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

by Richard Bergen

  We had taken cover behind a pile of rotten boards and kept ourselves hidden.

  "What are we waiting for?", Richard now wanted to know.

  "Think about it!" demanded Tom. "We're waiting for the clover coach, of course. We need to intercept him so we can take over his cart later."

  "What do we need his cart for?"

  "Not the cart - we need the clover. The horse won't eat anything else. What would we gain if we hijacked the nag and it starved halfway to England? I don't think King James will be very pleased if we present him a horse carcass as a gift. Besides, the coachman would raise the alarm if he came to fetch his carriage and found the Musketeers overpowered and the horse taken. But we don't want the Musketeers to notice the thievery until tomorrow morning, when we are already over all hills."

  Richard was now rebuked and kept silent. I, too, remained silent. I did wonder what the nag was going to live on in England, but kept that to myself. Not my beer.

  It wasn't too long before we were hearing footsteps slowly approaching. I looked out over the boards and recognised the coachman some distance away. He wasn't walking straight, rather swaying to the right, then again to the left like a barge in a heavy swell.

  "Now!", Tom murmured to us.

  It didn't take much effort to overpower the coachman, in his condition he wasn't a serious danger. Only his shouting could have attracted attention.

  Vincent got to him first, his right hand nimbly over the coachman's mouth before he could utter any words. Next to arrive was Wilbur. He drew his rapier and let the heavy pommel crash down on the coachman's head.

  Unconscious, he sank to the ground. Now everything happened very quickly. With routine speed, Vincent pulled some rope from his leather jerkin and tied the coachman's hands and feet together. Then he stuffed a handkerchief into his mouth.

  "Why don't you kill him?", I asked, only to receive a surprised look from Tom.

  "Because ... well ... why should we kill people if it's not necessary? I mean, this guy must have a wife and kids. Why should we bring misfortune on them if it's not necessary? By the time they find him here in the morning, we'll be gone anyway."

  This made sense and yet I wondered at the leniency of the Guardsmen. After all, these were men who were known in London for starting duels for no reason. But apparently my years on the streets and my time with the Club of the Wolves had hardened me a little too much.

  "Go on!" urged Tom.

  I pulled the rusty rapier from my belt and caught a disapproving look from Vincent.

  "You should throw away that useless blade and trust your knife," he said quietly, but I did not comply. The heavy weapon gave me a sense of security that my old dagger could not.

  Swiftly we sneaked forward to the ship and reached the menacingly towering stern where the secret gate was located.

  "Good," whispered Tom. "I'm going with Vincent now to the gap we used as an exit route this morning. That's where we'll enter. Meanwhile, you give the signal here in front. The Musketeers will open that gate. Richard will distract them and we'll ambush them."

  At once he and Vincent disappeared into the darkness. Wilbur, Richard and I waited until we were sure that the two had entered in the meantime.

  "All right, let's give the signal!" finally said Wilbur.

  "Good," I said.

  "Good," Richard also said. "What's the signal?"

  I became silent, concerned, and Wilbur, too, looked around for help. "Think about it!" he demanded. "You must remember. It was three or four whistles and a clap of hands."

  "No, no. It was three whistles," I remarked. "Two long and one short - or was it two short and one long?"

  "I think it was four whistles," Richard now hooked into the conversation.

  "What the hell," Wilbur said angrily. "Let's give it a go! You, Richard, give the signal. We'll stay under cover. When they open the gate, distract them! Tell them anything!"

  With the last words he had already grabbed me by the shoulder and pulled me into hiding with him. I was still wondering what Richard was supposed to tell the French. After all, he didn't even speak their language. By then I heard him whistling and clapping several times. I was somehow sure that it was the wrong signal, but now it was too late anyway.

  Against all my expectations, the gate opened immediately and I heard the voice of a Musketeer. "Are you already so drunk that you have forgotten the code, old friend?"

  Richard, who had not understood a single word, grinned somewhat sheepishly and now even the Musketeer realised that this was not the coachman he had expected. "Are you Roul's replacement?"

