Grantville Gazette Volume 25

by editor Paula Goodlett

  Aubert was a kindly old gentleman, and not too bad, as physicians go. He squatted down so he was eye level with Geoffrey. "C'est vrais, Monsieur Hudson. This iz zee wound that is most of ze times is fatal, no? I have examined heem. Je suis très désolé." The doctor put his arm on Geoffrey's shoulder.

  Geoffrey slapped it away. "No! It's not—not possible. No!" He looked at his fists, suddenly blurry, and balled up in rage. He stood shaking with emotion. "Melrose, you fat bastard! Get a damn luggage cart and a couple of Capuchins down at the river, load his arse up, and drag it down there." He looked at Aubert. "Help them down to the river."

  "Oui. I weel geeve heem somtheen for ze pain, n'est ce-pas?"

  Geoffrey looked at William. "You will not die on me. Not because of this."

  William grinned, wincing slightly. "Is that an order, Captain Hudson?"

  "Yes, dammit."

  * * *

  More glass shattered in the courtyard. Geoffrey dashed toward the skirmish line setting up in the hallway, wiping his eyes on his sleeve as he went. It wouldn't do to have the others see his tears. He smelled smoke. The fires had started. He reached the skirmish line and took up a position on the left side. He put the matchlocks in front, and the pikes directly behind. There was more shattering glass, and then one or two rioters came charging down the hallway. They pulled up short when faced with a hall crowded with matchlocks and pikes at the ready.

  A handful more ran into the backs of the first ones, pushing them forward. The hallway started to fill.

  Geoffrey pulled his pistol, aimed and shouted. "Do not fire until—

  BOOM BOOM BOOM.

  The hallway filled with the smoke from the matchlocks, and Geoffrey had no target. He put the pistol back in his belt and scampered behind the pikes. The matchlocks fell back to reload, and the rest of the men kept watch on the rear. With the hallway open to the gardens and the courtyard, a breeze cleared the smoke out quickly. There were no bodies. "Nice shooting!" somebody piped up and nervous laughter rumbled in the hallway.

  It was quiet for a few minutes. Geoffrey began to get nervous. The fires grew in the buildings, and wisps of smoke could be seen. A couple of the matchlocks were loaded, and Geoffrey motioned their bearers to the front.

  Another group of rioters came, these armed with knives and cudgels. This time Geoffrey fired at the first one he saw, and let the other matchlocks fire at will. When the smoke cleared there were two bodies in the hallway.

  It grew quiet again, at least as quiet as the ringing in his ears would let it.

  Moments passed. They turned into minutes. Something was wrong. They should be coming down the hallway in droves from the courtyard.

  Geoffrey dashed outside and checked the windows. Nothing. Had the rioters given up? He shook his head. It didn't make sense. He turned to go back to the skirmish line at a trot, and sought out Father Phillip.

  "Father. Do you think they gave up? Retreated? I don't understand, why aren't they coming after us?"

  "Dunno." The Scotsman shrugged.

  "This is a mob. They should come straight at us. Something's wrong." Geoffrey paced back and forth for a moment, then made a decision. "I'm going to see what's happening in the courtyard." He turned to his musketeers. "If I come running around the corner, aim high, lads!" Before he could talk himself out of it, he crept quickly down the corridor. At the corner where the mob had last appeared, he dropped to the ground, crawled, then peered briefly around the corner. He could see nothing with his quick glance. He did it again, this time taking longer. There were some trails of blood where the wounded and dead had been dragged off. The hall was empty all the way to the courtyard. The courtyard appeared so from his angle, and the front gate was standing open. Smoke was pouring into the courtyard as the palace began to burn in earnest.

  Geoffrey pulled his head back and stood. He looked back at his men, shrugged, then motioned them to stay in place. Geoffrey took one more look around the corner. Still nothing. He stepped around the corner, and began tip-toeing toward the courtyard, staying close to the wall.

  There was one cross corridor between him and the courtyard. Keeping low, and with one pistol in each hand, he approached it. Standing with his back to the wall, he edged forward so he could see down one side, pistol at the ready. He could see nothing. It was empty, slowly filling with smoke. He listened carefully before taking a quick glance the other way. Empty.

