by Tim Paulson
He shrugged. Eh, if he was likely to lose his rank after the coming events, why not go all in?
One last swig of cognac to bolster his resolve, and he took the sword and powder, replacing his own. It was a shame he had no functioning pistol for his holster.
As Jacques walked down the hall he saw Rianne and Arnault exiting the back door. When he too exited he found what he expected, they were alone.
Arnault handed him a very nice looking wheel-lock pistol. “I figured you would need this.”
“Are you sure?” Jacques asked.
The older man nodded. “I know yours has seen better days, plus... I've been collecting,” he said, opening his outer cloak to reveal a baldrick with three other pistols lined up. Arnault also had a long barreled match-lock musket slung over his shoulder.
“Impressive,” Jacques said.
“Never hurts to be prepared,” Arnault replied with a smile and a waggle of two bushy eyebrows.
“Are we leaving soon?” Rianne asked.
“Yes, we just need a-” Jacques said, but he was interrupted by the door opening behind him. He turned to see Alison Bouchère's tall form standing in the door, her expression was severe as usual. If Jacques was demoted, she was next in line for captain. Alison had every reason to sit this out, likely she was only here to voice her disagreement publicly.
“Alison, you don't have to tell me you disapprove, I-” he started to say.
“You may not know this Jacques,” Alison said, lifting a blond eyebrow, “but my father was a Yugenot.”
“I did not,” Jacques replied.
Arnault's hand moved to one of his pistols but Jacques raised an open palm, warning him off.
“However,” Alison continued. “As you know, these reformers are intolerant of women in positions of power, or in any place but the home caring for children. My father, God rest his soul, beat me when I told him I wanted to learn the sword and become a guard. I've waited a long time for a chance to cause trouble for men like that. May I join you?” she asked.
Jacques smiled. “Of course.”
Rianne pointed above at the gathering clouds. “We'd better get moving. There's a storm coming.”
* * *
The rain was pouring in sheets when the four guards arrived at the tall stone building on Rue Meurtre. Jacques gestured silently for Arnault and Rianne to head around the block to the building's rear while he and Alison approached the front. The warm light from candles, or perhaps a hearth could be seen through the cracks of closed shutters.
“Are you sure this is the right building?” Alison asked, forced to yell over the howling wind and rain.
“No!” he replied. “But it's all I have.”
He rapped on the door. To his right, Alison took hold of a pistol under her cloak.
Jacques knocked again. This time he thought he heard a commotion inside. The light coming from the window to their left went out.
He nodded to Alison, she nodded back. It was the right house.
Jacques raised his fist to knock once more, other hand resting on the pistol, when the door creaked open. A stern faced man appeared in the opening. He wore the meticulously trimmed goatee and black dress so common among witch hunters.
“Who are you?” the man asked.
“I am Jacques De Voulon of the Pallus Guard. I'm here to inspect the premises.”
“Go away. You have no right,” the man said. His accent was foreign, a Willender?
“I have every right monsieur and I will exercise it. Make way immediately,” Jacques said. His eyes went to Alison as did the witch hunter whose face tightened into a sneer at the sight of a female guard.
“You want to come in?” the man asked.
“Yes monsieur,” Jacques replied.
“Then come.”
The door flung open with the man lunging to the side. Behind him was another witch hunter, holding a very large gun.
“Blunderbuss!” Alison yelled as they both dove out of the way.
The sound of the report was deafening. Wood splinters flew into the street from the eight inch semi circular hole torn from the door jam.
The first witch hunter came out only seconds later, a sword in his hand, but Jacques was ready. He discharged his pistol directly into the man's chest at point blank range, then tossed him down the building's front stairs.
Another followed right after. Alison handled him by drawing her rapier at the man, using the pommel to knock the man's pistol off line from her chest before pistol whipping him in the side of the head.
Jacques ducked his head into the doorway for a quick look and a pistol ball whizzed by his right ear, ripping a ragged hole in his wide brimmed hat.
Alison leaned up against the door jam, her pistol at the ready and nodded toward the hat.
He didn't think it would work, but it was worth a shot. The hat was removed and Jacques stuck it out into the doorway. A pistol report rang out as yet another ball pierced the hat.
Alison wasted no time. She popped out from the door frame, aimed, and fired.
Jacques followed just in time to see the man inside fall to the floor, clutching his chest.
“Jacques! The back!” Alison said, pointing her sword at the other end of the building's long central hall where at least three men were carrying what looked to be sacks of grain, but with feet and arms that kicked and punched.
Two more black clad witch hunters were coming down the stairs to their left however. Jacques pulled his rapier and traded a couple of blows with one, just barely ducking a pistol shot from the other.
“Don't worry about these two! I have them,” Alison said.
He nodded and ran down the hall. One of the men not carrying a child turned back and raised a long pistol, aimed directly at Jacques chest. The hallway was too narrow for him to dodge so he ran on, screaming at the top of his lungs.
The pistol flashed.
By some miracle, he felt the ball graze along his right side.
