Down: Trilogy Box Set (80 page)

Garibaldi paused for a long while, an uncomfortably long while, and the hall grew quieter. Even the sobbing became softer. “I don’t know,” he said.

“You don’t know?” Burgundy said with a mocking tone.

“I’d be a fool to say I knew with any certainty how to achieve this,” the Italian replied. “But here are my ideas: to start, we have to eliminate each and every tyrant who calls himself a king, men like Borgia and Robespierre who grew intoxicated with their own power. We need fresh voices.”

“Like yours?” a noble asked.

“Yes, like mine, as imperfect as I am. We need to take down all the kings and tyrants who stand in our way. I am a soldier. I understand that force is often required to change a world, especially this world. But when this is done, and it will not happen in one year, ten years, maybe even a hundred years, then we can end our ceaseless wars and conquests and turn inwards to building a future with less fear, wiping out all rovers from the face of Hell, adding a touch of humanity to rotting rooms, treating women as equal beings, not as property, building workshops and factories, and teaching skills to men and women for the betterment of all people. We will never have children here but that doesn’t mean we don’t have to think about the future and plan for better days to come.”

His throat was dry. He reached for his wine glass and by the time it left his lips something happened. It started as two clapping hands. Then there were four, then a dozen and soon, the entire hall erupted in applause and shouts until even the Duke of Burgundy joined in, reluctantly at first, then enthusiastically.

Forneau seized the moment to shout at the top of his lungs, “I proclaim this man, this extraordinary man, Giuseppe Garibaldi, king of a united and proud Francia-Italia empire!”

Garibaldi felt a tear running down his face. He brushed it away and gestured for Forneau’s ear.

“What do you think old Maximilien is thinking about all this?” he whispered through the din.

Forneau smiled. “We shall never hear his opinion of your fine words but I will find him a most humane rotting room. I will even have it decorated with some of his favorite ornaments.”

The festivities lasted but a single day. Garibaldi had convened a war council with his Italian generals and French nobles to consider a strategy for dealing with the threat of the Russians and Germans regrouping for a counter-attack. Burgundy, a pomposity of a man, had begun maneuvering the previous night and Garibaldi had decided it would be necessary to extend additional rank and consideration to keep his allegiance. So he became Grand Duke Godfrey of Burgundy and received one of Robespierre’s ornate palaces near Paris as compensation. Other nobles would have to be satisfied as well in one way or another but Garibaldi asked Forneau, as his Lord Regent, to sort out all the tiresome details.

Word came to the council room that a rider had arrived from Italia with a need to see King Giuseppe immediately. Garibaldi left the chamber and a few minutes later Antonio, Simon, and Caravaggio were called to join him.

Garibaldi paced while the exhausted messenger, too weak to stand, sat and lifted a vessel of ale to his parched lips.

Antonio saw his master’s bleak look and asked what was happening.

“This good man has ridden day and night for nearly three weeks to deliver an urgent and troubling message. We have a problem, gentlemen, a very large problem.”

“What problem?” Caravaggio asked.

“The Macedonian has invaded Italia.”

“The bastard,” Antonio uttered. “Where is he? How many men?”

“Tell them what you told me,” Garibaldi urged the messenger.

The man lifted his heavy head. His eyes were deeply sunken, his voice little more than a whisper. “Their ships landed near Lecce. There were many, many soldiers, thousands I was told and hundreds of horses. They were marching toward Napoli when I was sent by the Duke of Amalfi to warn you. Surely their intention was Roma but I cannot say whether they have succeeded.”

“Caterina,” Antonio gasped. Since toppling Cesare Borgia, Antonio had not ceased talking about Borgia’s beautiful queen, Caterina Sforza.

“Lovesick fool,” Simon mumbled to himself.

“What did you say?” Antonio challenged.

“I said you’re a lovesick fool.”

“Lovesick? Perhaps. A fool? No. I do not know if she will ever be mine but I know with certainty that she is in danger. Master, let me return to Italia to help mount a defense against these invaders.”

