Chapter II: The Master of Lyonesse

When on the terrace of Ulster House, Nicholas of Russia dealt heavily with the Chancellor to his ruin, one witness was so placed that he heard all. The witness was the Duke of Ulster's son, James, Marquess of Sydney. It is a very pleasant thing to hold this gentleman in memory, to think of him as he was in life, and at that time in the thirtieth year of his age. He was a tall man, nervous rather than strong, his face very fair and comely. In habit he was lean, bronzed with the sun; in bearing most knightly and courteous; in manner a little cynical with a grave humour. But that tells nothing of the quality in his eyes, and in his smile, which made one love and trust him. None of the pictures or statues to his memory do justice to that wonderful quality of the man, nor can a written word call back the charm.

It was on the 11th day of May, 1980, that he heard the passages between the Emperor and his father. It was on Friday, the 30th, four days before the Coronation, that he moved. There were railways in those old-fashioned times, lines of a single rail. Catching the 9 a.m. express from Paddington, Lord Sydney reached the Land's End district by noon, and alighted at Lyonesse.

This was his first visit to the etheric city, and as he left the terminus to enter Brand Street, he was astonished at the grandeur of the place. Thanks to the mildness of the Cornish climate, palms and acacias sheltered the pavement. Down the long vistas of sub-tropic trees there were fountains spraying white splendour into the sunlight, and statues of golden bronze lurked in the shadows. The street was lined with shops and theatres, traffic throbbed upon the causeway, the pavements were thronged with people. The town, even in 1980, was large, its population numbering half a million, a grey granite city walled about on three sides by the sea cliffs. The streets were filled with a tumult of affairs, but where they converged upon St. Buryan Square, there was a resting-place of lawns and trees shadowed by groups of buildings. Upon the western frontage of the square, stood a rough-hewn palace some acres in extent, the office of John Brand III.

Homely and plain was the master's room in that palace. The threadbare carpet, the shabby furniture, the queer old plans and pictures on the walls were relics passed down from another age. In that chair an American of the nineteenth century had dreamed, from the books of that case had learned, at that table planned--and the result was Lyonesse. The relics spoke of poverty, of research, of noble patience, and the founder's grandson kept these things as a reminder.

The American sat at his desk, and one might have known him for Lyonesse, so mighty his physical strength, so shabby and neglected his dress, so steady his labour. They say he was a hard man at that time, rugged, avaricious, rather feared than liked.

A sealed envelope was brought to him, with explanation that a man had called who would not be denied and had given trouble. Brand opened the cover and within found a visiting card.

"Trooper the Marquess of Sydney,
Her Majesty's Bodyguard."

His face brightened as he read; gladly he sent a welcome to his visitor, gave orders that he was not to be disturbed, and in the interim of waiting set all his work aside.

He rose at Lord Sydney's entrance. "Well, old fellow," he spoke heartily, as they shook hands, "is it ten years?"

"Fourteen since our last fight at school. I'm awfully glad to see you, Brand."

"You've forgotten the black eyes I gave you?"

"I'd be sorry to fight again; you're much too strong. But your nose, Brand, you must remember my sign manual, and I was so proud of that nose."

Brand stroked his blunt nose thoughtfully, "Most tender memory!"

Lord Sydney smiled, and as the other led him to a seat--

"We promised to write to each other."

"We were very young," Brand chuckled. "So you went soldiering, I to my trade."

"Each to his tribe, and God for all," said Sydney. "I used to envy you."

"I wanted to be a soldier," answered Brand.

"But, Sydney, why all this secrecy; why put your card in a sealed envelope?"

The soldier's face turned grave. "I have good reason. These walls," he looked anxiously about him, "have they ears?"

"Sydney, this isn't London."

"May I look round?"

Brand laughed, but his visitor walked to the door and opened it suddenly, making a rapid survey of the ante-room. Other doors he examined which led to the safe, and to Brand's private chambers; then considering the walls and hangings, returned to his place.

"I should have been followed from London," he explained, "but I hired an actor to personate me, and he is leading a fine chase of spies to Stamboul."

"Who has you watched?"

"My father, and when he knows I've been here you'll catch the infection. I warn you, Brand."

