A History Thus Far Untitled

This was hardly the first time I had been so roughly used--or should I say abused?--yet was I perhaps the more keenly sensible of its impropriety for being so well acquainted with similar hardships in times past. Nothing overwhelms the senses (not to mention the intellect) so much as simple novelty; nothing sharpens them to a fine discrimination like long-standing familiarity.

Recourse had I none, which was perhaps as well, for if the chance for revenge had presented itself I should probably have taken it, and been undone thereby. As it was, I had but one choice to make, whether to stay or go, and this decision was taken within ten minutes of the event.

It was a moment's work to ready my horse--though I confess it felt more like an hour, as every motion, I was convinced, was scrutinized by hostile eyes. Fully conscious of the danger in which I stood, I was hard pressed to walk the beast calmly from the stable to the mounting block and there, with my accustomed assumed clumsiness, haul myself into the saddle.

Head well down, I urged my horse into a shambling walk toward the courtyard gates. As I lolled sideways in the saddle, I searched the windows that stared down from every wall, hoping to see one particular face and fearing to see those of my enemies. But no face appeared, either dear or despised, and it was with a peculiar mixture of relief and regret contending in my heart that I passed the gates and emerged onto the well-remembered road--whose surface, it seemed, I must have traveled a year or more since at least, so slowly had the days of my voluntary incarceration stumbled by.

At first I dared nothing but to continue, at the same slow, steady pace with which I had begun. Certainly there was no immediate reason for me to be missed; none looked for me to appear, and indeed most might expect me to remain hidden some time, licking my wounds as it were, in some dark corner of the house. Yet happenstance is cruel, and any chance glance out of doors might yet discover me, so long as I remained in sight.

But the moments passed, and no alarm was given, and gradually I relaxed, and so soon as I had passed into the welcome shelter of the wood that bordered the road a mile north of the gate, I straightened in the saddle, stretching cramped muscles and giving a heartfelt groan of relief. Once I was a little comforted and feeling like my old self again, however, it next came to me that I must consider what to do, and that quickly. Plainly, my plan of subterfuge must now be abandoned, for once having left the villains' lair, I could not return in the character I had assumed without facing the keenest suspicion as to the reasons for my absence. Equally, loitering in the neighborhood in hopes of collecting some further intelligence seemed a futile endeavour. No; plainly, my only course was to return to London, report what had occurred, and formulate a plan with my compatriots.

A plan: Easy to say, but hard indeed, it then appeared, to create. Yet created it must be, and of such a nature that it would encompass both the ruin of my enemies and the safe return of she whom I held most dear.

A plan! For such a plan as this, my brain would fever willingly, for without it all my life would be sham, a broken thing, a ruin. There and then I resolved, by all I was capable of conjuring, not to rest until I had seen both the plan's creation and its successful execution. Then, and only then, would I rest satisfied, with the accomplishment of my heart's desire and the safety of my nation assured.


To be continued...


2/8/2008