Down: Trilogy Box Set (86 page)

“I’m sure it can wait until the morning. But if he does not have the grace to wait until then, have the guards destroy him. I have no patience for barbarians. There are too many of them about. Has my bed been warmed?”

Nikita bowed his head, something he always did when he was about to contradict the tsar. “Apologies, Tsar Joseph, but this barbarian has a great treasure he wants to sell to you.”

“Treasure?” Stalin bellowed. “This palace is filled with treasure. If I see one more golden plate or jeweled ring I’ll vomit. Now, Nikita …”

“Children,” the young man blurted out.

“What did you say?”

“Children. He has children.”

“That’s absurd,” Stalin said, growing angrier. “Have the barbarian shot.”

“I refused to disturb you unless I saw for myself. He produced a small boy. Very young, certainly no more than five or six if my memory of children suffices. The boy was scared. His face was wet with tears. The barbarian claims he also has a girl at his camp, even younger. And a woman who tends them.”

“You saw this boy? And you haven’t been drinking?”

“Only a little wine. Not enough to imagine a child.”

“This makes no sense,” Stalin said, throwing off his blanket and pointing toward his boots. “The laws of Hell are inviolate. Children do not come here.”

“But, Tsar Joseph,” Nikita said, “these children are not dead.”

Stalin had another drink to steady his nerves. He had been waiting for over an hour for the barbarian to return to the castle with all his “treasure.”

From across the great hall he watched a contingent of his imperial guards march in and suddenly part ranks, revealing a squat, one-eyed chieftain dressed in skins and furs, and behind him, a plump, middle-aged woman holding hands with a small boy and a smaller girl.

“They speak English,” Nikita whispered to Stalin.

Stalin ignored Clovis and brushed past him without a word, leaving the brute to mutter something in his guttural tongue.

Delia eyed the tsar suspiciously with an expression to suggest she recognized, but couldn’t quite place him.

“Please don’t come any closer,” Delia said. “You’ll scare the children.”

Stalin dropped to a knee. “I do not want to make them scared,” he said in English. He had a look of utter wonder in his eyes. “What is your name, madam?”

“Delia. Delia May.”

“Welcome, Mrs. May. I am pleased to welcome you and your little ones. I am Stalin. Joseph Stalin.”

She blanched and blurted out, “Jesus Christ.”

The tsar’s moustache curled upwards. “He is not here, only Stalin.”

“I thought I recognized you,” she mumbled.

Stalin sniffed the air. “It is true,” he said. “You do not have the smell of death upon you.”

“Fortunately, no.”

“How is this?”

“Do you have time for a rather long story?”

“Yes, yes, I’m sorry. There will be time. What are their names?”

“The boy is Sam, the girl is Belle.”

“Look how beautiful they are. Look how sweet. They are yours?”

“Heavens, no. I’m just looking after them. They were separated from their mother.”

“Who is also a living woman?” Stalin asked.

“She is.”

“Can I speak to children, please?”

“If you don’t scare them.”

Just then, Clovis began to talk loudly, making the children cry out in fear.

Stalin rose and asked what the barbarian was saying. The Duke of Thuringia and a gaggle of German noblemen had crept into the hall and the old duke came forward, volunteering his assistance.

“He speaks an ancient dialect, my tsar,” the duke said. “He asks how much you will pay for these trophies?”

“Give him a bag of coins and send him away,” Stalin shouted to Thuringia. “The bastard is making the little ones cry.”

The duke went over to Clovis and spoke to him, eliciting a toothless smile and a vigorous head nod and the imperial soldiers led him away.

Word of the visitors had spread through the castle and Russians and Germans alike began to filter in. Kutuzov came in, tucking in his tunic and Pasha arrived with his shoes untied, the laces flapping on the stone floor.

Stalin dropped to his knees again and splayed his arms out wide. “Children, come. Sam and Belle come. Come and greet your Uncle Joe.”

Delia told the children it was safe to come out from behind her. Sam emerged first and took a tentative step forward.

“How old is Sam?” Stalin asked.

“I’m three.”

“Oh, such a big boy. How old is little girl?”

From behind Delia a small voice said, “I’m two.”

