The Great Assassin Hunt part II

Dear Lucerne,

It is bitter in Montaigne.

I have a bitter taste in my mouth. One reason is I have slain a beautiful, intelligent, sensual and talented lady. The other is the poison she used to drug me. But I should lead you up to this crisis. I trust it is safe to send this message now.

The weather is bitter. The cold northerly sweeps over the once fertile plains and through us. We ride north for six days through rain and sleet and snow. And the howling wind moans past our scabbards and bridles. I ride low in the saddle. Some of the others have the full force of the elements flung at them. Avon's fingers are turning blue and I am tempted to wear gloves but I make do by turning up the edge of the horse blanket. The big frames of Borstenn, Pistol and Mordred shake with the chill gale as they cling to their mounts. They don't complain so obviously winter in the far north must be unpleasant indeed.

Pistol quips "What is worn under Highlander's skirts?" "It's all in perfect working order" replies Mordred as he reaches for his claymore (a huge two-handed sword). The two are separated and Pistol says that he only asked, "What is more about Highlander's skills?" The rest of us pretend it is a comment on handling the weather and I make sure that they are on horses far apart. We ride in this manner for six days. We reach the province of Arrent where Mother (Jeanne Duboise) came from.

In my bitterness and grief I forgot to check whether Grandmother Therese was executed the day before you escaped. Do you know about the rest of the family? Where is father now the embassy in Paix is in revolutionary hands? Have you heard from mother? What of our brothers François, Claude, Marin, Andre and Remy? Hopefully you will have met Jean-Marie Rois et Reines now but how are our other cousins faring.

The peasants, or should I call them beggars are bitter. They realise all too well that one tyranny has overtaken another. Being Montaigne the irony isn't lost on them unlike the boorish and insensitive Eisen. It is cruel to see that they understand all the horror of their suffering.

The countryside is bitter with mobs of armed men. They avoid us as we travel but we must remain alert and ready for action. Today we hadn't found an inn or village to break our travel so I started to look for a place out of the weather and defensible. I made for a rise to the right. A storm was closing in on us. In the calm before the storm, when the wind dropped and snow settled to the bleak ground we saw the ruin of a Chateau. Once it was a fine building, now it seemed like a good place for cover from the elements.

Avon [or was it Pistol? Scaramouch! never! but it was someone from the Triple Kingdoms] mentioned a song about an upright and exceptionally just Magistrate in LEmpereur's time called Monsieur Rigoneaux that lived hereabouts. As we got closer we noticed superficial burns on the facade. It might even be weathertight we thought. Then we saw a lantern moving inside through the odd pane of glass [the rest of the panes were boarded over]. Any thoughts of the chateau's occupants were driven away by a fresh blast of the icy wind.

We quickly stabled the horses and I noticed traces that a number of other horses had been there about a week ago. A servant called Clement with a lantern came and escorted us inside. Passing inside the main doors I noticed they had been inexpertly patched in recent times. Inside we were welcomed to Chateau Euridice by two beautiful twin sisters called Françoise and Camuzette.

I bitterly regretted not having anything to wear in such company and missed Ambrose to care for my appearance. Even in disguise clothes make the man. They made much fuss over Pistol and the others in the party speaking to them in their native tongues. They had impeccable manners, enchanted looks and all the social skills. It was warm, it was cosy, there was fine wine, intelligent conversation, cultured singing and music.

We naturally relaxed. Like shipwrecked sailors washed up on a far shore we were glad. We blissfully ignored the damage to the chateau: the almost polished out words "Vive le Revolution" carved in the table, the patched chairs supplemented from the kitchen, the mended doors and the missing panes of glass in the windows. We were in a warm island set in a cold sea.

The food arrived and was fine but bitter and spicy like Vodacce food. The main meal was of an indeterminate meat. The nagging concern at the back of my mind I happily ignored. I haven't been in a proper salon for over a year and this little soiree was nurturing my spirit. You used to hoard the invitations to Mm Pompadour's salon. But I was initiated into society. And those events in Charouse were a blessed relief from dodging Sgt Max at the War College. "Absence of body is better than a steady hand" old Ludwig our tactics instructor used to say. He meant that it is better to not be present than to be the greatest warrior. And tonight I wish I hadn't been here.

After the meal we lounged in a muzzy state. the twins started to question us on our past and quickly moved from the polite to the interrogative. Still I did nothing. I diverted the questions put to me and alluded to myself as the hero of Freiburg. But I see that my pen and mind are shying from proceeding.

