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

by Richard Bergen

  Josefine explained to me that apart from looking after Lady Isabelle, I was also responsible for the fireplaces. So I had to make sure that firewood was always added, had to remove the cold ashes from the fireplaces and was allowed to take care of cleaning the ledges.

  When the maid had finished her tour, she looked me up and down critically and said, "But first I'll give you some suitable clothes, my boy."

  She led me up to the attic where the wardrobe was housed and began rummaging around in large wooden chests until she finally found what she was looking for. Smiling, she pulled out from a mountain of servants' clothes a simple blue skirt with a white collar, a pair of black trousers and a couple of shirts - all somehow in my size.

  "I knew this collection of clothes would come in handy someday," Josefine said gleefully. "Only five people live in this castle, but with these things here we could outfit an army. There is something for every taste and size."

  Josefine made sure with motherly strictness that I washed, combed my hair and put on the clean clothes.

  "These clothes are long out of fashion and a bit threadbare, but they look great on you," she noted as I stood before her in all my glory.

  She took in my coarse linen clothes with a disgusted look on her face and said with raised eyebrows, "Surely you don't mind if I burn them?"

  I watched her hurl my old clothes into the fireplace in a high arc, the flames greedily gnawing at the fabric, turning it to ash in no time. As I watched this process, I felt as if I were drawing a line under my past. These pieces of cloth, as pitiful as they might have seemed, had been my last link to my poor origins and now it was over.

  Josephine snapped me out of my thoughts by saying, "Come on, George! I want Lady Isabelle to see you in this get-up. I can't wait to see her reaction."

  Lady Isabelle was thrilled when she saw me. Her mouth opened slightly and she said softly, "Mon Dieu! So dapper ... So civilised."

  "Is there anything I can do for you, Milady?", I asked, making a bow, just as I had learned.

  "Ask me in French, mon jeunot! Then you will get an answer, en avant!"

  Chapter 6

  In the following days, I practised my duties. I now slept in my servant's room and had to admit that it was not very comfortable compared to the lady's second bedroom. It was strange how much my demands had increased. Only a short time ago I had a straw mat for storage and now the mattress of a bed seemed too hard.

  An important point on my list of duties was that I had to be available for Milady at all times. In my chamber, therefore, there was a bell that could be operated by pulling a rope. The end of this rope was in Milady's bedchamber. So when the bell rang, I had to rush to her immediately and inquire about her wishes.

  My usual daily routine was as follows: I got up in the morning after sunrise and my first duty was to supply the fireplaces in the rooms with firewood and to light new fires. After this activity, I brought Madame breakfast. Josefine helped her beforehand with the activities of washing and dressing in the morning. Afterwards, Lady Isabelle usually set out to ride over her land, assisted by John, who saddled the horse she wanted. During the hour that Isabelle rode out, we footmen usually had some rest. I often spent this time with John, listening to his half-spun stories about his adventurous youth. Josefine would join us from time to time and also listen to the groom's tales. The looks with which John and Josefine met from time to time made me suspect each time that the two shared more than just the same mistress.

  After Lady de Moranté's return, John again had a lot to do, because he had to take care of the exhausted animal, muck out the stable, groom and feed the horses.

  Rebecca, meanwhile, was down in the kitchen preparing lunch. I rarely saw Rebecca anywhere but within the walls of her kitchen (yes, she called it her kitchen). She was a very secretive, solitary woman who shied away from contact with others. So I never really knew what to think of her. She was always serious and kind of absent-minded, and I can't remember hearing her laugh with the best of my will.

  During the midday hours I was usually busy adding wood or helping Josefine clean the rooms. This activity required a huge amount of time, as the castle was not exactly small, and it was this task that I enjoyed least during my time with Lady Isabelle.

  Finally, in the afternoon, Milady had me come to her chambers and continued my lessons with me. She made me read and write incessantly. I almost despaired at the complicated grammar of the French language, but my mistress showed no mercy. I usually spent several hours in her chambers until she released me to my duties. But her persistence was crowned with success. Soon I found myself unconsciously formulating my thoughts in French. The pronunciation became easier and easier and my eyes swept quickly and evenly over the lines of the books. I can't remember a day during this period when I didn't fall into bed in the evening, dead tired and sleeping like a rock - at least until that night when I had a disturbing dream.

  It was about my mother. I saw her standing in our poor little house and she looked at me with tears streaming down her face. She was speaking, but the sound of the sea in the background swallowed her words. I wanted to know what she was saying, but I could not understand a word. A feeling of paralysing helplessness wrapped itself around my heart. I had felt this feeling once before; back when I had looked through the windows into our house and seen my father raping my mother. I hadn't been able to help her, at least that's what I told myself. But deep inside I knew that was not all. Basically, it had just been an excuse for my cowardice.

  I woke up with a guilty conscience and cold sweat on my forehead. Mon Dieu, I thought, how long had I been here in this castle? Was it weeks or even months? During all this time I had not thought of my mother. I had simply forgotten her like an unloved chapter of my past. Guilt gnawed at me. I had never visited her. Much worse, I had erased her from my memory. The images of the dream returned in confused sequence. My screaming mother, the sound of the sea. What did it all mean?