"My dear fellow, your father----"

The Guardsman's eyes flashed ominously, his jaws hardened.

"What do you know of my father?"

"Chancellor of the Empire, his Grace the Duke of Ulster, K.G., and a lot more twaddle."

"By the Almanac, yes, and head of the Gold Party which sits up to hate you all night. Come, speak out!"

"My dear fellow, I never met your father. In politics I like fighting him, and I think he likes fighting me. He would never speak evil of me as a private man."

"Or you of Ulster? Well, I can't blame your courtesy, Brand, I don't understand your politics. They say that you finance the Labour Party. You've been accused of Socialism."

Brand chuckled. "Have you heard about my eating babies?"

"Even a cannibal might love his country. Brand, I'm in horrible trouble, and I've come to you for help."

"You've come to me for help. Go on, old chap."

"In politics you can accuse a man without any feeling of hatred?"

"I would not have him butchered."

"Not even if your opponent granted the Peacock Throne to Ali of Haidar?"

Brand's face flashed with anger. "My friend, spare me all mention of that," he said. "Is it a kind thing, Lord Sydney, to tear the old wound open?"

"Does it hurt me less? I'd go on if it killed both of us, and you shall listen."

"Perhaps you don't know," answered Brand, "that my young brother saw his wife crucified, before the rebels gouged out his eyes and burned him."

"Would you treat the man as a mere political opponent who granted the Peacock Throne to Ali of Haidar?"

"The Viceroy died by his own hand. He is beyond our vengeance."

"Vengeance?" cried Sydney, "my words bite deep. Is vengeance in your code of political courtesy? I tell you the man who granted Prince Ali's claims is still alive, within the reach of vengeance. He drove the Viceroy to suicide, and thought that under heaven there was no witness left to rise against him."

"That is beyond belief; there are limits even to treachery."

"Are there such limits? The man who granted Prince Ali's claims received not thirty pieces of silver, but two million pounds. He lives."

Brand turned away his face.

"Prince Ali was an agent, Brand, an agent of Russia, and the bribe of two million pounds was Russian money. The man who received that price of blood has not hanged himself, neither were his eyes gouged out, nor was he burned like your brother. He bought with it the Chancellorship of the British Empire. He is my father."

Brand's iron-hard face was sterner than ever now. "Have you gone mad?" he asked.

"Prove me insane or dreaming, or bewitched. Prove my father an honest man, and England safe. It would be all right then, Brand. Do you think it is a little thing to tell; that it is easily said? I, Ulster's son, that was a gentleman, am now a spy. His shame has tainted me, and so the leprosy will spread from generation to generation. I suppose," he added, "you think I'm hysterical."

Leaning forward, Brand laid his hand upon Lord Sydney's shoulder.

"There's some mistake," he said.

"I tell you that my father, Ulster, is sold to Russia. He has forced upon the Government a degrading treaty."

Brand was silent. "He has given our Lady, the Queen, to that drunken beast Alexander."

Brand was silent.

"He has divulged the Formula of the Fleets!"

"Sydney!" Brand rose overthrowing his chair, then withholding himself by main force, sat heavily upon the desk. "Go on," he said hoarsely, "these statements need to be proved."

"Time enough for that," Lord Sydney flung himself beside Brand's knees upon the desk, and buried his face in his arms. "I've lived in a dream world," he said in bitterness, "a world which I built for myself, where one's father could be respected, one's mother honoured. All things were as they should be; one could play the game----" He looked up, and his eyes were reddened. "I was a boy in that fool's paradise--but now, ah, well," he threw his head back, looking out at Brand with half-closed eyes, "I suppose I've got to be a man." Then he told Brand of the Emperor's visit to Lord Ulster, and how he had overheard what passed between them.

"Have you proof?" asked the American.

