The Musketeer withdrew his blade, and I immediately covered the bleeding shoulder with my hand.
"When are you going to start fighting with me?" Jacques asked with a sneer and launched another attack. However, I was prepared for this attack. I jumped backwards and grabbed a chair standing against the wall. I threw it at the Frenchman's legs in a flash.
His startled eyes showed me that he had not expected such resistance. The chair tore his legs off the floor and he fell lengthwise to the ground.
"Come on, George!", I heard a familiar voice at that moment.
I looked around and recognised the Guardsmen who had fought off the bluecoats admirably. Some lay whimpering and injured on the ground, while others were still engaged in combat with my friends.
They had already fought their way towards the stairs leading down. I quickly ran in that direction, deflecting the attacks of two Musketeers with powerful side swipes of my blade.
I had now reached my friends. Richard was already on his way down the stairs and I followed him on foot. The Guardsmen, however, continued to fight backwards in that direction.
Wilbur was finishing off his last opponent with a sneaky punch to the head.
"That was splendid!", Tom praised his companion and patted him on the back. But there was not much time for feelings of victory. A whole crowd of new bluecoats stormed out of a door in the room at that very moment.
Jacques, who had long since regained his feet, angrily shouted at them to give chase. This was reason enough for the three Guardsmen to choose escape instead of fighting. They followed me and Richard down the stairs into the wine cellar. The darkness in the huge walls was to our advantage. So all we had to do was walk out through the front exit.
As fast as our legs carried us, we ran towards the light of the exit. Freedom was within our grasp when a whole wall of blue tunics blocked our way.
"Those bloody bastards!" cursed Tom.
"Don't they ever give up?", Vincent echoed his opinion.
We moved backwards into the wine cellar. Even Richard had raised his rusty sword, ready to fight.
"We're trapped," Wilbur said.
But I knew better. "No," I retorted. "Hide, all of you!"
"And then what?" asked Tom, uncomprehending.
"Do it!" I said resolutely, and it pleased me very much to be able to set the tone myself for once. "When I give the signal, we'll all run back to the stairs."
As I had told them to, my friends entrenched themselves behind the barrels and I too chose a dark place. From this position I was able to survey the whole room unnoticed, and thus found that the Musketeers were approaching us from two directions at once. At least a dozen came through the front exit, while a whole squad rushed down the stairs. When they could see no one in the cellar, they slowed their steps and looked around cautiously. None of them spoke a word.
I kept my eyes tensely on the stairs. When, after a few moments of waiting, I found that the last Musketeer of the group had also come down and was looking around the place, I gave a short whistle and jumped up. The Guardsmen and Richard also jumped up and ran towards the stairs. The Musketeers were too stunned to react immediately. Only now did they notice that they had given us a free space.
I was the very first to storm up the stairs and turned into the corridor leading to the kitchen. I ran towards the door when I suddenly heard several screams. I stopped and let Wilbur, Tom and Vincent pass me before I looked back. What I saw there, however, immediately made me turn pale. I was shocked to see Richard, who had been restrained by the Musketeers. He was leaning sideways against a barrel and I saw a rapier protruding from his belly. A sharp red beam shot out of the entry wound onto the ground.
Chapter 33
"Richard!", I screamed. With the rusty rapier in my hand, I staggered back, stunned. I wasted no thought for my own safety. Richard's blood gushed from his perforated body and not until now, as I witnessed his death, did I realise how cruel and pointless this whole endeavour had actually been. I froze in helpless shock. Now I was in the greatest danger. I was about to decide to rush after my companions when I noticed Richard staggering away from the barrel. I now realised that the sword had not been stuck in his body, but had only entered the wine cask from the side. The blood that my eyes had seen was nothing more than bubbling red wine.
"Richard!" I shouted again, but now there was joy in my voice, hardly any horror. My friend regained his composure.