  Dammit, I thought. Normally that was my responsibility. If I were standing in Richard's position now, I would already have an excuse ready. Why had Wilbur only sent Richard? Didn't he know he couldn't speak French?

  "Say something, you idiot!", I heard Wilbur grumble crossly beside me.

  Apparently Wilbur really didn't know. He must have really believed that Richard was speaking the French language.

  Richard, meanwhile, was in a truly nightmarish situation; a situation I did not envy him for. He was being babbled at by a Musketeer in a foreign language and, in fact, knew nothing to say in reply. Finally, unwisely, he said, "Calm down, Missieu! I can explain everything."

  Of course, that was the stupidest thing he could have done. Hearing the English words, the Musketeer shouted loudly, "This is a trap, guys. Let's close the gate!"

  "Damn it, they've got us figured out," Wilbur groaned. He jumped up, taking no more care to stay under cover, and ran towards the gate.

  Two more Musketeers were now visible in the entrance. One immediately cranked a winch while the other drew his rapier and looked around belligerently. He recognised Wilbur, who was rushing towards him like an avalanche, and prepared to fight him off. However, he did not get the chance.

  The darkness behind him immediately spat out two shadows racing at him with rapiers drawn. Before he could react, a punch from Tom had knocked him to the ground and left him unconscious.

  The other Musketeer was no different. Vincent took him on and slammed the pommel of his sword against his temple. He too sank to the ground and did not move. The third bluecoat who had tried to talk to Richard, however, had taken the opportunity to leave the scene of the fight. When Wilbur discovered that he had made off, he gave chase and ran into the darkness that had swallowed the Musketeer.

  He lost sight of him there, however, and cursed vigorously when he returned without having achieved anything.

  Immediately he grabbed Richard by the collar and hurled him brutally against the wooden gate. "Why didn't you distract him when you had the chance?" he shouted at him, not minding now that he was making noise in the process. The Musketeer would run to his captain in a moment anyway. In a quarter of an hour at the latest, this place would be overrun with bluecoats. The hoped-for advantage was lost.

  "How was I supposed to distract him?" Richard shouted back.

  "You should have said something in French. Do you think we brought you and George along out of pure goodwill? No, we carried you along because you can speak French."

  Richard suddenly laughed. "No, no. That's a mistake. George can speak French, but I can't. Where did you get that idea?"

  Tom frowned. "Fletcher told us when you stole this letter from his home. I guess he assumed you two were going to read it."

  Willbur, meanwhile, shook his head. "I have had to subsist on handfuls of salted meat during the journey here to provide your rations, Richard. I've been starving, you bastard. And all for nothing. You're completely superfluous. I don't believe it."

  Richard was visibly uncomfortable.

  "And we've even made it possible for you to have a nice little lovemaking session today. Why do you think we brought you along, you bastard?" he roared. "You think we're an organisation of do-gooders who pick up lost beggars off the street and turn them into Guardsmen? I swear to you, I'd love to string you up from the nearest tree."

  "Come on, Wilb
ur! Calm down!" intervened Vincent. "This is a mistake that's nobody's fault."

  " Nobody can do anything for? Don't make me laugh. He knew it all along. Through his fault, our whole mission may now fail."

  "Let him off!" now Tom also demanded. "What's done is done. Now we have to make sure we get out of the town safely."

  Wilbur was panting and his face was all red as he said pressedly, "All right, I'll leave him alone - but only for the mission." At this he turned away from Richard as if to leave, but turned in a flash and delivered a killer left hook to the pit of his stomach.

  I saw Richard sink to the ground with his face contorted in pain, holding his stomach. But he managed not to let out any sound of pain, which I found quite impressive.

  "That's enough!" shouted Tom. Wilbur went into the interior of the ship without paying any further attention. Vincent and Tom followed him. While I helped Richard to get back on his feet.

  "Are you all right?" I asked him.

  He just nodded weakly, which told me he was hit harder than he pretended.