  In the blink of an eye, I made the decision to go to her. Yes, I would no longer remain in the unknown. Already tomorrow morning I would visit her, preferably during Milady's morning ride. I wouldn't tell her about it, and I wouldn't let John and Josefine in on it either. They would certainly not let me go, for after all, the last visit to the village had been somewhat detrimental to my health. But I wanted to take the risk. There was a good chance that my father would be at sea that morning. I would be able to see my mother and ask her if everything was all right and then I would return here - nothing easier than that.

  Chapter 7

  Following my plan, I made my way back to the village the next morning after Lady de Moranté had left. I told John I was going to check on the fireplace in the dining room and ran as fast as my feet would carry me down the winding path into the village. The streets were deserted and I shivered in the strong, cold wind that blew towards me. My boots swirled the thick blanket of snow and cold steam left my mouth. It wasn't very long before I had reached my parents' hut. I crept to the first window and pulled lightly at the sheepskin covering the window opening.

  My eyes pierced the darkness and after a brief moment of orientation I realised that no one was there. I was about to wonder where my mother could be at this hour when a voice I knew all too well reached my ear.

  "George? I don't believe it!"

  I turned around and recognised Randall, my old playmate. Randall was a year older than me, but slightly smaller and better fed. Since I was six, I had spent most of my meagre free time with him. We had played tag or had wild scuffles with the other children in the village. When I looked at him now, he seemed like a mirror image of myself. The way I had looked just a few weeks ago - dirty, with shaggy hair and tattered linen clothes. He examined me from head to toe and said in amazement, "You're hardly recognisable, George."

  "How are you?" I asked with the distance that always lies between two people who haven't seen each other for a while.

  "Fine. You seem to be doing even better though," he s
aid with a grin, touching the fabric of my skirt. "What's she like, your Lady?"

  "Friendlier than I thought," I replied. "She cares a lot about having an educated servant. That's why she taught me French. My skull is still buzzing from it."

  "You can speak French now, George?" asked Randall incredulously.

  "Oui bien sûr. Mon français est déjà passable," I replied.

  Randall felt uncomfortable and looked at me almost startled. "What happened to you up there?"

  "I finally found someone who cares for me better than my parents. That's all. I'm doing well at Milady's and I'm comfortable."

  "You're better dressed than any villager," Randall said. And now I thought I detected unmistakable envy in his voice. "Unfortunately, I didn't attend the audition at the castle then, or she might have chosen me," he continued.

  "Yes, that's possible," I agreed. "But it didn't turn out that way."

  "No, it didn't turn out that way. And I must say I don't like it. You come strutting down here, wearing the classiest clothes, and you talk to me boastfully in French. I think that's pretty low of you."

  "I only told you something in French because you asked me, Randall. I'm not here to show off. I'm here because I'm looking for my mother."

  His brow furrowed. "You won't find your mother here. She's getting firewood, doing the work you're normally supposed to do."

  "I'll go to her," I said, striding quickly along a path below our house that led a few feet towards the cliff and eventually turned left. Randall came running after me. From up here I could overlook the winding path that led from the crest of the cliff down to the harbour. The wooden jetties were already in a bad state of disrepair. Here and there, entire intermediate planks were missing and it seemed to be only a matter of time before the entire construction would collapse.

  Our path continued uphill along the ridge of the coast. Randall had caught up with me in the meantime and said crossly: "It's a miracle that you show up at your mother's after such a long time. I thought you'd forgotten all about her. Now that you're a rich, French-speaking gentleman, there's no need to waste a troublesome thought on your origins, is there?"

  These words were too much. I lunged at him, roaring, and pulled him to the ground. Randall, who had not expected such an attack, was caught completely off guard. Enraged, I slammed my fists into his stomach. He doubled over under me and cried out. With his arms he pushed me away. Although he was smaller than me, he seemed incomparably stronger. His stocky figure contained unexpected strength, which I had felt many times in previous scuffles. But this brawl was different from all the previous ones. This time it was not a game, this time it was bitterly serious.

  When Randall had absorbed my attack, he retaliated. His fists hit me in the head and I sank to the ground. I felt him bend over me so he could kick me in the stomach. I quickly rolled to the side. His kick landed in the air. He lost his balance and crashed to the ground. I threw myself on top of him and pressed my forearm against his neck. He gasped under me, kicking and trying to get free again, but I had a firm grip and did not let him escape from my grasp.

  "Stop it!" he pressed out, his head running red. "So stop it! I didn't ... I didn't mean it."

  I was terribly angry. My heart was beating up to my throat with rage and I didn't see why I should let him go. I knew only too well that his words were meant exactly as he had said them. Unfortunately, my reflections took too long. Randall took advantage of a moment of lack of concentration and pushed me off him. He gasped and I assumed I had finished him off, but I was wrong.

  Letting out a wild battle cry, Randall lunged at me. He punched me in the stomach with such force that I lost my senses for a moment. As I lay defenceless on the ground, watching him against the sun above me, he said softly, "You were once my friend, George. But that is over now."

