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

by Richard Bergen

  I looked into the large room beyond and saw nothing. There was nothing there at all. The damn room was empty. There was just a hay-covered sand floor and several wooden troughs. But apart from that, the room was empty.

  "What is that supposed to mean? Are you trying to make a fool of me?", I immediately snapped at Vincent, but one look at his stunned, pale face told me that wasn't his intention.

  "Damn it, it's not there. Damn it!"

  I was about to ask him what the hell he was talking about when he rushed off. I had to run to avoid losing him as he opened another door of the room and prudently stepped out into the courtyard. I followed him, wondering why he was now taking such a risk. What if the Musketeers caught us right now?

  In fact, two bluecoats were also just coming booted around a corner.

  Vincent slowed his pace and strolled on as if he were a normal working man with nothing to do at the moment. But it was probably less Vincent's skill at camouflage that kept us afloat than the fact that the Musketeers were drunk as hell and staggering past us like two straws in the wind.

  I breathed a sigh of relief, but Vincent did not take this moment. He stormed through the entrance at the second building into the wine cellar, where he immediately searched for our sleeping companions behind the barrels. When I finally reached Vincent, he was busy shaking Tom out of his sleep.

  He opened his eyes shortly afterwards and said unwillingly, "What's the matter?"

  Richard and Wilbur had also woken up due to the noise and were holding their humming skulls.

  "It's not there, Tom," said Vincent, barely suppressing his bewilderment.

  "What are you saying?" now asked Tom in dismay.

  "If I do say so, it's not here."

  "Then they've taken it away already?" asked Wilbur.

  "They must be more careful than we thought," said Tom dejectedly, holding a hand against his aching temple. "Oh God, this bloody wine!" he cursed. "What was going on earlier anyway? I don't remember anything."

  "Let George tell you!" said Vincent. "He's the only one who witnessed it in his right mind."

  "I'll tell you," I said. "But first, please tell me what this 'it' is that you keep talking about!"

  "This 'it' has a name," Tom now said calmly. "André de Bellegarde. And it is a stallion."

  Chapter 32

  "A horse?", I now uttered, completely perplexed." Really? A horse? I believed we were on a mission here that was of the greatest importance to England. I believed we had to save the King's life or prevent a war or such. But all this was about is a stupid horse?"

  It was hard to suppress my anger. I had put my life at risk for this quest, lost a molar, and endured mortal fear over and over again. And all this because of just a horse? Over a stupid nag?

  "We spent weeks in the saddle, sitting our asses off looking for a stupid horse," I continued, stunned. "We almost got killed on the wall of the Darrieux Castle. Shortly after, one of the madame's lovers could have blown us into the afterlife, and all for a horse?"

  "Hey, calm down!" now Vincent demanded, shaking me by the shoulder.

  "What ... what horse?", I now heard the familiar voice of Richard, who was the last to wake up from his drunken slumber.

  Tom, meanwhile, looked at me calmly. "Not just any horse, George. André de Bellegarde is the most sought-after breeding stallion in all of France. This horse is an extraordinary animal. There are legends surrounding this horse. They say there are only three or four men in the world capable of riding it. It has such an indomitable temperament that it has almost always resisted the countless attempts to tame it. It throws everyone off. It lashes out and it bites."

  "It bites?"

  "Oh, yes. It has put several experienced riders to death this way, but still it is coveted and admired like no other horse. It is the noblest animal that has ever belonged to its kind, and we are here to steal it for our King. For the glory of England."

  "That's rubbish," I retorted angrily. "You don't mean to tell me that the King sends his best Guardsmen to steal a stud."

  "That's not rubbish. Look around you, George! Do you think this place is full of Musketeers because there's nothing to hide?"

  He was right about that, but something else struck me. "The horse isn't even here."

  "We've noticed that too. They probably found out about our plan and moved it away from here."

  I shook my head again. "I don't understand. Why does our King want this stallion? Doesn't he have noble horses of his own?"

