Her sudden coldness struck me deeply and I believed she knew this well. At moments like this, I often came close to hating her as much as my father. Where did this frosty coldness come from? Had something of my father's horrifying character rubbed off on her over the years? I didn't know, so I complied with her request. I had no belongings apart from three tattered shirts, two pairs of trousers and a blanket. Such things as personal belongings or toys had been foreign to me in my childhood and it amazed me how few items tied me to this house. I wanted to hug my mother goodbye, but she backed away, saying only softly, "Goodbye, George."
As I opened the door and stepped out into the sun, my view was blocked by a huge shadow. The beefy figure of my father stood before me. He grinned at me, exposing a row of half-rotten teeth.
"Well, who do we have here?" he asked with a grin. "Where do you want to go, my friend?" At these words he gave me a bump on the head that sent me staggering back into the room. He came after me with his head bowed and closed the door behind him. With his massive figure in the room, the tiny hut was almost filled to bursting.
"Why aren't you in the field?" he asked me surprisingly calmly. He obviously hadn't been drinking, but that didn't mean he wasn't dangerous.
In my place, my mother answered: "Martin, I told you about the lady looking for a new servant. I thought it wouldn't be wrong for George to apply. He has been accepted."
"I see," he said dryly, eyeing me disdainfully.
"Yes," my mother said, smiling. "That means we'll earn a nice bit on the side. After all, the lady isn't exactly poor."
My mother's hope of soothing his mind with the prospect of money was not fulfilled. He just looked at me, grinning like someone who has seen through a trap. "And you think now that you can just move away like that, live in a castle and leave the fieldwork alone, George?"
I swallowed and then made an effort to reply in a firm tone, "I make a lot more money there than I do in the fields, Father." And then a fatal remark slipped out of my mouth, "Just think how many more brandy mugs you can buy with that."
I hadn't finished the remark when his massive fist crashed into my temple and I sank to the ground. He looked down at me with a grin and said, "George, my boy. So now you think you're something better than your hard-working father, do you?"
"I ... didn't say that at all," I stammered helplessly as I tried to banish the dancing dots from my eyes.
"That's what I understood, though," he replied calmly, and this calmness unsettled me far more than his worst outburst of anger. "George, for as long as you've been able to think properly, you've believed that you're something better than me. Don't try to deny it! I know it's true. As a six-year-old you were already looking at me arrogantly and I had my trouble and hardship to bring you back down to earth - in the only way you understood, George." At this he kicked me in the stomach with such force that I vomited my meagre breakfast onto the dirty floor.
Despite his blunt force, he was of course right in what he said. I had indeed always felt superior to him and that was also the reason why his blows had never caused me any mental harm. Even with the worst wounds I had laughed at his stupidity, as I did now. I propped myself up on my arms and looked at him. "You're right, Father," I said, smiling involuntarily. Yes, I smiled.
His right fist thundered against my cheek, tearing open a laceration from which blood immediately gushed.
"Enough talk," my father said, stepping forward and delivering another kick to my stomach. As I curled up, he pulled me up by the hair and slapped the half of my face that was not yet bleeding. He dropped me and as I lay half unconscious on the floor, I heard, as if through a fog, my mother crying helplessly in the background. But my father was not finished yet. He dragged me to the bed he usually shared with my mother. There he took my right leg, grabbed it by the knee and ankle and slammed it against the edge of the bed with such force that my shin snapped in two with a sickening crunching sound. I was too shocked to react immediately. Only after a few moments did the stabbing pain set in. I opened my mouth and screamed and screamed until my father pressed a hand to my lips and whispered in my ear, "There, my friend. Now you can go to your lady, but I want to see how you do it."
I still couldn't believe he had done it. My father had actually crippled me. I dragged myself to the door, wondering why he wasn't already there to hold me back. He had now turned to my mother and pressed her down on the bed. His grubby paws, smeared with my blood, tore open her dress and grabbed her breasts roughly. I saw my mother's tear-stained face, her eyes looking at me and her lips formed into one silent word: "Flee!"
Chapter 4
I don't remember exactly how I left my parents' house. I only remember that my desire to escape was so overwhelming that it outweighed even the inhuman pain. I crawled along the road on all fours like a wounded animal, dragging my broken leg behind me like an uncomfortable burden. I left an unmistakable trail of blood in the snow. Somewhere on the village road I suddenly saw the dirty hooves of a horse before my eyes. A pair of legs with old, tattered boots came into my field of vision and a sympathetic voice said, "Oh my God! Boy, you look terrible. Why are you lying here in the dirt?"
I think I told him in a whispering voice that my leg was broken and I really needed to see Lady de Moranté. While he was wondering what a filthy creature like me had to do with the Lady and whether everything was above board, I offered him a reward if he would help me immediately. This offer accelerated his thought processes immensely and shortly afterwards I felt him lift me and load me like a bundle across the saddle onto his horse. The blood rose to my head and my stomach ached as the horse began to move. And while the dirty snow slid along beneath me and drops of blood dripped from my wounds onto the ground from time to time, I fell unconscious.
