The Caledonian Race: A Pulp Adventure (George Glen Series Book 2)

by Richard Bergen

  "Hey, look, there's our chaser." Amos gestured to the quay. The aspirant had climbed down from the ship's skeleton and had been looking in the water for his crony. He had not found him. Staring at us with a hateful look, he departed into the night.

  "I'm sure we'll see him again soon," Richard said soberly.

  Amos, however, shook his head decisively. "I don't think so. He knows he can't take on three. If we stay together, he'll stay away from us. But I'm worried about something else."

  "What is it? Speak it out!", I demanded.

  "The Seafarers. That gang of brigands is making a sport of getting all the amulets together this year. I know they've already got hold of three of us. Presumably they are dead. Our chasers were two others. They managed to escape, but we may not be so lucky. It will be a good three hours before the bell rings six times. So I suggest we hide until sunrise."

  "Good idea, but where? When dawn comes, we can't hide in the shadows of any building anymore. Then we're fair game."

  "A few hours ago I met Grayson and Yvain. They said they were going to seek refuge in a church. Robbers and scoundrels would avoid the house of God, they said. Maybe they're right about that." Amos said it in a sceptical tone, but the idea seemed quite plausible to me. "And which church were they going to exactly?"

  Chapter 12

  The rectangular spire of the All Hallows the Great Church already stood out clearly against the dark blue firmament. The night was fading away at a frightening pace. The location was well chosen, being just off Thames Street and only two streets away from the 'Breeze'. We would be able to spend the rest of this nasty night there and pass this test with flying colours.

  On the way we had made the acquaintance of Amos. He was the scion of a well-to-do merchant family from London. The fact that he, as the youngest born, had no claim to carry on his father's business had never bothered him much. His parents loved him unconditionally and had promised him that he would never lack for anything throughout his life. But Amos had other plans. He had always desired glory and adventure. And what could promise a young man more glory and adventure than becoming one of His Majesty's Guardsmen? According to him, his audition with Stephen Fletcher had been more than pleasant. Immediately the old man had taken him to his heart and promised him a chance of probation. The blow on the skull that had marked the beginning of our audition was not something he remembered too painfully. Amos always seemed to be in a good mood, full of energy and handsome. A feeling sprouted in me that I couldn't exactly describe. Richard seemed to feel the same way.

  "What about you two? Where are you guys from?" Amos showed serious interest. When Richard had finished his tragic family story, Amos turned to me. I told him in a nutshell all about my childhood. Somehow I had come to trust this guy. "So you beheaded your father with a scythe because he wanted to rape you and kill your mother, did I understand that correctly?" He had gone quite pale.

  Nodding, I had confirmed this to him. We would tell him about our further adventures at the Club of Wolves and in France later. He had enough for now, that much was certain.

  When we stopped in front of the church, I suddenly shivered. It wasn't just because of the cold morning mist that crept into my limbs. Churches frightened me. It was probably because I had never visited one as a child. It was only on my escape from Longhill that I had seen places of worship up close for the first time. The farmers, where I had been doing odd jobs to get by, usually insisted that I attend the sermon on Sundays. The priests' posturing and the sermons about purgatory and perdition had not been able to take away my fear. Besides, it always seemed to me to be the most important thing that at the end of the sermon the bag with the collection was bulging. The Club of Wolves might be made up of thieves and murderers, but at least they were honest when they reached into someone's pocket and did not claim that it served some kind of holy purpose.

  With an uneasy feeling, I now followed Amos and Richard to the slightly open gate of the place of worship. Flickering light indicated that there were still worshippers present. As in every church, beggars and day labourers used the church asylum to survive the night in the warm. In the corners and niches of the nave lay heaps of ragged figures, some of them fast asleep, as could be inferred from the sonorous snoring. The pews in front of the altar were mostly unoccupied. Only a few faithful came to the home of Christ at such an advanced hour. Nevertheless, we recognised a priest - cloaked in a dark brown robe with the hood pulled deep into his forehead - who was preaching the morning sermon to the poor souls who had to work before sunrise. As in all of England, the language of the church was the vernacular. Since Henry the Eighth's renunciation of Rome, the common man of the street could understand what the not-so-common man in the pulpit was actually ranting about. Whether this was an advantage or a disadvantage for him could certainly be debated.

