Ring of Fire III (17 page)

“Were the evening ours, I am certain that passing it in the company of one of the young ladies you employ would be quite enjoyable,” said Aramis. “However, the night is not ours to do with as we would please. Instead, we are seeking some...acquaintances we think might have arrived here in the last several hours.”

Madam Paulette smiled, suppressing a slight laugh. “You would have to be a good deal more exact about who it might be that you are looking for. Business has been good this evening; a number of gentleman callers have come through the door.

“Besides, why should I tell you anything about who has come and gone? My customers, even the lower ranking ones, expect a good deal of privacy. They certainly don’t expect to have their names shouted by the crier in the town square.”

“And they will not be, Madam Paulette,” said Barnabas. “I know that there are members of my family who might grateful for any aid you might render us.”

“And your name would be?”

“Marcoli. Barnabas Marcoli.”

The woman arched her head slightly to one side as she weighed the possibilities.

She turned and headed toward a door at the side of the room. From the smells that were coming from that direction, Barnabas suspected that there might be kitchens somewhere close. Once they were away from the parlor, she turned to face the three men, staring at them and then looking upwards toward the ceiling for a moment before she spoke.

“Gentlemen, I’m sorry to say this, but there is nothing that I can do to assist you in this matter. I run a quiet house; I and my girls try to stay out of anyone else’s business. I can think of seven reasons that should remain true. I trust that you can find your own way out. Please convey my respects to your uncle, Signor Marcoli.”

With a turn she vanished through the door into the back part of the house.

It bothered Barnabas that Madam Paulette seemed to be more familiar with his family then he had expected. He sincerely hoped that in the months to come he would not regret telling her his name.

“This is no time to linger,” said D’Artagnan as he motioned for the others to follow him up a stairway at the end of the hall.

Two lanterns lit the narrow hallway, and from behind several doors D’Artagnan caught the sounds of moans and other noises that proved the rooms were being well put to use.

“I should think...this one,” said D’Artagnan, as he came to a door at the far end of the hallway. Barnabas noticed that it was the seventh door.

That was when they heard the sound of something crashing onto the floor from inside the room.

D’Artagnan’s sword slid into his hand, a dagger in the other. Then he kicked the door open. The wood cracked under his heel with a sharp sound, but it was almost masked by the sounds within.

“Stay here,” the tall Frenchman said over his shoulder to Barnabas, who was only a few steps behind him. “Let no one pass.”

Barnabas let out a sigh; with his heart pounding wildly in his chest, Barnabas was more than happy to obey the Frenchman’s instructions.

In the dim light D’Artagnan could see two large apparitions, one wearing a cape and the other a long jacket. A smoking pistol was in the hand of the first man, the other had his arms around a smaller struggling man with sandy hair, who was presumably Culhane. An overturned chair with ropes twisted around it suggested that he had managed to free himself, to the surprise of his captors.

The Frenchman let fly with his dagger. It creased the head of the man holding Culhane, gouging his ear and sending blood flying. The man responded with a yelp and a string of curses equal to those of some sailors.

The other man threw himself at D’Artagnan, using his empty pistol as a club. The Frenchman twisted, hit his opponent in the stomach, and then drove his knee into the fellow’s crotch. Before the first man had gone to the floor, D’Artagnan whirled about and sent the pommel of his sword slamming square into the other man’s face, the sound of a nose breaking confirming its effectiveness. Two more blows with the same part of his sword put the man on the floor at D’Artagnan’s feet.

Like most fights, this one was over quickly, almost before Barnabas could be certain of what was happening. He looked quickly one way and another down the hallway, expecting intruders seeking to discover the source of the disturbance.

The first man rose from the floor with a start, grabbing one of the broken pieces of a chair and diving for D’Artagnan. The blade at Barnabas’s belt came into his hand and went flying, to bury deep into the man’s left eye.

“I’m not sure if Madam Paulette is going to be pleased with the condition you have left her room,” said Aramis, who had several of the house’s bouncers standing behind him. D’Artagnan couldn’t help put notice that the little man also had a pistol in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.

