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

by Richard Bergen

  "Oh, you might be wrong about that. Most ladies-in-waiting are terribly bored and would certainly do anything to add a little spice to their miserable existence. Such a gallant little cavalier suits many just fine."

  "Are you making assumptions about yourself, Isabelle?", I joked. When she wanted to sulk, I took her stormily in my arms and gave her a kiss.

  Isabelle moaned cautiously. I felt her soft lips, the warmth of her body. Just then her mouth opened instinctively, but she pushed me back and lowered her head.

  "George, we mustn't." She sounded very insistent. "After all you've told me, it doesn't make sense. You want to be a King's Guardsman. That is your greatest desire and I can understand that. You have a talent with the rapier, you're not a headcase and you're very loyal. I, on the other hand, must flee to France to avoid a forced marriage. These two lives cannot be merged. And I don't want to get involved in just one short night of love with you. It would surely take me years again to wipe the memory from my heart. Let it go, George!"

  Bitterly, I distanced myself from the face of her. She was so near and yet so endlessly far away. I felt this strong impulse within me: I wanted to beg and persuade her to give herself to me. But she saw in me an upright and loyal man. How could I betray her trust?

  "I should be on my way, George. I have an appointment with Lord Geoffrey at noon today. I do not intend to keep that appointment. Once he realises that I have disappeared, he will soon contact the King for help. I don't believe that His Majesty will set an entire army in motion to find a renegade baroness, but he could certainly send one or two soldiers on my trail. So I should be on my way soon."

  Agreeing, I handed her the bundle of clothes I had brought. Gratefully, Isabelle nodded to me and let a kiss on my forehead follow. She then scurried with the clothes behind a large squiggly folding screen and changed. Fortunately, the screen was near the window and I could clearly see in silhouette what I had once admired in the flesh. She had dropped her dressing gown. Isabelle's body was still slim, but she had put on a little weight around her stomach and hips. Her breasts no longer had their former firmness, but they had increased in volume. When Isabelle bent over slightly to grab a piece of clothing lying on the floor, her breasts swung forward. A sight that involuntarily triggered a physical reaction on my part. I turned bashfully to the side. But only for a brief moment, the scene captivated me too much. When I dared to peer at the screen again, Isabelle had hung her dressing gown and a silk shirt over the edge of it. A very fine piece of fabric had also been carelessly thrown over the screen. I recognised two separate trouser legs held together by a string, lace at the ends of the knees and the initials I.M. stitched into the waistband. For a fleeting moment, the evil thought flashed through my mind to just grab them now and disappear on the spot. My second test would have been passed.

  But Isabelle already came out from behind the screen and revealed her new appearance. The sight of her made me grin broadly. In her men's clothes she looked as immature as a twelve-year-old boy. She reached into a kind of powder compact and spread a dark substance on her upper lip, which soon looked as if she had grown a downy beard. Now she looked at me belligerently. "How about a duel, my lord?" she spoke in a slightly disguised voice.

  I instantly drew my rapier and held it under her chin. Gasping, Isabelle moved back a little. The little fun was instantly lost on her, but I had not teased her out of malice. "What will you do if someone really threatens you in the street, Isabelle? Can you defend yourself? As a woman, you may still have some mercy to expect, but as a man, you will be killed ruthlessly."

  "I was just planning to stay out of trouble," Isabelle said a little meekly. "How hard can it be? It's only four days' journey to Dover."

  I looked at her closely. She looked to me like a little girl in disguise. She was remarkably petite in her men's clothes, which were a little too big. From one moment to the next, I threw all my previous plans out the window. "I will accompany you to Dover, Isabelle. You need protection and I can give it to you. John is a faithful servant, but I have seen him gradually decay. I would not feel comfortable letting you travel alone with him."

  Isabelle's eyes widened as she now looked me in the face. "But what about you? With your dream of becoming a Scottish Guardsman?"

  "Let me worry about that! I'm old enough to make my own decisions. You need protection and I will give it to you!"

  The gratitude that now filled her eyes flowed straight into my heart. I was sure I had made the right decision. I opened the door to the outer room. There I met John. I spoke, "Old friend, pack the most necessary things, we are about to leave! We must free our mistress from a creep."