  "My brothers and sisters!" The priest's voice had an almost ingratiating character. He had also adjusted his volume to the early hour. "You lost children of the Lord. Again I turn to you to offer comfort, to show my compassion and to promise you God's forgiveness. You are all unworthy sinners, you have all brought guilt upon yourselves, but the Lord sacrificed his Son to forgive your iniquity, that you may all one day end up in his keeping..."

  So it went on. I quickly lost interest, made myself comfortable in a dark alcove with Amos and Rich. We huddled together. My gaze wandered unsteadily, always on the lookout for danger. Then I spotted a flash of torchlight on the opposite side of the nave. Yes, that was clearly another amulet. "Look over there!" I had turned to Amos and pointed in the appropriate direction.

  "That's Yvain and Grayson," our new friend rejoiced. "So they made it."

  "Not just them," Richard now whispered to me from the other side. "I saw two more aspirants back there. I don't know their names, but I recognised them. They still had their amulets with them too. Seems like this is a gathering."

  "I don't like that at all, somehow."

  "What do you mean?" asked Amos with interest.

  "This smells like a trap to me."

  "Trap? By whom? Not even the Seafarers would threaten a priest. I think you've just had too many bad experiences in your life. That's why you're so downbeat, George. You don't have a positive outlook on things. You need to breathe freely and grab life before it grabs you."

  "I'm sorry the sun doesn't shine out of my ass like that, but I really don't like the look of this place. And why are there so many priests running around here all of a sudden?"

  Amos and Richard looked around in wonder. Sure enough, out of a chamber next to the altar had now stepped a dozen more men of God, also wearing simple robes. They looked like Franciscans, the mendicant monks with vows of poverty who roamed the countryside swaggering. They spread out like a flock of birds in the nave.

  "Faith! What is faith?" The first priest stuck to his sermon. "Is it not simply a kind of falling into the unchangeable? Allowing oneself to be small and void and lost in this world. That sometimes you do yourself a favour if you just give in to the circumstances?" His voice had become louder, there was no longer any sense of morning gentleness. It boomed powerfully through the church hall and through my head. "Realising that it is futile to run from God's justice is the first step to winning your salvation for all eternity." With a dull sound, the main door of the church closed. Priests had taken up positions at each exit. "And so I beseech you, my children, stop running away! Come to me in the light! Give me the worldly trinkets and ornaments with which you are adorned, and your Lord will decide whether you shall receive grace or purification!"

  A chill gripped my entire body. I was right. Why hadn't I run away at the first sign of my uneasy feeling? Oh yes, Amos was the reason.

  The preacher had strode down the steps of the altar and brushed the hood from his head. What we and every other poor soul in that church beheld was a shaved head on stocky shoulders. One side of the face and skull was covered with tattooed crucifixes. The eyes seemed to glow in the darkness as he let his glan
ce roam over the gathered beggars, smiling diabolically. "I am the Archbishop of Dowgate Ward," he announced solemnly. "Come to me, my sheep! Hand over to me your worldly baggage, that you may know your salvation in heaven!"

  Richard had moved close to me. I could feel his whole body shaking like aspen leaves as he whispered to me, "That's no archbishop. That's Braxton Duvall, the leader of the Seafarers."

  "How do you know?"

  "Never seen him. But Stanley described him to me once. The tattoos, if you know what I mean."

  "Didn't I say this was a trap?!" I hissed at Amos. In a very uncomfortable way, I felt myself take an inner satisfaction in the saying. Why was I so angry with our blond helper? And what was the use of this bossiness in the current situation?

  He just shrugged his shoulders in apology. But I recognised fear in his blue eyes. After all!

  We now heard the clatter of weapons. The false priests had pulled out swords, daggers and pistols from under their robes and were threatening the crowd with them. Wild shrieks could be heard as the priests dragged the first aspirants to their knees. "Don't you understand, lice-ridden bunch?" one of the supposed godmen shouted in a shrill voice that almost rolled over. "Anyone wearing an amulet will come here now or they will be doomed."

