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1599 - DR. MOREHOUSE
The sixteenth century drew to a close. It was the final night of the final year, and only two hours remained until the birth of a new year and a new century.
The night was solemn and beautiful, with the sky a deep vault paved by myriads of stars. The crescent moon hung like a silver lamp among them. A stream of rosy, quivering light issued from the north, traversing the sky like the tail of a stupendous comet. From its point of effluence, bursts of light broke forth, rivaling the most brilliant fireworks in splendor and variety of hue.
A sharp frost prevailed; the atmosphere was clear and dry, and neither wind nor snow aggravated the wholesome rigor of the season. Water lay in thick congealed masses around conduits and wells, and buckets were frozen on their stands. The thoroughfares were sheathed in ice, perilous for horsemen and vehicles, but the footways were firm and pleasant to the tread.
Fires were sporadically lit in the streets, around which ragged urchins and mendicants gathered, roasting meat fragments on iron prongs or quaffing deep draughts of metheglin and ale from leathern cups. Crowds collected in open spaces, gazing at the wonders in the heavens, drawing auguries—mostly sinister—for most believed the signs portended the imminent death of the queen and the advent of a new monarch from the north. Given the advanced age and declining health of the illustrious Elizabeth, along with the known appointment of her successor, James of Scotland, this was a safe and easy interpretation.
Despite the early habits of the times, few had retired to rest, with a universal wish prevailing among the citizens to see the new year in and welcome the century accompanying it. Lights glimmered in most windows, revealing holly sprigs and laurel leaves stuck thickly in their diamond panes. Whenever a door opened, a ruddy gleam burst across the street, revealing inmates gathered around glowing hearths, occupied in mirthful sports—fox-i’-th’-hole, blind-man’s buff, or shoe-the-mare—or seated at ample boards groaning with Christmas cheer.
Music and singing echoed at every corner, and bands of comely damsels, escorted by their sweethearts, went from house to house, bearing huge brown bowls dressed with ribbons and rosemary. These bowls were filled with a drink called “lamb’s-wool,” composed of sturdy ale, sweetened with sugar, spiced with nutmeg, and floating toasts and burnt crabs within it—a draught seldom rewarded with less than a groat and occasionally a more valuable coin.
Such was the vigil of the year sixteen hundred.
At the tenth hour of this night, a man of striking and venerable appearance emerged onto a small wooden balcony, projecting from a bay window near the top of a picturesque structure at the southern extremity of London Bridge. The old man’s beard and hair were as white as snow, the former descending almost to his girdle, as were the thick, overhanging brows that shaded his still-piercing eyes. His forehead was high, bald, and ploughed by innumerable wrinkles. His countenance, despite its death-like paleness, had a noble and majestic cast, and his figure, though worn to the bone by a life of severe study and bent by the weight of years, must have been once lofty and commanding. His dress consisted of a doublet and hose of somber cloth, over which he wore a loose gown of black silk. His head was covered by a square black cap, from beneath which his silver locks strayed over his shoulders.
Known by the name of Doctor Morehouse, this venerable figure was a subject of dark fascination among the townsfolk, who whispered that he was little better than a wizard. Strange tales swirled around him, tales of arcane experiments and forbidden knowledge. The presence of a deformed, crack-brained dwarf named Flapdragon, who assisted him in his shadowy pursuits, only added fuel to the fire of rumors.
Doctor Morehouse’s gaze was fixed intently upon the heavens, his eyes tracking the position of the moon relative to a particular star. He seemed lost in some esoteric calculation, a figure of eerie calm against the backdrop of the night sky.
After a few minutes, he was about to retire when a loud crash pierced the silence. He turned sharply, his eyes narrowing as he sought the source of the disturbance.
Before him stood the Southwark Gateway—a foreboding stone structure with round, embattled turrets at each corner and a flat leaden roof adorned with a forest of poles, each garnished with human heads. To his astonishment, he saw a tall man in the act of toppling two of these poles and stripping them of their grisly burdens.
The mysterious plunderer quickly thrust his macabre trophies into a leathern bag and was about to descend by a rope ladder attached to the battlements. However, his retreat was cut off by the gatekeeper, Beethoven, armed with a halberd and bearing a lantern. Beethoven emerged from a door opening onto the leads, his face set in grim determination.
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Seeing his escape route blocked, the marauder, with a desperate look, hurled the sack and its ghastly contents through Doctor Morehouse’s open window. He then attempted to reach the ladder, but Beethoven intercepted him, delivering a brutal blow to the head with his halberd. The plunderer cried out in pain and tried to draw his sword, but Beethoven struck again, thrusting his weapon into the man’s side. The would-be thief fell, blood pooling beneath him, but Beethoven raised his halberd for another blow.
“Do not kill him, good Beethoven,” Doctor Morehouse called out, his voice urgent. “The attempt may not be as criminal as it seems. It is likely the poor wretch sought to recover the remains of his kin, horrified by their exposure.”