  Chapter 21

  "I'd forgotten how much I hate this bloody boating," John groaned, pressed, as our barge pushed its way back onto the waters of the Thames, rocking violently at first. "Water is for the fish. The Lord God didn't make us for that."

  "Since when has he been such a scaredy-cat?", I asked Isabelle quietly, without the old groom noticing.

  "People often get whimsical as they get older. I don't recognise him either. Ever since Longhill, I've felt rather as if I had to look out for him."

  "But John," I addressed him directly, "we're here in London, the city you've always raved to me about. Why are you in such a bad mood?"

  "Ah, this is not the city I knew. All these new palaces and gates, the crowded streets. It didn't used to be so crowded here and there was peace and order. And the bargemen, they weren't so breakneck either." With that, he scowled at the leisurely rowing ferryman. "Everything was just better in the good old Tudor days." John continued to grumble to himself, but we could no longer understand what he was saying because he had now folded his coat over his head. He had really grown old.

  Trying to break away from this sad image, I now looked again at Isabelle, whose features looked treacherously feminine in the light of the morning sun. "Do you have something like a plan?"

  "There's a stagecoach leaving Southwark for Dover at ten. We'll take that. If the King sends out a search for me, he will assume I am travelling in my own carriage. After all, I am a baroness. Travelling with the filthy rabble is not proper for me."

  "Oh, I'm glad you accepted me as part of the rabble," I said good-humouredly, having noticed the irony in Isabelle's words. I instructed the bargeman to row to Southwark as quickly as possible. Isabelle handed me a whole shilling, which I showed the man, whereupon he put his back into his oars. He probably had to slave for a whole day for such a wage otherwise.

  Southwark, I reflected. The mere fact that Isabelle wanted to visit this den of iniquity on the south bank of the Thames justified my presence. The borough, which was outside London's jurisdiction, was home to the 'Bear Garden' as well as many drinking halls and brothels. It was not uncommon for rich people to be robbed, stabbed, drowned or raped here. Isabelle was lucky to have my protection and I was so intoxicated by her presence that I didn't waste a single thought on Richard, Edwin or the ongoing test. All that had become unimportant in comparison to my baroness. I would be there for her selflessly, even if she feared physical intimacy with me. I would not disappoint her - ever.

  By the time we reached the middle of the stream, our ferryman did not need to use much force to push our ferry forward. The current was so strong here that we were rapidly approaching our destination. We passed several large galleons, their sails fluffing majestically in the wind. I thought back briefly to Longhill and my rocky outcrop by the sea, from which I had once watched the ships disappear beyond the horizon. It was ships like these that had sailed away with my dreams on board. At the sight of such beautiful sailors, I was usually struck by a deep melancholy and a fierce desire to get on board and leave everything behind. But now I could think of no better place than on this rocking barge. Furtively, I glanced at Isabelle from the side. I admired the courage she had to muster to burn the bridges to her old life. With nothing more than a well-stuffed purse in her pocket, she set off to cross the Channel into France.Th
e only help she got was from a senile old man and a youngster who was still quite half-baked - even if my self-assessment was different at the time.

  The city came to life more and more. The hustle and bustle of the ferries was getting denser and denser, as they were the only way to cross the river apart from the always crowded London Bridge. We made good progress and soon I recognised the impressive silhouette of the bridge in front of our bow.

  Our ferryman headed for a jetty called St Mary Overy's Dock. Various barges had already been moored at the pier, and there was a bustle of activity ashore. We paid our man with the whole shilling, which he happily accepted. I forgot to remind him of our little bet. He didn't bring it up again either.

  Southwark was a vicious den of iniquity, which meant that the dangerous elements of the neighbourhood were still asleep. The least dangerous hours in Southwark were always the hours after sunrise, which naturally favoured our venture.