  A scramble and scurry began as some aspirants fled for the door. Grabbed by the scruff of the neck by sinister figures, they immediately landed in front of the altar at the Archbishop's feet. Most of the Seafarers had taken off their robes. Now we realised that the stories about this pack were certainly not an exaggeration. They wore mostly sailor's clothes, light-coloured trousers, sleeveless armour. Their muscular arms were covered with tattoos. I saw anchors, mermaids and Christian symbols everywhere. Each had a clean-shaven skull to show off. Three bearded Seafarers had finally discovered us and dragged all of us in front of the altar. Resistance was out of the question, so I left my sword in the niche against the church wall. I didn't want the Seafarers to smash my sword and make an example of me.

  "On your knees you filthy worms! Bow before the Archbishop!" Some of our fellow sufferers immediately complied with the request. Amos, however, looked up defiantly at the crime king, prompting me to do likewise. Richard looked at me and forced himself to stand firm as well.

  When the Seafarers registered this small rebellion, two of the men approached us from behind and drew their daggers. "You think you are noble servants of His Majesty already, eh? You don't need to bow down, do you?"

  I felt a blade being applied to my throat with horror. I had only a few moments left, then I would feel the cutting into my flesh and then most likely bleed to death. Would it not have been wiser to act more submissively? Was the dream of the Guard worth dying for? I wanted to stutter something to save my bare skin, but my throat was dry and as if tied up. It was too late. I closed my eyes as the pressure of the knife point against my throat intensified.

  Chapter 13

  "Hold on!" A voice very familiar to me sounded through the nave.

  The blade at my throat slowly moved away. I cautiously opened my eyes. Now I noticed several figures, wrapped in dirty cloaks, rising from the tightly packed squatting bodies at the sides of the nave. About a dozen of these people stepped forward and stripped off their cloaks. I saw rapier hilts flash and the barrels of pistols and muskets raise, then the familiar voice repeated its demand: "Let them go, Braxton! You're not an archbishop. You're not even a real man, because if you were, you wouldn't have to hunt little children."

  The ringleader's hood was thrown back and I recognised Stanley, my former mentor and now mortal enemy. He grinned wryly as he noticed the confusion on Braxton Duvall's face. As he did so, he cocked a wheellock pistol, which he pointed at the leader of the Seafarers. At least a dozen armed Wolves had been hiding in the church, trying to wrest their prey from the Seafarers. Duvall's confusion was complete. Angrily he spouted, "Look who has joined us, men! Viscount Stanley of Folkstone. Leader of the esteemed Club of Wolves. He is surely here to rescue these rascals, is he not?" A few moments passed during which Stanley failed to answer anything clever. His silence, however, only made Duvall angrier. "Don't act so cocky, Stan!" he shouted at him. "You're only here to steal these little pricks' jewellery, too. Just because you once had a title of nobility doesn't make you a morally superior leader. Your gang lives in the street filth just like mine."

  "I suppose you are right, old friend. But I happen to know that the amulets aren't worth a damn. I had one appraised and what can I say, a loaf of bread is worth more than this trumpery. The gold is actually brass, the rubies are glass."

  "You're lying." Duvall plucked Richard's amulet from his neck to study it closely. He looked at the stones, sniffed the gold like a dog, finally even bit into it. Finally his eyes became narrow slits. "If you are not here for the loot, what are you doing in our territory?" He had turned on a cautious tone.

  "Your territory?!" Stanley sneered cockily. "Church Lane is the boundary of your territory. Everything east of it all the way to London Bridge is our territory."

  "You wish." Duvall had pumped himself up like a prizefighter before a fight. The guns of Stanley and the other wolves hardly seemed to impress him. "Old Swan Lane is the limit, you freak. And why am I even arguing with you instead of just shutting that cocky mouth of yours?"

  "Because if you don't, you'll go down bleeding and humiliated. Several guns are pointed at you."

  Now a diabolical glint stole into Duvall's eyes. He had regained his self-assurance. It made the already fearsome man even more sinister. "So this is what you call honourable behaviour, Viscount? Is that how you were taught in your circles? Honour and glory are gained by guile and perfidy and not by a fair upright fight?"