We retired to separate rooms for the night. The windows were barred. Without Ambrose I was a little disconcerted and tried the door. It was barred from the outside. I realised that the bitter taste was a sleeping poison at best. I ported to Borstenn's room. Our best warrior was sleeping like a felled log and I couldn't rouse him. I battled to stay awake and hid under Borstenn's bed. Who would find me here?

They came for Borstenn. Françoise sniffed "Eau de Charouse" and started to exhausetively search the simple room. Damn my aftershave I thought sleepily. Once discovered she coaxed me out by challenging me to look at the Porté portal in their cellar. They blindfolded me before entering the cellar. When I felt the manacle grasp my right wrist I tore off the blindfold. The twins, Clement and Maria the cook were there.

I said "I have seen the indignities of the revolution and the things they make people wear." They laughed but were well armed. With soft words and promises of a fair trial I allowed my other hand to be chained and my mouth to be gagged. Surely I was deeply drugged! Avon was already chained beside me and the unconscious Borstenn soon joined us. There was week old blood on the floor.

Soon Pistol arrived. He swore and said this was no midnight feast. He is lucky that although his stomach may lead him astray occasionally (as in this case); it also lead him to run straight out. He sought out Mordred and released the bar holding Mordred's door fast. Pistol shouted something about skirts and Mordred and claymore were instantly ready. Ready, they took on the four would be captors.

While the sounds of battle and the curses started above, those of us in the cellar, started to rouse Borstenn. He quickly awoke and soon marked out the open mouth rune and said "Grenselos". His shackles and gag magically dropped away strangely sounding like a shower of gold. He soon freed us and we charged upstairs.

The battle was going against us. Mordred and Pistol had already suffered many cuts and only Clement the elderly servant was wounded. Mordred landed a massive and unexpected blow that cut Clement down. But alas, he in turn was felled by the sharp point of Françoise's knife.

Borstenn armed himself with Mordred's claymore, Avon retrieved his Dietrich blade and I pulled the puzzle blade from my pocket. The twins were fighting like Legion's demons. Screaming curses and revenge on men they fought with daggers. The others who don't speak Montaigne would have assumed that they were indeed demons lurking here to trap unwary travellers. They fought with no quarter given or received.

Pistol received a nasty cut from a poisoned knife. He spent the rest of the fight desperately trying to stop the poison killing him. He slowly sank to the floor. Camuzette thinking him done engaged Avon. I moved to help him as I have never seen him hold a blade before. Camuzette wounded him in the thigh but he kept up the fight. I was also having daggers thrown at me from Maria the cook. I was soon feeling like a dartboard and had plenty of small cuts. I concentrated on Camuzette and it took all of my skill. She fought expertly. Her curses revealed a lust for revenge for her father's murder and their rape. Horrified I realised that she was still human flesh and blood. Much of that blood had been shed. Only a killing blow would stop her I thought, as she was hysterical. I landed that blow and she quietly folded to the floor like a dropped sheet.

A massive shriek from Maria alerted me to the next adversary. She attacked in a berserk maternal rage. I fought on mechanically and Avon showed that he could use his giant weapon. He despatched Maria with a mighty strike. Borstenn had felled Françoise.

Feeling the butcher I checked the bodies and Françoise was still alive. Last week I played the dyer, this week I am the butcher. I have slain for no reason and only the pretext of self-defence. I relieve myself and am sick. I arm with some bottles of wine and try to make sense of things. Eisenfürst Trague was absolutely and prophetically right. I am a man of blood.

Montaigne finest will be poured out on le coiffeur, or on the ready blade or in front of the noisy barrel. It is meaningless civil war. Potential allies slain because of our lack of understanding. How I wish I had your gift of patient genius. Can you solve the problem of Montaigne? Can you disguise these bloody hands or make them clean? The bitter crop is sown in Montaigne and this coming harvest will be bitter still. Vanity, vanity all is vanity. Who will save us from ourselves?

Dandelion *

PS. The others have found a scrap of Le Monde from about two weeks ago possibly left by the revolutionaries who sacked this place or some prior victims to us. Through the barred window, when the moon is up I can see a burnt out village on the other side of the rise. I guess that revolutionaries murdered the Magistrate Rigoneaux and raped his twin daughters. The two servants were out shopping at the time. Although the girls had been taught the dagger fighting method they seemed to have been caught unawares. The cook is Vodacce and she may have trained them.

PPS a breif Haiku (I am experimenting with form)

Icy blast of north wind
A lone chateaux wine and song
The battle bitter fought