  I heard him move away and slowly picked myself up. My head ached and I felt I was bleeding on my left temple, but it was nothing serious. I trotted further along the path until I came to a small hill. There I saw my mother. She was crouching on the ground and was picking up a long branch, which she was adding to a bundle she was carrying on her back. She turned around. I could see her face now and it gave me a shock. Ethel was haggard and pale. Her cheeks showed the distinct marks of beatings and her eyes were glassy and empty. Only when she noticed me did they fill with life.

  "My God, George!" she groaned, startled, and after a few moments I realised that she didn't mean my expensive clothes, but rather the marks of my recent scuffle.

  "Did you run into Martin?" she asked fearfully.

  "No. I ... I had a fight with Randall. Mother, you look terrible."

  Ethel looked to the floor when she saw my worried face, but she remained silent.

  "Mother, what happened?"

  It took a while before she answered me, and when the words passed her lips, they sounded brittle and bleak. "What do you think, George? Your father has been beating me every day since you left. I never thought he would be so angry about your leaving, yet he keeps demanding that I get you back or he will make my life hell."

  "And ... you didn't try to get me back?", I said quietly. It was really more of a statement than a question.

  "No. Even if I did, what good would it do? He'd beat us both up on a regular basis. At least you'll escape him that way."

  I was close to just crying or throwing a tantrum. My father's behaviour was so base and deceitful. Why did he take advantage of this defenceless woman? I fervently wished that someone would come and beat him up for once. I wished to see his reaction as he lay kicked and helpless on the ground. That was what he deserved. But in the end, that was not enough. Only death could make him pay for what he had done to my mother.

  My mother snapped me out of my violent thoughts. "George, you have to go. If Martin sees you here, he may beat you to death. I want you to go."

  That he will beat you to death, her words echoed in my skull. "I will kill him, Mother," I said quietly. "I will arm myself with a dagger and stab him. That is what he deserves."

  "Don't even think about it!" my mother pleaded with me. He would see through your intention and then you would not fare well." She looked at me almost begging. "George, if you care about me at all, go now! Go and never come back!"

  I looked at her, searching for tears on her pale cheeks, but I could find nothing. I knew my mother would resist a goodbye hug again, so I refrained from trying altogether, turned and walked back to the village. I had already spent more time here than I had planned. My legs moved quickly to make the long path to the castle, but my mind wasn't on it. I felt inside me the powerlessness over my mother's suffering consuming me. I could no longer think clearly and if I felt any emotion, it was nothing but pure, raging hatred for Martin.

  I returned immediately to the stables where I found John lighting a pipe. When he caught sight of me, he asked straightforwardly, "Where have you been?" His eyes swept over me, registering the marks of the scuffle. "And what happened to you?"

  I realised it would be no use denying, so I said, "I was in the village visiting my mother and ..."

  "You don't need to go on at all, George," John said grimly. "Your father caught you and beat you up. That's why you're bleeding now."

  "No, that's not what happened," I objected. "I had a fight with a boy from the village. If I had met my father, I wouldn't be looking so good now."

  "How is your mother?" asked John abruptly warmly. "You haven't seen her for a while."

  I lowered my head sadly. "My father takes out all his resentment against me on her. She was battered and I think he keeps taking her by force."

  "That filthy animal!" cursed John. "Someone should teach him how to behave."

  I looked up and eyed John's face urgently until he understood why I was looking at him so sharply.

  "You mean that I ...?" he pointed a finger at himself.

  "True, my father is quite strong and tall," I said slowly. "But he's a klutz and drunk he's no match for someone lik
e you, John."

  It took a brief moment for John to nod in agreement. A joyful shiver ran through my body. I now had an ally in the fight against my father. My mother would not have to suffer for very long now. How naïve I had been then.

  "John," I said quietly now. "Has Milady returned yet?"

  "A few moments ago already, George."

  "Would you mind not telling her? I don't want to incur her resentment."

  With a broad grin, he nodded. "You can rely on me, my boy. I won't say a word to her and your father can start sorting out the coffin nails."

  Chapter 8

  Still full of feelings of revenge towards my father, I went behind the stables to a rain barrel and washed the dirt and blood off my face and hands. The dust came off my clothes fairly well and a few minutes later I looked quite presentable again. I hurried into the house to the first available fireplace. I poked around in the glowing wood with an iron and threw something else combustible after it. As the flames sensed the new nourishment and flared brightly, I noticed someone standing behind me.

  I turned quickly and caught sight of Lady Isabelle. The fire of the fireplace was reflected in her shining eyes.

  "Where have you been, George? I rang for you in vain," she said in a resolute tone.

  "I was at the stables with John, and I wanted to check on the fireplaces now, Milady."

  "You'll have time for that later, mon jeunot. Now it is time for the next lesson."

  I wondered why she wanted to start French in the morning, but I didn't dare contradict her. I followed her through the high corridors of the castle to her chambers. She led me into one of the lounges and told me to take a seat on the couch.

  The situation was similar to many weeks before and yet it was different. It almost seemed as if she wanted to tell me something special. I watched her attentively as she strode to the window in her shiny red dress, looked out for a moment and returned to me.