***
I awoke in a dream of comforting warmth and freedom from pain. Slowly I opened my eyes and looked around. I caught sight of an ornate ceiling above me. To the side were countless candlesticks on the walls, their contents casting a warm light into the surroundings. The view from a high window told me that it was already night. Had I really slept that long? And where was I here? The velvety blanket that enveloped my body and the splendour of the room made me realise that I could only be in one place, Lady Isabelle's castle.
I was saved, it flashed through my mind. And during this thought, my memory completely kicked in. I felt again in all clarity how my father slammed my leg against the edge of the bed, how the cracking, bursting sound of a breaking bone set in and shortly afterwards felt blood fill my mouth. But this pain was from memory. Where was the real pain? Another movement made it clear to me that the pain was still there. The attempted bending of my leg ended with such a murderous tug that I cried out loudly.
My voice echoed loudly through the high walls and it was not a minute before a figure appeared in the room and strode to my bedside. It was Josefine. Her face was lined with fear as she bent over me and brushed my hair out of my face with one hand. "Don't move, boy!" she said gently. "Your leg is broken. We had to tie it down with wooden sticks. The lady thinks that would be a good cure."
When I signalled by a cautious nod that I understood what she meant, she smiled motherly and said, "You do things, my boy. How did that even happen?"
Before I could answer, another voice beat me to it and said, "I'd very much like to know that too."
It was a soft voice with a slight French accent that I had heard before that day. It belonged to Lady Isabelle. I now saw her step to the end of my bed and look down at me.
My heart beat faster as I felt her scrutinising gaze on me. I tried to imagine how she would react when she found out that my father had done this to me. Certainly I was not to blame for my father being a primitive barbarian, but this fact did not reflect very well on my family and therefore my upbringing. So I lied: "I was attacked on the street by two strangers. All I remember is that they beat me and left me in the dirt. Then I passed out and a rider found me. He brought me here, as far as I kno
w."
Isabelle gave her maid a wave to leave and then looked at me more closely. "You promised this man a financial reward if he brought you here, George?"
I didn't get a chance to answer because she rose and I was already afraid I had incurred her anger when she turned in the doorway and said, "That wasn't very nice towards your new mistress, but ... it kind of impressed me."
And as she spoke the last words, she sent me a smile so beautiful and promising that I felt an unexpected sense of happiness despite my predicament. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a voice suddenly sounded, saying in a definite tone what I had been thinking ever since I saw Lady Isabelle: 'You're home, George.'
Chapter 5
I had heard very little about broken bones up to that point and had therefore succumbed to the idea that I would have to live as a cripple for the rest of my life. It was only when I talked to Josefine and John, the stablehand, that I found out. My leg would grow back together, but it needed a lot of rest. The wooden splints were there to keep the bones in the right position so they could grow back together. All this reassured me. Only the thought that I would have to lie down for so long made me sick. After all, I had just got a new employment. But instead of working, I just lay lazily in the pillows and had food brought to me. I felt guilty towards Lady Isabelle and made it clear to her one of the following days. "I am so sorry for causing you nothing but trouble," I said when she visited me at my bedside.
My mistress, however, only smiled. "Don't worry, George. Josefine is taking over a lot of your duties at the moment."
"But why are you helping me at all?", I then asked, voicing what had been on my mind for days.
She looked at me calmly out of her sparkling green eyes for quite a while and then replied in a tone of complete conviction, "I believe in Christian charity, George."
Shortly afterwards, Josephine appeared with a bowl of hot water and washed me, an indulgence I had not had for some time.
In the days that followed, I received more and more frequent visits from the maids. Josefine, for example, was very fond of sitting by my bed after work and telling me about her family, her late husband and the fact that she could not have children, furthermore about her relatives and similar things. She talked non-stop and sometimes I seriously wondered if she wouldn't be just as talkative in the presence of a wooden wardrobe.
More interesting were the conversations with John. Although I suspected from time to time that he was making up some of his stories to make more of an impression, there was no doubt that he had travelled widely in the world before working as a groom. He had seen London, Liverpool and Nottingham. His talent for giving speeches was fuelled by my inquisitive and detailed questions and after a while I had learned that thirty years ago, as a young man, he had witnessed the battle against the Spanish Armada, that he had seen Queen Elizabeth several times and the naval hero Sir Francis Drake. John told me about the size of London and the crowds in the streets, about the gruesome prisons, especially the Tower, and about how every second woman in London was dressed as ostentatiously as Lady Isabelle.
All these stories awakened a strong desire in me. I wanted to see this city. I wanted to throw myself into the hustle and bustle of the people and absorb all the new experiences that awaited me. I asked John why he had left the city and he said it was much nicer here than in London. The air was not filled with stench and the money he received from Milady was quite lavish. But I did not understand his attitude. It seemed incomprehensible to me that a person could give up the variety and adventure of a city like London for a barren smugglers' dump like Longhill.
About a week after my arrival at her castle, Lady Isabelle came to me and said, "George, I told you before that I would teach you French and Latin. And I also told you that I would teach you to read and write those languages. I have come to the conclusion that now is the right time. You can neither stand nor work, but your mind works well."