  "I'm fine," he said and trotted off into the darkness with me. There was really absolutely nothing to be seen. Apparently the Musketeers had extinguished the torches before opening the gate.

  As we entered the black, an oppressive fear surrounded me, as if an iron claw were clasping my neck and squeezing mercilessly. I did not see the Guardsmen and only heard their whispering voices.

  "It must be here somewhere."

  "No, further back, I think."

  "Are you sure?"

  "No."

  "If only we had light."

  Richard and I gradually closed in, trying to cut through the darkness with sharp eyes, which was not possible, at least not for me. If it had not been for the dark blue rectangle of the exit, I would have felt as if I had gone blind.

  "Where the hell is it?" echoed Tom's impatient voice.

  "It's not making any noise either."

  "Yes, no neighing and no trampling."

  "Damn that horse!"

  Suddenly a shower of warm air flooded my face.

  I backed up in shock, only slowly realising what had happened. From just a few feet away, André de Bellegarde's nostrils snorted at me.

  "Here it is!", I groaned, and only now did the horse's head move slightly in my direction.

  I backed away a little more, afraid. From what I had heard, this horse was lashing out and biting riders to death. I had no desire to become another victim of this quadruped.

  In the meantime, the Guardsmen had rushed to my side and spotted the horse. A closer look now revealed a white glow in the gloom of the ship's hull. It seemed to me as unreal and threatening as a ghost.

  Wilbur was the first to react, loosened the reins and led the horse out of the ship's body. I was not the only one to wonder at the beast's peacefulness. This was supposed to be the devil incarnate? This horse had supposedly killed men? I could hardly believe it.

  Vincent and Tom, meanwhile, swung themselves onto the coach-box of the clover wagon that had brought us here.

  "We must hurry," Tom shouted. "Soon the Musketeers will be here. I imagine they'll be a little upset."

  Richard jumped up on the carriage, which was still mostly filled with clover, and I followed him, taking our places in the back.

  Wilbur now tied André de Bellegarde's reins to one side of the carriage and jumped on himself. When Tom gave the whip to the horses and manoeuvred the carriage safely out of the bank of the Seine, the valuable steed galloped docilely after us. A devil? No way! I had rarely seen an animal as tame as this one. When I turned my gaze away from the snow-white and admittedly gorgeous horse and looked forward again, I noticed that Wilbur was eyeing Richard with undisguised hatred. It would be a long time before he could forgive him, that was for sure.

  Chapter 37

  "Hey, ho!", Tom yelled and gave the horses the whip repeatedly. We were in a hurry and in a deadly race against time. The escaped Musketeer would surely rush to his garrison and call all his companions to arms. If the Musketeers hurried, they would be able to give chase and foil the thievery after all. A wagon full of clover with a snow-white horse in tow was about as inconspicuous as a solar eclipse. So, our only chance was to get out of town before the bluecoat could sound the alarm.

  At this late hour, the streets of the city were already largely deserted. From time to time we saw homeless people, drunks and other stranded existences or a night watchman with a waving lantern, but nothing hindered our rapid movement. That was a good omen. We would be able to leave Paris quickly and safely without anyone getting in our way. Tom cracked the whip again and again and we in the back of the wagon were shaken vigorously with every bump in the road. Soon I felt like my body was nothing but bruises.

  We left the city centre with the cathedral and the fine town houses behind us and approached one of the city gates. Contrary to expectations, there was a lot of traffic here. In front of us, more than a dozen carriages were waiting to exit the city. They were traders who had been the last to leave the market and now wanted to return to their villages.

  Tom pulled on the reins and let the horses slow down so that they would come to a halt behind the last wagon.

  "We're almost there," Tom said happily, addressing us. Only then did he notice Vincent next to him, who looked fixedly in the direction of the gate, swallowed briefly and said quietly, "Dammit".

  Now we saw it too. Around the gate and on the battlements above, in the light of dozens of torches, more than twenty Musketeers were gathering.

  "Bloody hell!" snapped Wilbur. He grabbed Richard by the throat. "This is all your fault, you bastard."