“My God,” he said, his eyes drifting upward for the barest moment, “Thank you!” and ran on. The man ahead snarled, dropping his pistol and drawing his own sword.
They traded several blows, back and forth with their swords. Jacques was getting impatient, thinking about how he might have time to step back and use the powder, when a series of pistol reports from out back caused his enemy to flinch.
This was just what Jacques needed to feint and stab his rapier straight through the man's chest. The witch hunter staggered and fell, but Jacques wasted no time. He stepped over him and out the back door.
Outside three lay on the muddy ground in the rain. One was a dead witch hunter, shot twice in the chest, the other two were not. Jacques ran over to them.
Rianne lay propped against a decorative stone planter, with a lifeless Arnault in her arms. Arnault had been slashed all the way from his navel to his shoulder. Blood was everywhere. On either side of him were the two halves of his musket, sliced cleanly in the center as if by shears.
“Rianne! Are you alright?” Jacques asked her.
“Don't help me you idiot!” she snapped at him, coughing. “The carriage just left. The street must be overflowing with rain. They can't be far!”
Jacques looked down to where Rianne's glove was pressed to her abdomen. Red streamed from behind it. She'd been shot. Her eyes were fierce, angry.
“Go!” she shouted.
Jacques placed a hand on her shoulder, nodded, and ran. Just outside the building's back gate he saw it. Not many carriages even attempted to travel in such a downpour. It made the witch hunters easy to spot.
It took only a block to catch up to them. He grabbed a hold of the coachman's rungs and began pulling himself up.
One of the witch hunters noticed however, the one seated next to the driver. He turned back revealing a long rapier with a bright blue glow.
Jacques rolled onto the back of the carriage top, fumbling as quickly as he could with wet gloved fingers for the snuff box in his coat pocket. Whe
n he glanced up, he saw the man, crawling back toward him, blue sword casting light on his scarred face.
Faster, he had to move faster.
“What, trying to load a pistol?” the man yelled over the rain.
Jacques got the lid of the snuff box open. Rain was getting inside it. He tried to shield the powder, fearing that, like black powder, it wouldn't work if it got wet. His fingers were slick from the rain and he fumbled the box.
Powder and box flew through the air. Quickly he swung the blade up, catching some of the powder on it, hoping it would be enough. Immediately his own blade began to glow, but when compared to his adversary, it was like a candle to a bonfire.
The other man laughed, slashing his blade through the air.
“Fenasian fool. That blade is trash!”
Jacques struggled to gain some footing on the roof of the moving carriage. A bump in the road caused him to drop back to one knee.
“You should give up now! My blade will last for hours!” The man yelled at him. “What will you have? Thirty seconds? A minute?”
“More than enough!” Jacques said and lunged.
The two weapons clashed in the dark of the storm. Metal on metal, blue and blue. Again and again. Thrust, parry, riposte. Slash, deflection, counter. Back and forth they fought on the top of the moving carriage, buffeted by the storm raging around them, with every passing second causing Jacques veil sword to dim.
Finally, with a wicked grin, the witch hunter slashed hard, chopping the blade from Jacques sword. Yet Jacques had felt this before, he'd prepared himself for the sudden loss of resistance and, as he'd hoped, his opponent had not.
The powerful slash carried the man's arm through, just a hair too much. It gave Jacques just the opening he needed. He charged ahead, throwing a shoulder into his adversary's elbow, launching him from the top of the carriage and into the wall of rain beyond.
Jacques crawled forward and put his boot knife up against the driver's neck.
“We're turning around!”
It felt like forever before the stone rear gate of the Marlinist building appeared again through the obscuring curtains of rain. Jacques brought the driver down from the carriage to where Alison stood waiting.
“Take this one and tie him up,” he said. “How are they doing?”
“Arnault is gone,” she said, looking down.
“What about Rianne?”
“Gut shot. Could be minutes or hours, but she will die,” Alison said.
Jacques shook his head. ”Damn!” He'd known as soon as he saw it, but still. He'd hoped.
At least he'd stopped the carriage, he thought, turning around. He unlatched the door to find three terrified children, thin as reeds.
“I'll untie you. Please, come out. Your sister Margot sent me,” he said.
Two of them started crying immediately. The other, the smallest, looked at him, eyes wide.
“Where is Margot?” he asked.
“She's safe,” Jacques replied, untying each of them. “I'll take you to her right away. I just have to talk with... my friend.”
“She dying,” the young one said, the little boy.
Was this Daniel?
“Yes,” Jacques replied.
“Let me see,” Daniel said, pushing past him.
“Wait! No!” Jacques grabbed at the boy, but he was too quick and Jacques's gloves were slippery from the rain and his hands tired. So the boy made it past him and ran on, past Alison who yelled at him. Daniel went anyway.
Jacques ran after and found him standing over Rianne, looking sad.
“Come away from there boy!” Jacques said, but stopped when he saw her face. Rianne was white as a sheet and soaked from the rain. A pool of red stained the cobbles around her. She still held on to the body of Arnault, as if clutching an over-sized doll.
Daniel knelt beside her in the rain, putting his hands upon her stomach.