  Stanley winced slightly. The words had probably touched a sore spot with him. As depraved and sly as he had become on the London streets in recent years, there was still a nobleman in him who could not accept an insult to his honour. Duvall knew of this weakness, I could see it in his dirty smile. He manipulated Stanley and the latter foolishly failed to pull the trigger of his pistol immediately. He broke the silence with the most false retort imaginable, "You want a fair fight, Duvall? Man against man?"

  "That's right. Let's fight for Dowgate Ward, Folkstone! Whoever wins will become the permanent boss over the underworld of the docklands. The loser will have an honourable death."

  "So shall it be." Stanley tossed his pistol aside, this stupid fool. Both opponents drew their rapiers bare and stormed at each other, roaring. The fight was fast, brutal and breathless. The two older men fought bitterly and mercilessly. After only a few attacks, Stanley had already severely wounded the leader of the Seafarers on the arm. Blood poured from the deep stab wound, creating a disturbing pattern on the sacred ground. Duvall groaned groggily, but in no way thought of giving up. He let his guard down a little to draw Stanley closer. When my old bandit boss accepted this offer and approached the stricken man, he tried to bring him down with a series of parries - to kill the wounded animal. But Braxton Duvall drew a dagger and plunged it into Stanley's side. For a moment Stan stared in disbelief into Duvall's diabolical glittering eyes. He had now realised that he had only been lured into a trap with the talk of honour. A Braxton Duvall was not interested in a fair fight. Stan's eyes went dull and he clattered clumsily to the ground like an overstuffed grain sack. Everything had happened so quickly that the other robbers had not even joined in the action. The Wolves, however, took it very badly that their leader had been deceitfully assassinated. A volley of gunshots shook the church walls and gunpowder vapour filled the entire room in no time. Seafarers and Wolves went down to the ground wounded. Swords clanged and men screamed. It was as if the gates of hell had opened right now. Duvall had taken cover behind the stone altar. Richard, Amos and I quickly scrambled to the side of the nave. The other Guardsmen candidates also scrambled to safety. One of them, however, was unlucky. A bullet tore half his skull off. White brain matter spread around his head like an obscure halo.

&nbs
p; "We need to get to the portal." Amos pointed in the direction. The door had been opened again. The first beggars had probably taken their chance and made off.

  I nodded heavily and we crept past the struggling robbers as quickly and unnoticed as we could. I had taken a small diversions to retrieve my rapier from the church niche. With the heavy weapon in my hand, I immediately felt infinitely safer.

  When we reached the portal of the church, the sounds of fighting behind us became quieter and quieter. We looked around and thought that the Seafarers seemed to have won. Only a few men were still on their feet, but every single one of them had a shaved head.

  Braxton Duvall had reappeared from behind the altar like a demon from hell and was glaring wildly in our direction. "Don't let those lads get away!" His men started to move.

  I winced and cursed our slowness. Why Duvall was still after us was not clear to me. After all, he had realised by now that our amulets were worthless. The leader of the Seafarers was probably still in a blood frenzy. Like a startled flock of sheep, we stormed into the night, the howling and yelling of our chasers behind our backs. Richard, Amos, I and two other aspirants turned south and hurried down Church Lane, already streaked by the morning sun. Two gunshots whipped behind us. Richard gave a surprised cry, which was followed by a stricken groan. "My leg, damn it!" He cursed loudly but fortunately did not fall. However, his pace decreased considerably as he was now limping. Amos and I grabbed him under the shoulders and together we ran for our lives. A quick glance over my shoulder showed me that the chasers had caught a far-behind aspirant and were about to massacre him. The lad, however, managed to free himself from their grasp and disappear into a side alley. Four huge Seafarers with their faces frozen in murderous rage now charged after us again. We were simply the fatter prey.

  Just one cross street further, the 'Breeze' was waiting for us. As if my thoughts had been heard, the bell of Saint Paul's began to chime at that very moment. The gong boomed loudly and definitively through the morning haze, vibrating in my heart and belly. Everything was at stake now. "We're almost there," I gasped breathlessly, trying to motivate Richard. He, however, was slowing down. "I can't go on," I heard him whisper faintly. "Go on alone! I don't even have an amulet anymore. So they don't make me a Guardsman anyway. It was more your dream anyway, George. Leave me!"