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

  England, 1623: George Glen, the scion of poor circumstances and raised in a smugglers' village on the English Channel, achieves the impossible - he becomes a member of the English King's guard. On a secret mission on French soil, he experiences a series of spectacular adventures and learns thereby to fight evil incarnate - the French Musketeers.

  RICHARD BERGEN

  Guardsmen of the King

  Historical adventure novel

  GUARDSMEN OF THE KING

  Ebook edition

  Copyright © 2021 by Richard Bergen --- All rights reserved.

  No part of this work may be reproduced in any form or processed, duplicated or distributed using electronic systems without written permission.

  Contact: [email protected]

  The author on the web: en.richardbergen.de

  P A R T * O N E

  The smuggler's village

  1620

  Chapter 1

  I still remember the winter of my twelfth year well. On one hand, because it was one of the hardest winters of the decade and, on the other, because it marked the end of my childhood.

  At that time, I was a boy like everyone else in my neighbourhood. My dark blond hair hung long and shaggy down to my shoulders. I wore old, threadbare linen clothes and was somewhat undernourished.

  All my life I had lived with my parents in the poor smuggling village of Longhill on the coast of the Channel and for as long as I could remember I had loved the sea. To escape my violent, dull-witted father, I would often sit for hours on a lonely cliff and watch the ships gliding across the sea in the far distance. My dreams moved with them and I hoped one day to sail away on such a ship and see foreign lands that had nothing in common with the dreary, rainy reality of my homeland.

  But those were only beautiful dreams. Reality, on the other hand, was much more horrifying for me than the worst nightmare. Since the age of four, I was condemned to toil in the fields while my father pursued the illegal trade that the whole village indulged in. Nevertheless, our family always lived on the edge of hunger - not least because my father spent all the money on brandy. He would often come out of the pub in the evening, drunk, and beat the living daylights out of me. He did it just like that, without needing any particular reason for it, and when he was done with this activity, he usually retreated behind the curtain that divided our dwelling into two halves and turned to my mother, whether she wanted him to or not.

  In such moments of helplessness, I usually ran out of the house and gave in to the illusion that I could escape and leave this miserable life behind me once and for all. But I stayed until that winter, when everything came to an end that I had certainly not longed for in this way.

  It all began on an icy winter evening. I had spent an hour on my beloved cliff, looking down at the partially frozen sea. Although I had put on a fur blanket, it was now starting to get cold. So I made my way back to our dwelling, which was at the end of Longhill. Darkness had already fallen and down at the small harbour all the boats had already come in, including my father's boat. As I walked down the village street, I heard loud laughter coming from the pub. I stopped in front of one of the windows and looked into the tantalisingly warm light shining out of it. I could make out a round of men at one of the front tables. One of them was my father. Just the sight of him made a surge of hatred rise in me. A grey stubbly beard framed the ugly face. The small, malicious eyes were fixed on a mug that stood on the table in front of him. His friends and he were talking about a very common topic, the childbearing capacity of their wives.

  "That's really strange, Martin," John, an older man, said to my father. "Why did your Ethel only give birth to one child? George is your only son. Look at Arthur! He has five offsprings, all boys, or look at Tom! Seven children!"

  My father swallowed the innuendo wordlessly and tipped half a mug of brandy down his throat with a sour face expression.

  But John evidently found the topic of conversation very amusing, for he continued to blaspheme. "Could it possibly be because you're not trying hard enough, Martin?"

  My father was a man whose stupidity was hard to beat, so instead of responding with a humorous remark, he was actually deadly serious: "I'm straining every damn night. It must be that damn bitch who shares the house with me. But I'll show her today."

  My father's angry outburst was met with general laughter. This laughter swelled even more as my father rose angrily and staggered towards the exit. It was clear to me that he had drunk too much brandy and I was already dreading his reaction when he got home.

  As he left the pub, I disappeared into a shadowy corner and watched him stagger down the street. He didn't see me and as he walked towards our house, he uttered soft curses. He would show her already and the like. As I said, he was not one of the brightest people in the village.

  I followed him at a distance and could see him find our house (sometimes he just walked past) and push his way inside through the low entrance. I quickly ran to the window and peered into the poor four walls through a crack that was not covered by sheepskins. The first thing I recognised was the startled face of my mother, who noticed the actually too early arrival of her husband. It was clear from her look that she immediately grasped his drunken and angry state.

  "Martin, you're here already?" she said, trying to hide her fear with feigned friendliness.

  What came next was similar to what had happened many times before, but this time my father was harder and crueller to my mother than usual. I found it hard to hide my horror when I heard her scream. I ran away, still hearing her begging him to stop and him making grunting noises reminiscent of a wild animal. I ran until I heard no more screams and finally collapsed on a snow-covered hill. Tears ran down my cheeks and froze when they reached the ground. I would have preferred to fall asleep from exhaustion, but the bitter cold prevented me from doing so. Whether I wanted to or not, eventually I had to return to this home that had never felt like home.