Stalin wiped tears from his cheeks and blew his nose into a handkerchief. “Such precious children. I am in shock. Never would I have imagined such a thing.”

“We’re in a state of shock as well,” Delia said.

Stalin stood again. “You are English, Mrs. May, are you not?”

“I am indeed.”

“And where in England are you from?” he asked.

“London but our jumping off point to come here was Dartford, in Kent.”

From across the hall a voice rang out in English. Pasha pushed forward through the gathering crowd. “I’m sorry,” he asked. “Did you say you were from Dartford?”

The journey from Calais to Paris had not been without incident but the Earl of Calais’s armed men had dealt with rovers and brigands with ruthless efficiency. John had guarded his own group with weapons at the ready but the earl’s men did the dirty work, shedding blood and rolling heads at the smallest provocation.

Weary and exhausted, they arrived in a monochrome Paris shrouded in a heavy canopy of cooking fires. John pointed it out to the Earthers, the great palace on the Île de la Cité.

“That’s it,” he said.

“Our Paris is magical,” Tony told Martin, choking on the smoke. “This Paris is crap.”

“If they’ve got beds and baths, I’ll not complain too loudly,” Alice said.

Emily put her hand on John’s shoulder. “Giuseppe’s the only man in Hell I look forward to seeing again,” she said.

“Not Caravaggio?” John asked.

“Well, him too,” she grinned. “He’s gorgeous. And did I say talented?”

The Earl of Calais led the way to the guard stations flanking the great castle drawbridge. After an animated discussion with the captain of the guard he returned, waving his one arm.

“I explained to these men who you are and who I am,” the earl said. “They are summoning high officials.”

“Garibaldi?” John asked.

“I am hopeful. I would like to meet this new king. Do not forget to tell him that I have been helping you and your strange friends.”

“Believe me. You’re going to get a medal.”

After a long wait, the captain of the guard summoned the earl who in turn summoned John. The huge drawbridge slowly lowered and the group walked across the river and through the outermost defensive wall of the castle.

From a distance a man hurried toward them and judging by the awkwardness of his locomotion, it was clear he was unaccustomed to running.

When he got close enough, John saw who it was and called out, “Guy! How are you?”

“John Camp!” Forneau yelled. “I cannot believe it is you.”

Puffing and wheezing from the exertion he clasped John’s shoulders and John pumped his hand.

“Were you not able to return to your own world?” Forneau asked.

“No, we made it but we’ve come back. I’ll explain everything but first I’d like to introduce you to Emily Loughty.”

Forneau bowed deeply, his chest continuing to heave. “Giuseppe told me she was beautiful and now I see it with my own eyes. I am honored to know you, my good lady.”

She did her best version of a curtsy and said she’d heard many good things about him.

“Come, come, inside,” Forneau told them. “There is much to talk about.”

The Earl of Calais stepped forward and introduced himself and began explaining how he had volunteered to help them across the wilderness to Paris.

“Yes, yes,” Forneau said, with a dismissive wave. “You will be rewarded for your service, monsieur. You are surely a friend to the crown. Tomorrow we shall conduct our business.”

“Does Giuseppe know we’re here?” John asked, politely edging the earl aside.

“But he isn’t here, John. He and most of our Italian friends have departed.”

The news left John and Emily despairing.

“Where is he?” John said.

“He has gone to Iberia to seek an alliance with King Pedro. Much has happened in a short time. Please come inside. We will talk.”

“We don’t have a lot of time,” John said. “We need your help. The Queen of Brittania is in Francia …”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Forneau said. “My spies have reported the news to me. She was in Strasbourg but she has been destroyed by the warlord, Clovis.”

Emily let out a visceral cry. She knew the one-eyed beast all too well. “Oh my God, John. The children!”

“Children?” Forneau said. “You know of these children?”

“My niece and nephew,” she said. “That’s why we’re here.”

“Tell me what you know, Guy,” John demanded.

“I did not believe what I was told but now, perhaps, I do. In Strasbourg children were said to be seized by Clovis. He delivered them to Marksburg in exchange for gold. That is where they are. Marksburg.”

“Barbarossa has them?” Emily said, her voice quavering.

“No, not him. He is no more. The Russian tsar has taken control of Germania. Tsar Joseph has them.”

