The Sad Tale of the Brothers Grossbart

by Jesse Bullington

  “To arms, Grossbarts,” Rodrigo panted. “Our enemies are upon us.”

  “How’s that?” One hand went to Manfried’s mace but the other stayed on his cheese.

  “The doge has come to arrest the three of you, bringing with him a French knight and a cardinal as well as men, but the captain has outwitted them, and now,” Rodrigo tilted his head toward the sound of the great door in the foyer opening, “he has lured the doge’s guests inside, and we must take them prisoner. Now! And by force!”

  Shouting reached them, and still chewing their breakfast the Grossbarts hurried down the hall after Rodrigo. Martyn followed at a sensible distance, a bottle in his good hand. Entering the spacious chamber they saw four of Barousse’s men aiming crossbows at two impressive figures, one bristling in plate and chain armor, the other draped with lily-white, coal-black, and blood-red cloth. Both were shouting at the pleasantly smiling Barousse, but they quieted when he stepped forward and laid the edge of his cutlass against the cardinal’s throat.

  “Better.” Barousse nodded. “Much better. May I present Cardinal Buñuel and His Lordship Sir Jean Gosney of Meaux. Cardinal, Sir Jean, this is Hegel Grossbart and Manfried Grossbart, my two advisors. Rodrigo you have already met, and who is this? Ah, of course, the supposedly defrocked priest, Father Martyn.”

  “We are already intimately acquainted,” Martyn sneered, making directly for Buñuel. “You have erred in the introductions, however, captain, for this man has no authority over a servant of God. This heretic presided over my torture! How dare you wear those robes in my presence? You are hereby excommunicated!” To the delight of Barousse and the Grossbarts and the horror of everyone else, Martyn slapped the cardinal in the face. He then twisted around and stormed back to the kitchen before he committed greater sins.

  “Blasphemy,” Buñuel gasped. “Seize them, Jean, dash their mouths!”

  Like many veterans of his age and country, Sir Jean had been captured and ransomed several times in his life, and found the arrangement far more comfortable than a martyr’s death. His command of Italian therefore failed him, and he unfastened his helm to better demonstrate his obedience. Bowing to Buñuel, he remastered the language of his captors and turned to Barousse.

  “If you will give me your demands I will shout them to the doge, and I vouchsafe he will prove more honest in his negotiations than most.” Sir Jean shrugged at the livid cardinal.

  “Tell him to wait until Vespers for your release, at which time I will have received a full pardon from Church and city for my regrettably forceful keeping of both of your company,” said Barousse. “Furthermore, all of my men and guests will likewise receive identical pardons, I will be recompensed to the sound of one thousand ducats, and receive the word of both of you as well as the doge that this matter, soon to be forgiven by the Lord, will be forgiven by you personally as well. Tell that weasel to wait at his palace for any further demands, which shall be sent before dark.”

  “Churl!” Cardinal Buñuel spit. “Think you can imprison us by sword and get whatever you desire? Heaven is not granted to such rogues!”

  “Imprison?” Barousse adopted a pained expression and sheathed his sword. “Never! You are free to leave at your will! Of course, if you choose to leave before I grant it my men will murder you where you stand. But imprison? No, no. No irons, no cages, simply hospitality as befits men of your station.”

  The Grossbarts were staring at the weathered chevalier, who without his sharp-visored hounskull helmet looked decidedly less intimidating. His paunchy jowls were smooth, and what few scars he possessed were shallow and indistinct. Compounding matters, he had lathered himself with perfume, reminding the Brothers of the witch’s pungent hut.

  “Hop to, then.” Barousse had moved to the door when the cardinal, who saw the fear on the faces of his guards, addressed the crossbowmen.

  “By directing your weapons at me you have damned yourselves! Only if I live may you be absolved!” Then the cardinal broke for the door.

  Hegel caught him in the shin with the haft of his pick, sending Buñuel sprawling in the doorway. The Grossbarts snatched him up and held his arms while he spit and kicked, his normally placid nature undone by the indignity. With a nod from the captain they dragged him to the kitchen while Barousse, Rodrigo, and the guards supervised Sir Jean’s recitation of demands to the furious but not entirely surprised doge.

