Grantville Gazette Volume 25

by editor Paula Goodlett

  "That is correct."

  "Your letter said I would recognize you when you came into the Bull and Blood. I was expecting a handful of foppish courtiers from the queen's court, not a priest, a dapperling, and a giant."

  Father Guillemot looked panicked. "How do you know I am ze priest?" he whispered sharply.

  "I wasn't sure, until just now." He looked at Geoffrey with a smile. "You are in charge of this gathering?"

  Geoffrey plopped his hat back on his head. "Yes, Captain. Please sit down." Geoffrey scampered to the next chair at the table, and William awkwardly moved aside to let the captain sit.

  Glancing around him to check for eavesdroppers, Geoffrey began. "What do you know of the queen's household, Captain?"

  "I know the court is at Denmark House, on the Strand. It is an estate rebuilt by James for Anne of Denmark. I know you give—or rather, gave—endless masques and parties, have a menagerie of strange beasts including monkeys, and I also know it is the center of Catholicism in this country. Inigo Jones is completing the Papist church within the compound." He looked directly at the priest, his expression blank. The look clearly made Father Guillemot uncomfortable. "There are rumors that say the pope will secretly consecrate it so the true evil ceremonies of Satan can begin." The captain cracked a little smile.

  Father Guillemot sighed quietly, and with relief. "Zis is such a backward county. Ze 'oly father would never travel such a distance, even for our beloved Henrietta Maria. But we are hoping for some 'oly relics to 'elp us to consecrate ze new chapel."

  Geoffrey gave the priest his best glare. A lot to learn. He turned his focus to the captain. "You have a fair grasp of what it was. But what it has become is a living nightmare for those of us who loved Henrietta Maria. And remember that clearly, Captain. We did love our queen. She was a very lonely girl for a great number of years, before the king and she finally fell in love. She was devoted to her king, and we were devoted to her, unconditionally. Do not forget that. Ever." Geoffrey felt his emotions slipping from control, and fought them back. The last thing he wanted this man to see was him crying like a child.

  The captain looked around the table, and Geoffrey watched as he absorbed the quiet fierceness of his outburst. "Why do you need me?"

  "We are in dangeur, Captain. C'est terrible. Zere are the mobs that have been outside the gates almost every evining, and—"

  Geoffrey put up his hand to hush Father Guillemot. "We need your ship to plan an evacuation. We need to go to France, as soon as possible."

  "Why not just go to Strafford? He will protect you."

  "Have you not heard? He is in the Tower! We don't know who's in charge. There's a group of lords running the country while the king clings to life. Every day we hear they may take away the mercenaries that are guarding our home. We fear if those troops are withdrawn, and the anti-catholic sentiment is still high, there is nothing to prevent the mob from destroying Denmark House. And likely killing all men and beasts who live within."

  "And the French ambassador? What of him?"

  "He has left the country, leaving some spies, but they are of no use. We are on our own, Captain Vanderbeek."

  Vanderbeek pushed his hat back onto his head, and sipped his ale. His look was non-committal.

  "We have funds," Geoffrey continued, "but not unlimited. Will you do it?"

  "Now that I see who and what you are . . . no"

  "What do you mean, no?" Geoffrey was astounded. He expected some negotiation at least, but an outright refusal . . .

  "No. Simple enough."

  "Why?"

  "I do not sail with menageries, or actors, or clowns or priests. Or children posing as men."

  Geoffrey's hand went to his sword. "I am not a child, sir." He could feel his temper rising. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see William shifting position very slowly, in case he needed to fight.

  Vanderbeek took a step back. The tension melted away from the table. Vanderbeek nodded. "Very well. As you say." He gave a small bow of his head.

  Geoffrey heard the words, but it was clear to him they were less than sincere. He decided, reluctantly, to let it pass and took his hand from his sword.

  William's voice rumbled and Geoffrey turned, surprised. "We will be no trouble. We take women and children, too." He looked the captain closely with his lion countenance. "And freaks."

