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

by Richard Bergen

  Now the last barrel was rolled down the slope and rolled with enormous speed towards the other barrels, where it came to an abrupt halt. The porters continued to roll the huge wine containers through a shallow door into the nearby building. There, an inclined plane led directly into a gloomy cellar. A wine cellar, I thought in astonishment. This fortress was really well equipped. No wonder the French King's Musketeers stayed here. From what I had heard, they were bon vivants and connoisseurs of the old school.

  When the last barrel of wine had disappeared into the dark entrance of the cellar, I climbed down from the carriage and thought nervously about how I could get closer to the barrels. I couldn't just walk behind the carriers without facing unpleasant questions.

  "Excusez-moi!", I was jolted out of my thoughts.

  A man in civilian clothes and with a serious face had stepped next to me. He was holding a paper with a list of the wine barrels written on it. He looked at it briefly and checked what was on it, then thrust a bag of coins into my hand.

  "Mercy!", I said and glanced into the bag. What I saw was quite respectable. I had to smile to myself as I realised that our deception had not only succeeded but had also yielded a profit.

  But what now? I was no doubt expected to get back on the carriage and leave the fortress. But I could not possibly do so. I had to find my companions, the only question was, how could I get into the wine cellar unnoticed?

  Immediately I thought of a way to extend my stay a little. I asked the man who had paid me off about the privy.

  He pointed in a direction that lay between two buildings of the courtyard. Immediately I went there. I did so in a hurry in order to create an impression of plausibility. At the same time, however, I looked around the area with curiosity. The buildings were of astonishing height, six to seven storeys high and crowned by towers. The windows were small like loopholes and the walls already looked old and crumbling. The building to my right seemed to serve as a residence, while the one to my left looked as if it had a great hall. This was indicated by the high casement windows. In the lower part of this building was the wine cellar and behind it was a smaller building that had probably been added later. Judging by the smells emanating from this building, it could only be the kitchen. I assumed that there must be a connection between the kitchen and the wine cellar.

  I walked all the way between the buildings and looked to the right. There I saw the stables, which were only made of several roofed beams and could only protect the horses from the rain. The horses, however, captured my attention. There were dozens of them and one was more beautiful than the other. They were slender, with nobly shaped heads, long manes and shiny grey coats, one like the other - no comparison to the ugly nags that had served as our means of transport on our journey so far.

  Somewhere here was the privy, I could smell it clearly, but I had no desire to go there. Instead, I looked at the kitchen building and noticed that there was a cart behind it from which some porters were unloading heavy sacks and carrying them into the kitchen. The opportunity could not have been more favourable.

  I went to the cart. The porters were too busy to notice me. I took advantage of a gap, grabbed one of the sacks as if it were a natural thing to do and threw it on my shoulder. I calmly followed the porter in front of me, holding the sack so that every kitchen worker could not look me in the face. Furtively, I looked around and realised that the kitchen was far larger than it had appeared from the outside. At least a dozen cooks and helpers were busy doing the work at hand and my mouth watered at the sight of them.

  Garlic and lettuce were being chopped at some countertops. In huge pots, sauces were prepared that smelled temptingly of the most diverse spices. Piglets were being turned over three fireplaces, their skin already shimmering crispy.

  Wonderful, I thought, but immediately became aware of the fact that I had not come here to eat. Unfortunately, I hadn't.

  I looked at the wall of the kitchen that adjoined the building behind and realised that I had been right in my assumption. There was indeed a passageway.

  I quickly put my load aside and crept towards the door with my head down. No one stood in my way when I opened it and disappeared behind it. There was a pungent smell of rotting stone, a smell of decay, age and death. I looked around quickly and realised that the corridor forked after a few feet. One staircase led up and one led down.

  I didn't have to think long about which direction to prefer. It didn't take a moment and I had reached the wine cellar. 'Cellar' was actually an understatement. This was more a vault than a cellar. Hundreds of barrels piled up in every direction of the room, which was the size of an entire ballroom.

