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

by Richard Bergen

  I watched without much interest a rat tampering with a clump of rotten hay at the other end of the cell, as if it suspected there was something edible in it.

  "I'm sure you didn't imagine an ending like this," Richard said quietly. They were the first words he had uttered since our arrest.

  "Certainly not," I replied curtly.

  "Thought the Club was your new family, did you?"

  "Kind of."

  "I used to think that too. Just after my parents died."

  "Your parents are dead?", I asked with interest now awakened for the first time.

  "For a long time. They died in a fire when I was eight. Not an accident. My parents had their own land. Not much, but it was nice there. We had a small farm, a few goats and chickens, an old apple tree that I used to climb. One day the next landowner came along and asked my parents to sell their land."

  "He was going to make sheep grassland out of it, wasn't he?", I opined.

  "Yes, exactly. My parents refused and the bastard sent his henchmen to set the house on fire at night. My parents and sisters burnt miserably. I'm only alive because I teased my sister Lucy the day before. Burnt her hair ... funny huh? As punishment I had to spend the night in the barn."

  I looked at Richard from the side for a while and finally asked, "Why are you telling me all this? I thought you couldn't stand me."

  "I can't either. But in our situation, a little chit-chat might be good."

  "Our situation?"

  "Yeah, I think we're going to get our heads chopped off."

  "Just because of this break-in?", I asked, disturbed.

  "You must have never heard of the blood laws. People are executed every day for much lesser offences. Don't kid yourself, George! We're as good as dead."

  I was silent for a while, because Richard's words were heavy on my stomach. But the longer I thought about it, the more I realised that he really was right. Until now, I had not really considered this possibility. Now I saw myself dying like my father. My head would be separated from my body - who knows, maybe this was finally the punishment for the crime that had been committed long ago. I remembered my escape from Longhill. It had been clear to me then that, given my crime, I deserved to die. So if God felt that the hour of reckoning had now come, I would not blame him. My miserable, short life, which had consisted only of violence and death, would end and my soul would disappear in a direction I was not yet clear about.

  "Why were you so mean to me anyway?", I asked Richard now.

  He didn't answer straight away, just frowned, indicating that he was thinking.

  "I have no idea," he finally said. "When you first came to us, I felt like everything fell to you. I'd been fighting for Stan's approval for years and he had you in his heart right away. I thought he wouldn't think you were so great with a bloody nose. Unfortunately, the old man intervened."

  "And now that Stan has let us down?", I asked him slowly.

  "Now I don't care about anything. I have nothing against you any more," he said. "After all, we are now something like fellow sufferers for a short time." He paused for a long while, then looked at me and said, "But that doesn't change the fact that I would have won this damn fight."

  I laughed at this wounded pride and moments later he joined in the laughter. Only when we were both almost hoarse did we stop. Dark thoughts were tumbling around in my head and finally I asked my cellmate, "Are you actually afraid of death?"

  He looked at me and seemed to think for a while "Sort of. I hope it will be very quick so I won't notice. What about you, George? Are you afraid?"

  "Not of death itself," I replied thoughtfully. "I'm just afraid that I'll make a fool of myself somehow before it. I'm afraid that if I see the executioner's axe directly, I'll panic, I'll whimper, or I'll pee my pants."

  We were silent again, perhaps for a few hours. Silent understanding prevailed, an understanding where words were needless. Gradually I was glad that I did not have to spend these last hours alone. I think in complete solitude I would have lost my mind sooner or later.

  Sometime after the end of the day, the roll of drums suddenly reached my ears. I looked at Richard and realised that he was thinking the same thing as I was. With difficulty I rose and went to the wall of the cell, at the top of which was a small, barred window. I was too short to look out of that window, so I jumped and got a grip on the bars with my hands. The hand irons clanked against the brickwork. The chain on the shackle tightened and a sharp pain spread to my legs. But I endured it for a glance outside.

  Directly in front of our cell was a small square, in the middle of which stood a roughly hewn, wooden chopping block. The sound of drums came from some soldiers in iron harness marching into the square. Behind them, a ragged woman with dishevelled hair was led into the square, chained to irons just like the ones Richard and I were wearing.

  Behind her traipsed a priest who yawned boredly as the troop came to a halt in front of the log. He spoke briefly to the woman. She nodded frantically from time to time and finally kissed the cross held out. Now the last to come out was a man dressed in grey, with a simple hood with two viewing slits hanging over his head. In his right hand he carried a heavy axe, which he lowered just before the block and leaned on it like a walking stick.

  When the woman caught sight of the execution instrument, she let out a shriek and tried to flee. In the process, however, she tripped over her anklets and fell lengthways into the dust. The soldiers picked her up and dragged her to the chopping block.

  I dropped back to the cell floor and heard a man outside announce loudly, "Stacy Adams, you are found guilty of begging and vagrancy. Twice you have been arrested. Once branded and once whipped. Yet you have received no purification and have been caught begging again. In the name of the King, I hereby sentence you to death by axe. Executioners, do your duty."

  A short cry, a plopping sound and it was all over.