  Maybe they have given up! he thought hopefully. He checked the near side of the corridor again, this time with a longer look. Still empty. His arms dropped to his sides and he shook the tension out of his shoulders, calming his breathing. The smoke was getting heavier. He darted across the open hallway.

  His next objective was to scout the courtyard, so he crept forward again, listening for any noises in front of him. He could still hear breaking glass and looting from other parts of the palace, but nothing from the direction of the courtyard. As he got close, a looter walked down one of the staircases and toward the shattered front doors. He carried a large linen tablecloth over his shoulder, packed with objects from the palace. Geoffrey dropped to the ground and wedged himself against the wall.

  The courtyard was brighter than the hallway, so he was fairly certain he was invisible in the relatively deep shadows. The looter made a direct run toward the broken gates, hoisted himself over the log, and crept through the doors. As soon as the looter cleared the doors, he was set upon by a half dozen men. He dropped his heavily laden tablecloth with a crash, and tried to run back into the courtyard. He got one leg up on the battering ram when the knives and clubs brought him down.

  Geoffrey frowned. "This is the most organized damn mob I have ever seen. What the hell is going on?" He stopped and thought for a moment, and pictured the plan of Denmark House in his head.

  His blood ran cold. He sprang up and sprinted back at top speed toward the other men. Tearing around the corner, shouted, "Don't shoot! It's me! Don't shoot!"

  Father Phillip asked, "What is it? are they coming? Get ready!"

  "No," shouted Geoffrey. "Turn around! We can't be trapped here! You must turn around!"

  "Explain yourself," Father Phillip demanded.

  "They are waiting for us to come out the front. That means they are going to attack from the back, and drive us that way. Our only choices will be to try to escape through the burning house, or try to fight our way out the front door. If we are caught in here, we will be fucked. We have to turn around and head to the watergate, and hope we can hold them. They must be coming in through the stables. That's only a wooden fence, not fortified at all. When we stopped them in the front door, they must have changed plans."

  "Oh, Christ," added Father Phillip.

  "This would be a good time to have him on our side," said one of the musketeers.

  "We need to fall back, there is a trap set for us if we try to go out the front door."

  A couple of the men began to move quickly toward the back, and more started to bleed away.

  "Hold!" Geoffrey's clear voice stopped the men from moving. "We need to do this as a group. If they catch us in the open, one at a time, we will be screwed. Matchlocks first, then pikes, then everyone else. Let's go. If they attack when we get outside, try to form a block, a small tercio. Does everyone know what that is?"

  Heads nodded. "Good. Now stay together, walk. Let's go!"

  The group readjusted itself and put the matchlocks in front, and the pikes behind. Outside the back doors of the palace, they arrived onto an elevated marble portico. Geoffrey could see a mass of people crowded around the watergate, and they appeared to be calm. His people, but still no Vanderbeek. He scanned the low wall near the chapel, looking for signs of movement as they stepped off of the marble porch.

  Chapter 9

  The Chapel

  Alexander Leighton walked into the Catholic chapel. The destruction had begun. Pews were overturned, and windows were broken. Behind the altar was a painting. It stretched from nearly floor to ceiling. It was
a Rubens; that much he knew. It was magnificent . . . pornography. Christ on the cross, bleeding, suffering. The painting was so dramatic, so colorful, and so powerful, that Leighton could almost smell the sand, sweat, and blood. Muscles bulged and he could see the veins in the arms of the men represented before him. The power of the work drew him into it, as if he were a witness to the crucifixion.

  Leighton was not a man to feel fear of things earthly, but looking at the overwhelming power of this example of idolatry, he imagined this was as close as he would ever come on earth to looking Satan directly in the face. He glanced around him. There was incompleteness here, unfinished. He walked toward the painting, and the crowd made way for him. Quiet fell. The painting seemed to have kept back the lesser men by the sheer power and color which radiated from it.

  Leighton took a broken pike from someone's hands. With it he could just reach the top. He walked up and faced the massive painting. The eyes of a nearly life-size Roman centurion, dark in paint, guarding the scene of the crucifixion from the rabble, seemed to follow him.