  Geoffrey knew they were running out of time, both here with the captain and at Denmark House. "Captain Vanderbeek. Please listen to me. We are not simply a group of freaks and performers. We are a family. A household. What William said is true. Children and mothers. When Henrietta Maria came to this country, she was little more than a girl. Alone in a foreign and hostile country. She is—was—a Catholic in a Protestant country. She was isolated. Sad beyond measure. So she began to collect things, pets, people. She made her own family. I was one of the things she collected, for which I am grateful beyond measure. And now, this family is threatened. We are in dire need. Can you help us?"

  Before Geoffrey could say anything else, the priest interrupted angrily and loudly. "Captain, why iz it you do not weesh to sail us?"

  At that point several things happened at once. William, at Geoffrey's command, clamped his massive hand over Guillemot's face to muffle him. He only partially succeeded, and the priest began a muffled cursing in French. The rest of the bar stopped and stared. As Guillemot was wriggling, trying to break free of William's grip, his rather overlarge crucifix bounced into plain view from beneath his shirt. The patrons of the bar begin to focus on his group, and Geoffrey tried to quiet the idiot. He regretted bringing him along, but the priests and churchmen of Denmark House insisted on being included in this meeting. When he turned back, Vanderbeek had disappeared.

  "Now where did he go?"

  Geoffrey noticed two sailors break loose from the group of patrons and approach. They did not look friendly. In this town to be French meant—well, Geoffrey thought, it meant a lot of things, but today it was mostly Catholic. The overlarge crucifix bouncing about didn't help the matter. Geoffrey leaned over to William and spoke quietly. "Keep an eye on the priest and make sure he returns to Denmark House. Preferably alive." The large Welshman's head nodded slightly, and he shifted his position.

  Geoffrey hopped onto the table with a flourish, pulled off his hat and made a sweeping bow to the men approaching. "Good sirs, good day to you!" Geoffrey was using his stage voice, which was very loud, and very clear. "Have you heard of England's smallest man, and his tale? Born in the smallest county in England, no less?" Geoffrey leapt off his chair, turned a somersault in the air, and rolled to his feet upon landing. He did a quick cartwheel across the room, and scrambled up a stool and stood on the bar. He grinned widely at everyone, and began to dance upon the bar, singing the chorus of a drinking tune. His eyes went to William, who stood awkwardly and began to sing with him. The tune was snappy and quick.

  Cinnamon, and ginger, nutmeg and cloves,

  That gave me my jolly red nose!

  Nose, nose, nose, nose,

  And that gave me my jolly red nose!

  Geoffrey's voice was good, clear, and it carried. William's was off key and as deep as a well. The effect was to stop the surly men in their tracks, and the rest of the bar began to laugh.

  But the two of them were not dissuaded so easily. "Hey! I said hey!" One of the sailors, from the looks of him, was protesting the change in mood, swaying slightly. He pointed to the priest. "That man is a Catholic, lads. Look at that idolatry 'round his neck. He's French too. I hear tell a group of French priests wa' seen after the queen was killed. They say there is a con—umm, con-spire-a-see about, lads." He swayed a little more, but he had regained the crowds' attention.

  Lion drunk, thought Geoffrey. Ready to fight. He sighed inwardly, but on the outside, smiled widely.

  William sighed and moved the priest behind him.

  Geoffrey began to sing a verse, directly to the leader of the troublemakers, still smiling all the while.

>   Of all the birds I ever did see,

  The owl is fairest in her degree.

  For all the day long she sits in a tree,

  And when the night comes, away flies she.

  Geoffrey danced a little jig through the verse, and now had the man's attention.

  To wit to woo, to whom drinks through, sir knave to thee

  This song is well sung and I make you a vow

  That he is a knave that drinketh now!

  Geoffrey pointed to the man on the word "he," and it was clear he was calling the man a drinking knave, one who can woo the ladies, and is a serious drinker. The bar began to laugh at the show. He continued to dance and sing another chorus, and other voices picked it up.

  Nose, nose, jolly red nose,

  And what gave me my jolly red nose,

  Cinnamon, Ginger, nutmeg and cloves,

  And that gave me my jolly red nose.