  I felt goose bumps creep up my body. "Holy Mother of God!", I whispered, looking at Richard. "They killed a woman for such a little thing. What will they do to us?"

  Richard looked towards the cell door, from where stamping footsteps were rapidly approaching. "I guess we're about to find out."

  Two guards appeared in front of the bars. Keys jangled in the lock and a huge, brutish-looking figure entered the cramped cell. The guy looked around, eyed first me and then Richard. Finally his huge paw pointed at me. "You! Come with me!"

  I strode towards the jailer, was grabbed by him by the neck and pushed out of the room. I caught one last, pitying glance from Richard before he disappeared from my sight.

  The guards beat me roughly forward, did not speak a word to me and did not allow me to slow my pace. We reached a staircase which they made me descend. There was no end to the steps and the darkness was only interrupted by the flickering of isolated torches. They are leading me straight to hell here, I thought. Deeper and deeper I was led into the heart of the Tower. A room opened up filled with the most disgusting instruments imaginable: several benches with shackles at all ends, tables with sharp-edged axes and stabbing tools on them, a fireplace with dozens of glowing irons in it, serving a purpose I dared not guess, and finally a row of ropes dangling from the ceiling.

  In these unwelcoming surroundings stood three men whose tunics suggested that they belonged to the Royal Guard. They looked at me with a calm expression and then instructed the prison guards to tie me to a flat bench. My chains were loosened, only to be exchanged for the shackles of the bench. I lay there helplessly, trying not to panic. Panic would only make things worse, but it was undeniably already there. The ambience of this cellar had pushed its way into my mind.

  The face of a guardsman appeared above me. In a low tone he asked me, "You're one of Darrieux's people, aren't you?"

  "What?", I asked, dumbfounded.

  "Denial won't help, my boy. We've got you figured out. I mean, you and your sidekick, you revealed your intentions. It was really quite bumbling of you. First you start this conv
ersation with old Edwin in the tavern to get more information about us and then you break into our captain's home just like that. From the stolen letter, it was pretty easy to figure out that you belong to Darrieux."

  "What are you talking about?", I asked, completely puzzled.

  "You're not going to tell me that you don't remember the conversation with Edwin?"

  "Yes, yes, all right. I was talking to some old guardsman, but I have no idea who this bloody 'Darri...what do I know' is."

  The guardsman grinned all over his face. "Very convincing, you little bastard. I just don't believe you. Basically, you can tell me what you want regarding your superior. I'm only interested in one thing. Why do you first send us a message and then try to steal it from us again? Were you hoping we hadn't translated the French text yet? Or what are you guys about?

  "I don't know ..."

  "All right!" the guardsman now interrupted me in a louder tone. "Apparently you want us to be more specific in our questions." He turned to a prison guard and demanded, "Start with the red-hot irons!"

  I recognised the jailer moving to the fireplace and pulling out the handle of a long iron rod, the tip of which glowed bright yellow.

  "What are you doing?", I cried out fearfully. "Listen to me! I was in this house to steal some jewellery. That's all. You saw that we took a whole casket of the jewellery."

  "A red herring," laughed the guardsman.

  His behaviour made me angry. I didn't understand why he didn't believed me, and I still didn't understand what he thought I was. Was the whole thing a manoeuvre for the sole purpose of amusing the guards? Gradually it felt like that.

  "Why did you take the letter?" the royal guardsman suddenly shouted at me angrily.

  I realised that the guard with the iron was now standing over me as well. He grinned at me from above with his stupid face. Obviously this ugly guy didn't care at all what I had to say, he just wanted to see me suffer. The guardsman, however, wanted answers and I didn't know what those answers should be. All I knew was the truth.

  "I had some French lessons years ago," I said quickly. "When I rummaged through the chest of drawers for more treasures, all I found was this letter. Since the writing was French, I thought it would be interesting to read the whole letter to refresh my knowledge. That's all."

  "That story is so silly that not even your mother would buy it, lad!" the guardsman shouted at me. He nodded at the torturer and he ripped open my shirt and waved the iron menacingly. I felt the tremendous heat on my chest. I was seized by a wave of fear and quickly said, "I told you everything I know. Why do you want to torture me?" Tears streamed down my face.

  "Because those weren't the answers I wanted to hear," the guardsman shouted. "What are your fucking instructions? Why did Darrieux send you here? Why would you steal the letter? What does the letter say?"

  I was stunned and stammered. "But ... But ... I'm a thief, that's all. Just a thief. A thief."

  The guardsman shook his head and finally said quietly. "You should know that as a thief you will be executed tomorrow. However, if you tell us the truth, everything will go according to the rules."

  "What rules?" I asked, perplexed.

  "You wouldn't have it any other way," the man said angrily.

  At the same moment, such a wave of pain seized my consciousness that reality around me disappeared for a short time in a wide spectrum of colours. Only then was I able to shout.

  The torturer had placed the red-hot iron on my upper body. The smell of my own burnt flesh rose to my nostrils. My scream echoed through the room and I thought to myself that this was exactly the reaction I had feared. I didn't want to show any weakness, but the overwhelming pain was stronger than any will.