“No doubt she will vehemently vent her vexation about the matter. She can bill the Quinniaro family. However, I’m sure they paid her well enough to let them keep him here. Besides, I’ll lay you even money that she has more damage than this on any given Saturday night,” said D’Artagnan.

“More than likely,” agreed Aramis.

“You stupid bastards,” yelled the man with the sandy hair as he struggled up from the floor, his Irish accent heavy in his voice. “You almost got me killed! Do you have any idea of how easy it would have been for him to snap my neck? You call this rescuing me?”

D’Artagnan covered the distance between himself and the man in three steps, then grabbed him by the collar of his dirty and stained shirt and slammed him hard against the wall. He lifted him up several inches above the floor.

“Is your name Culhane? Ramsey Culhane?”

“Y-y-yesss!” the man stuttered.

“Well, listen well, Monsieur Ramsey Culhane, and know this. You live because of me and my friends. It would have been very easy to leave you in the hands of these men who would as soon slit your throat and dump you into the canals as listen to your so-called righteous anger.

“Quite honestly, I suspect it is your own fault that these men were threatening your life. Of course, it may not have been, but then again I don’t really care. When you see your uncle again, just remind him that he is now in the debt of Cardinal Richelieu for having you alive. Do you think you can remember that?”

“Yes, I do.” Culhane managed to push the words out of his throat between gasps for air. “I’ll remember it.”

D’Artagnan let Culhane down to the floor, holding the man’s arm to keep him steady. They had taken a couple of steps before he pushed the man up close to the unconscious form of the man in the long leather jacket.

“Remember something else, my ungrateful friend. Your uncle owes the cardinal a favor for the saving of your sorry hide. But it is you who owe
me
your life. Someday I may come to you and demand that you pay back that favor, and you will,” he growled.

“I understand,” Culhane stuttered before passing out.

* * *

D’Artagnan dropped a leather pouch on the table in front of Barnabas as the two men sat at a small table in Madam Paulette’s parlor. The thud when the bag hit the table showed that it was full. The younger man picked it up and spilled out the contents into his hand; mixed in with the silver were a number of gold coins.

“It seems that our adversaries had been paid in advance, and they didn’t spread the wealth around all that much,” said D’Artagnan. “But far be it from me to criticize the house of Quinniaro over their financial dealings, especially when it works out to our advantage.”

“Our advantage?” asked Barnabas.

“I gave Madam Paulette a portion of it, to pay for damages and her silence. Half of what is left is yours. Call it payment for your services this evening and also your silence; the spoils of war so to speak.”

Barnabas stared at the money for a moment; this would more than double the amount of money in his own purse.

“I did not do this for money, but because you saved my life. It was a matter of honor.”

“Quite true, and you’ve more than repaid that debt, not only by helping Aramis and myself. But when you stepped in and saved my life, the scales were balanced. There is no reason you should not get a reward,” said the Frenchman. “Personally, I would suggest you use some of those coins to make some arrangements with one of Madam Paulette’s ladies.”

“Then you are planning on staying?” asked Barnabas.

“Indeed; the soonest we can get passage will be another day or so. The Quinniaros are tied up in Madam Paulette’s cellar and Aramis will stay with Culhane to prevent him from wandering away. Since it is doubtful that the Quinniaros will send others, this is an excellent place to hole up. I suspect I may make an arrangement or two with one of Madam Paulette’s employees myself.”

Two young women, one in green velvet and the other yellow, had entered the room, taking seats on a chaise longue near the door.

Yes, it seemed to him that D’Artagnan had the right idea. Remaining here might definitely be an excellent way to end the evening.

Cap and Gown

Jack Carroll

On the Ely road

Summer 1634

It was when he heard the split-second hiss of Nathan drawing his sword that Richard realized he was in a bad spot. He was down on one knee in the road. He broke off searching for whatever had gotten into his shoe, and flicked his eyes upward. Nathan was a few yards away, pivoting to face two men rushing from a thicket with knives in their hands.