Garibaldi nodded but held up a finger to signify he needed to think. He walked the perimeter of the reception room three times before speaking. “Nothing important is ever easy but our task is difficult indeed. We were fortunate to defeat the Germans and the Russians. Without the help of John Camp, we may not have succeeded. He is gone now. We are still here. But the Germans and the Russians have not gone to sleep. They will surely fight another day and next time, well, we may not be so lucky. We were fortunate to swiftly dispatch Maximilien and make this pact with Francia. But pacts may form and pacts may dissolve. This one will take care and feeding. Now we have another challenge, perhaps the greatest. Italia’s old adversary has pounced while we are far from home. We must fight a war on many fronts. I wish I were a younger man. So much to do, so much …”

Antonio pressed him for an answer to his request.

“Yes, Antonio. You may leave us and return to Roma. Take one thousand men. Mobilize an army as you sweep south across Italia. Defeat the Macedonian.”

“This will surely leave us in a weakened position here,” Caravaggio said.

“Yes,” Garibaldi said. “This is why we must seek another ally.”

“Who?” Simon asked.

“One who is no friend of the Germans and the Russians. One who despises the English and will surely be glad we sent Henry back across the channel with his tail between his legs. We must make a pact with Pedro. We need an alliance with the Iberians.”

Brian’s mantra was never lose sight of land. The only way we’ll get lost and therefore buggered, he said, is if we lose sight of land. Beyond that, there was the small matter of provisions. They had set sail with only enough food and water for several days and they needed to beach the boat periodically to forage on the shore.

For a week, they kept to plan, sailing south through the channel, hugging the coast of Francia. They made their first landfall along the beaches of Normandy one evening and had the great luck to happen upon a small settlement of lightly armed and non-bellicose fishermen, an ancient tribe, who sniffed and stared but gave them no trouble when they offered a sword in exchange for a barrel of rainwater and a basket of dried fish. The barter was accomplished with some artful pointing without a shred of common language.

The plan went awry past Jersey when a storm hit at night, blowing their barge out to sea. The flat-bottomed vessel was ill equipped for the deep swells and had it not been for Brian’s excellent seamanship they would not have survived the ordeal.

It was still dark when the seas calmed. Seasick but happy to be alive, they slept for a while in the comfort of a quiet ocean, and then awoke at first light to face their predicament.

Trevor chewed on a piece of fish and looked around. The sky and water were identical shades of grayish blue. “Remember the thing about losing sight of land?” Trevor asked.

“I remember it because I said it, mate,” Brian said. “We are well and truly buggered, but fear not, we’re not permanently buggered. Mind you, it would be grand if we had a compass, which we don’t, or could see the position of the sun, which we can’t.”

“I once saw something about magnetizing a needle and floating it on a leaf,” Trevor said, helpfully, spitting out a fishbone.

“Trouble is,” Brian said, “we’d need a needle or a piece of wire, which we don’t have. Now, if we did, you could rub the heck out of said needle or wire with a piece of silk or wool and said needle or wire would be magnetized. But we still wouldn’t know which way was north and which way was south, absent a handy glimpse of the sun. All we’d have is a north-south line. Not entirely useless but not hugely useful. No, my young friend, we need to use our eyes and our ears to get our arses out of this sling. Look for birds, young Trevor, and listen for the roar of the surf.”

For the next few hours they watched the skies for gulls. Finally, Trevor spotted one.

“Which way’s the damned thing heading?” he asked, spinning around the deck until he was dizzy.

“Seems to be going in circles, much like yourself,” Brian said. “He’s not a particularly helpful creature. We need less confused ones.”

In time they saw three birds heading in a reasonably straight line.

“You think we should follow that lot?” Brian asked, raising the sail.

“Absolutely.”

“No. We. Should. Not,” Brian said poking Trevor in the chest each time for emphasis. “At dawn seabirds fly away from land looking for food. At dusk they fly toward land to roost for the night. Lesson over. Let’s sail in the opposite direction and keep your ears pricked for the surf. Let’s get ourselves un-lost.”

