The Butler's Story Page 2

  He turned to the wall and pulled over a padded post, setting it in front of Lysander. “Now, how about we practice a few basic attacks and positions that will actually help you?”

  Lysander nodded and Sinclair stood back to give instruction, happy to see he seemed to already be making a positive impression.

  ***

  By the end of the day, Sinclair felt he had already made good progress with Master Lysander. He decided to give the boy the afternoon off after his hard work and would resume the armed combat lessons along with a little hand-to-hand the next day.

  He spent the rest of the day helping Sir Percival with whatever he needed, drove him to the palace for a meeting with the king, and then made afternoon tea when they got back, which everyone took at their own discretion, since Sir Percival was, once again, working at his desk.

  Sinclair found Lysander in his room, reading a battered paperback copy of The Fellowship of the Ring. He was somewhat surprised, but oddly pleased by this. Tolkien was a personal favorite of his, and seeing the young master actually doing something he seemed to enjoy made Sinclair glad. The pressure on him to succeed his father had to take its toll, especially since there was no guarantee that the passing of the mantle would be years from now. With the Righteous Man’s job as dangerous as it was, it could be as early as tomorrow, no matter the boy was only fifteen.

  “I brought your afternoon tea, Master Lysander,” Sinclair said and set the tray down on the table beside his chair.

  “Thanks,” Lysander said, only briefly glancing up from his book.

  “Is there anything else I can get you?” Sinclair asked.

  “I…no,” Lysander said before reaching for his tea.

  But Sinclair saw straight through the façade to the boy’s loneliness. He understood. He had started his own training at the Agency when he was Lysander’s age. The school was known for being cutthroat, and had not been conducive to making friends. Sinclair saw a lot of himself in the boy and vowed that he would become his companion as well as his butler. Lysander needed to know someone had his best interests at heart, and not just because he was the son of one of the most powerful men in England next to the king.

  He glanced around, seeing stacks of books on the floor beside the bookcase. “Perhaps, Master Lysander, I could organize your bookshelves for you at some point?” he suggested.

  Lysander looked up, cup of tea in hand, and glanced at the stacks of books that had yet to be shelved. “Oh, um…yes. That would be fine.” He hesitated then said. “You can do it now if you don’t have anything else to do. It won’t bother me.”

  Sinclair smiled and bowed slightly before crouching to begin to sort through the books. Mostly science fiction and fantasy, and all ones obviously bought from used bookstores—not the kind that Sinclair would expect that Sir Percival or the distant Lady Teresa would give as a gift. These had most likely been bought by Master Lysander himself and, probably, if Sinclair were to make a guess, against his father’s approval. He couldn’t really imagine the Righteous Man would be very supportive of his son filling his head with fantasy adventures.

  He stacked several Star Wars books together and settled them on the shelf.

  “Would you prefer author, genre, or title, Master Lysander?” he asked.

  “Genre then author,” Lysander replied.

  Sinclair nodded and set to work, a comfortable, companionable silence falling between the two.

  ***

  Sinclair survived his first week working for the family, then the next. During that time, Master Lysander’s skills in armed combat improved at a satisfying rate, proving the butler’s point that Lysander did in fact have the natural talent, he just hadn’t had decent instructors.

  Lysander was also getting more skilled in his hand-to-hand combat, and Sinclair was currently teaching him some ju-jitsu moves to add to his repertoire. Pretty soon, Sinclair suspected that the young master would reach his own skill level, if not surpass it someday.

  Lysander’s stance and poise while fighting was much improved as well, he was more relaxed now that he knew he wasn’t going to be berated for every little mistake, and therefor able to move more fluidly. Sinclair was teaching him to use his instincts in a fight, move with the flow of his opponent, and try to anticipate his next move as opposed to relying on a set of blocks and attacks that had been taught over and over. That was why he made a point of moving directly to sparring after Lysander had mastered the basics of the drills.