Richard didn’t need to be a soldier like Nathan to grasp the geometry of the tactical situation. These were robbers, and they were separating, trying to catch Nathan between them.

Richard swept back his coat from where it had fallen forward, and frantically snatched at the pistol on his belt. There was no way to get a clear shot at the farther attacker, but Nathan was turning toward him and stepping forward to strike first with his longer reach. The nearer man, though—no time to aim properly. The instant he fancied that his gun pointed the right way, he fired. The man cried out, and spun around to charge Richard. Richard barely had time enough to get his pistol up to eye level in a two-handed grip. He aimed it roughly at the middle of the man’s chest, as he’d been taught, and fired again. The man staggered, but didn’t fall. Not yet. Richard thumbed the hammer back and was about to fire a third time, when Nathan struck his adversary from behind and ran him through.

Richard glanced behind Nathan, to see what had become of the first robber. He would never threaten anyone again. He was lying in a heap. Richard turned his weapon aside and carefully lowered the hammer.

Nathan did no such thing. Without a moment’s pause he freed his sword and whirled to face the bushes again, poised to thrust or slash at need. He snapped, “Let’s be away, Richard. There could be another in hiding.”

Richard leapt to his feet with his traveling bag in one hand and his gun still in the other, hurrying to keep up. Nathan was watching over his shoulder as much as he was looking at the road ahead. Finally he slowed after a couple of hundred yards, where the view was open on either side. He looked over to Richard.

“That wasn’t badly done, for a cloistered scholar. I think perhaps you saved my life just now.”

“You saved mine, for certain. It seemed to me that you drew before those men even appeared.”

“I did. I misliked the place. Those bushes were too thick and too close to the road. There was that stretch of mire we’d just passed, where we couldn’t have run with any sort of burden. It seemed a perfect spot for an ambush. So I put my hand to my sword. Then I heard a sound from within the bushes. I didn’t wait to see what would come out.”

“And so you ambushed them instead.”

“We were unreasonably lucky. They were stupid, and they were most likely new to this game. They should have run when they saw my sword at the ready.”

“Perhaps they were afraid you’d follow them into the thicket and take them from behind.”

“Then I’d have been the fool. There was no way to know whether I’d run straight into more of them. And that one you kept from my back should have known that a good many travelers carry pistols that can shoot more than once, leaving aside that fancy little German revolver you carry.

“And, Richard?”

“Yes?”

“You won’t stop beside any more such places, will you? Whatever poets may imagine, soldiers really don’t crave such excitement. After three years in the Germanies with hardly a scratch, it would be embarrassing to be killed by a pair of clumsy louts like those.”

“No, Nathan. Learning lessons is what I do.”

“I’m profoundly relieved to hear it. Well, it’s not over five miles from this place to my family’s home. Perhaps you’ll stop with us for some moments before you go on to Cambridge. I think my father would be most interested to hear the things you’ve been telling me, and he could surely find some wine that would be to your liking.”

* * *

Nathan led the way around the side of the warehouse to the office door. As he and Richard entered, old Edmund looked up from some papers he was frowning over.

“A good day to you, Edmund!”

Edmund Blake stared over his spectacles. “And you are?” He paused. “Young Nathan! Well, not so young any more! You were clean-shaven when I saw you last. A moment, I’ll call your father.” He stepped through the inner doorway. “Master Brantley! Nathan has come.”

Sounds of heavy things being moved came from within, followed by rapidly approaching footsteps.

“Nathan! It’s good to see you, indeed! And who is this you’ve brought? A companion from the German wars?”

“No, Father. I present Scholar Richard Leamington, of Trinity College. We met on board the boat from Lynn, and traveled together since. Even so, we lately became comrades in arms, after a fashion. Richard, this is my father, Master Mercer Jeremiah Brantley.”

“Welcome, Scholar Leamington. Edmund, I’ll take these two hungry-looking fellows to the kitchen. Dinner is past, but no doubt Cook has some odds and ends that will serve.”