  I felt quite different when I realised that my friends could be in any of these barrels. What if they had passed out or their barrel was buried under other barrels so they couldn't get out.

  I realised there was only one way to find them. I quickly looked towards the two entrances to the cellar to make sure I was on my own. Then I called out as softly as I could, "Richard, Wilbur! Where are you?"

  No answer.

  "Tom, Vincent!"

  A giggle rang out and made me breathe a sigh of relief. They were laughing, so they still existed. I didn't understand why they were laughing again, but the important point was that they had given some sign of life.

  I quickly made my way to the source of the laughter. The barrels were close to the entrance with the lid up. They should have been able to get themselves out of their position by now, I thought, and I hit one of the lids a few times. It came off so that I could lift it out.

  Now, as I looked inside the barrel, a cloud of booze scent hit me, almost robbing me of my senses. Glassy eyes gazed at me. Wilbur, in a very silly pose, grimaced and slurred: "He ... He ... Hello George! Ar ... Are you still here?"

  At this he burst into a sick laugh, which the other three in their barrels immediately joined in.

  Chapter 31

  I was in trouble. My four companions were drunk off their asses. Maybe it was the heat in the barrel or the abundance of red wine left in the barrels. In any case, I didn't have time to think about it, because the loud laughter of the four was guaranteed to attract someone's attention.

  "Come on, get out of there!", I demanded, and watched as Wilbur rose and clumsily tried to climb out of the barrel. He swung over the edge and then crashed to the ground like a stone. The fall must have caused pain, but Wilbur was still laughing like an idiot as he slowly picked himself up.

  The others, however, did not cut a better figure.

  Vincent seemed reasonably sober at first, but when he kept bursting into convulsive laughter, I realised that he couldn't help me either.

  Tom and Richard followed, with Richard looking at me with wide eyes and asking, "Ar ... Are we ... already there?"

  Suddenly I heard noises coming from the entrance.

  "Quick, hide behind the barrels!", I instructed the men.

  "Yes, let's hide behind the barrels!", Tom repeated with a grin.

  "That's great, that'll be fun," Vincent interjected. "And whose turn is it to catch?"

  "You," slurred Tom.

  "No, you," returned Vincent.

  "But it's always my turn. That ... that's not fair." They both laughed.

  The noises at the entrance were getting closer and closer and I was beginning to feel like I was caught in a bad dream.

  "Come on, behind the barrels!", I hissed at them again and pushed them into cover. Wilbur was still lying on the ground, grinning all over his face. So I rushed to him, helped him onto his feet and pulled him behind the nearest barrel.

  Not a moment too late, two Musketeers appeared in the doorway.

  "Did you hear that too?", I heard one of them say.

  "Yes, sounded like a laugh," the other agreed.

  "What did he say?", Wilbur asked me in a whisper, not having understood a word. I was already wondering at this smart question when I realised with horror that Wilbur was contorting his face to burst into anot
her fit of laughter.

  Immediately I put my hand over his mouth. In his condition he was in no position to resist.

  Closer and closer the Musketeers came, looking around suspiciously.

  "Well, I don't see anyone laughing here," one of them now said. "Let's get out of here!"

  "Yes. But first I have something urgent to do."

  Oh Jesus, it's all over now, I just felt.

  I retreated even further behind the barrel with Wilbur, but without taking my hand off his mouth.

  The blue tunic came into my view. I could clearly see the silver lily cross on the overhang and the shining rapier with the ornate hilt dangling from a sash. I hid myself completely in the shadow of the barrel, but I already sensed that it was over. We had been discovered.

  But just as I was about to get up and surrender, I noticed that the Musketeer was walking along, stopping only in front of a barrel with a rooster hammered into its wooden shell.

  The Musketeer took a cup and filled it, then emptied it in one go.

  "There, that had to be done urgently," he said now and returned to his companion.

  Together they left the vault.