  "He does, but not as fine as André de Bellegarde. You don't know the background, George. The kings of France and England have been vying with each other for ages, for our countries are about equal in strength and power. So each king wants to be the superior. As soon as a new fashion is introduced at the French court, it also finds its way into the English court. And a very popular topic is also who has the best horse breeding. Until now, this has always been the French royal house, but that is about to change. With this horse, we can establish a whole new breed in England."

  "It is that important to the King?"

  "Oh indeed. This is about much more than satisfying the vanity of a monarch. It's about English greatness and English pride. This is not just a horse for us to steal. It's a symbol of England's strength, if we can pull it off. Do you understand that, George?"

  "Do the French know about our plan?"

  Tom raised his head slightly. "Well, they were supposed to be unaware. But given the Musketeers gathered here and the fact that they've already taken the horse away, I think they've been warned about us."

  "Warned? Who?"

  "I really don't know. It couldn't have been you guys, because your always been around us. Maybe it was Vincent's mistress."

  "Better not accuse Josephine, my friend!" threatened Vincent his leader.

  "Then let's not," Tom said, shrugging his shoulders. "It doesn't matter, in fact. All we know is that the French know about us. We shouldn't waste our thoughts on that, but rather think about the future. We have to find out somehow where they took the horse. We need clues."

  "The stable!" said Vincent.

  Richard and Wilbur stood up now and joined us. Cautiously we made our way to the exit of the wine cellar and peered outside. We waited until a group of Musketeers had passed the courtyard and then ran as fast as we could over to the building that Vincent and I had left just a short time before. The door was still open, so we could easily get inside.

  "Why didn't we take this short route earlier?" I asked Vincent quietly.

  "If the horse had still been there, I'm sure guards would have blocked the entrance," he explained.

  Tom and Wilbur, meanwhile, were looking at the floor of the room as if it were a sanctuary. Richard leaned against a wall, yawning, and closed his eyes. The fact that he had similar problems with booze as I did reassured me a bit.

  "Yes, he was here!" said Tom, crouching down. I saw him poking around in some horse droppings with a stick, beaming all over his face.

  "He hasn't been gone for long," he then said. "These horse droppings are still moist."

  "Well, not all is lost then," Wilbur commented delightedly.

  "But what's the point?" commented Vincent. "We know he's gone, but we don't know in which direction."

  "Clues," Tom repeated broodingly. "We need clues badly."

  "A book, for instance?" asked Wilbur.

  "Yes, why do you ask?"

  "Because there's one there." With that, Wilbur pointed to a table at the back of the room where a thick book, open, decorated the tabletop. We went there without a second thought and looked at the piece of work.

  "George, I guess your talents are in need once more," Tom now said. "Translate for us what it says!"

  "It seems to be a book on horse breeding," I explained.

  "Excellent," Tom agreed."Translate the open page!"

  I cleared my throat and started:

  "Bellegarde horses are warm-blooded horses accustomed to the vast plains and forests
north of the Loire. Unlike many southern horse breeds, the Bellegarde horses are of almost indomitable ferocity and strength. Men who succeed in riding such noble horses belong to the elite of the equestrian world.

  The Bellegarde horse is also known to behave aggressively towards strangers. There are many biters among the members of this breed and the victims of kicking hooves are uncounted in this horse breed. Nevertheless, the Bellegarde horse is very popular, because once broken in, it is a tremendously fast racehorse and is also able to learn the high art of riding school without any problems.

  However, it is very choosy when it comes to food. It does not eat everything that is put in front of it. Most Bellegarde horses prefer the clover from their home country and it is not uncommon for stallions in particular to touch nothing but this favourite food. This, of course, makes it difficult to breed these horses in other regions …"

  "Stop!" interrupted Tom. "If they have to supply this horse with native clover, then it is most likely that they will send whole wagonloads of this clover to the animal's location. That way we should be able to pick up the trail, surely?"