  With the grumbling John in tow, we wandered through the alleys until we reached the Traitors' Gate. All travellers entering the capital from the south had to pass through this tall structure to get to London Bridge. And they all saw the same morbid spectacle. On the battlements of the gate, impaled on dozens of poles, stood the heads of the high traitors who had endangered the monarchy over the years. They shone black in the morning sun, having been dipped in pitch to prevent rapid decomposition. The barbaric spectacle was a real attraction and drew hundreds of onlookers every year. I couldn't look for long, the image reminding me every time of how close I had come to being decapitated myself (although they certainly wouldn't have considered my head important enough to display widely).

  Disgusted, I followed Isabelle and John in a southerly direction. A nearby church clock struck ten and we found ourselves at the carriage station right on time. If my compatriots have one thing to be said for them, it is that they have an exaggerated sense of punctuality and so, at the end of the tenth stroke, a heavy carriage pulled by six horses pulled up. It stopped very close to us and was immediately surrounded by several men and women who had been waiting here. Now bundles, bags and sea chests were tied to the roof of the vehicle and fares were paid. We had no luggage to stow and therefore had to wait until our fellow travellers had finished their negotiations. When our turn came, the coachman was already saying, "We're running out of room."

  Lady Isabelle now opened her purse and pulled out six shillings, causing the coachman's eyes to gleam. "Oh, we'll get them under, sirs." He went inside the carriage, where he asked the guests who had already boarded to please move together a little. I was surprised how well Isabelle's camouflage seemed to work. But under the hat and in the heavy coat, she was really not recognisable as a woman, at least not if you only looked at people on the surface like a Londoner.

  We got into the carriage. When we had got a little used to the darkness inside, we found ourselves sitting on a bench covered with sheepskins, where five of us were stuck like chickens on a roost. Across from us sat another five people who looked at us strangely, three men and two women, dressed in black robes, white collars and buckled hats - they had to be Puritans. The two men right next to us on the bench seemed to be simple merchants. It was so insanely cramped that I couldn't seriously believe I'd spend four beaten days in here. The coachman had sensed a good deal and filled his vehicle to bursting with passengers.

  Just then the carriage began to rumble, prompting John to exclaim loudly, "I'd forgotten how much I hate this bloody carriage driving."

  Chapter 22

  During the first day we had quickly got acquainted with our fellow travellers. The Puritans opposite were called Isaac, Natheniel and Job. Their wives were called Ada and Esther. Unusual as their names were, their dispositions were serious. They seemed somewhat stiff, cold and distant. I would certainly not see any of them smiling in the next few days. The two traders on our side went by the names Jean-Loup and Jean-Joel. They were French cloth merchants on their way back to Paris. Their English was excellent and they had an affability that the Puritans lacked. They kept telling us stories about their exciting business life. I soon began to suspect that these two nobly dressed men shared more than just friendship.

  Finally, in Rochester, we stopped for our first overnight stay. We stopped at an inn called 'The Flaming Bell', a very proper hostelry with whitewashed walls, clean tables and friendly staff. A jovial landlord with a big belly served us lentil soup, bread and ale. We had a table to ourselves along with John. The Puritans had immediately seized the opportunity to be among themselves. Our French companions had already gone to bed.

  "My butt is really hurting," Isabelle complained. "This constant bumping is hard to bear."

  John nodded in agreement and reached for his mug, which he emptied in one go.

  "It must be exhausting to pretend all the time," I whispered. "I'm sure the two drapers have already become suspicious. You made your voice sound deeper, but you weren't quite convincing."

  Isabelle sparkled at me in mock anger. "Not convincing, lad? I'm about to put you over my knee and give you a spanking like your father should have done."

  I swallowed hard, hardly able to believe what she had just said so flippantly there.

  Isabelle looked at me in surprise. I could see how she instantly regretted her thoughtless remark.

  "I'm sorry, George. I forgot."

  "Not so bad," I bravely pretended. "After all, it's not your fault my old man was a drunk, a thug and a son of a bitch. Who knows, maybe I'll grow up to be just like him."

  Now Lady Isabelle looked at me even more intensely. "Haven't you ever wondered why you don't have brothers and sisters, George?"

  "Yes, I have. What do you mean?"