  The doge left his pikemen blocking the gate and rode off while Barousse shut the door and clapped Rodrigo on the back. The scheme had succeeded more than even he had hoped, and after apologizing again to Sir Jean, he disarmed the knight and escorted him to the dining chamber along with three of the crossbowmen. With the servants dismissed, Rodrigo hurried to fetch wine and food for the captain.

  Loading up several plates with what little cold meat the again-feasting Grossbarts had not already claimed, Rodrigo descended to the cellar for wine. Gasping at the sight awaiting him, he raced back up the stairs and shouted at the Brothers, “What have you done with the priests?!”

  “Put’em down there.” Manfried tossed his crust at Rodrigo. “As you’s just seen, I imagine.”

  “Fools! That crazed priest’s killed the other one!” Rodrigo yelled.

  “Goddamn it all!” Manfried jumped up. “I told you to tie him good!”

  “I did!” Hegel followed. “If he’s so worthless as to be slayed by a trussed-up man he deserves what he gets.”

  They stumbled down the stairs and saw the naked Buñuel swaying from the rafters, ordure dribbling down his legs. Martyn had traded his worn robes for the scarlet-piped finery of the cardinal and prayed fervently in a corner, oblivious to the ruckus he had caused. The Grossbarts relaxed upon discovering the miscommunication and Manfried chastised Rodrigo.

  “Gotta use them eyes, boy.” Manfried shook his head. “With the clothes switch I can see the cause, but even a cursory glance would tell you it was the other way round. Bein perceptive’ll keep you alive longer than runnin hither and thither squawkin all kinds a meck.”

  “Your mad friend did it, as I say! Your pet heretic killed the cardinal!” Rodrigo hunched over and vomited.

  “That ain’t gonna help the stink.” Hegel retrieved a bottle of wine from the lattice rack.

  “Look,” Manfried addressed the gagging Rodrigo, “either my way or yours, only Mary knows which is right, which is mine, a course, but that defeats the purpose. Point is: either I’s right, and a man a Mary’s Will, committed to righteousness, has hung a heretic, which is his duty and obligation, especially considerin said heretic mocked us all by pretendin to be pious.”

  “But-” and then Rodrigo dry-heaved.

  “But we could have it your way,” Manfried continued, “and assume it was the red and very dead cardinal what was the righteous one, meanin Martyn’s a heretic, and worse still, one what murdered a man a Mary. And since he’s aligned with us, we’s all accomplices.”

  “There has to be another way.” Rodrigo wiped his mouth.

  “Certainly,” Manfried continued, raising his voice. “We turn Martyn over to the doge and explain the mistake, and hope he’s the understandin sort. You got no time to snot on your sleeve, so take the sensible reality a things: we’s doin Mary’s work, and this cardinal asshole did worse than interfere, he blasphemed, and we ain’t gonna tolerate that.”

  “Have a drink,” Hegel quietly offered, but when Rodrigo raised his head he saw the Grossbart handing it to Martyn.

  His psalm trailing off, Martyn opened his eyes and took in Hegel. The doorway above him ringed Hegel in light, and Buñuel’s dangling legs seemed as wings to the demented servant of God. The bottle shone red in Hegel’s hand as he repeated the offer.

  “I am not worthy of these stolen robes, let alone your mercy,” Martyn murmured, fumbling at his sash.

  “Hold a tic.” Hegel put his hand on Martyn’s shoulder and squatted down. Taking a cue from Manfried, he coached the priest. “We’s agents a Mary, and from where we stand, you came by t
hem robes and whatever station they imply through your own fuckin piety. We ain’t heretics, we’s bout the only ones sides yourself knows how corrupt and wicked what they call the Church is, with that bastard you hung bein prime example. So wear them vestments with dignity and pride, Cardinal Martyn.” Hegel wiped imaginary dust from Martyn’s shoulders.

  “But-” Martyn’s eyes shone.

  “Sides,” Manfried called, sensing Rodrigo’s defeat and his brother’s imminent victory, “how else is a one-armed priest gonna hang a heretic cept through the power a faith and the Will a Mary? Throttle, maybe, but really…” Manfried chuckled, impressed by Martyn’s follow-through.

