Down: Pinhole (25 page)

“We’re pinned down,” John shouted to Hawes.

“Indeed we are.”

“Who are they?”

“Maximilien’s men, I should think.”

“Who’s Maximilien?” John asked Luca, who was pressed tightly against the chalk face.

“The king of Francia. I suppose they were on guard against an English attack.”

“I’m going over to those boulders,” John said. “I’ve got an idea.”

“I hope you’re fleet of foot,” Simon said, his body dusted with chalk.

John took a deep breath and started running defensively, zigging and zagging, all the while trying to keep from tripping up on the rocky beach. Arrows and gunshot peppered the ground, kicking up sand and stone fragments but he made it safely to the shelter of the boulders.

“A good piece of maneuvering,” Hawes said, “but I would say we are in a spot of bother.”

“There’s got to be a defensive position on the cliffs. They would have been watching us the whole time. If they had big guns they would have opened up on the ship. Do you think you can get to one of the boats and row back to the
Hellfire
?”

“We might take casualties but I believe we can. Toward what end?”

“If you can get enough elevation with the new cannon you might be able to take out their position,” John said.

“I believe we can pitch the cannon forward and raise its carriage with wooden chucks. I have no doubt we can elevate it to reach the heights required. Whether we can hit the mark is a bird of another feather.”

A musket ball sparked against the boulder.

“Nevertheless,” the captain continued, “I can think of no better plan.”

Hawes had a hurried word with his men and a rowing party was chosen. On a count of three, Hawes and six others raised up from their hiding place and began running at speed across the beach toward the small boats, and to muddle the cliff defenders, John took off back to the rock face drawing some of the fire.

In the volley of arrows and musket balls, another of Hawes’s men fell but the captain reached the nearest boat and he and his men began dragging it into the surf. When they climbed aboard and commenced rowing, John heard a louder boom and the water beside the boat rose in a spout.

“They’ve got small cannon,” John yelled to Simon.

“They’d better row like the clappers or they’re buggered.”

The rowers put their backs into it and the boat fought through the breakers to reach the open water. Hawes waved furiously at his ship and onboard his first mate must have divined the plan because he pulled anchor, hoisted the mainsail and began coming about to bring the starboard side toward the shore. The cannon fire from the cliffs was off mark and the small boat reached the
Hellfire
unmarked. The men scrambled up the ropes and clamored aboard.

From the base of the cliff, John squinted into the distance and said, “They made it. Now we wait.”

An arrow landed at his feet, stuck vertically into the sand. He looked up and high above his head at the top of the cliff he saw an archer’s head withdraw.

“Son-of-a-bitch,” he growled. “Try that again.” He drew the flintlock from his trousers, cocked it and braced himself against the cliff face, extending his arms over his head. The chalk of the cliffs blended with the whitish sky. “Come on,” he said. “Show yourself.”

And the archer did, leaning over, his head and shoulders dark against the background. John got a good sight picture of the target. He wasn’t sure if the pistol had the range but he squeezed the trigger and absorbed the chunky recoil through his arms. At first he thought he had missed because the archer kept leaning over the side, but then things began falling—an arrow, a cross-bow, and then a man, hurtling down so fast that Luca stood his ground as if rooted. John pulled him away a moment before the body hit the beach, splashing the stones with blood and brains. But still, the archer groaned and tried to move his broken limbs about.

“Christ, I wish they’d die when you kill them,” John said.

“Don’t we all,” Simon said, dropping to his knees to search the archer’s pockets for booty.

They waited. Without a spyglass, John couldn’t see what was happening onboard the
Hellfire
and the longer it took for the ship to open fire, the more he doubted their ability to achieve enough elevation. He reloaded his flintlock and instructed every sailor with an archebuser or musket to train them on the top of the cliff in case anyone dared lean over again.

Then, there was a blinding flash from the galleon followed by a deep, throaty boom, and a shell crashed into the cliff face, some twenty or thirty yards from the top. All the men on the beach ducked and protected themselves from falling debris. Fine chalk covered them like snowflakes.