The Musketeers seemed to be as astonished as he was, for they did not take the opportunity that presented itself to them. They could have slaughtered him three times before he fled hastily in my direction. Only now did they break out of their stupor and all at the same time let out a battle cry that made me shiver with fear. Then they raced towards me as a wild horde.
With a small lead, Richard reached me. We stormed through the open kitchen door, behind which the three Guardsmen were waiting for us, annoyed.
"Close the door!" yelled Tom at me.
I slammed the solid wooden door behind me. Tom and Vincent immediately joined me, pulling a heavy, wooden box with them, which they braced against the door. Since the door opened inwards, the Musketeers would now only be able to prise it open with the greatest effort.
A tremendous onslaught crashed against the wooden barrier from the other side.
"Oh God, they'll have us in a moment!" cried Richard.
"We'll get out of here," Vincent said, and immediately we ran past the stunned kitchen staff through the exit and out into the courtyard. We all realised how little time we had before the kitchen workers pulled away the box blocking the door.
Fortunately, there were no bluecoats to be seen on the yard. But this would change very soon. Surely some of the Musketeers would walk back through the wine cellar to the main entrance. In a moment, the courtyard would be coloured in blue. Panic-stricken, we looked around and Vincent exclaimed loudly, "There he is."
Now I too recognised the wagon, which was already loaded with fresh clover. Several large tarpaulins had been stretched over it. The coachman was just about to give the horses the whip.
We hurried after the wagon. Vincent jumped onto the loading platform first and crawled under the tarpaulin. Wilbur, Tom and Richard did the same and when I finally jumped up, I closed the tarpaulin behind us again. The coachman had fortunately not noticed anything as the darkness had hidden us, and calmly steered the carriage towards the fortress gate.
"I hope they don't search the carriage," Tom whispered softly.
I imagined the Musketeers tearing down the tarpaulin and finding us lying completely defenceless in the clover. As I clutched the handle of the rusted blade, my fear increased and a new feeling mixed in. Curiosity. Although it would certainly have been wiser not to, I lifted the tarp slightly and peered out. My gaze slid out to the kitchen, which disappeared behind the huge main building, and a shock ran through my bones. A whole army of bluecoats shot out of the entrance and scattered around the courtyard. I could make out Jacques among them, looking around in search of us. For a brief moment it seemed to me as if our eyes met even at this great distance.
I quickly closed the tarp and hoped fervently that it was just my imagination. I told myself that he could not possibly have seen me. That was quite impossible. Not even he could have such good eyes. We were on the completely dark side of the courtyard.
We held our breath as the carriage stopped under the huge archway. The coachman and the gate guards exchanged a few words that I understood only fragmentarily.
"... has?"
"... escaped ... Capture and kill."
"Where are they going?"
"... no chance ... hang them or torture them ... very fun, I'm sure."
I wondered why the carriage had stopped for so long. A strong, inner urge demanded that I lift the tarpaulin and look out into the yard, but I realised that it could have meant death for us.
I hardly expected to get through all this alive when the carriage began to move. Almost synchronousl
y, five people expelled air. The carriage rumbled faster and faster. I heard the crack of the whip from time to time. The urge to look outside grew stronger and stronger, but I kept reminding myself not to tempt fate.
Only when I was certain that we had left the fortress quite a way behind did I lift the tarpaulin slightly and peeked out.
"What do you see, George?", Vincent asked me quietly.
I could make out the open gate of the fortress and, to my overwhelming relief, realised that no one was following us.
I immediately told Vincent in a whisper.
"Great!" came from the other end of the wagon. It was Tom who spoke.
I lowered the tarp again and for the first time that day I thought I was allowed to give in to my tiredness. I felt all my muscles relax and I sank back into the soft bed of clover.
I could only dimly hear Vincent and Tom talking.
"What now?" asked Vincent.
"Wait and see," replied the leader. "We are on the best and fastest way to our destination."
"Let's hope this journey doesn't take too long. What little supplies we had left, we left with our horses."
"I don't think it will take us more than a day," Tom said confidently.