  With slow, dragging steps, I made my way back. When I got near our dwelling, I was relieved to find that there were no more screams. I quietly opened the door and entered. At first, the darkness prevented me from making out everything. But when I could finally make out contours, I was scared to death. My mother was sitting on the bed and staring at me absently like a ghost, almost as if she didn't notice my existence at all. Her hair was dishevelled and there was blood in some of the front strands from an injury to her forehead. The right side of her face was red and swollen. Her lower lip had split open. A thin stream of red blood flowed down her chin and neck.

  Now I could also see my father. He was lying behind the bed with his stomach on the floor and snoring.

  I was a little taken aback when my mother opened her mouth and spoke haltingly: "It wasn't enough for him that I let him. He was so angry and I don't even know why. When he ... when he was done, that's when he hit me."

  The way her delicate voice pronounced the word 'hit' horrified me to the core. Compassion stirred in me, but my anger at my father was stronger. I wished to beat him up like a mangy dog, but I knew he was stronger and such an attempt could only fail. This realisation left me with a feeling of boundless powerlessness.

  Suddenly my mother said in a tone that was absolutely not tearful. "Someday I will kill him, George. Someday ..."

  "Mother?", I groaned, stunned. "You can't. The people here would have you executed on the spot."

  "At least then this torment would be over."

  I hugged her gently, a gesture that didn't happen
very often between the two of us, and said, "I'm afraid that one day I'll become just like him."

  Puzzled, Ethel looked at me. "George, there's one thing I know for sure," she said with complete conviction. "You are nothing like him and you never will be."

  It was one of those rare days when I could talk to my mother. I wondered a little about this, because she was usually rather cool and closed off. It often seemed to me that she was trying to deal with her pain alone rather than sharing it with me. But that evening she was different, more accessible and uninhibited in showing her tears.

  Chapter 2

  The twelfth of December of that unfortunate year was a day to which I owed a great deal. And for one reason only: Lady Isabelle de Moranté, who lived in her castle above the village, had a French servant named André. He was already very old and weak and on the morning of the twelfth of December, it was reported, he fell to the floor while serving breakfast and died a few minutes later. So the lady of the castle set about looking for a new servant.

  The rumour spread quickly through the village. She wanted a young servant whom she could still teach manners, as she put it, and who would not die on her so quickly again. Many young men in the village wanted to audition for Madame and my mother said it surely couldn't hurt if I tried too. The extra income would come in very handy. And so it came to pass that five days after the servant's funeral, I made the pilgrimage up the winding path to the castle with a band of young men.

  I was the smallest in this group and received nothing but mocking remarks and looks from the others. I didn't have high hopes of getting the job either, but that wasn't really the point. For me, it was all just an adventure, a break from my meagre life. I hadn't left Longhill since I was born and I hadn't even come close to the castle. I was burning with curiosity to see for myself what it looked like inside.

  The men who walked with me joked that Lady Isabelle had been a widow for thirteen years and had not yet found a new husband. They tried to make each other believe that they could muster the necessary charm to conquer Madame and eventually marry her. It was the typical pompous chatter of adolescent men.

  As we stood in front of the gate of the castle and one of the men found the courage to knock, it was opened by a black-haired man who, as it would later turn out, held the position of stableman.

  We were told to wait in the vestibule, a time I used to satisfy my curiosity and look around. Everything seemed huge to me. The ornate ceiling hovered far above at a height where I would have guessed the first clouds. The candles of an ornate chandelier emitted a golden-yellow light that illuminated the room festively. My gaze strayed over the walls, which were covered with all kinds of antlers. Since commoners like us were forbidden to hunt game, the sight of these hunting trophies was very special to me. Even the precious carpet under my dirty shoes was clean and neat. This place far surpassed my imagination. I stood there with my mouth open, soaking up the new impressions.

  Only a few minutes after our arrival, the first applicant was called to Madame. He walked anxiously up the stairs to the next floor and it wasn't long before he returned with a disappointed look on his face. The next applicant felt the same way and although I had not expected to be accepted anyway, the possibility of rejection now filled me with dread. When the stableman finally told me that it was my turn, my heart was in my throat. I strode up the slippery stairs under the pitying gaze of the men, who were never-ending. The next floor had a floor covering of animal skins. I walked cautiously to a high door that stood a little open and looked in.

  "Come in!", I heard a woman's voice and entered.

  The room was smaller than the vestibule and only sparsely lit. I found myself facing a woman in a blue dress who twisted her pretty lips into a smile when she saw me. She was dark-haired, her face pale, almost white. Her eyes shone at me in their green pigmentation. She was of a beauty I had not known before.

  "How old are you?" she asked me, somewhat amused.

  "Twelve years," I replied guardedly, looking at the shiny fabric of her dress with fascination.