  "Yes!" it now escaped me. "I saw a wagon loaded with some green stuff like that in the yard earlier."

  "Some green stuff like that?" asked Tom. "Was it clover?"

  "I was too far away to make it out, but it might indeed have been clover."

  "Good, lead us there!" now Vincent demanded.

  I went to the door and was about to step out into the courtyard when I heard a whole horde of Musketeers running nervously across the place. Some of the men carried torches so that they could see something in the darkness. The shadows of the others crept along the castle walls like startled ghosts.

  "That carriage that brought the wine barrels is still there," one shouted. "Only the coachman is missing."

  "An unwanted intruder?" asked another.

  "Search the place! I want you to find this man."

  "That was more like a boy, from what Roul told me"

  "Very suspicious!" commented the next.

  The Musketeers swarmed out like bees leaving their hive. One of them was also coming towards our door, so I quickly closed it and called out to the others. "Quick, we have to take the stairs."

  We hurried to the spiral staircase and took two steps at a time to get to the top. Richard, who was running ahead of me, however, showed signs of fatigue after only a few steps.

  "I can't go on, George!" he complained.

  But I did not allow his tiredness. "Go! Keep running!", I hissed at him. His steps quickened again.

  This spiral staircase would and would not end. On the way down, it had seemed nowhere near as long.

  "George, are they after us?", Wilbur asked me, as I was running at the end of our group.

  I concentrated on the sounds behind me, and then heard some rapid volleys of French words which I could not understand, but which had the biting sound of orders. "Yes," I said then. "Hurry up! I think they're catching up."

  At last we reached the door that led out onto the wooden bridge. Vincent pushed it open at once and staggered onto the swaying planks. Wilbur and Tom followed. I felt a sinking feeling as I watched the decrepit wood crunching under the weight of the three men. When Richard hurried after them and the bridge was still holding, I concluded that it was safe to cross. I could not hesitate too long, for our pursuers were close on our heels. Consequently, I quickly hurried after Richard. I tried not to look into the abyss, for that would only have brought to mind the possibility of a fall.

  Just as I was standing in the middle of the bridge and had to hold out for a while because the men in front of me had not made the necessary progress, suddenly a tremendous crash started. I looked around for the source of the sound and was horrified to realise that the source of the sound was below me.

  Now everything happened very fast. The bridge simply broke in two in the middle. While one part plunged into the depths and shattered into a thousand pieces on the ground, the other part remained hanging at an angle on the wall. Thank God I was also hanging from this part. At the last moment I had caught hold of one of the cross-braces, from which I was now dangling with both arms. My legs were rowing freely in the air.

  I didn't want to, but I couldn't resist a look into the depths. What I saw there, however, made me even more afraid than I already had been. This was less due to the height than to the fact that a whole line of Musketeers was looking up at us and pointing wildly.

  They had spotted us and would now come immediately to arrest us.

  "Come on, George!" now shouted Vincent.

  With the utmost effort I pulled myself onto the still intact part of the bridge and moved with extreme caution along the beams to the safe hold of the building.

  "We have to get out of here!", Tom shouted to me. "If we fall into the hands of the French, it's over."

  "Over?", I asked in surprise as we hurriedly ran down the stairs of the building. "Do you suppose they'd kill us right away? Breeding stallion or not, it's just about a horse. It may be a symbol of France's strength, but that's no reason to kill us."

  Tom was too busy with his rapid descent to reply. So Wilbur answered in his place, "This isn't just about the horse, George. It's about us being Guardsmen and them being Musketeers. There is a deep enmity between us."

  "Hey, hey! Wait a minute!", I said now. "Are you saying I'm going to bite the dust just because you have a little feud to settle?"

  "You got it."

  We now reached the walkway above the hall where the booze-up had taken place. Now, however, the hall was empty. Only the remains of the feast were still scattered everywhere. Bones adorned the floor and it smelled of spilt wine.