“Come on, guys, just a little bit higher,” John said.

A minute later the big cannon spit out another shell. John tried his best to follow its whistling arc. It barely cleared the cliff face and landed out of sight. Suddenly, bodies, not arrows or musket balls, fell down on them. They ran from the cliffs to avoid collisions and cautiously looked up to see if they were still in harm’s way. No one shot at them. For good measure, the
Hellfire
let go another round with the same aim-point and more bodies fell to the beach, followed by a tumbling French cannon, a six-pounder by the look of it.

The marines who had remained behind the boulders poked their heads out and let out a victory whoop. John waited for a while, eventually gave the all clear, and then told the soldiers to tell Captain Hawes that he and his group were heading off. They would rendezvous on the beach in several days as originally planned.

By the middle of the afternoon John and his companions were on their way to Paris. The first coastal village they had encountered seemed prosperous and had horses and tack galore. They had only to tie up some hapless men in a stable to get what they needed. John had no doubt that Hawes would find all the provisions he needed there. Now as they rode through the countryside, avoiding towns and villages, John kept Emily in his thoughts.

I’m coming for you.

Hold on, be strong.

Luca was riding at point and raised his hand. There was a pond ahead where the horses could be watered. When they dismounted, Luca tested the water and declared it fresh. While the horses drank, John stretched and the others lounged on the soft grass.

“You seem to know your way to Paris,” John said to Luca.

“I have served my master in many lands.”

“Don’t you think it’s time to tell me about him?”

Simon and Antonio scowled and that was all Luca needed to keep his mouth firmly shut.

“My cousin, Giovanni, would cut off my balls.”

“What use do you have for balls here?” Antonio said. “I don’t remember the last time I saw you with a woman.”

Luca chuckled. “I need them to keep my nice baritone singing voice.”

John flopped on the grass. “If you won’t say who you work for, at least tell me how long you’ve been working together?”

Luca paused to think. “My cousin and I were recruited about sixty years ago. We brought in Antonio a few years later. And our English friend, Simon, well I don’t know …”

“Eighteen and a half years,” Simon said.

“That is why we needed him,” Luca said. “He is precise.”

“Is the man you follow Italian?” John asked. No one answered but by their eyes, John thought he’d guessed correctly. “Okay, go ahead and keep your secret. It’s admirable, really, but I don’t know who the heck I’d tell.”

“Under torture, most men will talk,” Luca said.

“Most men but not all,” Simon said, pointing at Antonio. “Go ahead, show him.”

Antonio, though reluctant, briefly lifted his shirt to reveal angry, long burn marks down the front and back of his chest and belly.

“They thought he knew nothing because what man can take this kind of pain without talking?” Luca said. “That is why they let him go.”

“Who let him go?”

“The king of Italia,” Luca said. “Cesare Borgia. You know of him?”

“I do. He was a ruthless son-of-a-bitch.”

“He still is,” Antonio said, with his typical blank expression. The young man stood and went for his horse. “We have had enough rest.”

They rode until nightfall through meadows and forests without encountering a single soul and camped by a small stream. They had some bread and dried meat taken from the ship then slept on the grass and covered themselves with leafy branches. At dawn they rode off, hopeful of reaching Paris before the next morning.

At every sign of chimney smoke and habitation, they detoured to avoid the populace but their luck ran out at midday while fording a shallow river. A small group of men came out of a thicket on the opposite bank as they were midstream. They didn’t appear to be soldiers but John cocked his pistol anyway.

“Let me talk to them,” Luca said.

He raised his hand in a friendly wave and addressed the party in perfectly accented French. They continued unimpeded to dry land where the conversation between Luca and the men continued. John’s impression was that everything seemed amiable enough. Luca’s smile suddenly faded and he began to argue, prompting John to tense and prepare for a fight. But soon Luca turned to them, winked and reached for his purse. After he handed over a couple of coins to one of the men, they rode off.

“They wanted payment for crossing their river,” Luca said. “Better to solve a problem with a bit of money than a lot of blood.”