  "What's your name?" she asked almost motherly.

  "My name is George."

  "I used to know a George," the lady said somewhat absent-mindedly. "Who are your parents?"

  "Ethel and Martin."

  "Ethel is your mother?" asked Madame now a little astonished. Then she nodded her head slowly and knowingly. "I think I know who you are now, little one."

  What she meant by these words was to remain a secret for the time being, nor did I have much time to think about it, for she immediately asked, "Can you serve plates, keep the house clean and serve guests?"

  I sensed that she wanted to give me a chance, so I said, "Yes."

  "Are you proficient in Latin and French?" she asked further.

  "No," I admitted.

  "Can you read and write at all, George?"

  "No," I said resignedly and lowered my head. But Lady Isabelle just smiled slightly and said, "We will change that, my boy."

  "Does that mean you're hiring me?", I asked hopefully. The 'yes' was one of triumph for me. I had already fallen in love with the castle, the new surroundings and above all with her. I was floating on all clouds when I thought that now the time of hard field work, which I had learned to hate in all these years, was over.

  Madame de Moranté told her stableman to send the rest of the applicants home. She then rang a bell with a cloth ribbon and a few minutes later the stableman and two women appeared. Lady Isabelle turned to the three persons, pointing to me. "This is my new valet," she said gravely as she did so. "His name is George."

  The three other house servants then introduced themselves to me. "I'm John, the stableman," said the tall, black-haired man who flaunted an enormous goatee.

  "I'm Josefine, the chambermaid," introduced herself to a rather short, fat and very blonde woman who might have been a little over thirty years old.

  "Rebecca, cook," said the third of the group, a very tall woman with a gaunt face and long red hair.

  Madame de Moranté turned to Josefine and demanded, "Show our new housemate to his room!"

  The maid now led me out of the room and up a flight of stairs to the servants' quarters. Here were eight rooms off to the side, only three of which were occupied. I was given the fourth, a narrow room with nothing but a wooden cot and a simple wardrobe. But I was not used to such luxury. At home I slept on a straw mat in the corner. The thought that I had my own bed here was so out of touch with reality for me that I asked incredulously, "Is this all for me?"

  Josephine's lips twisted into a broad smile and she looked at me like a mother who had to rebuke her naïve son. "Of course the room is just for you, my boy. Did you think you'd have to share it with twenty men?"

  "I don't know," I answered truthfully.

  When I was taken to Lady de Moranté half an hour later, I asked her to let me go back to the village so that I could tell my parents and collect my few belongings. My new mistress agreed with a smile and soon I was on my way back to our small, poor hut.

  Chapter 3

  I suddenly felt stronger, superior and more grown up than ever before. I had work of my own, a room of my own, and the poverty and dirt of my old dwelling would forever fall away from me like an old, tattered garment. I was now something better than those miserable yokels who populated the village of Longhill. I, George, was now a better person and would certainly not have to go hungry any more.

  The only downer in my thoughts was the fact that I would also have to leave my mother. I would leave her alone to the cruelty of my father. But hadn't she herself wished it? She had persuaded me to see Madame de Moranté in the first place. She had wanted me to have the job. Now she would also have to learn to live without me. Although the bond with my mother had never been particularly strong, I now painfully felt that I would miss her. Just her calm presence all these years had eased some of the pain I had had to endure at the hands of my father. Now I would go away and see her less and less, until o
ne day I would forget her like all my gloomy childhood.

  I reached our little hut and opened the heavy wooden door. My mother was just standing in front of the fireplace, over which hung a large pot in which she was cooking a soup that surely contained more water than anything else. When she saw me come in, she asked expectantly, "Well?"

  "I got the employment," I replied, and in retrospect I'm not sure if my voice sounded more joyful or wistful. But my mother reacted to the news with enthusiasm. She hugged me gustily and said, "I'm so happy, George."

  I returned the hug tentatively and then looked at her a little affected. "I'm going to leave home and live in the servants' quarters at the castle," I said quietly.

  My mother nodded euphorically. "Why aren't you happy about that? After all, it means he can never beat you again."

  I was a little taken aback. Did she actually not notice what was going on in my head? "But now you are completely at his mercy," I said in a brittle voice.

  Suddenly Ethel became serious. "But George, I always have been. So far you haven't been able to help me and you won't be able to in the future."

  I knew she was absolutely right in these words, but her frankness stung my heart. "But once I am bigger and stronger, then I could stand up to him, Mother."

  Now she smiled compassionately and said, "He'd sooner beat you to death than allow you to fight back, George. No, no, it's best that you live in the castle and he can't do anything more to you. And I ... who knows, maybe I don't deserve any better than him either."

  "How can you say such a thing, Mother? None of us deserves hell on earth."

  My mother looked doubtfully into my face for quite a while and then said coolly, "Pack up your things now, George! Your father will be home soon. You should be gone by then."