Guardsmen of the King: A Historical Adventure Novel (George Glen's Adventures Book 1)

by Richard Bergen

  At the back of the inn, which seemed surprisingly large, about a dozen men sat at a long table, their appearance impressing me. They wore red tunics, leather boots and sashes from which hung rapiers with glittering hilts. Most of these men had taken off their large slouch hats in order to devote themselves better to the wine. A merry laughter came to us from this table.

  "What kind of people are they?", I asked Timmy quietly.

  "Looks like Scottish Guardsmen. The men who protect our king," Tim said, equally subdued. "Better we avoid them. These guys are known to love picking a fight to show off their fighting skills."

  "Are they any good at fighting?"

  Timmy smiled as if he had heard a silly child's question. "Good is not an expression at all. Anyway, I wouldn't want to tangle with one of those fellows."

  "You could flatten them with a punch," I said, alluding to Timmy's size.

  "My fists would be of little use against a swift rapier, certainly not against ten. Guardsmen are known to stick together like thieves."

  We sat down at a table against the wall. The rough tabletop was sticky from some spilled drink and reeked of old alcohol. I looked to the side and recognised someone at another wall table whom I had not necessarily hoped to find here. Richard was sitting there in the company of several club members. He didn't seem to have noticed me yet, but when he turned around fleetingly to call for the waitress, he recognised me. His face twisted in disgust, then he stood up and walked straight towards our table.

  "What are you doing here, you little slimeball?" he snapped at me angrily.

  "You call me a slimeball?", I retorted angrily.

  Richard propped his arms on our table and looked at me with narrowed eyes. "Yes, that's what you are, you filthy creature. Everything you've achieved has flown to you. It's only thanks to Stanley's magnanimity that you're still alive. I would have finished you off.

  "Dream on!" I replied as calmly as I could and turned back to Timmy, ignoring the presence of my enemy. But he didn't take his eyes off me and I could tell from the heavy breathing beside me that he was seething with anger.

  "You don't know anything, George," Richard said, stretching my name and drawing it out in a sneer.

  I rose from my chair in a rage and looked him straight in the eye. "I don't want a fight with you, Richard." Maybe I was fooling myself with that too. Maybe I was looking for a fight after all. Richard, at least, was a pain in the ass. "But if you're up for it, you're welcome to a spanking ... or are your balls still hurting from my kick yesterday?"

  "Show me what you've got, you show-off!" He gave me a shove against my torso that sent me staggering back.

  I raised my fists to parry his next attack when I found Richard had been grabbed by the scruff of the neck and shaken by a strong hand.

  A huge man with an apron in front of his expansive belly drove at Richard and me in a booming voice: "If you're going to kick each other's teeth in, do it outside the door!"

  "Excuse me, mister!" stammered Richard meekly now. "We weren't being serious after all. Me and my friend were just joking."

  Suspiciously, the innkeeper let go of the boy and watched as he walked towards me and put his arm around my shoulder in a chummy manner. I, too, put on a forced grin, which apparently convinced the innkeeper of the credibility of his words.

  Before he left again, however, he didn't miss the opportunity to make a gentle threat: "If you little shits make any noise, you'll be thrown straight out, is that clear?" We did not respond immediately. "Is that clear?"

  "It's clear!" we replied in unison.

  When the thick-set poker-man had retreated, I breathed a sigh of relief and Richard quickly pulled his arm from my shoulder. "We'll continue this argument at the appropriate opportunity," he said quietly and went back to his table.

  Dishonoured, I sat back down and took a deep breath to calm myself. Timmy shook his head uncomprehendingly. "I don't understand what Richard has against you. He should have known by last night at the latest that you'd fit in excellently with us."

  "I don't like him either. He seems to think he's the greatest and I think he only sees his position in the club endangered by me. I mean, it's embarrassing for him, the way I beat him up."

  "As far as I can remember, he gave you a few too," Timmy interjected.

  "But in the end ..."

