~ The Mad Earl ~

by

Pam Labud

One

"Do you understand the terms of the charges, Lord Winningham?" The man’s deep, resonant tones cut into the silence of the room.

Michael Kelton, the fifth Earl of Winningham, lifted his gaze from the floor for the first time since the proceedings had begun. With unrelenting expressions four men stared down at him. Three of them were generals who’d commanded Michael during the torturous months he’d served his country fighting the war in Spain. The fourth was a lord from Parliament.

"I do," he said quietly, looking away from the stern faces that studied him.

"So you tell us," Lord Kensington noted. A general of a different sort, his part in the war effort was fought in the House of Lords using words to maim the enemy, much in the same way Michael had wielded his sword. Listening to the proceedings, Michael decided that the cut of his bayonet had been much cleaner.

"I have no evidence to prove my sanity, my lord." Michael watched his judges for any sign of their understanding. There was none. He knew that any attempt at explanations would make little difference in the outcome of their decision. "The truth is that I cannot remember the events that occurred the day I was captured or many of the days that followed. I only learned later from my cousin that I was held for over a month and that I was in ill condition when I was found."

"Can you recall anything from your confinement, Lord Winningham?" General Wexely asked, leaning forward in his seat.

"I remember being in a dark, damp underground cell." Though Michael fought the images in his mind, the cool stench of decay remained with him always. When he closed his eyes he could still feel the promise of death from that place. "They gave me foul tasting concoctions, tainted water, and stale bread from time to time. I vaguely remember being questioned but I’ve no recall of how I answered them. I suppose that’s enough to cast suspicion on me."

"But," General Wexely interjected, "is it enough to brand you a traitor?"

"I believe the question cannot be decided at the present time," General Barton said. "We must therefore carry out the sentencing and pray to God that we are not wrong in our judgment." He turned to the soldier standing guard. "Please bring in Mr. Kelton and the physician, Winthorp."

Two men were ushered in. Michael tightened his fists, determined to keep his fear and dread at bay. I can do this! he reassured himself. Besides, what choice did he have? It was either accept what fate had given him, or know in his heart that he’d not done all he could for those that had died under him. In an odd way, accepting his punishment gave their deaths meaning. He did not die with them as he should have, but he would greatly suffer now. That knowledge helped to lessen his guilt in a small way.

"Mister Kelton," General Wexely waved Michael’s fair-haired cousin forward. Standing side by side, it was clear that he and Ambray were a sharp contrast to each other. Michael sported a quieter, darker appearance. Ambray Kelton’s blond hair and fair complexion demonstrated his lighter, more outgoing personality.

"Yes, my Lord?" Ambray stepped up to the table, but not before bestowing a brave expression upon Michael.

"You have offered to see to the care of Lord Winningham from this day hence?"

"Yes, my lord. He and I were boyhood friends. We even served together for a time. I am very fond of my cousin and very saddened by recent events. It is my hope that Michael’s malady is responsible for his behavior and not any defect in his character."

"You need not try to defend Lord Winningham. This court has already decided upon his innocence, by way of insanity. It has been clearly demonstrated that Michael Kelton, the fifth Earl of Winningham, is no more responsible for himself than a suckling babe. Were it not so, this court would see to his immediate execution as a traitor. We do not believe that he could have purposefully given vital information to the enemy. As is given by various accountings, he was severely injured and prone to ‘fits’ of temperament. How his father was able to purchase his commission in the first place will be investigated with the War Office. But since the fourth Lord Winningham has died, there will be no use in pursing litigation to that extent."

"Thank you, my lord. I promise to take care of my cousin, sir. I have hired an entire staff including a physician, Mr. Winthorp. He is a leading scholar in caring for the deranged. I assure you, Michael will receive every attention possible."

Michael watched Ambray bow respectfully to the council and wrestled back the rising tide of anger that rose within him. It was galling to see Ambray play up to the men’s authority. He alone knew how his cousin despised any sort of propriety.

General Barton looked again to Michael. "This seems to satisfy all. A final word, gentlemen," he nodded to his counterparts. "I had heard that your young wife suffered a terrible accident last month. Let me offer you my condolences."

Michael stiffened at the mention of Katerina’s death. Every one of the ton sported the idea that he’d killed her. The accusation was written on the man’s features as clearly as his arrest documents had held the word ‘traitor’.