  “From Judas onward,” Martyn shouted, springing to his feet, “let the betrayers of our Lord hang as did the first! To Roma, Grossbarts, and then to Avignon!”

  “Shut it,” Manfried sighed. “Hegel, cut down the dead one and take’em out to the stables. Cover’ em in Martyn ’s clothes, and take his sorry ass too, but mind he keeps his head down lest spies spy our ruse.”

  Hegel climbed a barrel and cut down Buñuel, spattering shit everywhere. “Why I gotta drag this meck about?”

  “Cause I gotta bring wine to the captain and inform him a recent events,” an exasperated Manfried explained. “Now get to it so’s we can reconvene with some wine a our own.”

  To dry Hegel’s pissiness, Manfried helped haul the corpse to the kitchen and then intercepted Rodrigo coming up the stairs from the basement. Leading the shaken man back down, he pulled a bottle from the rack and opened it. After a guzzle, he gave it to Rodrigo and hoisted several fresh ones. Leaving the basement laden with booze and entering the empty foyer, Manfried caught wind of the Arab hobbling along the second-story railing toward the captain’s chambers. “Get down here!” Manfried barked.

  “Illustrious Master Manfried!” Al-Gassur turned, his unseen grimace of dismay instantly replaced with a winning smile. “Here you are! I have scoured and scoured, only to see that we have exchanged placements, with I above and you below!”

  “You dirty sneak.” Manfried waited at the foot of the stairs. “What’re you doin in the house?”

  “Seeking you, of course! From my stable bed I witnessed this morning’s display, and when no word was sent I thought I might advise you of the imminent peril.”

  “What imminent peril?” said Manfried.

  “Why, that facing us all, for with the doge so angered and his men imprisoned, I thought-”

  “You thought that your lowly fuckin observations would be superior to mine?”

  “No, certainly not, I only wished to-”

  “Sneak in unobserved and pilfer what you could before desertin us?”

  Al-Gassur faked a laugh rather convincingly, and pretended to slip in order to pat his vest and ensure the purloined silver candelabra did not bulge too much.

  “You’s underfoot from now til I say otherwise, understood?”

  “Yes, Master Grossbart.”

  “Good. Take this wine.” Manfried shoved the two bottles under Al-Gassur’s crutch arm and led him to the dining chamber.

  Through the open door they saw Barousse and Sir Jean laughing as though they were lifelong friends. The French knight found the captain to be the worst example of nouveau riche mercantilism tempered with deplorable manners and a liberal dose of insanity, while Barousse judged the nephew of the Vicomte de Meaux to be a spoiled fop oblivious to his situation. This did not prevent them from carrying an animated conversation about Sir Jean’s period of imprisonment in England after the Battle of Poitiers. The mercenary guards nervously nodded at Manfried and the Arab.

  “Manfried!” Barousse called, “you’ve brought more wine, excellent! Rodrigo seemed peaked so I sent him to have a rest.”

  “Rigo tell you what’s happened?” asked Manfried, and when the captain shook his head Manfried snatched the bottles from Al-Gassur. Setting one before the captain and opening the other himself, Manfried took a pull before saying, “Got new developments, could set us back.”

  “What sort?” Barousse’s voice hardened.

  “Cardinal’s dead,” said Manfried.

  “That’s too bad.” Barousse shrugged. “Can’t be helped, I suppose.”

  “I sent Hegel to put’em in the barn, and had Martyn follow wearin the cardinal’s robes, so’s the men at the gate’ll think he’s still breathin.”

  “Sound,” Barousse agreed, then suddenly stood. “I’ll attend to the remains better than they, serve a belated lunch to the lady of the house, then fetch you and Hegel to assist me with finalizing certain matters. That is, if you would entertain Sir Jean while I perform my errands?”

  “Think I can manage,” Manfried sighed, sitting in Barousse’s chair. No sooner had the captain excused himself than Manfried snatched the glass away from the petulant knight and handed it to his hovering servant.

  “Care for some wine, Arab?” Manfried asked, eyes locked with Sir Jean.

  Al-Gassur bowed and poured from Barousse’s bottle, sharp enough to see the game and stay respectfully silent. The Arab slurped and smacked, Manfried’s lips curling up in direct proportion to Sir Jean’s frown.