  "In the end, Stanley broke it off. No one knows who would have won. Listen, George. You seem like a good guy, but cool it! Let's forget all this trouble over a good drop!" Then he waved for the waitress.

  A rather fat little woman came to our table and asked for our requests, whereupon Timmy ordered two mugs of brandy. She nodded sullenly and as she moved away again, Timmy gawked after her with his remaining eye. "Man, did you see that ass?"

  Serving our drinks, Timmy took advantage to make a lewd remark to the maid regarding her breasts laced high by a tight bodice. The maid didn't seem to mind, but she didn't seem pleased either.

  I eyed the cup in front of me suspiciously, which contained a strong-smelling liquid. As already mentioned, I had never had the opportunity to drink alcohol at that time, but I had often observed the effects of drunkenness in others and the memory of these various sights frightened me. I certainly didn't want to stumble around swaying like a blade of grass in the wind and saying things that I wouldn't even think when sober. But that fickleness vanished when Timmy grinned at me and demanded, "Drink up, George!"

  I saw him set his cup down and take a hearty draught and I did the same. I can't say I found the taste particularly pleasant. I didn't actually feel it at all as it ran down my throat like liquid fire. I fought a rising nausea and took another sip right away anyway, as if I had something to prove to myself or Timmy.

  "Not bad!" the one-eyed man laughed. "You're doing pretty well for a beginner. I would have expected you to spit your first sip all over the table right away. How do you like it?"

  I screwed up my face in disgust and Timmy understood what I meant. "It's because of the swill here. It's the cheapest and most disgusting brandy in all London. If only you could taste the wine that's in the royal cellars. Only six months ago we broke into the house of some noble fellow. There we took a few gallons of the best French Anjou wine. The memory of that taste still haunts me today."

  The words reached me, but it took a little while before they penetrated to my mind. Was this the much courted effect of this swill? I wanted to get to the bottom of it and took another big gulp from my cup. My taste buds seemed to be numb, for now no wave of disgust took possession of me. I almost let myself think that the taste was pleasant. At least the warm feeling in my stomach pleased me.

  Confused, I turned to Timmy and noticed that the contours of the room seemed to dissolve. Everything was blurring and spinning. "What's happening to me?" I asked, stunned, feeling my tongue as heavy as lead.

  Timmy grinned at me and spoke in a voice that seemed to me to be mockingly booming: "You've probably overdone it a bit, my boy. And you haven't eaten anything yet either."

  I felt my meagre stomach contents making their way up and stammered helplessly, "I think I need to ..."

  Timmy recognised my predicament and immediately jumped up to hoist me from my chair and lead me halfway across the room. I was only aware of my surroundings as a blur. The laughter of the men at the tables seemed outsized and the faces that passed me seemed like inhuman grimaces from another world.

  Timmy dragged me through a door to the privy. The stench of excrement rose to my nostrils and it was precisely this acrid smell that finally broke the horses back. I vomited the booze into a gloomy corner, destined for a purpose I dare not name. When I got back on my feet, I felt drained and tired. My head was spinning, but the nausea slowly disappeared. "I can't go on," I whispered, wiping my mouth. "I just want to get back to our shelter."

  "I don't feel like it yet though," Timmy replied. The huge guy grabbed me under the arm and led me back into the guest room to our table.

  As I sat, I began t
o take in my surroundings more carefully again, but the cursed roaring in my skull wouldn't go away. I looked to a neighbouring table where an ugly, fat man was just bursting into peals of laughter and slapping his thighs as another in his party told a joke. The laughing man reminded me of someone and moments later I realised exactly who. This man looked like my father and he laughed just as obnoxiously. I wondered if my alcoholic father had always felt the way I felt now. Had the brandy made him the monster he had been, or had it nothing to do with it? I looked at my hand as if it were not part of my body and clenched it into a fist. Would I be able to harm an innocent woman in this state? I hit the table with my fist and noticed how the tabletop shook under the blow. I had struck hard, but I felt no pain in my hand and watched the table tremble like an outsider. At that moment I realised that in a drunken state I was capable of any act. Possibly I would regret them later, but I felt that the alcohol removed any limit I had set for myself.