  Geoffrey continued to sing the next verse to the sailor, who was not comfortable with all of the attention. Geoffrey made sure the performance was focused directly on the drunken sailor.

  I care of no fool whose purse is not full,

  But he hath money I never find dull

  And if he still has it when hence I doth goes

  I'll drop my tankard and never drink more

  A rack, a rue, to whom drinks through, sir knave to thee

  This song is well sung and I make you a vow,

  That he is a knave that drinketh now!

  Through the next chorus, Geoffrey saw William and the priest make for the door, as the focus was on him dancing on the bar. For the last verse, Geoffrey wanted everyone to look at him, and he slowed the pace slightly, playing up the words.

  I'll not have a woman who's never been tried,

  But give me a wanton to lie by my side

  And this I do use as a rule of my life,

  That wanton is best with another man's wife!

  Cookoo, Cookoo, to whom drinks through, sir knave to thee

  This song is well sung and I make you a vow,

  That he is a knave that drinketh now!

  As he started the last chorus, he reached into his purse, pulled out a handful of coins, and tossed them into the crowd. William and the priest had made it out the door. He continued to sing as he trotted down the bar, skipping over tankards and bottles toward the door. The drunken sailor pushed his way through the small knot of men, keeping pace with him. It was going to be close. He leapt off the bar, hit the ground with a roll like an acrobat, sprung to his feet and was nearly to the door when he was snagged by his cape from behind, jerking him off the ground. The cape was sturdy, and whoever had a hold of him was tossing him backwards, toward the bar and away from the door. He twisted around quickly and drew his sword, swiping it in the air behind to free the grip on the cape.

  The sword hit something, and he heard the sailor yowl and felt his grip release. Geoffrey stumbled back against the bar and fell to the ground. He sprang up, furious, tossed his cape back, and took a fighting stance. His tiny dagger came out of his boot, and he looked up at the sailor, who was holding his hand, dripping blood. The sailor was nearly three times his height, but he showed no fear to the man. His pleasant singing voice was now replaced with a cool, clear, icy fury. "I am not some barmaid, knave. You do not touch me. If you do, you will feel my blade."

  There was still some scrabbling on the hard packed dirt floor for the coins he tossed, but the group of men quickly quieted down, and turned to watch the tiny dapperling and the fully-grown sailor, giving them room. The sailor was between Geoffrey and the door, and Geoffrey's back was to the bar.

  "You cut me 'and, ye little bastard."

  Some of the men at the bar laughed. The sailor was angry. Angry he couldn't start his fight earlier, and angry at the one who spoiled his fun had now hurt him. He glanced around for a weapon, and grabbed an oaken walking stick leaning against the wall by the door. The sailor hefted the stick once, trying it out, and then turned to Geoffrey. Geoffrey shifted his position, still focused on the sailor. The sailor raised the walking stick like a hammer above his head, stepped forward with one leg, and brought it down like an ax, as hard as he could, aiming for Geoffrey's head.

  Geoffrey was expecting the move and easily sidestepped the heavy stick. Then he stepped under the sailor's outstretched leg, and sliced the inside of the man's thigh with his sword. He let the momentum of his thrust carry him behind the man to the door in one smooth and practiced motion. Geoffrey's blades were sharp. Very sharp. He doubted the man fully felt what he had done.

  The sailor reached for the inside of his leg. "Wha' did ye do t' me, ye little bastard? Did ye cut me again?' He raised his stick again, his hand now very bloody.

  One of the man's shipmates stepped up to him, and silently pointed down at his boot. It was already full of blood, spilling out over the top and onto the ground. They both looked incredulously at the blood flowing onto the ground. Their eyes met for a brief moment, then the attacking sailor went down like a sack of bricks, completely limp. He would be dead in a moment or two.

  There was a pause in the bar. An intake of breath. Men looked at each other in wonder. Someone so small, so deadly. Geoffrey kept his face as neutral as possible, and edged his way out of the door. William and the priest were gone, long gone by now, and he was on his own.