“I saw him,” Emily told John. “I saw Joseph Stalin when I was a prisoner in the German camp.”

“I remember,” John said gently, trying to assuage her panic. “You told me.”

“We’ve got to go to Marksburg,” she said urgently. “We’ve got to go there now.”

“Please, you must rest first,” Forneau said. “And you cannot just present yourself and expect to succeed in your quest. The tsar and his German allies have a formidable army. You will need much in the way of aid.”

It was then that Forneau noticed Martin, Tony and the others huddled together a short distance away. He walked slowly toward them, sampling the air and shaking his head in awe.

“So many live souls,” he said. “The passage between our two worlds has become larger, has it not? I am Guy Forneau, lord regent to the new king. I welcome you to Francia.”

“Is this Spain?” Trevor asked.

“Hang on,” Brian said, surveying the vast, rocky beach. “Let me check what the sign says. Or better yet, I’ll just power up the sat-nav.”

“Stupid question.”

They tugged and pushed and got the barge as far onto the beach as they could, then tied a line around a boulder to secure it, though Brian was dubious it would hold once the tide came in.

“Actually it wasn’t a completely stupid question,” Brian finally said. “I sailed around the Bay of Biscay years ago. This inlet looks like one I remember. If I’m right, this is Santander. ’Course the Santander I remember was a major port filled with cruise ships and this beach was stacked with high-rise flats and that hillside was covered in houses with lovely salmon-colored roofs. Other than that it looks exactly the same. Fancy a sangria?”

“Did anyone ever tell you that you get really irritating sometimes?”

“Only all of my ex-wives. And my girlfriends. And my agent, Ronnie. And the crew on my shows.”

They gathered their possessions, their swords, packs, and remaining food and water and began walking the beach, relying on Brian’s belief that Bilbao was to the east. They had no idea about the location of Burgos. Trevor was sick of hearing Brian say that they’d just have to ring up the Automobile Association for directions.

In the distance they saw some fishermen casting nets and they headed inland to avoid contact. The beach turned to scrubland then meadowland. There was smoke rising to the east. It started as a few wisps then became a solid column of dark gray against the pale sky. Trevor reckoned it was about two miles away.

A mile closer, the smoke had not abated and they saw the reason why. Flames were visible, rising from a broad base.

“We should give that a miss,” Trevor said.

Brian agreed. “We can flank it to the south but we’d best not get too far off course.”

Closer still they saw that the conflagration was coming from burning houses. A village was up in flames. Within a few hundred yards they heard the first screams, male voices bellowing in pain and fear. Then lone, high-pitched screams which grew louder and louder.

A woman came into view, running toward them from the burning village.

Then four men running after her, shouting and waving swords.

Brian and Trevor looked at each other with the same puckered expression that needed no words. Chivalry was going to get the better of them.

“At least let’s make quick work of it,” Trevor said. “This isn’t why we’re here.”

“We’re on the same page,” Brian said, drawing his sword.

The woman saw them and froze, likely believing she was trapped.

“Aqui, aqui! Amigos!” Brian yelled, using most of the Spanish he knew.

The woman glanced over her shoulder at the approaching men. She was young and barefooted, with black hair and a long peasant skirt. She made her decision and ran toward Brian.

Trevor and Brian held their ground and the woman ran past them, her eyes flashing with fear. She kept going and stopped fifty yards beyond.

The approaching men seemed to realize a fight was coming and they slowed their pace to shout instructions to one another.

“Sword in right hand, knife in left,” Brian said, giving his student a quick refresher course. “And take off your backpack.”

“Wish I had my nine millimeter,” Trevor said, breathing hard in anticipation.

“You and me both. Ancient weapons are rubbish, aren’t they?”

The swordsmen split into two groups and began a flanking maneuver, first at a trot, then a full run.

“Steady, steady,” Brian said, his back to Trevor. “Put one down fast and it’ll be one-on-one.”

At first contact, the attackers seemed to recognize that something was different about their adversaries but there was no time for more than combat.

Brian surprised his two foes by charging them, his sword high, before dropping low and slashing one of them in the hamstring with his knife. Before Brian could capitalize on the advantage, the other one was on him, necessitating a series of parries.