I nodded enthusiastically at the thought of finally having a task, because even John's stories couldn't make me suffer from excruciating boredom.
I registered Lady Isabelle sitting down on the edge of the bed in a confidential gesture and looking at me for a long time. "You look positively mannerly when washed, George," she said, "like a future lord." A long pause followed the words. Then Isabelle continued in a warm tone, "Someone who looks as pretty as you should be able to speak pretty. English is a vile and primitive language. You should be able to speak a language that sounds more melodious and civilised than English. I will teach you my mother tongue, en avant!"
The following days were an ordeal for my poor tongue. It took me half an eternity to get the first half French-sounding syllable past my lips. Lady Isabelle taught me the simplest words at first and incorporated more and more French vocabulary into her own sentences so that I could remember them better.
"It's not bonjer sengneur, George. It's bonjour seigneur. You need to put more emphasis on the last syllable, like you're singing it. So once again, mon jeunot!"
She usually spent the entire morning at my bedside during those days and did not allow me any breaks. In the hours she didn't sit in my room, I had to put down on paper, with a quill pen in my hand, the words I had spoken before. When I reminded her right at the beginning that I couldn't even write down the English script, I had another meaningful occupation. It seemed as if she was obsessed with the idea of making me a perfect Frenchman in the shortest possible time. Early in the morning, when Rebecca brought me breakfast, Madame was present and asked me to tell her in detail what was on my tray. Only after I had described to her in reasonably sonorous terms that I saw a pistolet in front of me, viande next to it and a glass of eau potable, did she let me have my petit déjeuner. At the time, there were moments when I cursed her persistence, but in retrospect I had to realise that she was doing exactly the right thing, because we were not going to have too much time.
So I struggled through to déjeuner and souper every day, my head often aching with new French vocabulary.
Each time I was glad when another day was over and Milady wished me bonne nuit.
More and more often, Lady Isabelle insisted that I speak to her in French, which became easier as the weeks went by. And when I managed to exchange whole French sentences with her, it brought a satisfied smile to her pretty lips and it was clear to me that she was very pleased with her own work.
She brought books to my bedside and taught me to decipher the individual letters. In this way I got my first insight into the act of creation described in the first pages of the Bible. Furthermore, Madame gave me French prose to read; poems that told of enlightenment, resignation and love. Lady Isabelle watched me with rapt attention as I stammered out the lines, the firmness of my voice increasing as the weeks passed.
And so, during the cold weeks of January, the day came when I could leave my bed. John, who had personal experience of a broken leg, told me that the bone must have knitted together by now, but that I should not put any weight on my right leg for the time being and should support myself on a stick. The thought of walking like an old man on a stick shook me, but when John assured me it would only be for a few days, I breathed a sigh of relief. As I sat up and my legs touched the floor, I felt the confinement of the bed slip away from me. I was finally free again. But even as I stood for a small moment, I felt my legs barely holding the weight. I stumbled and propped myself up on the cane John had brought me. My right leg didn't hurt and it looked normal, but just the simple exercise of staying on my feet took an incredible amount of strength.
"Your legs need to get used to walking again," John explained. "They've just had too much rest. But don't worry, that will pass with time."
John had been absolutely right with his words. It didn't take three days and I could already walk around without a stick. Now a whole new world opened up for me in Lady Isabelle's house. I was instructed by Josefine in my tasks and duties, which I had neglected for far too long. She showed me the kitchen, which was on the low
er floor of the building. The large room was painted white and contained a number of pots, pans and vats in which food was prepared. Josefine explained to me that Milady very rarely had visitors and therefore not much work was done in this room. Festive banquets and receptions, which were common in other castles, did not take place here, as Madame Isabelle did not know any other nobles in England and did not want any contact with the aristocratic elite of Britain.
My task now was to bring the food to Milady on large trays. And to collect the empty dishes. I had to make all sorts of bows, as befitted a servant. Josefine explained to me that you have to ask your mistress if she has another wish and you always have to be ready to meet all her needs.
Josefine showed me the whole house and only now did I realise the full dimensions of the castle. It had three floors. The lower floor housed the kitchen, the storerooms, the large anteroom and two large rooms with huge windows, whose view showed the village clinging to the valley in front of the sloping cliff. These rooms, Josefine explained, were only used in the summer, which astonished me a little, because the walls were covered with precious fabrics and the floor with beautiful carpets. The rooms seemed far too pretty to me to let them fall into disrepair. It was freezing cold, as the unused rooms were not heated either.
The second floor contained above all Lady Isabelle's personal rooms, i.e. a dining room, three lounges and two sleeping chambers. I myself had spent the last few weeks in one of these rooms. Furthermore, there were several guest rooms on this floor. Directly under the roof were the servants' quarters.
A large part of the rooms in the castle were empty. After all, the castle had been designed for dozens of inhabitants and now Lady Isabelle lived here all alone and isolated. The unused rooms were, of course, neither lit nor heated. Light-coloured cloths had been draped over the furniture to protect it from the sun's rays and dust.
Guardsmen of the King: A Historical Adventure Novel (George Glen's Adventures Book 1) Page 2
