Guardsmen of the King: A Historical Adventure Novel (George Glen's Adventures Book 1)
Page 8
It had been raining. Hazy swathes of the fog I hated lay in the streets and took away all but a few feet of visibility. But the fog, which usually evoked dark and gruesome associations in me, was not my enemy today, but rather my guardian and protector. As the companion of a band of robbers, I had roamed half the city and now found myself in a street separated from the banks of the Thames only by a row of houses. Light was coming from many of the windows, but it was dimmed by the fog and seemed dull and pale. No one had noticed the figures that had glided nimbly through the haze.
The robbers and thieves of the Club of Wolves had hidden in the niches of houses and behind parked carts, and I too crouched in eager anticipation behind a large rain barrel at the foot of an unoccupied-looking house.
The hissed call of the scout woke me from my lethargy. I looked over the edge of the barrel and my eyes pierced the darkness of the night. On the opposite side of the road, I realised that the other robbers were also paying attention, that their limbs were tensing and that they were clutching their weapons tightly. Without exception, they were armed only with daggers and swords, as one shot would have alerted the entire surrounding neighbourhood. Everything was to be done quickly and silently.
The sound of the scout said that someone worth robbing was approaching. Many miserable figures had trotted unsuspectingly past our hideout that night, carts and carriages had also passed this place, but none of them smelled so much of money as to be worth robbing. But now the time had come. My muscles tensed and the thuggish robber beside me tapped me on the shoulder.
"What is it?", I asked quietly as I turned to face him.
"You don't have a gun, do you?" he asked.
"No."
Wordlessly, he handed me his old dagger. I accepted the weapon and at the same moment noticed him draw his rapier.
"Here we go," he whispered so softly that I could hardly understand the words. Then he rose and peered into the darkness. I could now see the mist parting and four black steeds trotting out of the haze. They were beautiful to look at, with shining eyes and flowing manes. Behind them they pulled a closed carriage, whose ornaments clearly indicated that there were no poor people inside, if the four horses in front of the vehicle had not already been indication enough.
Next to me I saw a rapid movement that was too fast for my eyes to follow. But a moment later I realised what was happening. A steel lightning bolt rushed through the night, cut through the fog and found its target - the neck of the coachman.
A gasping sound emanated from the struck figure, then it slumped almost soundlessly. The horses, no longer feeling the pressure of the reins, immediately reduced their speed until they stopped with their heads hanging. Now everything happened very quickly. The predatory shadows detached themselves from their hiding places and moved silently through the fog. They approached the carriage and I realised that most of the men held their weapons in their hands, ready to fight. My right hand also clutched the handle of the old dagger almost unconsciously. As I hurried towards the vehicle with the brigand who had given me the weapon, I glanced briefly at the coach-box and recognised the gleaming red rapier blade protruding from either side of the coachman's neck. My companion jumped onto the drawbar with quick, smooth movements and pulled out his weapon from the body.
Now sounds could also be heard from inside the carriage.
"Why are we stopping?" asked a thin female voice.
A man replied, "I have no idea."
The tarpaulin on the right side of the carriage opened briefly to reveal the man's face. Immediately the head was pierced by a thrown dagger that entered the right side and its blade shot out at the left skull. Shocked, I looked around for the thrower and recognised Stan, who had just lowered his arm. He returned my gaze and seemed to smile.
Several robbers approached the carriage from my side and tore open the door. Horrified, a young woman stared out from inside. Next to her sat a man dressed in black, around fifty, who had difficulty concealing his fear. The woman opened her mouth to scream and was dragged out the next moment by several robbers. One of the companions covered her mouth while another cut her throat. Dark blood poured over her white dress as her horrified eyes dulled.
The black-clad one, watching the action with undisguised horror, rushed out of the car in panic and fled in my direction. At first I did not know how to react properly. This man had done nothing to me and yet he seemed to provoke a reaction on my part. I glanced sideways for a moment and recognised Stanley, whose face was one of expectation. To say my reaction was a logical conclusion would probably be too much to say. I think I acted more out of a defensive reflex as I jerked my dagger upwards and ran the fleeing man into the blade.
The man's onslaught almost jerked me to the ground and when he felt the blade in his guts, he looked at me in disbelief with his eyes wide open and I felt his last breath on my face.
The man, who must have been a head taller than me, slumped and ended up in the London street muck of the night - just as I had imagined my own end.
All this had taken only a few moments and had happened absolutely silently. Four people had died; four people who had done nothing to me and whom I had not known. Despite this, or perhaps because of it, I found it difficult to feel anything like compassion. At the time, when I had murdered my father and found out about my mother's death, it had gone very deeply to my heart. I had felt guilty and had almost choked on my pain, but now all I felt was a revulsion at my own lack of emotion.
Down there in the stinking gutter lay a young woman with her throat cut. Her staring eyes reflected the moon, whose glow had fought its way through the fog. For any normal person, this sight would have been horrific, but not for me. I reminded myself that she was rich and wore expensive clothes. Around her gaping neck was a necklace of gold and precious stones. With what arrogance had she otherwise regarded the hungry and poor of this city? Didn't she deserve to die just for the fact that they were rich and we were poor?
