Reluctantly, the other two Guardsmen opened their eyes.
"What's the matter?" asked Wilbur contritely.
"Richard and George are back," Tom explained. "And they have good news." He turned to me and asked almost anxiously, "You do have good news, don't you?"
I did not answer promptly, for it seemed only fair to make him tremble a little.
"What now?" asked Tom.
"Yes, we do," I answered and saw Tom exhale in relief.
"Let me see!" he now demanded. I took out ink, pen and paper from my doublet. Immediately he grabbed the paper from me and ran over the first words. "It's in French."
"Of course," I said, grinning. "Madame is a Frenchwoman, after all."
"Then translate it right now!"
I began to realise that I had a trump card in my hand and that I should play it. "I will," I replied firmly. "If you will tell me what we are actually looking for."
Tom looked at me in complete disbelief for a while before bursting into a convulsive laugh. "You ... you want to blackmail me?" he asked, laughing even louder.
"Since that seems to be the only way to finally get the whole truth, I'll have to say yes to your question."
Tom nodded briefly at Wilbur and before I could even understand what he could mean by that, I felt the bare steel of a dagger against my throat.
"I suggest you translate," Tom now said impatiently, "and do it now!"
"I have to admit, your arguments are very strong," I stammered. Wilbur released me and I cursed my own stupidity now. It should have been obvious to me that the Guardsmen would have to respond with violence to an attempt at blackmail. But all was not yet lost.
"How do you know I'm translating correctly?", I asked with a grin. "Wouldn't you rather tell us the truth?"
Tom now said slowly and firmly, "If you're lying, we'll find out at our destination and then you'll immediately have Wilbur's blade on your throat again, so you'd better tell us the truth right away!"
That convinced me. I decided to stop working against my companions and translate the truth to them. I took the first sheet and read aloud: "Quick, my husband is coming home, dearest ..."
The Guardsmen laughed themselves half to death in the following minutes while I listed all the madame's lovers to them. Only at the end did they become serious and listened fascinated.
When I had finished my report, Vincent clapped his hands exuberantly. "Fabulous!" he said. "So we have to go to Count Rappeneau's castle."
"Let's get on the road!" ordered Tom, and without further ado we headed for the horses.
Chapter 29
It was hard for me not to fall off the horse from tiredness during the day's journey and I realised that Richard was suffering from the same condition. His eyes were closing at least as often as mine and so we hardly had a chance to focus on the surroundings. It was just the same dull scene anyway. Forests replacing fields and small rivers without bridges. I was beginning to find this France downright boring, but that was probably mostly due to my exhaustion. My whole body was longing for a little rest. I didn't even really need a bed. Hard stone floors would have been just as welcome in those hours.
Sometime towards the end of the day, when Tom raised his hand to order us to halt, I pretty much didn't even care. I recognised, as if through a mist, that he announced: "We've almost made it. Tonight we'll encamp here and then we'll figure out how to get past the two Musketeer units."
I heard only the word 'encamp' and when I had dismounted I immediately lay down at the new camp site and fell asleep. A second deluge could have swallowed the earth, I would have slept on.
***
By the time I awoke, the first beams of the early morning sun had spread over the countryside. My head was clear and I immediately heard Tom's voice, speaking calmly and deliberately: "I am already familiar with Count Rappeneau's castle. Musketeers were prepared for combat here last year," he told Wilbur, Vincent and Richard, who were sitting around an extinguished campfire.
"I have also seen this castle from the inside," he continued. "It is more like a fortress with a moat, drawbridge and battlements. At that time, I had the task, together with some other Guardsmen, of scouting this place and gaining important knowledge about French fighting techniques. The Musketeer corps had just been founded and the King wanted to know what kind of opponents we would have to deal with. At the time, we broke in there at night with the use of ladders and ropes and entrenched ourselves in a secret hiding place. During the day we secretly watched the French practising their shooting and hand-to-hand combat, and the next night we left.
However, no two units were gathered there at that time. So if it is really there, Darrieux's men will be there in dozens. They will have posts on the battlements and keep the drawbridge pulled up all the time. So at night we will hardly get in there unnoticed."
"How then?" asked Wilbur.
"Yes, how then?" repeated Tom, stretching. It took a bit of a while before anyone came up with a useful thought. That came from Vincent and was greeted with general approval. So we headed off to make that plan work. We left the horses back and went by foot to the next road.
The three Guardsmen had hidden their swords under their shabby cloaks and hardly spoke to each other as they walked. Not long and we reached the road. Now it was time to wait. Again.
It took quite a while before we saw two riders approaching in the distance. When we could see that they were wearing blue tunics with a cross, Tom immediately said, "Hide!"
Immediately we rushed into the nearby bushes and hid until the riders had passed our position.
"Musketeers!" uttered Wilbur, stunned. "Those bastards are actually all over this place."
I recalled the image of the horsemen again briefly, thinking to myself, so these were musketeers. So that's what the famous guards of the King of France looked like. They looked a lot like our Guardsmen, I thought. But I preferred to keep this view to myself.
When the riders had completely disappeared, we went back up the road and waited again.