"What makes you think so?" inquired Wilbur.
"Simple. The clover will soon be completely dried up. Then that fastidious horse certainly won't like it. The French ought to know that."
"Where might they have taken him?" now asked Vincent.
"That's a good question. I guess someplace absolutely remote. A place where not a single wayfarer will pass by in a hundred years."
I barely noticed the last words. I felt the pain in my right shoulder where Jacques' blade had hit me and realised that I was still bleeding profusely. Well, I had had some experience with wounds in my past and so I acted as I had been taught, ripping my right shirt sleeve loose and using it expediently as a tight bandage. The bleeding decreased, my tiredness increased. My skull was rumbling from the blow the Musketeer captain had given me, and I already suspected that I was only a few moments away from crossing over into the land of dreams. I closed my eyes and felt a black surge engulf my consciousness and bring me peace. Within my last thoughts still floated the words of our leader: 'A remote place. A place where not a single wayfarer will pass by in a hundred years.'
And the carriage moved on and on. Through the night.
P A R T * F O U R
The lion's den
Chapter 34
Paris. The capital of the French kingdom had swallowed us up by daybreak. Crowds of people, such as I had never experienced even in London, squeezed through narrow streets. A stench that eclipsed even London's disgusting smell hung in the air and made it very difficult to breathe at first. But with time you got used to it, just like the shouting of the passers-by that often reached our ears. Apparently, the Parisians were quite a spirited bunch.
Every now and then, I would cautiously peek outside to explore where we were passing, and each time I noticed that the surroundings had changed. Old stone half-timbered houses were replaced by newer, ornate facades of large mansions with armed men patrolling the entrances.
Ever since we had passed the city gate, I had felt fear. Everything had gone so completely against our expectations. What the heck was the carriage doing in the capital of France - the place that was probably the best known and most accessible in the whole country? The Guardsmen seemed to be asking themselves the same question. I couldn't explain their uneasy stares otherwise. Finally, Wilbur ended the silence and asked at full volume, "What the hell are we looking for in Paris?"
Tom's expression immediately changed into a shocked grimace before he realised that Wilbur's words had been swallowed up by the Parisian street noise. So it was no longer dangerous at all to raise the voice. In any case, our words did not reach the coachman's ears.
"I don't understand either," Vincent said, looking at Tom. "Didn't you mean we were going to a remote wasteland?"
Tom just shrugged and pushed aside some clover that had fallen in his face. "Perhaps we were wrong in our guess and the green fodder here is not meant for André de Bellegarde at all."
The Guardsmen's faces told of the dismay that accompanied this notion. If they had indeed followed the wrong trail, it meant, after all, that they had lost track of the precious mount altogether.
"I'm afraid there's nothing we can do but wait," Tom said.
There was nothing more to add to this remark. The Guardsmen fell into a silence that was now, however, not filled with confidence, but rather with grim concern. I looked at Richard to see what he thought of our situation. But Richard was asleep. This no longer surprised me. He obviously enjoyed contradicting all my expectations.
I cautiously peeked out from under the tarpaulin and saw that we were just passing a gigantic cathedral, above whose portal were two huge towers rising in their blackness into the blue firmament. In front of it there was a huge marketplace. Countless stalls advertised goods ranging from clothing and weapons to fruit and pots. In one corral, I saw squealing pigs running around, while perfumes were being sold next to them. The crowd was indescribable. From finely dressed aristocrats to the most pathetic pack of beggars, you really saw every group of people represented here. There was a noise in the air that made it difficult to understand one's own spoken words.
But our carriage did not stop. It left the square and crossed a bridge under which the stinking cesspool of the Seine meandered. After a few narrow streets, we again reached a square where there was a dense crowd.