  Finally the iron was pushed away. I heard it fall to the floor with a loud clatter and the yell of the guardsman, which was directed at the guard: "You bloody idiot! I was just trying to scare him, you bastard. Pick up that iron and get out of here, you dog!"

  The prison guard stammeringly tried to apologise for his behaviour and finally trolled off. The guardsman bent over me and looked at the wound. "Well, given that pain you endured, I think you were telling the truth. You really don't work for Darrieux. So you'll be beheaded as normal, as befits a lousy thief like you."

  I only perceived the words droning in the back of my mind. It all seemed like a bad dream by now. The longish wound on my upper body hurt like hell and slowly I realised that I really only had a few hours to live.

  My shackles were loosened and the leg irons were fastened again. I endured all this without any movement. I was out of it and felt almost disembodied when I was taken back to my cell.

  Only a few more hours, I thought, then the axe would fall. Father, soon I would meet you in hell.

  Chapter 20

  "Oh God, the wound looks terrible," Richard said when I was sitting next to him in the cell again. "So this is what it looks like when a hot iron gets on human flesh. I bet there's a huge scar left."

  "Hardly," I retorted. "You've probably forgotten that we're going to be beheaded tomorrow."

  Richard slumped and a sinister shadow settled over his eyes. "So it's sealed then?"

  "Yes."

  I could barely move my arms without tears welling up in my eyes from pain, but all that was insignificant. I thought of my life and tried to imagine all that could have become of me had I not made the foolish mistake of joining the Club of Wolves.

  Richard tried to treat my wound with the meagre means available to him in this cell. He gently cleaned the wound with an old cloth, which must have come from the shirt of a previous inmate. He broke the silence, probably to distract me from the pain. "George, I've already told you where I'm from, but you haven't told me anything about yourself. Are your parents still alive?"

  "My parents are dead," I explained calmly. My father was a drunkard and a good-for-nothing who beat my mother and did the same to me. When I was twelve, a countess took me into her service, with whom I learned French and other things. At some point I returned home and got into a fight with my father, which ended with me killing him. They framed my mother for the murder and she was executed. That night I left the place of my birth and wandered the country until I eventually reached here."

  "You murdered your own father?" groaned Richard, stunned.

  "To protect my mother's life," I nodded. "I'm afraid I didn't quite succeed."

  "You know, George, I wouldn't have thought that of you. I thought you were a mixture of coward and mama's boy. And you're afraid of dogs, too, from what I hear."

  "That wasn't a dog, that was a beast," I justified myself, offended.

  Richard had to laugh and I couldn't help grinning too. That was all the pain would allow.

  At some point Richard became more serious again. "I can't help but think all the time what I would have done differently in my life if I had known that death was waiting for me after only fifteen years."

  "So, would you have done anything differently?"

  "Probably I would have thought less about everything. I would have liked, at least once, to have been with a woman. Have you been through anything like that, George?"

  "Well, I told you about this countess I was in the service of, didn't I? She didn't only teach me French."

  "Tell me more," Richard demanded eagerly, looking at me expectantly.

  ***

  The night dragged on. Actually, I had assumed that given the little time we had left, every single minute would be too short, but that was not the case.

  By dawn, I had told Richard every juicy detail he wanted to know. During the telling, I had realised how much I could enjoy such acts now. At the time, my immaturity had still overshadowed the unadulterated pleasure. If I had been able to get my hands on my countess now, I would probably have forbidden her to leave our bed for a whole week, just to keep doing her over and over again.

  Now there was nothing more to tell. This uneasy feeling of fear was constantly growing in my stomach. For others, th
e disappearing night might be a blessing, but for us, life ended with the first rays of the new day. It seemed to me that the air we could breathe was getting scarcer and scarcer. And indeed, it was not long before the first drum roll broke the silence of the disappearing darkness.

  I didn't shimmy up the window this time. Soon I would have a very exclusive view of the action anyway. After the announcer's words, a person was executed who had committed robbery-murder. The next poor devil was killed for burglary.

  More and more our time was running out. Every now and then I exchanged a glance with Richard and I discovered behind his serious eyes the same fear of death that I too was beginning to feel.

  Finally, when footsteps sounded in the corridor and two prison guards approached our cell door, at least the agony of waiting had ended. I looked at Richard and he calmly said to me, "Let's get this over with!" Pretty composed words for a fifteen year old.

  We were led down the narrow corridor past cells where other souls were waiting for their end. Meanwhile, I remembered my childhood. As we walked down the corridor, I had the smell of seaweed and salt water in my nose. I sat on my old cliff again and looked out to sea, imagining myself sailing away on a sailing ship and seeing foreign lands. Dreams that had never come true. Never in my life had I left England and never again would I be able to leave it.

  A small oak door opened in front of us. The place of execution became visible. I tried to remember my mother's face, a task I found increasingly difficult as the years passed. The past was fading so fast. The castle on the hill, Isabelle's countenance - these were things I remembered well, on the other hand. I wondered if I had loved her. Had I even been able to feel something like love back then? I would have liked to answer this question in the affirmative, but secretly I did not believe that I had ever felt anything more than admiration for her.