  “Very good, Master Lysander,” Sinclair said as they took a breather. “Your skills are much improved.”

  Lysander breathed deeply and pushed his dark hair back from his forehead. “I still can’t beat you.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that, Master Lysander, I’ve been training for ten years to gain my skills. You still have a way to go.” He smiled. “But I do believe you will be even better than I am when you have done the same amount of training.”

  Lysander sighed and grabbed a bottle of water from the bench, taking a long drink. “As long as I can be good enough to not die in a fight, I suppose I’ll take that as a win.”

  “A decent philosophy, I suppose, Master Lysander,” Sinclair said.

  The door to the gymnasium opened and Sinclair and Lysander both looked up to see Sir Percival stride in. They both straightened up upon his arrival, and Sinclair noticed Lysander tensing again.

  “Sir Percival,” Sinclair greeted, bowing slightly.

  “Sinclair, how’s the training going?” the Righteous Man asked, glancing between them.

  “Master Lysander has much improved, sir,” Sinclair said, a bit proudly.

  “Well, I’ll be the judge of that.” Sir Percival shrugged out of his coat and rolled his sleeves up, holding out a hand to Sinclair. “Sinclair.”

  The butler handed him the wooden katana and Sir Percival took a stance on the fencing mat. Sinclair moved to one side, but not before passing Lysander who had frozen, jaw clenched, his knuckles white around the hilt of his practice sword as he turned to pick it up. Sinclair settled a hand gently on his shoulder, stopping him before he made his way to the mat and leaned over to speak to him. “Relax. Let your training speak for you. Pretend it’s me.”

  “Yes, but it’s not,” Lysander hissed before he turned around to face his father on the mat, holding his sword up in an en guard position.

  Sinclair stood near the wall, hands clasped behind him as he watched. He knew there was little possibility that the young master would actually win again his father, but Sinclair did hope that Lysander would at least make a good show of it.

  And he did. He didn’t wait for more than a fraction of a second after the salute, simply attacking with a well-placed lunge that forced his father to take a step back. Sir Percival actually looked impressed for a second before he went in with his own attacks.

  The two traded blows, Lysander struggling to block a couple of them, but still holding his own. He executed a very good combination block, shift, and strike, that Sinclair smiled to see.

  Then Sir Percival feinted, and Lysander went to block the blow, only to leave his other side open. Sir Percival brought his knee up into Lysander’s ribs, then when he doubled over in shock, smashed the hilt of his blade into the young man’s jaw before sweeping his legs from under him.

  Lysander sprawled on the mat, air leaving his lungs. Sir Percival pressed the tip of the wooden blade against his son’s throat.

  “You would be dead now. Never expect an opponent to fight fair.” He didn’t even bother to help him up, simply strode over to Sinclair and handed the practice sword back to him.

  “Better, but he still has a long way to go.” Then he simply turned and walked out.

  Sinclair turned to place the sword back on its rack to hide the anger that he feared might be slipping into his eyes despite his training. Then he turned back to help the young master up, only to see Lysander hauling himself to his feet.

  “An admirable bout, Master Lysander,” Sinclair assured him.

  Lysander turned aside clutching his jaw and swallowed hard. “I’m done for today,” he grunted as he swiftly exited the gymnasium.

  Sinclair pressed his lips together, then bent to retrieve Lysander’s dropped sword, replacing it on the rack as well, then pulled his jacket back on, straightening his clothes. He spotted Lysander’s jacket and folded it neatly over his arm. He would let the young man have a moment to himself before he went to talk to him. Perhaps he would make a treat in the kitchen to go with his tea.

  He made a quick batch of crumpets and put them on a tray with strawberry jam and clotted cream. He also added a pot of ice and a tea towel, then carried all of that and tea up to Master Lysander’s room.

  He knocked and waited a couple seconds before opening the door, despite not getting an answer. Lysander was sitting at his desk, looking out the window, but Sinclair didn’t miss him swiping a hand over his eyes before he turned toward the butler.