  But Richard responded in a way Wilbur probably hadn't expected. He pushed the massive Guardsman away with his feet, causing him to fall into the clover, completely caught off guard.

  Richard straightened up and now stood over the stunned Wilbur. "If you want to come at my throat again, be prepared for me to fight back!" he said with suppressed fury.

  I was impressed. This was the Richard I had met at the Wolves' Club.

  Wilbur, however, had quickly recovered from his shock. I could see the stunned expression on his face change to one of anger, his open hand clenching into a fist.

  "No!" now hissed Tom resolutely, "I've had enough of this. I am your leader and if you cannot behave then you are free to leave. You are jeopardising our mission with this argument, so stop it."

  Wilbur gasped in anger.

  "And that applies especially to you, Wilbur. God knows we have enough problems going on now."

  Vincent had used the time during the dispute to manoeuvre the wagon into a small side alley where we were safe from the gaze of the gate guards.

  "Hopefully they missed us in the melee of wagons," he said quietly.

  "Damn, what do we do now?" asked Wilbur, whose anger at Richard had almost vanished in the face of the situation.

  "Good question," Tom agreed. "One thing's for sure. They know exactly what they're looking for. They know we had to take the clover wagon, and they know what André de Bellegarde looks like."

  I glanced briefly at the noble quadruped, who stood as docile as a lamb behind our wagon, turning his head slightly to one side like a decrepit draft horse.

  Wilbur now spoke up. "We could wait until tomorrow. I'm sure they'll lose patience by then and if they disappear we'll have a clear run."

  "Suppose they don't?" interjected Tom, immediately shaking his head. "No, no. That's too uncertain. Who has a better suggestion?"

  "Me," Richard's voice suddenly rang out and they all turned, puzzled.

  "You?" asked Vincent.

  "We do know that the Musketeers are looking for a wagon with clover and a snow-white horse. But if the horse was not white anymore and the wagon was loaded with something else ..."

  "What are you saying?"

  "Well. We could cover the wagon above the tarp with hay and we could paint the horse ..."

  "What?!" it escaped Wilbur and he laug
hed uproariously. "That's by far the stupidest idea I've ever heard."

  But no one joined in his laughter.

  "It might work," Tom said in a weighing tone. "What we need, maybe the traders out there can give us." He looked at me and said, "George, what do we need?"

  "A bucket of paint and a bump of hay."

  Immediately Tom pulled out his wallet and handed it to me. "Be careful!" he demanded as I made my way out of the back alley.

  I strolled slowly past the queue of stationary carts, which only moved on from time to time when a trader had passed the gate. The traders sitting on their trestles looked mostly tired and occasionally looked impatiently at the gate. They wanted to go home and the strict control delayed their departure enormously. I saw lots of cooking pots, soup ladles and knives on one of the carts. Another trader was carrying dozens of cages of clucking chickens. I saw a cart full of earthenware jars and bowls, and another loaded with vegetables. Only then did I get lucky and spot a hay cart. After a short negotiation with the bored-looking driver, I had a big hay bale standing next to me and was a few coins poorer.

  So far so good, I thought, but where the heck could there be paint here? I looked at every cart again, but I didn't see any jars of paint anywhere. Actually, that was not surprising. What travelling merchant sold any paint? Besides, it would indeed have been a touch too easy.

  While I heaved the hay bale back to my mates, I thought about how I could solve the problem. And since I could always think best when I was looking at the ground, I followed this habit now as well. As I did so, I noticed that the ground was soggy from the recent rain and quite muddy.

  When I had reached the location of my companions and handed them the bale of hay, I explained, "I'm afraid I couldn't find any paint, but I have an idea."

  "An idea?" asked Tom. "What kind?"

  I didn't reply. Instead, I reached into the ground mud, took a handful of the grey mush and went to André de Bellegarde.

  The stallion recoiled a little, but willingly let me press my hand against his body and spread the mud.

  "That idea," I now said to Tom and noticed that he nodded appreciatively.