  "It was in the winter of 1607, my husband had been dead just a year. I was still in mourning when one evening this fellow appeared at my door: dark blond long hair, neatly shaved beard, grey-green eyes. He wore old but originally expensive clothes. His hands were adorned with rings that would make any nobleman turn green with envy. He told me he was going to see my husband and acted completely dismayed when I explained that William had lost his life in a riding accident. Up to that point I was actually quite fond of him, but when he then told me how he knew my late husband, I immediately noticed his lies. Supposedly, he had once roamed the taverns and brothels of the Hanseatic cities with William and had been a loyal friend to him. That was obviously a lie, as I knew that William could not hold his liquor and had been proud of it. He had been much the same with women. The only passion that really filled William had been counting his fortune and perhaps riding - on horses, mind you. We had only come close to each other twice in bed during our marriage, and William had been so clumsy and stupid about it that I had lost all desire immediately. That's what can happen when you arrange marriages.

  As for the stranger, I now knew that he was a crook who was most likely after my money. He wanted to accompany me on a ride the next morning and I don't remember why, but I agreed, even though I knew the man's dishonest intentions. I must have been really terribly bored - bloody Longhill. Sometimes I felt like I had been buried alive there. It's a wonder I lasted as long as I did.

  But I digress. After the guy left me, I curiously followed him into the village. He had tied his horse, a rickety old animal, behind a bush and was now riding it down the stony path. I followed him at some distance. It began to rain. He stopped in front of the tavern where some healthy and strong horses were tied up. He dismounted and was about to steal one of the animals when the pub door opened and a handful of armed men stepped out. There was a brief exchange of words, a shout and then the crook lay bleeding in the puddles. The gunmen had taken away the rings he had worn so proudly and then disappeared. At first I thought the man was dead when I saw him struggling to get up and staggering down the street, bleeding. I struggled with myself for a moment. Then I decided to help him against all common sense. The pity in me was stronger than the anger at his lies. I admit it: somehow I liked him too, this scoundrel. I tried to rea
ch him when another figure beat me to it - a woman with a pannier on her back. She supported him and helped him into a shed near the road. I dismounted from my horse. Soaked and trembling, I wanted to know what was happening there. I looked at the wall of the shed for a way to see in. There was a gap between the boards and I saw in the light of an oil lamp how the woman was tending to the wounded man. She was tearing strips out of his shirt and wrapping a bandage around the heavy wound in his stomach. I heard her soothingly talking to the wounded man. She said her name – Ethel."

  "Ethel? Ethel, my mother?" I was instantly wide awake.

  "That's the one. He also gave his name and asked her if she would grant a dying man his last wish. Ethel was a pretty young thing at the time. Newly wed to this drunkard who, despite all his efforts, could not manage to impregnate her. What happened after her brief and timid nod I don't think I need to describe to you in detail, George. The stranger had enormous last powers, which he demonstrated to your mother in an almost admirable manner. The next morning the man was dead. Ethel buried him secretly in the field as your father slept off his drunkenness once again."

  Thoughts were whirling around in my head. Could it be? Could it be that the mindless drunkard, the thug and rapist Martin had not been my real father at all?

  "What was the stranger's name?", I now wanted to know from Isabelle. "Tell me already! You know his name."

  "I saw the same grey-green in your eyes. When you came to me, back in Longhill, when you took up your servant's post, I knew immediately who you had been named after. Ethel had given you your name as a remembrance of your father - as a remembrance of George."

  Chapter 23

  The three of us had to share the small chamber in the inn. John was snoring on a cot beside the door. Isabelle had curled up under a thick blanket in the big bed and was also already breathing steadily. Only I could find no peace. What Isabelle had told me so casually at the dinner table had been so fundamental and so grand that I could hardly believe it. I was no longer a descendant of that hateful man I had once been forced to kill. I was no longer a patricide! This stigma had simply fallen off me. My actual father didn't seem to have been a saint either, but at least he had a hit with women. Having a thief and seducer for a father appealed to me far better than being the son of a violent fool. I was so excited that I would have liked to share this fact with the whole world. At the very least, I had to talk to Isabelle about it again, sleep was absolutely out of the question.