  “I thought you needed something sweet for tea today, so I made crumpets,” Sinclair said, placing the plate down in front of the young master.

  Lysander looked at the treat, rather torn. “I don’t even deserve this.”

  “And why is that, Master Lysander?” Sinclair asked, almost challenged. “You cannot base one failure on your whole performance. And Sir Percival did not fight fair.”

  “And I should not have expected him to.”

  “No, you had no reason to assume the fight would go like that,” Sinclair told him, taking up the tea cloth and spreading it on the tray before he began to place ice into it. “You were on a dueling mat in a gymnasium, against your father.”

  “Yes, and if we were a normal family, rules might apply,” Lysander spat. “But he’s the Righteous Man and I should have known be
tter than to expect that there would have been any mercy.”

  “And yet, he did not see what you can really do,” Sinclair assured him and folded the tea towel neatly then tied it off and came around the desk. “You lasted over five minutes with him though, and I would say that is a victory in itself, especially since, two weeks ago, you could barely block a blow.” He reached out and tipped the boy’s chin up before pressing the ice pack against the bruising on his jaw.

  Lysander reached up to hold it in place as he looked up at the butler. “I still lost.”

  “Then endeavor not to next time,” Sinclair told him simply. “You cannot be afraid of failure, Master Lysander. If that is all you think about then you will fail. Go into a fight knowing you will win. You may find it lends wings to your feet and gives any sword the qualities of Excalibur.”

  Lysander glanced back down but finally picked up his fork, beginning to eat his crumpets.

  “But rest assured, Master Lysander. I will teach you to fight the way your father expects you to. So that next time, he will not best you so easily.” He poured a cup of tea for Lysander. “There is also something to be said for learning how to take a hit and being able to stand up again.”

  He moved to leave the room, when Lysander called him back.

  “Sinclair…” The butler turned expectantly, but Lysander just dipped his head slightly and said, “Thanks.”

  “Of course, Master Lysander,” Sinclair replied and left the room, a small smile on his lips.

  ***

  The next day, Sinclair was glad to see Lysander come back to his training with a fresh head. The lesson learned here was that a little positive encouragement went a long way when it came to teaching.

  Sinclair pushed him hard the next few days, knowing that was what Lysander needed right now, and the efforts paid off. He was getting better, and learning to improvise more when they sparred, both in hand-to-hand and with armed combat.

  One day when they had finished with their training session and Sinclair was about to go make tea for the family, Sir Percival found him on his way to the kitchen.

  “Sinclair, I have a job. Prepare and bring the car around. Ten minutes.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sinclair turned toward his room to arm himself and grabbed his overcoat before going to get the Bentley from the garage. He left the thrusters on to wait for Sir Percival, and the Righteous Man came out within minutes and got into the car.

  “Where to, sir?” Sinclair asked.

  “Soho,” he said, then gave the address.

  Sinclair didn’t ask the nature of the trip—that wasn’t really his place, though he did wonder if Sir Percival had been more willing to confide in his previous butler.

  When they got to the address, Sinclair saw that it was an older place of business that had a FOR SALE sign in the front.

  “Park several blocks down,” Sir Percival told him.

  Sinclair did as he was told and allowed the hover thrusters to lower to the street on their rests.

  “Come on, then,” Sir Percival said as he got out of the car.

  That surprised Sinclair a bit. All the times he had accompanied Sir Percival on an outing before, he had been there simply in the capacity of a driver, and the fact that he was being asked to accompany the Righteous Man now could only mean that the mission would be of a more dangerous variety.

  Sinclair got out of the car, and followed Sir Percival toward the building, looking relaxed on the outside to the untrained eye, but ready to draw his gun at any second should the need arise.

  Sir Percival turned down the alley and headed for the back of the building. There was a man standing there, hat pulled low over his face as he looked around, pacing nervously. He glanced up as they approached, jumping slightly before he recognized Sir Percival.