Beethoven paused, his grip on the halberd loosening. “It may be, Doctor, and if so, I am sorry to have hurt him. But I am responsible for the safe custody of these traitorous relics. Allowing their removal could cost me my head.”
“I understand,” Doctor Morehouse replied, his tone conciliatory. “You have acted rightly. However, we must ascertain whose remains have been disturbed.”
“They were the heads of two rank papists,” Beethoven responded, his voice steady. “Decapitated on Tower Hill three weeks ago, on Saint Nicholas’s Day, for conspiring against the queen.”
“But their names?” Doctor Morehouse pressed, his eyes dark with concern. “Who were they?”
“Sir Simon Darcy and his son, Master Reginald Darcy,” Beethoven replied. “Did you know them?”
“Too well,” Doctor Morehouse answered, his voice trembling with emotion. “They were close kinsmen of mine. What of the one who attempted this? What does he look like?”
“A fair youth,” Beethoven said, lowering the lantern over the fallen man. “Heaven grant I have not killed him. No, his heart still beats. Ah, here are his tablets.” Beethoven extracted a small book from the man’s doublet. “These may provide the answers you seek. The name inscribed within is the same as the others—Anthony Darcy.”
“I see it all now,” Doctor Morehouse exclaimed. “His act was one of piety and love. Bring him to my dwelling, Beethoven, and you shall be well rewarded. Hurry, I beg you.”
As Beethoven carefully lifted the wounded man, the youth groaned in pain, a sound that cut through the cold night air.
“Throw me the weapon you struck him with,” Doctor Morehouse instructed, his voice tinged with compassion. “I will anoint it with the powder of sympathy, and his suffering will be alleviated.”
“I know your worship can perform miracles,” Beethoven said, tossing the halberd into the balcony. “I will carry him as gently as I can.”
Doctor Morehouse caught the weapon and quickly began his work, the night’s eerie calm settling once more as he prepared to ease the young man’s pain.
As Doctor Morehouse vanished through the window with the weapon, the gatekeeper, Beethoven, carefully lifted the wounded man by the shoulders and carried him down a narrow, winding staircase to a lower chamber. Despite his caution, the sufferer groaned in excruciating pain. When Beethoven placed him on a wooden bench and held a lamp close, he saw that the youth’s features were darkened and contorted in agony.
“I fear it’s all over with him,” Beethoven murmured, shaking his head. “I’ll be taking a corpse to Doctor Morehouse. It would be a mercy to put him out of his misery now. The doctor has a reputation for cunning, but if he can heal this poor soul without even seeing him, then maybe those whispers about him consorting with the devil hold some truth.”
As Beethoven brooded over these thoughts, a sudden, extraordinary transformation overcame the youth. As if by some dark magic, the contractions of his muscles eased, his features regained a healthy hue, and his breathing normalized. Beethoven stared in disbelief, as if witnessing a miracle.
Now that the youth’s countenance had returned to its original state, Beethoven couldn’t help but be struck by its extreme beauty. His face was a perfect oval, with regular and delicate features. A short, silken mustache adorned his proud upper lip, and a pointed beard framed his chin. His black, glossy hair was cut short, revealing a broad, intellectual brow. The youth’s figure was slight but admirably proportioned, clad in a black satin doublet slashed with white, black silk hose, and a short velvet mantle. Though his eyes remained closed, there was something undeniably sinister and almost demoniacal about his restored face.
Suddenly, with as much abruptness as his recovery, the youth started, uttering a piercing cry and clutching his side.
“Caitiff!” he shouted, his eyes blazing as they locked onto Beethoven. “Why do you torture me so? Finish me at once—oh!” Overcome by pain, he collapsed again.
“I have not touched you, sir,” Beethoven replied calmly. “I brought you here to aid you. You’ll feel better soon. Doctor Morehouse must have wiped the halberd,” he muttered to himself.
Another rapid transformation occurred. The pain fled from the youth’s face, leaving him at ease once more.
“What have you done to me?” he asked, his voice tinged with gratitude. “The agony of my wound has suddenly vanished, as if a balm had been applied. Please, let me remain in this state if you have any mercy—or end my suffering, for the previous torment was unbearable.”
“You are in the care of someone with greater skill than any chirurgeon in London,” Beethoven reassured him. “If I can get you to his lodgings, he will heal your wounds swiftly.”
“Do not delay, then,” Anthony implored faintly. “Though I am free from pain, I feel my life slipping away.”
“Press this handkerchief to your side and lean on me,” Beethoven instructed. “Doctor Morehouse’s dwelling is but a short distance from the gateway—the first house on the bridge. By the way, the doctor claims he is your kinsman.”
“It is the first I have heard of him,” Anthony replied weakly. “But take me to him quickly, or it will be too late.”
Supporting the wounded youth, Beethoven began the careful journey to Doctor Morehouse’s abode, the night air thick with foreboding as the bridge loomed ahead.