The next passer-by was much more in line with our demands. A lousy peasant came by on a big hay cart pulled by two old horses.
When he was at our level and looked at us through his simple-minded face, I went up to him and asked what Tom had told me to ask before: "Où est-ce que tu vas?"
"A l'église," he replied, and I waved him off.
Immediately the peasant slammed down the reins and drove on.
"Not our way," I said to Tom, feeling as disappointed as he was.
It soon looked as if Vincent's plan was not quite as good as it had seemed before. But unfortunately there were no alternatives to that plan. So we continued to wait until late in the afternoon when another vehicle appeared at the end of the road and passed us.
"Où est-ce que tu vas?", I asked immediately.
"Nulle part," replied the coachman hostilely.
"What is he saying?" asked Wilbur now, and when the coachman heard the English language, undisguised fear filled his face.
"He says nowhere."
"This is the right one," Tom said quickly, noticing that the coachman was about to give the whip to the horses. "Get him!"
Immediately Vincent and Wilbur ran after the carriage, jumped on the coach-box and knocked the poor man down.
The Frenchman fell down from the coach-box into the dust, while Vincent bridled the horses.
"Do you always act like this?" I asked Tom, who was standing next to me, smiling.
"When it suits our own needs, any time, George. You will learn that too."
The carriage had now stopped and we all made our way to it.
"Well done!" praised Tom to his chums, and jumped onto the coach-box. On the loading area behind him stood six gigantic barrels.
"Now I know exactly how to get into the castle," Vincent said gleefully. He gave the horses the whip and let them run off the road, a little into the forest. Here we were out of sight of any unwelcome scouts.
"How do we g
et into the castle?", I asked immediately.
Vincent grinned broadly, jumped onto the loading platform and tapped the lid of one of the huge barrels. Now he took his rapier, turned it around and struck the massive pommel with full force against the wooden lid.
It shifted a little, but it still held. However, the second blow robbed it of its last powers of resistance. The wooden lid fell inwards and splashed into a red liquid.
"Just as I thought," Vincent laughed. "Wine!"
"Wine?" asked Wilbur curiously.
"Wine!" Tom exclaimed.
Before I could even understand what was going on here, Wilbur had already pulled a cup out of his pocket and filled it with the red liquid.
He placed it to his mouth with gusto and sipped. "Indeed!" he commented. "This swill is indeed of exquisite quality."
"Let's see if your words are truthful!" Tom snatched the cup from him to give his own a good swig of the wine. "You are indeed right, Wilbur. I have not drunk such wonderful wine for years. I'm sure it's meant for the Musketeers."
"Now let's see whether you are right!" said Vincent, after he too had tasted a cup. He jumped from the carriage and went to the coachman, who had in the meantime got up somewhat dazedly. Vincent quickly drew his sword and held it under the poor man's chin.
"Mon Dieu," the coachman stammered, looking anxiously at Vincent.
"Ask him where he should take his cart!", Vincent urged me.
I pretended to be beside the driver and did as Vincent told to me.
"Fortresse de Rappeneau," the coachman replied, closing his eyes in anticipation of the upcoming kick.
"What do we do with him now?", I asked Vincent, already guessing the answer.
"We do to him what we must," said the guardsman gravely.
"You don't mean we ..."
"Yes, that's exactly what I mean," Vincent declared gloomily. He looked at the coachman long and sadly, cocked the arm with the flashing blade for the killing blow. Then, in one swift movement, he lowered the blade and gave him a murderous hook with his left that sent the coachman unconscious to the ground.
Suddenly I heard a loud laughter behind me.
"Hey, George!" shouted Wilbur, who was still standing on the carriage next to the barrel. "Won't you try a sip of this excellent red wine?"
I instantly had to think back to the London tavern and the nausea that had accompanied the drinking binge. A second time I could quietly do without the experience. "No, no," I said. "I can't stand swill like that."
Wilbur laughed uproariously. "And you want to be a guardsman one day? As a servant of the crown, you must be able to drink above all else. Or do you want to make a mockery of yourself?" He laughed again and poured another cup down his throat.
Apparently the intoxicating effect was already setting in on him, because he made awkward movements and had to hold on to the edge of the barrel when he put the cup down again.
"All right, men!" now announced Tom. "Let's not get ourselves in over our heads. Remember, we have a mission to accomplish and we don't want to do it in a drunken state."
Wilbur's laughter ended abruptly in a long-drawn burp. Then he nodded as he realised Tom was right.
Vincent, who did not seem to be bothered in the least by the wine, went back to the coachman, who had been knocked unconscious, and dragged him under the wagon. He then looked up where he could reach the underside of the open barrel through some gaps in the boards.
I saw him take his dagger and strike the bottom of the barrel strongly several times. Immediately, streams of red wine ran down into the sand and soaked the dry ground. But they also soaked the coachman lying there, who woke up with a snort before the red swill flowed down his throat.
"What a pity about that good stuff," sighed Wilbur next to me, shaking his head sadly. "You won't find such good wine in any English tavern. I envy that coachman."
"What are you doing?", I now asked, somewhat confused.
Vincent calmly explained, "We have to make sure that this guy doesn't run straight to Rappeneau's castle and warn everyone. So we'll keep him quiet for a while."