  Finally, up close, his face directly in front of the painting, he could see the technique, smell the paint, see the brushstrokes and the colors blending together. This near, the power of the illusion vanished. It was just a painting.

  Smiling, he looked up, reached and stretched with the pike, and dug it into the center of the massive canvas, near the top. The pike was very sharp. He allowed it to cut the cloth, and he stepped back as the blade made its way to the floor. He did it again and again, cutting it into strips, diminishing the power, making it something common. Common as trash.

  The centurion's face was cut down the middle, and still the eyes followed him.

  Leighton sneered. "Take it down and throw it into the Thames."

  A man came up to him and whispered into his ear.

  For the first time today, Leighton felt surprised. "Thank you."

  * * *

  Geoffrey scanned the wall carefully. He could hear crashing about in the chapel, he assumed they were destroying the church. The group behind him made their way out of the building and down the steps, the pikes bumping and tilting at all angles until they fit out the doorway and down the stairs. There were a couple of close calls as the sharp blades swung around.

  When the group made it to level ground, he took a look back. The top floors of Denmark House were almost entirely engulfed in smoke.

  They had made it about one hundred feet, with another five hundred to go to the watergate, when the low wall separating the servant's quarters from the gardens swarmed with rioters, headed straight for them. This time there were a few pikes in the mix, along with swords, knives and cudgels. A shout came from the house, as more rioters sprinted through the courtyard, down the hall and out the back doors where they had just come. They had no pikes.

  "Form up!" Geoffrey shouted. "Pikes and matchlocks here. Matchlocks, aim at their pikes. Pikes, protect the matchlocks. Swords protect the rear. Try to keep moving! Keep together or we're lost!" He pulled his pistol and quickly went to Father Phillip. "Can your men hold them from the rear?"

  Father Phillip nodded. "We have the reach of the blades to keep them back. What are you going to do about the pikes?"

  Geoffrey sprinted to the pike side of the attack and pulled his second pistol. The pikes were almost ready to engage, and he shot the first pikeman who advanced. He went down, and the rest of the matchlocks opened fire. The boom was almost simultaneous, and two more pikes went down. He could count at least a half dozen more coming through the smoke. He shot another, and that one went down, tossing his pike toward the little tercio like a spear.

  Geoffrey heard a scream to his left. One of the Vanelets had a gaping slice out of his leg, and blood spraying. A couple of the musketeers were trying to reload. One of them made a break for it on his own, running on an angle away from the mob. He was pursued by a half dozen rioters. One of the Capuchins was tending to the leg of the injured Vantelet. Keeper of the queen's cup, Geoffrey remembered.

  He heard more screams from within his little group of men, and more went down, including three pikes. One of the Africans picked up a pike as his countryman went down, bleeding profusely from his stomach. Geoffrey slipped on blood atop the frozen ground. There were maybe fifteen men still fighting, holding together. They had lost five. The man with no legs was holding his own until a pikeman got close to him. He killed at least one rioter when they took him down. Another man fell. Then another. Anyone who fell out of the group was immediately set upon and kicked and stomped to death.

  Geoffrey kept shouting, keeping them moving, keeping them in line. He slapped away a pike thrust with his sword, then another. Something hit his head, and he had to wipe the blood from his eyes. Another man fell. He heard the screams.

  He found himself separated from the group. There were legs around him now, legs that were not of his men. He lashed out with both blades, swiping all around him, trying to keep the legs and the cudgels back. The legs became those of brutal courtiers, cruel to him in the past, the cudgels became the jibes and barbs, and he attacked.

  He screamed at them. Slashed Achilles' tendons. Yelled for them to get back, to get away, damming and cursing. Whirl. Dart. Slash.

  Something hit him in the back, and he spun around, contacting flesh that screamed. He darted to where the rest of the men should be, and could see nothing but the blood in his eyes and the legs and weapons of the rioters around him. He thrashed, stabbed almost blindly as he sensed the foes around him. Dart, thrust, stab, turn, thrust, slash, slash, dart again. And again. And again. He continued to fight, whirling in a dance of blades and blood.