  "What's wrong with you?", Timmy suddenly snapped at me. "Don't you have anything better to do than beat the table to a pulp?"

  I looked at him uncomprehendingly and my gaze slid back to my fist. The underside was badly reddened. It probably wouldn't be long before a bruise adorned that spot. "I, I ...", I stammered.

  "Yes, I know. You've had a bit too much to drink, but now pull yourself together!"

  Laughter reached my ears again, but now it was not coming from the tables of the good-for-nothings and beggars, but from the long table of the guardmen. I looked at the red-clad fellows and recognised them raising their cups.

  "To God and King!" one of them exclaimed, and the others interjected, "To God and King!"

  They emptied their cups. One of the Guardsmen held the prettiest servant in the place by the arm and pulled her onto his lap.

  "You are fantastically beautiful," he declared loudly to her. "Your wild eyes sparkle like diamonds in the light of the moon. Your lips resemble the sweet petals of an opening rose."

  The beautiful girl rolled her eyes mischievously at these puffy words and burst into a merry laugh. "I bet you say that to every woman who crosses your path, mister," she then said a little more seriously.

  "But no," he explained to her, "the words I spoke are irrelevant. All that matters is that I meant them. In the face of your beauty, not the slightest lie crosses my lips." He looked deep into her dark eyes, recognising his victory.

  "What do you say we retire for a while, beautiful?" he suggested to her quietly a moment later. "I have a little matter I need to discuss with you in private."

  Instead of an answer, she only smiled slightly and gestured with her head to the curtain behind her. She rose from his lap and then disappeared in the direction indicated. While the conversation continued at the table, the guardsman took another hearty sip of wine, twirled his beard and checked the result in a small hand mirror. Then he smiled at his reflection, rose and left the table towards the curtain.

  "Do these men always have such an easy time with women?", I asked old Timmy.

  "Most of them are very successful in that field. They have mastered the art of beautiful speech and that goes down extremely well with the fairer sex, as you have just experienced ... I suspect, however, that at the appropriate time a few more coins will change hands."

  I looked again at the Guardsmen, admiring their shining tunics adorned with the three golden lions of Britain, and was suddenly seized by a thought that would not leave my mind: 'I want to be one of them'. Yes, I imagined it would be fantastic to walk around in such noble uniforms and be admired by everyone. People had respect for these Guardsmen and I also wanted people to have respect for me. The Club of the Wolves gave me a welcome home at the moment, but I had no desire to grow old in the street filth and I had no desire to have to hide in some caves forever.

  "Let's go, men!" one of the Guardsmen suggested just as the round had emptied their cups. "It's a big town, and we should see if we can find an inn where the wine tastes better."

  "Well then!" another guardsman also shouted and everyone rose from their chairs. Swords clattered and some coins were left on the table. Then the men left the scene of the morning's drinking. Only an old guardsman remained in his seat, drank another sip of red wine and ran his hand through his white beard. He then pulled a pipe from under his tunic and stuffed it thoughtfully. His face looked like a battle painting. Wrinkles surrounded his eyes and nostrils. Some heavy scars ran across his forehead and cheeks, probably from duels.

  I walked impetuously towards the table, where I boldly sat down beside the guardsman. With a courage that probably sprang from recent brandy consumption, I addressed him directly: "Forgive me for addressing you, sir, but I have a question: how does one actually become His Majesty's guardsman?"

  The old man eyed me closely from top to bottom. "Who wants to know?"

  "My name is George," I replied quickly. "I'd love to know how to become a Scottish guardsman."

  "Really?!" Slowly he lit his pipe on fire. "Do you actually know what it means to lay down your life for the King? Do you have any idea how much courage it takes to protect your master's life in any situation?"

  "No, but I would like to learn."