When the barrel had completely run out, the coachman turned sideways with a groan, but then lay there unconscious. I had thought that the wine had drowned him, but apparently a terrible headache would be his only injury, if he ever woke up again.
Vincent now made an inviting gesture in our direction. We boarded the carriage and Vincent pointed to the barrel, gallantly saying, "After you."
"That's your plan?", I asked, puzzled.
"Have you heard of the Trojan Horse, George?" he grinned. "This method here may not be so spectacular, but it is all the more effective. And one more thing, George. Be wary of the Musketeers. They are downright treacherous in their malice."
Wilbur and Tom had opened and knocked over three more barrels. The wine flooded the mossy forest ground. As soon as the barrels had emptied, they put them back on the carriage. I watched as first Wilbur and Tom each got into their own barrel and then Richard into another.
"And who is to drive the carriage?", I asked as Vincent climbed into the crushing tightness of the first barrel.
"Someone who can speak French, of course," Vincent declared with a laugh, slamming the lid of the barrel over his head.
"What am I supposed to say to the fucking gate guards?", I called after him in confusion.
"You'll think of something," Vincent's voice came muffled from the barrel.
I shrugged resignedly, handed the whip to the horses and headed back onto the road.
Chapter 30
It was not at all easy to steer this carriage. In earlier times, I had always thought that the work of a coachman was easy. It always seemed as if you just sat lazily on the coach box and cracked the whip every now and then. But it wasn't that simple. The horses had either conspired against me or had always been so stubborn. In any case, they never let themselves be steered in the direction I indicated with my reins. Usually only one horse reacted and the other balked. The carriage sometimes touched the right, sometimes the left side of the road, only I didn't find the middle.
But as the time went by, I got the hang of it. I was hardly allowed to steer them at all, then they were satisfied and trotted straight ahead. So I just held my reins loosely in my hand and avoided using the whip altogether, just to be on the safe side.
I looked at the countryside that passed me by with interest. The woods gave way to scrubland and this changed into a wide grassy heath. The afternoon sun burned hotly on the ground and made me break out in a sweat. I seriously wondered in the face of this heat whether my companions in the barrels were still alive. Again and again I toyed with the idea of just checking, but I told myself that the Guardsmen were tough guys and would open the barrels themselves if it proved necessary.
The path led me through the grassland for another half an hour before I saw the massive walls of the fortress towering in front of me. In contrast to these imposing walls, the Château de Darrieux looked like a peasant's house.
The Rappeneau castle had the size of a mountain. Towers rose from the high defensive walls like threatening fists and a gigantic gate with a metal grille gave the impression that the fortress was a predator waiting for its prey. And I was not supposed to think about who the prey was.
I came closer and closer to the ominous entrance and the closer I got, the more details I could identify. The walls and towers no longer made the most well-kept impression. Holes and rotten beams were visible in many places, but the fortress still served its purpose, as the numerous muzzles of huge cannons protruding from various embrasures proved. An attack on these walls would have been a risky undertaking even for an experienced army. To my horror, the castle courtyard, which could be seen through the open gate, was filled with bluecoats.
If the Musketeers were indeed the declared arch-enemies of the Scottish Guardsmen, I thought, it did not look good for my companions in the barrels. Not good at all.
As I drove my carriage up onto the lo
wered drawbridge, I was immediately met by two Musketeers who scowled at me.
"Halt! Who are you?"
I replied that I was bringing the wine delivery they had ordered.
When the Musketeers heard this, their faces brightened. "Ah, come in!" they demanded exuberantly.
I swiftly gave the horses the whip and drove the wagon into the courtyard. As I did so, my feelings were divided. While one part of me was happy about the successful deception, another part felt as if I had fallen into a trap. Wasn't the idea of the Trojan barrels not too simple?
I was not given much time to think about it, however, because immediately a few porters came out of one of the buildings inside the fortress and started to work on the barrels.
They folded down the rear wall of the carriage and leaned two massive wooden poles against it. A couple of them now went to the platform, where they tipped the first barrel to one side and rolled it down the slope.
Oh my God, I thought. I wouldn't have swapped places with my mates for anything in the world. What must it feel like to be rolled around in a barrel? First the merciless heat and now this! I felt sorry for my companions, but I did not see myself in a position to help them. What I could do was wait and see what would happen.
The barrels must have been of enormous weight, for the porters were soon panting with exertion and contorted their faces when it came to tipping and rolling the barrels. I was expecting the lid of some barrel to break and one of the men to roll out, but nothing like that happened. I only heard a very slight muffled laugh.
I was petrified in shock. I hoped fervently that the porters might not have heard the noise. I begged God to perform a miracle and strike the ears of the carriers with deafness. In some way my supplication was answered. None of the porters had heard the sound, they just continued with their tedious work.
Only now was I able to wonder why someone in the barrel had laughed. None of this seemed very funny to me, and it couldn't have seemed very funny to the men either. Had they lost their minds in the meantime? In any case, this thought was not completely absurd.
Guardsmen of the King: A Historical Adventure Novel (George Glen's Adventures Book 1) Page 16