After a hard day of riding, dusk came, then night, and in the distance, John saw Paris, or rather the cooking fires of the city. He pressed his companions for a tactical plan. Would they ride directly to the castle where Emily was being held? Once there, could they breach the defenses with only four men? Luca replied that they would meet a confederate at an inn who would provide the necessary intelligence on Emily’s whereabouts and hopefully a plan for her rescue.

With night fully upon them they were forced to pass closer than they would have liked to a small town. On a hillock, John saw the tower of a castle, barely visible against the sky. The middle of the town glowed with the light of a bonfire. A scream pierced the air, a bloodcurdling, horrible scream that continued for an agonizingly long time.

“What’s going on?” John asked, pulling on his reins and slowing.

“It’s a roasting,” Simon said, spitting on the ground.

“For sure,” Luca said.

“That’s not an animal getting burned, it’s a man,” John said.

“It is,” Simon said. “It’s about the worst punishment you can get. The lord of the manor usually metes it out for thieving his livestock, or one of his women. On Earth when you were burned at the stake, at least you eventually died. Not so here.”

“Some villages, the roastings are worse than others,” Luca said. “The poorest ones, the ones with little food, they carve the cooked flesh off a screaming man.”

“Christ,” John said.

Antonio said, “Christ is not here,” then kicked his horse to cantor off.

Shortly before midnight they arrived at a bridge over a wide river that John thought might be the Seine. There was a sentry post ahead and Luca led the group off the road.

“Let me do the talking,” Luca said. “If the guards ask any of you a question, I’ll point with one finger if I want you to answer with a “oui”, two fingers for a “non”, and my whole hand for a grunt. If I draw my sword, well then, start fighting.” He looked behind him, dismounted and said, “First, there is something I must do.”

He stooped and scooped up two handfuls of his horse’s fresh manure and approached John. Before John could object, he smeared his trouser legs with the stuff.

“What the fuck?” John said.

“To mask your true nature, my friend. It is preferable to smell like dung than to declare yourself as you really are.”

John made a face and said, “I think I’d rather fight.”

As it happened, the guards were drunk and the travelers were passed through after a simple coin toss.

“The inn is nearby,” Luca said, leading them away from the river.

The inn was along a narrow lane. All the other cottages were shuttered for the night and it was the only building with light from its windows. They tied their horses to a rail and went inside where they were bombarded by the raucous sights and sounds of revelers. The inn was packed with men drinking at long tables before an open hearth, served by a few near-naked women, none of them pin-ups to John’s eye. Their entry hardly triggered any notice, which John took to be a sign that this was a traveler’s inn. However, one man, standing on his own, did stare, making John nervous until Luca nodded at him. He joined them at a new table, clapped Simon on the back, shouted for wine and exchanged a few whispered words in French with Luca before shifting to English.

“Your trip, it was without problems?” Marcel had the coarse features, rough hands, and ragged clothes of a peasant. Nothing about him revealed what era he was from.

“Always problems but none we couldn’t solve,” Luca said.

“So this is the man,” the peasant said, pointing his mug at John.

John nodded at him. “John. John Camp.”

“I am Marcel. You smell like dung, monsieur.”

With a wink, John said, “Around here that’s almost a compliment.”

Marcel held back a few seconds then burst out laughing.

John pressed him. “What can you tell me about my lady friend? Do you know anything?”

“I have information for you. She was in Joinville, at the Castle Guise.”

“What do you mean, was?”

“I am sorry to tell you that the castle was attacked by a barbarian who shifts his allegiance to the highest bidder, one day, the French, one day the Germans. On this day he was in league with the Germans. Your friend was taken to Barbarossa.”

Luca swore loudly and the others just shook their heads.

“Who is he?” John demanded.

“Frederick, king of Germania. Barbarossa, this is what he is called, for in his youth on Earth, he had a red beard. He is the most feared king in Europa because he has the most powerful army.”

John tried to keep his anger and frustration from bubbling over. “Then where is she?”

“Marksburg.”