  He closed the door behind him and walked as slowly and confidently as he could manage, until he rounded a corner, then began to run. He ducked into an alley, out of view, where he threw up. He leaned against the cold and damp wood of some closed shop, and was sick until his stomach was empty, and then was sick some more. His hands shook, and his knees knocked. He sobbed. After a while, he began to get his emotions under control. He could still remember the feeling of resistance of flesh to blade as he cut the man. He had been working with the master of arms for more than three years. He did it without thinking, by reflex. The feeling of his blade cutting flesh came back to him, and he retched again.

  He stood there for more than a little while, and slowly began to get under control. Suddenly the darkness loomed darker for a moment and he became aware of someone behind him. He pulled his blades again, and whirled to face whoever it was.

  "Your first?" It was Vanderbeek's voice.

  "Go away," he croaked, putting his blades back into their sheaths. He peered into the darkness. "Damn lot of help you were."

  "Oh I was there, Geoffrey. Watching. And I would have stepped in, if I was needed. For our friend Digby, if nothing else." There was a pause in the darkness. "You will have your rescue. I will call at Denmark House on the morrow with further instructions. We can settle our price then."

  Chapter 2

  The Preacher

  Alexander Leighton smiled in the torchlight. In front of him stood the very seat of Catholic influence in England, what the people called Denmark House, the home of the dead queen. The small group of followers he gathered in the first week after her death had now grown to a significant number, which if allowed to be incited, would quickly become a mob. Mercenaries surrounded Denmark House still, protecting it, but soon, very soon, the whole thing would come down. In flames. Glorious, all-consuming flames.

  Leighton wore his hair long, over where his ears should have been. His ears had been cut off for preaching heresy. His nose was slit as another punishment. His back held the marks of a whip, as yet another sentence for sedition. When his book was published, Speculum Belli Sacri, or Mirror of the Holy War, a tirade against bishops and the evils of creeping prelacy, his face was branded with a deep "SS," for Sower of Sedition. All the pain he endured was nothing, in the great struggle against Satan. No pain is worse than the pain of Hell, an eternity of torture.

  He thanked God above when he heard the news. The Catholic queen was dead, and now her terrible influence over the king would finally cease. He was certain the king was captivated by a popish spell, supported by witches, which influenced the king toward the Devil and Catholicism. Why else would he
push the need for bishops, those "wens and knobs and bunchy 'o popish flesh" who held no other purpose but to lead the church straight to hell?

  In front of him stood his crowd of followers, well behaved for now. He needed just a few dozen more, and they could overpower the guards and take the palatial home to the ground, brick by brick. Especially the Popish church that was within. A Catholic chapel built right in the heart of London. It must not be allowed. He would kill everyone and everything within; they had all been polluted by the taint of Catholicism. It would be another step on his way to cleanse the Island of filth. He nodded. He smiled in the torchlight. Yes, just a few more. Only a few.

  He signaled his boy to beat his drum, and the crowd became quiet. He began to preach. He started slowly, earnestly, then built his arguments. He alternated between piety and outrage, helplessness and fury, calmness and brutality. There was a measured pace, a hypnotic rhythm to the speech. He could feel the crowd become as one mind beneath the spell of his gift. And surely it was a gift from God, to be able to do this. To move a crowd to action, or rapture, or outrage. They became as one being, a single mind of many parts, all under his control.

  He didn't want to peak too soon. Not yet. He withdrew his energy, calmed them, brought them back, let their minds separate slightly. Not yet. No. Not yet. But soon. Very soon. Just a few more men.

  Chapter 3

  Denmark House

  "This isn't a house. It's a dammed palace." Vanderbeek shook his head. "I had no idea it was this large."

  Henry Jermyn held the large iron gates of the watergate entrance from the Thames open for Vanderbeek and smiled. Statues of Thame and Isis framed the massive gate. The Denmark House gardens stretched before them, six hundred feet to the palace. Like all homes of the wealthy and powerful, it was situated directly on the Thames, and the "rear" of the palace faced the Strand, while the front faced the river. There was a high stone wall that blocked out the views of the gardens from the river, and lesser walls to the east and west. The three-story palace faced the Strand, forming the fourth side. The Savoy Hospital was to the west, separated by the lowest of the walls, beyond where the stables and servants quarters were located.