IN THE HOUSE OF LORDS, the air smelled of aged velvet and deep-rooted ambition. Baruch Hawkings felt his blood pounding in his ears; he was eager — almost impatient — to take the floor. As soon as the count beside him finished a restrained remark, he rose from the red bench, his massive frame cutting against the Gothic columns like a shadow too tall for that chamber. That nearly two-meter giant was one of those rare hereditary figures who, by whim and tradition, had retained a seat among the peers thanks to a special privilege granted by the Crown; a man whose surname still opened doors.
Ever since the Labour Party had dared to tamper with English political traditions, Sir Hawkings had raised his banner with ferocity: he fought what he called "new moralism" and railed, during sessions, against the "filthy swine who reveled among pearls."
His harsh, razor-edged words began to echo through the Gothic hall like a bell out of tune. There was theater in it, and there was conviction; in his voice, an ancestral appeal that sounded like the defense of habits and bloodline.
— Dear lords — he began, his deep voice rolling through the arches —, they think they have the right to tell us what we can do. I grew up fox hunting with my father, who hunted with my grandfather, who hunted with my great-grandfather — we have done this for hundreds of years. I don't care if one hundred thousand foxes are killed every year; as far as I'm concerned, they will continue to be killed. This morning, I caught this one! — he declared, building to a crescendo, pulling from a bag a bloodied fox, its fur matted, its legs curled, a grotesque and vivid symbol of his contempt for change.
A collective sigh — a mixture of repulsion and embarrassment — swept through most of those present. Some saw the gesture as deliberate provocation; others could barely conceal their nausea. The Speaker, with an austere expression, frowned and found the formality of a warning:
— Dear Baruch Hawkings, this is an inappropriate attitude for this place — he intoned, with the brief authority of one attempting to restore order.
Sir Hawkings, however, seemed filled by a wind of his own; he ignored the admonition with a theatrical shrug and continued, brimming with pride:
— Who are they to forbid fox hunting? — he went on, adjusting the bag and putting the dead animal away with a dry gesture — Soon they will want to tell us what we can have on our tables, or how many times we should use the lavatory.
As the tension waned in the chamber and murmurs eroded what remained of composure, two Crossbenchers, seated at the center of the bench, exchanged quick, measured, calculated glances. One of them, without drawing attention, gave a slight nod and left the red chamber. The gesture was small, but its meaning was clear: something more serious was moving in the shadows beyond the parliamentary spotlight.
FIVE MINUTES LATER, the second Crossbencher repeated the same gesture. Both met in the main hall, precisely at the foot of the statue of Winston Churchill — where the statesman's right shoe shone, polished by thousands of superstitious hands in search of quick luck. The stone there did not merely hold history; it offered gaps for conversations that avoided microphones and watchful eyes. That spot in Farminster Palace was, notably, one of the rare corners truly soundproof.
— I can't stand Sir Hawkings' useless bravado anymore — murmured the count, nudging a loose tile fragment with his foot, his face tight. — He was part of the secret negotiations with the Queen to keep his seat. Now he puts on this tasteless show out of sheer whim.
— He is fortunate to be a descendant of Sir Robert Bruce Hawkings — replied the Duke, in a voice that concealed calculation and patience —. The Duke would intervene on his behalf if necessary, but let us get to what matters.
The count leaned in, as if sharing a secret that could not be left to chance.
— The Four Angels have met — he revealed.
The Duke's expression changed; a chill ran through his veins.
— The messenger arrives tomorrow.
— Who is he? — the Duke asked, not surprised, but fully attentive.
— An Italian exorcist priest named Raphaniè Marin — said the count.
The words fell like stones into a dark lake; small ripples brought back old memories.
— The name is familiar — murmured the Duke, recalling details he did not speak aloud.
— He is the same one who helped the infamous Saul Nolland in the murder case — the count explained, his voice low, cutting.
— That impertinent journalist should have been eliminated back then.
The two remained silent for a moment. Between the statue and the columns, only distant footsteps echoed. The memory of old threats lingered in the air like smoke.
— Do you still remember the threat: "Whoever raises a finger against Saul will be burned alive"? — asked the Duke, his eyes searching for confirmation in a shared memory.
— Besides being untouchable, he became harmless — the count recalled, though there was a hint of unease.
— This could cause us problems — admitted the Duke, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
— Who do you think the priest will seek when he arrives in London?
— The Ipsissimus maintains the same instructions — replied the count, evasive yet firm. The words were a code between them: ritual, order, a faceless game of power.
The Duke smiled, a smile that did not reach his eyes.
— Okay. — He paused deliberately, like someone executing a plan note by note. — The bastard will be the priest's shadow. The welcome has already been prepared. As soon as he arrives at the place where he will be staying, he will have a most unpleasant surprise.
The count nodded, and beneath the palace's distant murmur, something greater was taking shape — a silent movement that promised retribution, surveillance, and perhaps blood. They parted ways, carrying with them the intimacy of a forbidden alliance and the weight of decisions that only time — and the next arrival — would reveal.