Queen Matilda’s ship made landfall in the low provinces of Francia. Sam and Belle had found the notion of river and channel crossings a great adventure and they had strained at Delia’s grasping hands as they disembarked on the gangplank. Delia had never been a fan of any boat smaller than the Queen Mary and her stomach still churned with nausea for hours after landfall. The covered wagons the Earl of Southampton had procured for the queen’s party at Ostend were not to her usual royal standards but time was of the essence and he did the best he could under the extraordinary circumstances. Southampton was the queen’s man; he had been so for well over a hundred years. But no one in Brittania served only the queen. His neck belonged to Henry and by being pressed into this last-minute flight by Matilda, Southampton feared that his long run of good fortune might be coming to an end. For all he knew, the king had dispatched men to find his errant queen and bring her to yoke. He doubted Henry would ever allow him to return to court and he had whiled away the sea passage wondering if he had the facility to learn French.

The lowlands of Europa had changed hands countless times between Francia and Germania. For the last two centuries Francia had managed to hold onto them at the cost of an expensive garrison of troops in the key border towns of Liège and Bastogne and by keeping the bribes flowing to the Duke of Luxembourg. Luxembourg hated the Germans and the French equally but feared King Frederick and the Germans more, so he had remained in King Maximilien’s camp.

Matilda rode in her own carriage with some of her ladies and her strongbox which was laden with gold, silver, and gemstones. Southampton had kitted out her carriage with cushions and fabrics from her barge but it was still a plebeian affair and she complained bitterly whenever the duke rode alongside. Delia and the children followed in their own small carriage that bounced and rolled worse than the ship, causing Delia prolonged misery. A wagon train of servants and cooks snaked along the open countryside accompanied by over two dozen men at arms, riding newly-purchased horses.

The children spent their time looking out the window at the horses, nominating this one, then that one, their favorite.

“I like the brown one,” Belle said, prodding Sam to look.

“I see three brown ones,” Sam said.

“
That
one!” she insisted, pointing.

“I don’t like that one at all,” Sam replied, becoming restive.

“What about that yellow one?” Belle asked, poking his arm.

“I don’t want to play anymore,” he moaned.

“But I do!” she screamed in a piercing high pitch, hurting Sam’s ears and triggering a punch to her leg.

“Children, stop it, please,” Delia begged.

Belle dissolved into tears and started calling for her mother. Before long, Sam was joining the refrain.

“We’ll be seeing your mummy soon, children. Please, please, please don’t cry.” But in saying this, Delia lost control of her own emotions and turned away from them to stare at the bleak countryside. Off to one side, a forest loomed, so dark and dense it looked like a black curtain. She wondered what horrors lurked in those woods.

Then she too began to cry.

Inside that forest a column of men rode their horses in single file along a narrow path crisscrossed with thick roots. At their lead was the one-eyed, bowlegged brute, the ancient Frankish king who no longer had a kingdom, but who roamed and plundered the countryside, wielding his thick-handled axe.

Clovis watched Matilda’s wagon train from afar as it winked in and out through the gaps in the trees.

He didn’t know who rode inside the wagons but judging from the heavy guard, they were bound to be important and they were bound to have treasure he wanted and treasure he would most certainly come to possess.

The morning sun was bright and cheerful but the ruddy-faced farmer was not happy. He cursed at the two police constables from Eye who had the gall to drive onto his farmland, flag his tractor down, and halt his planting. After they told him what they wanted he became livid, stamping his feet and threatening to call his local MP.

“You do not have my permission to have a helicopter put down on my farm!” he yelled. “Where are we, the Soviet Union? This is private property, for God’s sake.”

The younger officer knew the man’s family. “Sorry, Gerald,” he said. “It’s a rotten thing to ask, but the way the call came to us, it’s not a request. Some blokes from London, MI5 is what we hear, have urgent business in the village and this is the closest place to land, so they’ve determined.”

“Think of it as your patriotic duty,” the older officer added.

“Patriotic duty?” the farmer fumed. “I’ll tell you what’s patriotic duty. It’s reminding yahoos like you and our pathetic government that it’s planting season and that driving around my land and landing helicopters will trample and scatter my seeds. How stupid are you fellows, anyways?”

But it was settled and the farmer could only pull out his mobile phone and call his wife because she, at least, would be sympathetic to his plight.