leaned over and whispered something in Berto's ear. He nodded and beckoned to the peasant woman.

'This is not an act of charity, madam-' he began.

'I wouldn't ask for your charity, sir,' she cut in hurriedly. 'Just a fair chance to earn our keep – and for you not to send great big beasts tramplin' through our house.'

'Yes… yes, exactly.' Berto nodded, still a little unsure of himself. 'We'll send someone to, eh… to renegotiate the… the terms of your rent. We'll work this out…'

As he spoke to the woman, Daisy turned to watch Slattery walk away. The bailiff was shaking his head and she was sure she could hear him cursing to himself. He threw a glance back at her and she shuddered, putting a hand to her breast. She had never had anyone glare at her with such a expression of hatred. Not even Nathaniel.

'He's an animal, that man,' Berto said softly from behind her, and she could tell he was watching Slattery too. 'And he's really only loyal to Father. He despises the rest of us. Marcus had to hit him once, to pull him into line. You should have seen the look in Slattery's eyes then – I'd say there are few men who could strike Patrick Slattery and live to tell about it. I think Marcus would have fired the brute if he could, but Father wouldn't have it.'

'Marcus hit him?' Nate asked. 'Why? When did that happen?'

'It was a few years ago, when Marcus ran the Irish estates,' Berto told him. 'They had an argument while they were watching an eviction. Slattery said something about me being a soft-hearted wastrel – Heaven knows why. Marcus lost his temper and lashed out. You should have seen the look Slattery gave him after he was hit. It turned me cold.'

The peasant woman was hurrying back to her cabin. Slattery was climbing onto Trom's back. Taking the reins, he steered for home without waiting for further instructions. Neither he nor his men looked back at the carriage.

'I don't think Mr Slattery likes people who get in his way' Nate observed.

He didn't say any more, but Daisy knew what he was thinking. He was wondering if Marcus had been one of those people.

Nathaniel stood in front of his father's desk, his eyes lowered towards the old man's favourite pen, which sat on the blotter. The afternoon's outing with Trom was still fresh in his mind and it occurred to him that despite all his family's fears of armed rebels and stealthy assassins, that pen could affect the lives of more people in a stroke than any act of violence. Edgar picked up the pen, dipped it in a bottle of ink and scrawled his signature on a contract, changing some more lives. The Patriarch closed the ledger he had been reading and put it and the new contract to one side, wiping the powerful pen clean again.

'What news is there of Hugo's recumbent brother?' he asked, finally looking up at his son.

'Still no sign of Brutus recovering, sir,' Nate replied. 'Gerald is concerned about him. He says the wounds the man suffered before his… death are still open and some have become infected. He has found the beginnings of gangrene in some of them, and thinks he may need to operate.'

'Hmph,' Edgar grunted. 'Does Hugo know this?'

'Not yet, sir. Gerald wanted to tell you first.'

'Tell Gerald to do whatever he needs to do to keep Brutus alive,' the old man said. 'But now to the real business at hand. You have a few more weeks before you leave for America. When you are not working with Silas, I want you to act as Hugo's tutor. He is ignorant of the world around him, so you will educate him in how we live. He has been given rooms to himself, as have his sisters. Eunice and Miss Melancholy will take care of the women; Hugo is your responsibility.'

'Yes, Father,' Nate replied reluctantly.

He had no wish to be anybody's nanny. He was still no closer to finding out the truth about Marcus's death, and with little time left before his departure, he had been planning a trip up to the Mourne Mountains to see where his brother had died. Now he would have to cart that ancient relic up there with him.

'Father, can I ask something?'

'What is it?'

'If Hugo really was a Patriarch, isn't he… couldn't he-?' Nate's nerve failed him for a moment, but then he tried again: 'Why did you let him live?'

His father exhaled noisily, staring down at the top of the desk for a few moments.

'That is none of your concern, boy'

Nate ground his teeth, struggling to contain his temper. Here he was, taking on the responsibilities of the Heir, and still he was being treated like a child.

'You will teach our honoured ancestor everything he needs to know to pass for a modern man,' Edgar went on. 'And bring him up to date on the history of the family. However… I do not want him knowing the full extent of the family's wealth just yet.

'He and his sisters hail from more turbulent times, when life was lived by the sword and empires were built by kings rather than trading companies. There may come a time when I choose to give him a role in our business, but first he must learn to understand modern politics and economics. Silas can assist you with whatever learning is beyond your limited expertise. But Hugo must be given a thorough introduction to the Age of Reason. He can know about our estates in Britain and Ireland, but the Americas were unknown in his time and I would prefer if he remained ignorant of them – and our business with them – for the time being. And that must be communicated to the other members of the family.

'Do you understand what I am telling you?'

'Yes, Father,' Nate answered with the hint of a smile on his face. 'You're saying that Hugo must not discover America.'