  He heard a roar. A deep Welsh roar from William, the giant. The legs of the rioters stepped back. Geoffrey managed to put his back to a fountain. The basin was taller than him, and the entire thing was at least fifteen feet in diameter. He scrambled over the side and into the dry basin, and then hoisted himself upon the first tier so he could see.

  A group of his pikes and swordsmen were still standing, not far from him. He shouted encouragement to them, calling them to the fountain, to use as a fortress. From the watergate there was a surge against the mob driving a wedge into the crowd. There were some of the Capuchins, women from the kitchens, Melrose the fat giant, and William.

  William was on a cart, wielding the massive claymore like it was a toothpick, cutting a wide swath through the mob. There were just a few of them from the watergate. Melrose was pushing the cart for William, sobbing the whole time.

  The crowd pulled back from Geoffrey and his men, allowing them to regroup at the fountain. There were at least five hundred people who had poured over the walls or made the dash through the house, now all in the gardens. Mostly men. They had been bloodied, but always there was the voice of the preacher, urging them on, and the drumbeat from the boy.

  Geoffrey finally found the preacher and the drummer, standing on the low wall between the main garden and the servants' quarters. William and the Capuchins had cloven into the mob, and the preacher was urging the mob to fight.

  They would hear him in a moment, listen, and turn back. Like dogs, answering a whistled command. They would hesitate, look around and sort of sniff the air, and then trot off in the direction they were told. To do violence.

  William was now surrounded. Geoffrey kept watching the preacher, who ordered some of the crowd to go to the watergate where most of the household stood helpless. Denmark House was burning fiercely, so much that Geoffrey felt the heat on his face.

  There was only one thing to do.

  He leapt off the fountain, and began to run toward the house. A few rioters tried to follow, but nobody took more than a couple of steps after him, figuring the flames would get him soon enough.

  When Geoffrey neared the building, when the heat from the flames was almost too much to bear, he turned to his left and headed for the low wall near the stables. He scaled the wall and dropped to the other side, and began to head toward the preacher.


  There were plantings along this side of the wall, evergreens of some sort. Behind the evergreens and next to the wall, there was a low animal path, likely one worn in by rats on the way to the river. Running hunched over, Geoffrey was completely out of sight.

  Closer, he heard the preacher's voice, and the beat of the drum. Geoffrey stopped and peered out from the bushes. He was less than ten feet from them. When the preacher wanted the attention of the rioters, he would signal the drummer to beat a certain cadence. The drummer was doing that now, and the preacher was speaking.

  "Go to the water, and push the godless ones into the river. Baptize them with the Thames. You are like the chosen children of Noah, spared the flood. You are the hand of God, punishing the Egyptians as they crossed the Red Sea. Push the evil into the water, spare none. Push them into the Thames, cleanse the shores of this Idolatry, this evil bastion, then return and we will send the church of the devil to the flames, like we did the home. Cleanse the shore! Cleanse the shore!"

  Geoffrey crept back into the bushes, and loaded one of his pistols. His hands were shaking, but he wasn't sure if it was exhaustion or fear. He only knew he had to hurry. If the mob began to attack those at the watergate, the number of his people killed would be large. They would simply be pushed into the Thames' frigid waters.

  Finally he rammed the ball down the barrel, pulled the rod out and discarded it. He pulled back the hammer and primed the pan. It was a new flintlock, built for him by one of the royal gunsmiths. He quietly pulled back the hammer, took a deep breath, and burst out from the bushes.

  The guard was quick. Geoffrey aimed, then fired. The hammer dropped, the pan flashed, and the weapon misfired. He dropped the pistol and dove back into the bushes, scrambling away as the soldier slashed through the evergreens like some gardener from hell.

  Geoffrey retreated down the animal path next to the wall, the soldier pursuing, stabbing into the bushes as he scrambled away. Geoffrey finally got his footing enough to sprint a few feet ahead, and pull his blades. He would have to fight this man one on one. He crashed through the bushes onto the path, both blades at the ready. He faced the soldier.