  I can hardly describe how fortunate I felt at that moment. I was especially surprised that Vincent, Richard and Tom had remained quiet during the whole time. So I let go of Wilbur and went to where the others were hiding. What I found there immediately clarified things for me. Richard and Tom were lying on their backs and sleeping it off.

  Only Vincent had managed to stay awake. He grinned at me as I surveyed the scene and said, "French red wine, George. You should never underestimate such a beverage."

  At that moment, a shadow covered me. I turned around and spotted Wilbur. His massive figure staggered in my direction. He looked down at the ground, where he saw Richard's and Tom's asleep.

  "Sleeping," he muttered, "... good idea." At this he dropped like a stone to the floor and remained lying between Richard and Tom. Instantly he closed his eyes.

  Now Vincent burst into suppressed laughter. He pointed at Wilbur. "Isn't that funny, George? They are completely drunk, completely gone."

  "I'd think it was funny if we weren't in the middle of a French castle, surrounded by hundreds of battle-hardened Musketeers," I retorted crossly. "What's wrong with you guys anyway?"

  "Oh, it must have been the fumes in the barrel," Vincent explained, and I was amazed at how clearly the words rolled off his lips. "Or maybe it was the wineskin that Wilbur bottled earlier ... But I don't believe thaaaaat."

  "Are you sober again?"

  "Yes, I'm doing quite well again, hihihi."

  "Really?"

  "Yes I am, George. I've always been able to take more than Wilbur and Tom." But he couldn't help a short chuckle even now.

  "All right, then," I said. "Then tell me what we have to do now. After all, since you and your pals have always kept quiet, I don't know the first thing."

  "Well, we have to look for it, George. We have to look for it and find it. And then we'll take it with us."

  "What!?", I now snapped at him in anger. I grabbed him by the collar and could barely stop myself from shouting. "In God's name, tell me something already!"

  Vincent grinned, "You know, George, when you get angry like that, you look really weird," he said in response, shaking with laughter.

  I would have loved to beat the truth out of him, I was so upset. The uncertainty about our destination was gradually taking my mind away.

  When Vincent had calmed down a bit, he said to me: "All right, George, follow me! Then you'll see what we're looking for. Tom gave me directions."

  This answer satisfied me at last. So I decided to trust Vincent and follow him.

  "Is that the way to the kitchen?" he asked me, pointing in the direction of the stairs.

  "Yes," I said, a little surprised at how quickly Vincent had regained his composure.

  "Are there stairs going up from there to the building above us?"

  "Yes."

  "Then Tom was right. Come on, George!" Full of energy, he rose and headed in the direction indicated.

  "And the others?" I asked as I followed him.

  "Let them stay behind and sleep it off. They won't be found down here. Come on, let's go!"

  We reached the stairs and entered the kitchen corridor, from where more steps led into the building above us. Quietly we climbed up. However, Vincent often stumbled and had to hold on to the stone wall.

  "I guess you're not as sober as you thought," I said.

  "Maybe you're right," Vincent snorted and I feared he would be shaken by another laughing fit. But our task kept him serious. There was no end to the narrow steps. We must have made quite some height by the time we saw the next door.

  "Do you hear that too?", I asked my companion, when suddenly distant singing and bawling reached my ear. Quietly we closed the massive door behind us.

  Vincent nodded thoughtfully and led me down a long corridor that led to another door. So far we hadn't seen a soul and that made me suspicious. Where were all the Musketeers this place was supposed to be full of?

  Without hesitation, Vincent opened the door in front of us.

  Now the singing and bawling reached our ears loud and clear. We stepped through the door and found ourselves on a narrow walkway that ran above a huge castle hall.

  Below us we saw the source of the roaring. The hall was furnished with several large, massive tables and benches, and on these benches, whole armies of bluecoats were romping about.

  "Musketeers, I hate these guys," Vincent groaned quietly and contemptuously.