“Boy! Stop!” Jacques yelled, but something stopped him from intervening. Was there reason to hope? Perhaps...
* * *
The sun was peeking through the clouds casting rays of golden light upon a late morning Pallus as Jacques hustled across the cobbles of Rue Monge, avoiding a particularly large pile of horse manure. He hoped he would not arrive too late to see them off. After a morning spent at two consecutive funeral services, seeing the children one last time, would be a welcome change of pace.
However, both carriages were still there when Jacques made it to the back gate of the archbishop's residence. The stern looking priest manning the gate glared, but let him. He found the children together, saying their last tearful goodbyes on the back stairs.
“Finally made it did you?” Gerard said, raising a dark eyebrow. He was wearing his long black robes fringed with gold and blue.
“I wouldn't miss this!” Jacques replied, smiling.
All of the children looked so much better, healthier, especially Margot. Three days of eating regular meals had agreed with them it seemed.
“How are you all?” Jacques asked.
“We're well! Thank you so much Monsieur Voulon!” Margot said, hugging him tightly. “I'll never forget your kindness.”
He laughed. “Yes you will. You'll have a long life in the country, enjoy it, all of you,” Jacques said ruffling the hair of the two older children. “And you Daniel... do your best to make your sister proud!”
“I will monsieur! I promise!” Daniel beamed at him. Jacques had to admit, the boy looked pretty good in his robes, like a miniature monk.
“It's time to go, last goodbyes please,” Gerard said, ushering the children toward their carriages.
“Wait!” called a voice from inside the building.
Jacques looked back to see Alison holding Rianne by the arm as she hobbled out, carrying a small tray.
“You're not supposed to be moving so much!” Jacques said.
Alison laughed. “I tell her the same, but if I don't help her she goes on her own!”
Rianne smiled. “You can't tell me what to do captain. You are currently suspended after all.”
Jacques grimaced. Aside from poor Arnault, they'd been lucky. He had the feeling Gerard had sent a few letters.
“I didn't expect to see you so soon. Didn't you have to attend De la Cour's funeral after Arnault's?” Alison asked.
“I did,” he said, his lip curling into an involuntary sneer. “In the interest of peace with the reformers.”
“And how was it?” Rianne asked.
He rolled his eyes. “What do you think? They said I had to attend. They didn't say I had to stay for the entire ceremony.”
Rianne laughed, wincing a little as she did, and bent down carefully for the children, taking the lid from her tray. The boy's healing hadn't been perfect, but it had done wonders for her. Surely the wound would have been fatal otherwise.
“This is a blessed petit four. I bought it from a special patisserie just this morning for all of you. I was told that if each of you takes one of the four pieces and eats it, it is assured that you will all meet again some day!” Rianne said.
Margot, Isabel, Simon, and Daniel all thanked Rianne. Each took a tiny cake and ate it. They hugged one last time and then three of them piled into one carriage, with a disguised priest as the diver. Daniel was ushered into the other by a pair of monks with long brown robes under their cloaks.
“Will they be alright?” Jacques asked Gerard.
“I have faith that they will,” he replied.
“At least someone does,” Rianne said. “You're sure no one will find him at this monastery of yours?”
Gerard placed a hand on her shoulder. “Young guardswoman, the Ganum Tian church has existed for a very long time. If there's one thing we're good at, it's keeping secrets.”
“That, I believe,” Alison said.
As the carriages pulled away Gerard raised a single ringed finger. “However, there is something I'd wanted to discuss with the three of you.”
“And that is?” Jacques as
ked.
“Now that you're aware of this... situation. I'd hoped you might consider working for the church.”
“In what capacity? Rianne asked.
“Come inside. We'll discuss it,” Gerard said.
* * *
It was dark when Daniel awoke. The carriage had stopped. Why hadn't they awoken him? Weren't they supposed to be traveling all night?
He rubbed his eyes and pulled the curtain to the side. It was very dark but he could just see something outside, toward the front of the carriage. It looked like it might be Brother Angelo, or maybe Sister Maria? The two were so similarly sized with the same long dark hair and brown eyes, he had a hard time telling them apart.
Daniel tried the door. It would not budge. The second time he tried it though, it opened as if it had been unlocked the whole time.
He peeked out the door. The countryside was dark. Nothing could be seen but tall grasses and only because of a single warm glow from the front of the carriage. There was a torch there. Daniel was sure it had been attached to the carriage itself but now it was on the ground in front. Between Daniel and that light was the silhouetted form of a monk, lying on the ground.
“Brother Angelo?” Daniel called as he gingerly stepped down the steps of the carriage. “Sister Maria? Are you alright? Are you sleeping?”
Why would they lie down like that?
Daniel felt like worms were boiling around inside his stomach. He didn't want to get any closer. But he had to. If Brother Angelo was hurt, he could help him. Just like he'd helped Rianne.
He took a deep breath, willing his feet to move forward.
“Hello boy,” a gravelly voice said, causing Daniel to jump and nearly soil his robe.
The voice sound like it had come from everywhere at once.
“Who... Who are you?” Daniel asked, shaking now.