While I was trying to come to terms with my thoughts, the robbers from the Club of Wolves had their hands full. They quickly rifled through the pockets of the dead and stole their purses. The young woman was robbed of her necklaces and rings and before I could follow the thieves' actions, they had finished their work.
"Come on, George!" one of the robbers hissed at me and I joined the fleeing gang. We ran through winding streets under cover of the fog and did not stop until we reached a crack in the houses and ran through a winding path into a backyard. Still panting, I saw Stanley nod appreciatively at his subordinates. "Good work, men," he whispered. Patting me encouragingly on the shoulder, he said softly, "There you go, you can do it."
At another nod from Stanley, the robbers pointed out their loot. The purses were filled with gold pieces that made my eyes glaze over, and the lady's jewellery seemed almost more valuable at second glance.
Stan smiled delightedly and finally said: "I guess that's enough to feed us for a month. We were really lucky and can go to sleep early tonight."
He told the men to pack up the loot again and follow him. Our path led us through remote backyards and dirty alleys to a dilapidated wall in front of which lay old barrels, their round lids staring at us. One of the robbers opened the lid of the second barrel and climbed into the wooden hull. A second followed him and when it was my turn to follow the men into the barrel, I realised that it was only a camouflaged entrance, because where the bottom of the barrel should be, a piece had been removed from the wall and it was possible to climb through this hole unnoticed into the building behind it - the dilapidated house that had been built over the secret cellar and that I had already entered through another entrance that day.
We went down through the floor flap into the shelter and gathered around the fireplace, where an elderly robber was immediately busy setting fire to some logs. The situation gradually relaxed and the robbers started talking and laughing among themselves. They talked about the robbery and shared their personal experiences, with bragging gradually taking over.
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Stanley had sat down next to me and after several minutes asked quietly, "That was pretty exciting for you, huh?"
It took me a little while before I found the right words. Then I said in a moderate tone, "I didn't find stabbing that man particularly difficult. However, it kind of bothers me."
"Why?"
"Well, he didn't do anything to me. I had no reason to hate him, and yet I killed him. Shouldn't I feel something like remorse or the need to confess my sins?"
Stanley looked at me appraisingly for a while before nodding his head knowingly. "Apparently killing someone is something completely new to you after all."
"No, it's not," I replied quietly, but as I looked into Stan's questioning face, I knew it was pointless to keep quiet about my past any longer. Stanley and his cronies from the Club of Wolves were, after all, murderers and thieves. They were no different from me in any way, so I guess I could trust them.
Haltingly I began to speak, avoiding Stan's piercing gaze, "I murdered my own father."
He didn't reply, but the look on his face clearly demanded a more detailed explanation and I didn't deny him.
"My father was a drunkard who beat and defiled my mother whenever he could. When I was old enough to stand up to him, I killed him and left the filthy coastal village where I had grown up. That's all."
Stan looked at me sorrowfully and asked, "What happened to your mother?"
"The people of my village framed her for murder and executed her."
Calmly and devoid of emotion, the words came up in me and yet I fought an inner battle against my tears.
"So you are now an orphan, George?" asked Stan, but it was more a realisation than a question. "I too was once an orphan when I was your age now. My father owned an earldom near Bellingham. Our land was as far from London as the moon is from the earth, my father used to say often, and by that he meant that our lives were little different from those of the common people, although we had lands and titles. My mother died after the birth of my little brother, who was only a few weeks old. Thus I was the only descendant of my father and I was entitled to all the titles after his death. However, I had not hoped that his death would come so soon. When I was fifteen, my father became very ill and lay in a fever for weeks. He fainted until death took him and left me alone in this world. I'm sure you can imagine that I was broken."
Stan looked at me and I managed an understanding nod.
"In the years that followed, I had to learn what it meant to be the lord of an earldom," he continued. "I was forced to grow up faster than other boys my age and I think I managed that task quite well. The years went by and eventually I took a wife and she gave me four children. Until a few years ago, we led quite a comfortable life. My sons and daughters were growing up. I was proud of them. One day, some counts from the neighbouring estates approached me and asked if I could sell them land for their flocks of sheep, as their own land had become too small and I owned the best grazing land in the area. When I refused, they threatened me, but I didn't take them seriously - what a bloody fool I had been."
Shaking his head, Stanley paused and when he continued, his voice had become quiet and brittle. "I had not reckoned with the deceitfulness of these men. Remember this for the future, George: beware of the nobles! There are no beings under God's heaven who possess so much coldness and cunning as the aristocrats. Never make the mistake of underestimating them, as I once did!"
"What happened?"
"Well, when I once again returned from Bellingham to my family castle, I found the familiar walls to be a sea of flames. I ran in to look for my wife and children and found them all hanged. One of my servants, the brave fellow having survived badly wounded, told me, pale with horror, that they had been henchmen of the other counts and that he should ask me if I would not reconsider selling the land.