Ambray turned to them. "It was indeed a terrible accident," he stated, his voice slightly higher pitched. "I was there. She’d been leaning on some railing that was in ill repair. My uncle, the old Lord Winningham, was quite the pinch a penny. He didn’t take proper care of the estate. We are all quite crushed by her death."

The men at the table relented. Michael could feel the removal of their harsh stares as though a cloth had been lifted from his skin. Releasing a slow breath, he backed away from the table. Before he could turn to leave, an old familiar specter came to visit him.

On the far wall, a paraffin lamp sputtered. Without warning, Michael began to tremble uncontrollably. Paralyzed, he watched as the gutted flame burst into a thousand shards of light. The luminous knives stabbed his eyes and sent a furious path of pain through his mind so intense that he knew of nothing else but the sheer pain of the lamp’s assault. Though the agony of the attack was fierce, in seconds the radiance disappeared and stifling velvet of darkness threatened to over take him.

"No!" Michael cried out, but it was too late. He’d no control when the ‘fits’ overcame him. Tiny demons he’d once called them. Bits of darkness danced around his eyes twisting all of the concerned and shocked faces of the men around him. Ambray and another man stepped forward and tried to grab him, but Michael only backed away. Didn’t they know this was when he was the most dangerous?

A howling noise filled the room and Michael realized that it was his own voice screeching out. Falling onto the neatly polished table, he crashed into the furniture as uncounted hands struggled to restrain his convulsing body. His every muscle tensed into a solid mass of flesh. As the bone wrenching tremors came over him, the men of the courtroom did their best to restrain his flailing limbs. Frantic hands dug through his clothing and into his skin.

"Too late! Too late!" He yelled to them, but none of them made any effort to move away. He could see all the faces through the clouds of darkness that were gathering. It was Ambray, Lord Kensington, Winthorp, Lord Wexely, and two soldiers who joined the fray.

Michael wanted to yell more warnings, but Winthorp leaned forward jamming a piece of wood between his teeth, gagging him.

"What the devil are you doing?" Wexley’s voice called out.

"It’s a block to keep him from severing his tongue!" Ambray yelled.

The darkness gathered more force, quickly overcoming the men until each of their faces disappeared from his field of vision save one--Ambray. Michael blinked and in a few seconds he was gone as well. Existing in a tunnel of pitch, Michael felt their voices growing more and more distant but he could still hear their words though they sounded more like whispers.

"The man truly is insane!" General Barton stated.

"Madness, clear and simple," Wexely agreed.

"He should be locked up," Kensington added, "away from decent society--before he injures someone!"

"I assure you," Ambray’s voice cut in, "my cousin will receive every attention. Dr. Winthorp believes he can control these ‘fits’ with the right treatments. Michael may never be able to return to polite society but he will be cared for."

Though Michael could not see, he knew the shapes of the men’s faces were a mixture of pity and disgust. Many times in his boyhood he’d witnessed the same reactions from the house staff and the neighbors. He’d once thought his malady had been left to his youth but since the battle in Spain his demons had returned. Michael didn’t begrudge the men their contempt. After all, wasn’t he both a traitor and a murderer? His madness seemed small compared to that.

As quickly as the spell had come upon him, it was gone. Only the darkness remained. Though there was no need, someone restrained his hands and ankles and wrapped him tightly in a wool blanket. He knew there would be a carriage outside waiting for him. Waiting to carry away the poor, mad earl. Michael cringed. After today, surely everyone would know. He was glad of the darkness. He wouldn’t have to look at their faces. He wouldn’t have to see the gaping stares as he was carried through the halls of Parliament and onto the street.

Just as Michael was about to be removed from the room, he sensed the presence of another nearby and felt the touch of warm breath upon his cheek. When the other spoke, the words were barely audible and brushed against Michael’s hearing.

"Don’t worry, son. This changes nothing. Our agreement still stands. We will proceed as planned."

Michael wanted to protest, but the block in his mouth prevented him. Suddenly the hand was gone, and Michael was lifted and gently laid on a small, wheeled cart and carried from the room. He would have struggled, but exhaustion overcame him. Before they reached the outer doors, he fell into a deep, dark slumber.