When I took a closer look at the people, I noticed that they were hardly moving and were all staring in one direction. Following their gaze, I recognised a wooden platform with a pedestal. There, several men held down the head of a shrieking woman, while a cape-wearing man dressed in black swung a huge axe upwards and let it whiz down quickly. He had to strike several times before the woman's head was separated from her torso and the square was taken over by a huge chorus of cheers. Disgusted, I closed the tarpaulin and, as it were, my eyes. Suddenly, fragments from my past returned to my mind. I saw again how I beheaded my father with a rusty scythe and immediately afterwards I saw Richard's head on the execution block from which he had been freed at the very last moment.
My stomach calmed down slowly and I forced myself to lift the tarpaulin again and peek. Fortunately, we had left the square behind us and were now driving through a rather poor area. Single-storey, dilapidated buildings lined the bumpy road. There were no more well-dressed citizens to be seen here, only half-starved night creatures in tattered grey shirts. Even the mules and horses here were malnourished and their ribs stuck out.
"Where are we?" now asked a sleepy voice, which I recognised as Richard's immediately.
"Paris."
"What, why? What are we doing in Paris?"
As no one, not even me, answered his questions, he crawled to my side and looked out from under the tarpaulin. "What an ugly place!" he said in disgust and soon withdrew.
We slowly rumbled down the street, which was getting dirtier and seemed to have no an end. The crowd was getting lighter and lighter and there were no longer as many people as in the town centre. Our vehicle turned into a narrow alley and I shuddered as I sensed the smell of rotting fish. The carriage became slower and slower and I gave in to my curiosity and looked around the corner of the wagon to be able to see in the direction of travel. There I immediately realised that we were approaching a remote part of the riverbank. The bank was covered with rubble as far as the eye could see. Leaky and rotten fishing barges lay ashore. Some of them had been turned inside out to be overhauled and re-tarred. But most of these barges looked far too dilapidated to get another chance to feel water under there keels. One particularly large vessel caught my attention, laying a little off to the side with its keel up. The hull of the ship was still completely intact and had the size of a small building. And it was precisely this ship that the coachman was now heading for.
"Where are we?"
, Tom said to me from under the tarp.
I quickly explained to him and looked outside again.
Not a soul was to be seen in the surroundings, which astonished me a little. To find such a deserted place in a metropolis like Paris was very unusual indeed. The coachman steered the carriage to the stern of the ship with well-aimed lashes. There he let the horses stop and stood up from his coachman's seat. He put his fingers to his mouth and let out a very long whistle, followed by two short whistles and a clap of his hands. Suddenly, as if by a ghostly hand, a huge gate opened in the high stern, which had not been noticed before in the carved decoration. Behind it, the ship's interior waited for the visitor as a darkly threatening place. Apparently the whistling and clapping had been some kind of secret code. In any case, the coachman didn't seem particularly surprised, took his seat again and gave the horses the whip. We drove slowly into the gloomy belly of the ship and I saw that the gate was closing behind us, the darkness thereby banishing the light of the sun from the outside world. I felt a nervous tingling feeling spread through my stomach and my throat tightened as if by force of spirit. It was clearly fear taking hold of me. We found ourselves trapped.
I quickly looked forward again to see what the coachman was doing and noticed a few torches being lit in front of us. Immediately, the inside of the ship was bathed in warm light; a light in which I could make out at least two dozen figures wearing blue tunics. Not again, I thought, and ducked a little to avoid being seen. Above the Musketeers, the hull of the ship arched like the dome of a church, and far in the background I now caught sight of the proof that our theory had been accurate. A magnificent white stallion stood with his head down in a mound of straw, shaking his head nervously.
I slid back under the tarp fast and whispered to the Guardsmen, "He's here. But so are a whole bunch of Musketeers."
"Let's get out!" ordered Tom, and we climbed silently and cautiously out from under the tarpaulin. Near the closed gate we made our way out of the light of the torches and into darkness. From the protective shadows we saw the Musketeers, who gave the coachman a friendly welcome.
Guardsmen of the King: A Historical Adventure Novel (George Glen's Adventures Book 1) Page 19