  “I’s seen your sort before,” Manfried said after swirling some wine in his puckered mouth. “Ridin about, puttin on airs. I seen you.”

  Sir Jean would not have learned German even if given the chance, believing the Holy Roman Empire and its guttural tongue to be beyond contemptible. Instead he smiled slightly at this peasant’s coarseness, which earned him wine splashed in his face. Sir Jean’s hand went to his empty scabbard and his cinder-hued cheeks turned ashen, his blue eyes bulging. He told Manfried precisely what he thought of him, starting in French but shifting to Italian for the benefit of the watching guards and the Arab.

  Al-Gassur began translating, at which point Sir Jean went paler still and his diatribe dried up. Manfried nodded appreciatively and stood. Sir Jean did not shrink away but leaned forward to accept the blow that never fell.

  “Tell’em to take off that armor,” Manfried ordered Al-Gassur, who went to task.

  “Tell him I will do nothing he commands, but will wait for the captain to return,” Sir Jean interrupted.

  “Begging your apologies, dear Frenchman,” Al-Gassur said, taking liberty with his duty, “but I believe Master Grossbart is seeking a provocation to murder you. I would do what he says, unless you are ready to end as the cardinal did.”

  “Cardinal Buñuel’s been killed?” Sir Jean swallowed. “Are they mad?”

  “Quite. Now haste might be a better ally than even myself…”

  Manfried checked his urge to strike the Arab, Buñuel being recognizable in the stream of nonsense. Sir Jean stood and reluctantly removed his armor, which took quite a while without his squire. Manfried circled him, paying close attention to how the iron carapace fit together.

  Hegel scowled at the sun, at the guards curiously watching them, at Buñuel’s twisted rictus, and at Martyn. Dropping the real cardinal in the hay, Hegel seized the bottle the new cardinal had stowed in his armpit and set to prowling around the stable. Martyn wiped his excrement-covered hands on the side of a horse, which Hegel glared at, daring the animal to make the first move. It blinked and he resisted the impulse to slay it.

  “What is that?” Martyn motioned out the door.

  “Eh?” Hegel looked at the apparatus constructed in the back garden. The main supports rose nearly as high as the house, a huge beam balanced between them with one end tethered to something behind the shrubbery. Utterly baffled as to the purpose of such a device, he lied to Martyn.

  “That’s the instrument a our victory,” said Hegel.

  “You know of its purpose? Wonderful!” Barousse came from the house.

  “Er.” Hegel scratched his beard.

  “Grab hold of the body and bring it with us, and you shall help me ready our final blow.” Barousse veered off toward the contraption, and with much cursing Hegel and Martyn followed, towing Buñuel’s corpse.

 
Closer inspection only perplexed the two more, but Barousse took hold of a wheel and with Hegel’s assistance winched down one side of the teetering shaft. Attached to the end sat a spacious wooden basket, which they unceremoniously dumped Buñuel’s corpse into. Several guards watched from the terrace, in theory minding the rear wall lest the doge’s men storm it.

  “I told the builders it was to be filled with an anchor’s weight worth of flowers to honor Strafalaria,” Barousse grunted, leading Martyn and Hegel onto the terrace and through the back door, “so it should be calibrated proper. I’ve got an actual anchor to drag out, lest a boulder undo the counterweight and foil the accuracy. That, along with the cardinal and a few hundred ducats ought to ensure the streets are thronged and our flight unnoticed.”

  “A sound scheme,” Hegel acknowledged, possessing all the mechanical intuition of a mule.

  “What is its purpose?” Martyn asked, earning him Hegel’s silent thanks.

  “You’ll learn soon enough.” Barousse rubbed his palms together. Entering the rear door behind the central staircase, he motioned toward the dining room. “See that your brother hasn’t murdered our other hostage, and make sure the twit doesn’t learn of our scheme. I’ll be back as soon as I attend to my business.”

  Barousse’s face darkened as he hurried toward the kitchen, while Hegel and Martyn went to see what Manfried was about. Retrieving the bucket of live sardines from beside the kitchen table, Barousse saw Rodrigo coming up from another wine-run to the cellar. Sloshing back across the kitchen, Barousse turned to the flushed young man.