THE CELL PHONE RANG on the bedside table, vibrating insistently. The sound seemed to slice through the bedroom's deep silence like a blade. The woman beside him, wrapped in white linen sheets, mumbled something unintelligible as she tried to turn over. The Earl of Essex awoke with a start, blinking several times until his eyes adjusted to the darkness. He switched on the crystal bedside lamp and glanced at the wristwatch resting on the nightstand.
It was nearly five in the morning, and his heart immediately began to race.
Calls at that hour came from only one man—the Earl of Norfolk.
The phone rang once more. He got out of bed, adjusted his silk robe, crossed the hallway in silent steps, and entered his study, where the air carried the scent of leather and old books. He answered.
"...We are in the eagle's talons..." — a tense voice fired from the other end of the line.
The Earl of Essex slowly lowered himself into the velvet armchair, straightening his back as though struck by an invisible blow.
— It can't be! — he exclaimed, feeling the blood drain from his face.
"...The Vatican envoy is still in London and is the prime suspect in the murder of the boastful lord..."
— What does that have to do with us? — he asked, his tone wavering between skepticism and apprehension.
"...Do you remember your suspicion regarding the true identity of the Ipsissimus?..." — the Earl of Norfolk insisted.
— Hawkings? — he murmured, hearing the name echo like a ghost from the past.
"...Exactly..."
— You told me that wasn't possible...
"...Let's set speculation aside and deal with the facts. One day before the murder, the Vatican envoy visited the College of Arms. He researched the Hawkings family genealogy. He gained access to records that not even the Crown should possess..."
The Earl of Essex rose, walked to the liquor cabinet, and poured himself a glass of cognac.
— I find it hard to believe he knows more about our Order than we do.
"...I would agree with you..." — Norfolk replied. — "...if he were merely a priest. But that man is far more than he appears. And don't forget the American who crossed paths with the bastard..."
Essex set down his glass, his expression hardening.
— A possible emissary from our brothers across the Atlantic...
"...Yes. The eagle's agent. Sent to London on a covert mission..."
— Are you telling me the Eagle has formed an alliance with the Catholic Church? That's inconceivable!
"...That's politics, my dear friend..." — Norfolk's voice dropped into a grave tone. — "...When two empires join forces, it's because they share a common enemy... And don't forget that the agent's brother is a cardinal widely considered a serious candidate for the Throne of Saint Peter..."
Essex ran a hand through his hair, visibly unsettled.
— Do you think the Ipsissimus... — he hesitated, swallowing hard.
"...You've always kept in touch with him..." — Norfolk said pointedly. — "...Even if only through letters, phone calls, and emails. Didn't you ever suspect anything?..."
— He always used an intermediary. Always. — The Earl of Essex leaned back in his chair, the glow of the fireplace illuminating his face. — But that doesn't matter now.
"...It matters—a great deal..." — Norfolk's voice sounded like a verdict. — "...We're in the dark. The Master is gone, and no one knows who's in command..."
The silence lingered.
— Damn those traitors! — the Earl of Essex roared, slamming his fist onto the mahogany desk. — Who will lead us now?
"...The bastard has the right of blood..."
— That madman? Never! — he shouted, his face flushed with indignation.
"...Remember the oath..."
— What are you implying? — he asked, his voice hoarse.
"...The Master's assassination leaves us with only two choices..." — The words came like an icy whisper.
The Earl of Essex stood motionless for several seconds, breathing heavily.
— I... I've already made mine. — he said before firmly ending the call.
The final click echoed like a sentence.
He remained still, staring at the family portrait resting on his desk: himself, his wife, and their two grown children, all smiling during a long-forgotten summer.
— Everything I did was for you. I hope you can forgive me. — he murmured, his voice breaking.
He opened the third drawer of his desk, moving aside folders, reports, and sealed documents. At the back, a small wooden panel concealed a key. He removed the bottom drawer completely and unlocked a hidden trapdoor beneath the floorboards. His hands trembled as sweat trickled down the back of his neck.
From the compartment, he retrieved a folder of documents and a semi-automatic pistol.
The papers—aged and stamped with noble coats of arms—were tossed into the metal wastebasket. He poured whiskey over them and struck a match. Golden flames spiraled upward, their glow reflecting in his tear-filled eyes.
— May the Master guide my steps through the darkness.
He knelt on the rug, his face bathed in the flickering firelight. He opened his mouth, rested the cold barrel of the pistol against his tongue, and aimed upward. The metallic taste triggered his gag reflex, but he steadied his breathing.
He looked one last time at the family portrait.
— Forgive me...
The gunshot echoed through the house—sharp, final, and absolute.