  We made our way down a flight of stairs into the hall and looked around in amazement. There was not a single soul around. Where were the Musketeers?

  "I have a bad feeling," Vincent said softly.

  "Oh, if you have a bad feeling, we usually look death straight in the face," Wilbur replied.

  "What now?" Richard had been keeping a very low profile for the last few minutes.

  "We go out through the wine cellar and the kitchen," Tom explained, "there we will try ..."

  "You won't try anything!" a voice shouted in English. Only a strong accent suggested a French origin to this voice.

  Through a door the Musketeer leader had entered the room and was now watching us triumphantly. Meanwhile, Musketeers appeared in all entrances to the hall, their rapiers drawn and steadily approaching. There had to be at least two dozen men and none of them seemed to be in a good mood.

  "So we've caught you!" now Jacques stated, walking slowly up and down in front of us. "The Guardsmen of the King of England?"

  "You are correct, sire." Tom assumed the responsibility of a leader. "Our rapiers serve the crown."

  "The false crown, I mean."

  "No, the only true one."

  "Enough of this chatter!" said Jacques, slightly annoyed, and said to his men, "Emprisoners!"

  Immediately a few of the Musketeers came marching up to our little group and demanded with open hands that we hand over our rapiers.

  "Well, well, well," Wilbur said and called out to Jacques. "As a servant of your crown, you ought to know that a Guardsman must never do one thing above all others - hand over his sword. But if you are eager to make acquaintance with my blade, I have a better idea." With that, Wilbur drew his rapier and let the flashing blade swing into the round, ready for battle.

  Immediately five Musketeers rushed at him and struck at Wilbur with their thrusting weapons. But Wilbur knew how to defend himself brilliantly. He escaped the onslaught and struck back. Shortly afterwards, all hell broke loose in the hall. Tom and Vincent had also drawn their heavy thrusting swords and immediately found themselves surrounded by several attackers. They fought off the superior numbers, using tricks and feints that I had never seen before. One Frenchman after another went down wounded.

  Richard and I had quickly pressed towards the wall at th
e outbreak of the fight, where we hoped to be safe.

  "Look at them fight!" exclaimed Richard, fascinated, pointing at our rapier-wielding friends.

  "Yes, they are holding their own. If only we could help them."

  "We can," Richard declared, smiling as I looked at him uncomprehendingly.

  Now I noticed how he pulled out two swords from a holder on the wall. These weapons obviously served as ornaments and were already somewhat blunt, but they were weapons. Without a second thought, I grasped the heavy metal handle and threw myself furiously into the fray. My rapier whizzed down and hit a Musketeer, who was looking in another direction, in the shoulder. I swung around to slay the nearest opponent when a shrill clang ended the rush of my blade. I looked up at the man who had crossed blades with me and recognised Jacques.

  "Not so hasty, my friend!" he now said. "You have plenty of time to die."

  "You have not," I returned boldly, and thrust the rapier towards his throat.

  Absolutely effortlessly he parried the blow, not even needing to dislodge his legs from the ground. "It seems to me that your words are greater than your skills, boy!" he stated as I looked at him again with a pugnacious expression.

  "By God, I will prove you wrong, sire!", I groaned, swinging my blade around as I had seen the fighting Wilbur do.

  However, while Wilbur had succeeded with this feat, my blow went nowhere. Instead, I received a blow to the head, delivered with the golden sword grip of the Musketeer leader. I felt warm blood soaking my hair and turned defensively towards my opponent. Gradually I realised that I had behaved terribly stupidly. It had not been a very good idea to go up against a skilled Musketeer without even the slightest knowledge of fencing. But now I was in a fight with him and there was no way back.

  "You are truly no challenge for me," Jacques called out to me and let his blade fly forward in several elegant turns. I quickly turned to the side. Nevertheless, the steel did not miss me. It pierced my right shoulder and I had to suppress a cry as I felt the pain in all its intensity.