I reacted as any man in my position would have reacted. I armed myself to the teeth and rode with some men from the village to the first neighbouring earldom for blood vengeance. There I was ambushed. My own people had been bought off and had joined in the plot against me. So I was captured and disarmed. Then they made me sign a document that sealed the sale of my land and made me lay down all my titles and goods."
"How?", I asked, stunned.
"In this way." Stan opened his shirt and in the glow of the campfire I recognised several deep-seated scars.
"These are from a red-hot fire iron," Stan explained. "When they finished with me, they beat me half to death and threw me out. It was months before I was reasonably well again. Then I turned my back on my former earldom and wandered the country for weeks as a lonely beggar. At some point I came to London and made my way as a petty thief until I found followers and formed the Club of the Wolves."
"You never tried to get revenge again?", I asked Stanley incredulously.
He shrugged his shoulders. "When I came to my senses to some extent, I realised that revenge would not bring my family back to life either. I also accepted the loss of my land without regret, for I realised that after the death of my wife and children, nothing would ever be the same again. I would not have been able to live there again even if I had wanted to. I think I wanted to put all that behind me so that I could forget someday."
"But you didn't succeed, did you?"
"No. I don't think I'll ever succeed either." Gloomily he looked into the fire and watched the blaze of the greedy flames.
Stan was only jolted out of his melancholy state when a merry roar of laughter went through the masses. I looked up to see two men bringing in a skewered piglet and placing it on two brackets over the fire pit.
"We found this poor animal yesterday at Jimmy Roberts' inn when the cooks were taking a break," one of the robbers explained cheerfully. "We've been saving it for special occasions."
Stanley rose and grinned all over his face. "An appropriate dinner in view of today's booty," he said with satisfaction, watching as one of the men turned the pig over the flames.
Later, as we stuffed the meat into our hungry stomachs, I saw Richard sitting on the other side of the fire, watching me eat with undisguised hostility. I secretly resolved to avoid him in future, because I really didn't need an enemy.
Chapter 16
I slept more deeply than ever after the sumptuous meal. It was a completely new experience to have to close my eyes without a growling stomach. I could get used to that. But in the dream, the attack on the carriage was repeated again and again, and each time I saw the terror-stricken eyes of the man I had killed that evening without any real intervention. He breathed his last breath into my face as a silent reproach.
The next morning I was one of the last to wake up. Most of the raiders had already moved from our shelter and when I caught sight of Stanley sitting quietly beside the extinguished fire, I asked about the others.
"Outside," he replied curtly. "They're loitering in the taverns, spending our winnings. If you want, you may as well go. Take some coins and buy yourself a glass of wine!"
He pointed to a small space beside the fire where the money and jewellery from our night's loot had been thrown together. "This will all be shared fraternally, George," he explained. "Everyone gets their share, because that way there can be no injustice."
He saw that I hesitated. "Take it already! God knows you've earned it."
I quickly complied with his request and grabbed a few coins. Only now did something catch my eye, so I asked, "Aren't you coming?"
Tiredly, Stanley waved it off. "No, no, George. You go ahead and leave me alone!"
After this unequivocal refusal, I made my way up the ladder and left our shelter. The street in front of the house greeted me with the familiar stench of London filth.
"Is the new club member awake yet?" a croaky voice suddenly reached my ear.
Turning to look for the source of that sound, I recognised the one-eyed giant who had tried to keep me from my meal the previous day.
"Yes, I am," I said in a gruff tone and looked at him crossly.
"Why?" I looked at him sharply.
"I saw you in the robbery yesterday," he said quietly. "You took that guy out brilliantly - clean and neat. I would never have thought you capable of that in my life."
"Well, you can be wrong," I said with more arrogance than pride in my voice.
"My name is Tim," the one-eyed man said. "But you can call me Timmy ..."
"... as everyone here does, I know," I finished his sentence. "I'm George," was my curt reply, for I was uncomfortable with the old man's sudden friendliness. Over the last few years I had grown accustomed to a distrust of those around me that had been quite justified given the hard times. But in this particular case it was probably unfounded.
"Tell me, boy," Tim commented, "are you able to drink?"
"I'm afraid I never had enough money to be able to test this," I replied with a smile.
"But you have some now?" he asked with a questioning eye. He probably guessed that I had also received some of the night's loot.
"More than I have ever possessed, but it is not much."
"Enough for a cup of brandy?"
I nodded and the old man motioned me to accompany him on the spot. He knew a good tavern where the booze would be nice and cheap.
Soon we were making our way through the crowds of passers-by on the main street. After a short walk we reached the pub, above which dangled the cynical words 'Haileys Inn - and then the end' on a wooden sign.
"Do you like it?" asked Timmy, chuckling softly, and stepped through the door into the dark interior. I followed him and then looked around the shabby inn attentively. Little light came in from the street, for the small windows were so dirty that hardly a ray of sunlight managed to fight its way through the debris. At the tables near the exit I saw lice-ridden fellows who, from their appearance, could well have belonged to the people of the Club of the Wolves. Some were talking slurredly, while others had already greeted the dusty tabletop with their heads.