  They were about to hold an orgy-like feast. The delicious smell of roasting meat rose up. The tables bent under the weight of several suckling pigs, which were not being cut up - no, they were chopped in two with swords and ate limbs and pieces of meat as a whole. The red wine flowed down the men's throats in streams and some of them sang loudly an offensive song. I saw one of them accosting a maid, "Well, how about us, little girl?"

  She refused his offer and tried to make her way to the next table. But he dragged her close and forcefully kissed her fear-distorted face.

  "What disgusting brutes!" whispered Vincent beside me. "Unlike the Scottish Guardsmen, amongst the Musketeers a title of nobility is essential to be admitted. So this is quite a fine company you see before you. All posh aristocrats."

  Meanwhile, a couple of other Musketeers were having fun repeatedly poking one of their fellow Musketeers head first into a wine cask. He could hardly breathe, but that didn't spoil the fun for the others.

  So these rowdy drunkards were the much-vaunted Musketeers, I thought to myself. What I saw here made them fall greatly in my esteem. Even the members of the Club of the Wolves had better manners than these characters.

  The closer I observed them, the more I noticed that one of the Musketeers was completely restrained. He had indeed had something to eat, but he was the only one who sat apart, keeping away from wine, women and singing. In a way, his proud bearing elevated him above the others. This had to be their leader.

  "Hey, Jacques!" one of his tipsy fellows now bawled to him. He had a maid sitting on his lap, who did not resist his intrusive physical contact. The Musketeer's hands had already disappeared into her well-filled cleavage. "Madeleine would like to know why you are holding back so much. I have the unmistakable feeling that she would rather be fingered by you than by me. Shall I leave her to you, Captain?"

  The addressed man looked sharply at the drunken Musketeer and narrowed his eyes slightly. "Hold your tongue, Mariac, or I'll cut it out!" He spoke slowly but threateningly. "If I feel like a harlot, I'll find one. Make sure you leave with that wench and don't you dare speak to me like that again!"

  The words had crept across Jacque's lips in an icy, emotionless flow of speech, but the effect on Mariac was devastating. Like a whipped dog, he retreated from the banquet hall with his escort.

  "What was that about?" Vincent asked me with interest.

  "The gu
y's name is Jacques and he's their captain. Guess he's not a nice fellow to have around."

  Vincent looked down for a while, examining the Musketeer's slender, youthful face. The skin was very pale, the hair black, long and neatly combed back. The eyes were a very bright glacial blue. He was far too young to be the captain and yet he held that position. "I have a bad feeling about this Jacques. Something tells me we should be wary of him." Then Vincent turned to his right and urged me, "Come on now!"

  We moved along the walkway to another door. Cautiously Vincent opened it and I recognised that behind it there was a narrow spiral staircase.

  We climbed up this staircase that would not end. Soon my head was also spinning from all the turns. My legs ached when at last there was an end in sight. We stepped through a door into the open air and for a moment I felt sick to my stomach. We were on a narrow wooden bridge that led from our building to the second house of the courtyard. Below us opened up a chasm that must have been over fifty feet deep. A fresh high-altitude wind ruffled my hair. I could see people from above and they seemed small and insignificant from this perspective. Some distance away I saw a cart being loaded with piles of fresh grasses by a couple of workers. Above our heads stretched an impressive starry sky. Night had fallen in the meantime and only a red streak of light on the horizon announced the fading day.

  "George, come on!" Vincent demanded and I followed him over the swaying footbridge.

  As we were in a hurry, I didn't have time to let the feelings of fear run wild. Before I could think about these feelings, we had already reached the other building. Vincent opened the door and we were again faced with a spiral staircase, but it was leading downwards.

  "Where are we actually going?", I asked.

  "You'll see for yourself in a moment, George. Be patient a bit longer!"

  The tension was mounting, because at last I was going to find out why we had gone to this country in the first place and why we had accepted all these dangers for our lives.

  The stairs ended at a door, which Vincent now opened, saying solemnly, "And here it is, George."