  "Ha!" the old man groaned, slapping his thigh with a laugh. "Ha! I like you boy. You remind me of me when I was your age. For me, too, there was only this one goal. I have admired the guard and finally achieved my goal and became one of them."

  A figure shifted beside me. I recognised Richard, who sat down on the empty chair next to me, listening spellbound to the words of the old guardsman.

  "Who is that?" the man asked.

  I thought for a moment. "That's a friend of mine."

  Richard frowned slightly. Apparently he had not expected such an answer. His surprise gave me a little satisfaction.

  "Do you want to be a Scottish guardsman too?"

  "Absolutely."

  The Guardsman nodded slightly and continued. "It's a hard life, even if it doesn't look like it. We never have time for a family, constantly we have to stand up for king and fatherland. But most of us have walked this path willingly, because it is a noble path. We are by far the best fencers in all England. Our blades strike like divine lightning and therefore we have few worthy opponents. As long as we exist, no harm can come to the king."

  "Do you have to be Scottish to join the Guard?" asked Richard a not even silly question.

  The old man smiled slightly. "No, no, most of us are English by now. There are even a few Welsh floating around among us. God help us! But the Guard has kept its name. As you know, our glorious sovereign James was first King of Scotland before he also became King of England. While the Scots in our regiment are proud of their heritage, it is no longer a requirement to join us. Neither are titles, money or connections necessary. Only your abilities play a part in your acceptance." He drew on his pipe, exhaled a few puffs and raised his right eyebrow musingly as he continued. "However, it is not easy. There are a number of tests of courage to pass in order to be admitted. You are, of course, a little too young, but in a few years you may well audition for our captain."

  He paused and looked at us piercingly. "This is not a matter to be taken lightly, of course. We have a firm moral code from which we never deviate. Honour is the highest thing we can lose and glory the highest thing to gain. Above all things is the good of the King. And one more thing ... if you wish to be one of us, you will soon find that a man can only be a man when he wears his cloak and dagger. Never forget that!"

  The words impressed me deeply and strengthened my desire to be one of their own.

  The old guardsman turned as his crony emerged from behind the curtain and strode to the table. A cheerful grin spread across his face. Behind him, the woman he had seduced moments before stopped in the doorway and watched him dreamily as she tidied her dishevelled hair.

  "Talk about fame," the old man commented. "That was a good example."

  He stood up and patted the other guardsman on the shoulder. "Congratulations, my fr
iend!"

  Together they left the inn and I could still hear the old man asking, "Was it at least worth it? Must have been a short skirmish?"

  "Short, but fierce," the other replied with a laugh. Then the men disappeared through the door and out of my sight.

  I looked at Richard, but he had already risen to return to his seat. I went to Timmy, who immediately wanted to know what I had been talking about with the guardsman. When I explained, he asked with a grin, "Do you really want to be one of those?"

  "Yes."

  "Listen to old Timmy, my friend! You'll never be one of theirs. You are too young and too poor, but that is not the main reason. The main reason is that you are a born thief and murderer. Your soul is as corrupt as that of all the members of the club. You would never give your life for that of any king, you are too concerned for your own welfare. You don't know such things as honour and duty because you belong to us, and whatever you do, you can't get out of your skin, boy."

  His words hurt me more deeply than I think he himself had intended. I looked at him angrily and said, "We'll see."

  Chapter 17

  That evening, the underground shelter of the club seemed like a prison to me. I wondered what was wrong with me. Actually, I should have been happy that I had found a new family and even earned some kind of respect. But I didn't feel happy, I felt constricted. I was still angry with Timmy, because his words had made me feel as if I were inferior and spoiled. I was not going to put up with that. I looked around and spotted dozens of robbers sleeping it off. They lived like animals. The name of the club now actually seemed appropriate. The men really behaved like a pack of wolves. They only stuck together to guarantee their safety and their actions were characterised by stupidity and barbarism. I was probably arrogant, but I secretly vowed never to end up here. I still had a lot to do with my life and the dream of becoming a guardsman filled me with hope, even if it was only a dream that would probably never come true.