  “Do you have the tip?” Sir Percival asked him.

  The man wet his lips, eyes still shifting from side to side. “I-I decided I can’t do it,” he said in a rushed voice. “I just can’t afford to…my family…”

  “I told you that you would be compensated well,” Sir Percival said and reached into his coat, pulling out a stack of pound notes. The man’s eyes widened slightly but he continued to shake his head.

  “No. No, I can’t, I’m sorry, I just—”

  A gunshot rang out suddenly and the man staggered with a gasp, clutching at his chest. Sinclair had his own gun out in an instant, putting himself between Sir Percival and the direction the gunshot had come from.

  A dark figure darted between two buildings, and Sinclair fired. He must have scored a hit somewhere, as there was a short yelp.

  Sir Percival was already off, racing to cut the assassin off and as soon as the man showed himself again, the Righteous Man raised his gun and laid him flat with a single shot.

  Sinclair approached the body with Sir Percival, covering his master as the man kicked the gun away from the dead killer, and bent to riffle through his pockets.

  “Go see to the other man. Make sure there are no more goons running around.”

  Sinclair nodded and returned to the dead informant. He crouched down and went through the man’s pockets, finding a slip of paper that, upon inspection, he tucked into his own pocket. There was nothing else but a wallet, which he left on the man. He straightened up again as Sir Percival rejoined him, carrying the killer’s gun.

  “Anything on him?” Sir Percival asked.

  “Nothing of consequence, sir,” Sinclair replied. “What do you wish to do with the bodies?”

  “I’m calling them into the Yard. They’ll take care of them. We’re done here.” He was already making his way back to the car, and Sinclair followed, his first real mission as the Righteous Man’s Butler now complete.

  ***

  The next day, Sinclair informed Lysander that because he had been working so hard on his training of late, he deserved to have a day out.

  “A day out?” Lysander asked, sounding incredulous.

  “Yes, Master Lysander. I believe you could use some fresh air and a change of scenery. Is there anywhere in particular you wish to go? If not, I know of a wonderful used bookshop in Soho that I think you might like.”

  Lysander smiled slightly despite himself. “Actually, it would be nice to get out. I’ll get my coat.”

  Sinclair waited for him then went to retrieve the car, pulling it around front for Master Lysander to get in.

  It was actually a rather nice day, the sun even finding it in itself to peek through the clouds on occasion, and Sinclair took his young master to the bookstore as promised, and offered some suggestions as they browsed through the tall, cluttered shelves.

  With purchases in hand, it was time for lunch and they went to a chip shop down the road.

  Sinclair ordered for Lysander and the young man frowned at him. “Aren’t you hungry?”

  “It is hardly proper for a butler to eat with his master,” Sinclair told him.

  Lysander frowned. “My father isn’t here, and I don’t care. Make that two,” he told the man at the counter.

  Sinclair fought to hide the smile that wanted to spread over his lips. He had a feeling Master Lysander would turn out to be a very persuasive, if not radical, Righteous Man.

  They sat down on a bench to eat their lunch, and watched the people as they passed. Sinclair had watched Lysander become more and more relaxed as the day went on, and knew that when they went back to training tomorrow, he would have a fresh head, and would most likely do better for it. One had to take some time off every once in a while, for the good of the mind and body, after all.

  Well, almost time off anyway.

  The car rolled up across the street where a bistro was bustling this time of day. A man and his wife stepped out of the car, and headed inside.

  “Is that not Sir Henry Carson, Master Lysander?” Sinclair inquired conversationally as he checked the time on his watch.

  Lysander looked up. “Oh, yes. That place is a particular favorite of his, he sometimes will meet with my father or other parliament members there.”

  It was not long before another vehicle pulled up, slowing down when it passed Carson’s car, before going further and disappearing down an alleyway, parking out of sight. Sinclair watched attentively, seeing a man get out of the car and take a black case from the boot.