The Fitzroys

It was in the waning years of that restless century, when revolutions smouldered abroad yet the ancient privileges of rank held firm in England, that the Fitzroy estate stood in grim isolation amidst the flat expanses of Norfolkshire. A house of venerable stone, weather-beaten by many a winter gale, it looked out upon fields where peasants bent their backs in ceaseless labour, and over stables where fine horses were bred and broken for the family’s pleasure. To those who dwelt in neighbouring villages, the Fitzroys were a name uttered with mingled fear and envy, for though their lands were broad and their wealth undoubted, their hearts were whispered to be as cold as the North Sea winds that swept the marshes.

In that house were reared the twin sons of the line, Jeremy and Jasper Fitzroy, who, though but twelve years of age, had already won for themselves a reputation of singular cruelty. Born within the same hour, alike in countenance as in birth, they were oft mistaken the one for the other, yet in temperament they diverged in subtle fashion. Jeremy possessed a sharpness of eye, a quickness of thought, that lent to his mischief a calculating air; Jasper, on the contrary, was possessed of an ungovernable spirit, reckless, brutal, and prone to sudden rages. But in malice they were united, as if the very blood that flowed in their veins carried with it some taint of ancient wickedness.

Their days were spent not in the innocent diversions of youth, but in contriving torments for the servants, devising snares for beasts, and lording themselves over the village children, who trembled at the mere sound of their laughter. To see the twins together was to behold cruelty clothed in miniature finery: velvet coats of deepest blue, stockings of silk, hair powdered and tied with ribbon — yet in their pale faces lurked a hardness that belied such childish attire. The maids whispered, crossing themselves, that these were no ordinary children, but demons permitted to walk the earth in noble guise.

It must be confessed that the indulgence of their parents was the fountain from which much mischief flowed. Lord Fitzroy, being a man more occupied with gaming and the hunt than with the ordering of his household, scarce took notice of his sons save to boast of their wit before his peers; Lady Fitzroy, languid and self-absorbed, cared for them only as ornaments to be displayed at supper or in the drawing-room. Thus left to their own devices, the boys grew as wild saplings, twisted and unchecked, their natural cruelty encouraged by a want of correction.

Among the many objects of their disdain was Willie Sneddon, a boy somewhat older than themselves by a year, son to the stable-master. Though of humble birth, Willie possessed a sweetness of temper and a gentleness of manner that made him beloved alike by man and beast. He would spend hours in the stalls, whispering to the horses, rubbing down their flanks, and feeding them with careful hand. The animals, which oft turned vicious beneath the twins’ whips, responded to Willie as if he were kin to them. This, more than aught else, inflamed Jeremy and Jasper with envy and hatred, for cruelty ever despises the gentle as weakness.

One autumn afternoon, when the air hung damp with mist and the leaves fell in russet showers upon the lawns, the twins espied Willie leading a mare towards the paddock. They watched him from an upper window, their young faces pressed close together, eyes alight with a secret malice.

“See how the dumb beast fawns upon him,” Jasper muttered, striking the sill with his fist. “It suffers him to touch its muzzle, though it near kicked my head off when I sought the same.”

“It is not the beast,” Jeremy answered with a thin smile. “It is the boy. He hath some charm or trick by which he beguiles them. A trick, I warrant, that we might soon beat out of him.”

They laughed, their voices harsh for their tender age, and made between themselves a pact that Willie Sneddon should, ere long, taste their displeasure.

That very evening, at supper, they contrived to drop morsels of meat beneath the table, setting the hounds snarling and snapping until the servants scarce knew how to part them. Lord Fitzroy, rather than reprove, declared it a jest most diverting, while Lady Fitzroy raised a languid hand to still the noise, remarking only that the boys grew daily more spirited. Thus emboldened, Jeremy and Jasper felt themselves masters not only of servants and beasts, but of the very household itself.

It was upon the next morning that they began their sport with Willie. They called him from his duties under pretence that they desired to learn the art of grooming a stallion, and when he bent to show them the manner of brushing the coat, Jasper struck him smartly across the shoulders with the handle of the curry-comb. Willie bore it with silence, though his face reddened. Jeremy, seeing his forbearance, whispered in his brother’s ear, and together they devised fresh insults — scattering straw in his path, loosening the girths of a saddle he had just secured, and mocking him before the other stable-boys. Yet through all this Willie endured, for his father had taught him patience, and he knew well that the lies of a noble carried more weight than the truth of a peasant’s son.

But the twins’ malice was not to be satisfied with jests. Each day their cruelty sharpened, as if some dark hunger within urged them on towards acts yet more grievous. Jeremy began to speak, in low tones, of how Willie’s very existence was an affront — that a boy of such low station should dare command the love of horses and the respect of men, while they, heirs to Fitzroy, were hated in silence. Jasper, quick to wrath, seized upon this fancy with delight, and swore that Willie should pay dearly for his insolence.

Thus the scene was set for that crime which would stain their souls indelibly. The house itself seemed to brood in anticipation. Servants crossed themselves when they saw the boys whispering together, for there was a cast upon their faces, a cruel determination, that boded ill. The autumn winds howled across the marshes, rattling shutters and stirring dead leaves against the ancient oaks, as though nature herself foresaw the deed.

Jeremy and Jasper, arm in arm, strode through the halls like young princes of misrule, already intoxicated with the thought of what they might soon accomplish. No hand restrained them, no voice dared speak against them. In that silence, fostered by wealth and rank, evil was given leave to grow unchecked, and the shadows lengthened over Norfolkshire.