"I realized," said Sydney, "that I must have proof. I watched my father's face from day to day, and when he returned to town, I went with him. For once he was glad of my company, while with treason upon treason he bought the papers which Russia held against him. By his face I knew when the Government consented to the Treaty, when they agreed to the Russian marriage, when he betrayed the Formula. He had earned the papers then. I don't think he ever slept until last night, until he had paid the price. I was alone with him last night when the Emperor's messenger came. We had finished dinner, the long, dull dinner, the servants cleared out, and Ulster had his wine. The messenger was shown in, bearing a despatch box, and I did the honours, while Ulster unlocked the thing. I saw him take out a sealed package and a letter which he tried to conceal from me. The messenger drank our health, and Ulster escorted him to the door. I had time to slip a drug into Ulster's wine.

"Yes, he slept almost before he had read the Emperor's letter. It was a queer letter. Once a month hereafter His Grace would receive a messenger and to him display this package with unbroken seals--on pain of instant vengeance. A little of that treatment would tame any Chancellor. The sense of being watched, the horror lest the package miscarry, the fear ever with him, the curse that must be borne in silence year by year, then death and exposure. It would have driven him stark staring mad! I have relieved my father of that curse, his spies are chasing me to Constantinople. Here is the package--the proof of what I have said, and you shall break the seals."

Brand opened the Russian papers, the transactions between Ulster and Prince Ali, which page by page he examined. He filled a briar pipe, lighted, and smoked it through before he spoke.

"I think," he said at last, "that this is a strong chain of evidence, but only in converging evidence is there proof. There is ground here for a charge against the Duke, not for his conviction; and all his friends would rally to his defence, making him stronger than ever. The value of these papers is his evident fear. Now as to the secret treaty."

Lord Sydney produced the Draft, which the master read.

"There is ground here for an attack upon the Government. And as to the Formula?"

"Only my word," answered Sydney. "You doubt my word!"

"Not I. But imagine this case tried by the House of Lords, the judges being Ulster's friends with the fear of their own downfall if they failed him."

Lord Sydney rose distracted and paced the floor, unnerved, broken.

"And you are going to fail me?" he cried.

"Easy, boy, easy," said Brand, relighting his pipe, "that kind of play never scored at school. The games must be played more soberly to be won."

"Don't preach at me, Brand," said the other roughly. "Ah, forgive me! If you only knew--you've never seen her, have you? But if you saw the Queen, you would understand, for she is brave as a lion, stainless as the lilies, her voice makes us mad with love; yet she is our Lady, and we scarcely dare to look her in the face. And she is to be sold to infamy! Oh, God, what can I do, what can I do to save her?"

"Lord Sydney, you forget yourself."

My lord looked at him, his eyes narrowing, his mouth hardened, his whole face freezing with self-suppression.

"Yes, that is so, Mr. Brand. Back to the facts then," he laughed nervously, "we have to fight the Chancellor, we have to fight the Government. Then there is Russia to fight, and Europe."

Brand went to the window, and there stood looking out. Beyond the pavement and the trees rose all that city which his fathers and himself had built upon the storm-swept moors of a wild headland, his walls the cliffs, his moat the Atlantic; and this bastion of our island stronghold was not unworthy to guard the British Realm.

Until that day we knew of Lyonesse as a strong man, and an humble, so we thought; for in the twelve years since he came to power, the hard-hitting, rough-fighting master of industry had never lost his habit of grave self-command, or let any breath of passion sway his justice. A man must be true to win the confidence of friends, but great to win the trust of enemies.

Now the deeps were moved, and elemental forces stirred within him. Henceforward he was to suffer, to rejoice, to pity, to slay within no boundaries of self-discipline, to love with irresistible passion, to strike with overwhelming rage. One does not praise or blame the hurricane.

Brand came back to the desk, sat down in his chair, and laid his hand upon the Russian papers.

"One would think," he said, "that the man who owned these papers, owned this Chancellor. He obeyed Russia--will he fight me?"

"There is the whole party of the capitalists," answered the other ruefully, at which Brand was aroused.

"Will they fight me?" he said.

"But the allies will declare war!"

"Am I not Lyonesse!"

"You cannot fight three nations."

"My father warned me," said Brand, thoughtfully, "and somehow I always knew that sooner or later I must take the field to save Britain. No man has seen etheric power in action."

Sydney breathed hard. "You called it once the Chariot of the Sun."

"The Chariot of the Sun. Yes. Heaven send I may never have to use etheric power for war."