1634: The Baltic War: Chapter Nineteen

    Coming around the bend, Leebrick saw one of the coachmen lying on the side of the road, holding his head in both hands. Thrown off, apparently. Or perhaps he’d simply jumped, figuring he could claim he was thrown. Under the circumstances, Anthony couldn’t blame the man.

    There was another bend, perhaps seventy yards farther. To Leebrick’s dismay, it looked to be a much sharper one. That matched his memory, also.

    His own horse almost went out from under him as he neared the bend. He spent a minute standing still, simply calming the poor beast. He’d been transmitting some of his own anxiety, he realized. Under these conditions, that was utterly perilous. As heavy an animal as it was, with this sort of icy and unsteady surface all four of a horse’s legs would tend to go in separate directions. Left to its own devices, in fact, the horse wouldn’t willingly move at all.

    The problem was that horses simply weren’t very smart, they were herd animals—and they considered their human masters to be the leaders of the herd. So, once let panic seize them, they’d go from unmoving stolidity to a blind and bolting runaway pace. That was dangerous enough on a good dry road in mid-summer. On this road on this day in mid-winter, it was…

    Leebrick’s head came up from speaking soothingly to his mount. He thought he’d heard a scream, coming from around the bend.

    He set his horse back into motion, not trying for anything faster than a walk. As imperative as it was to find out what had happened, there was no point in adding himself to whatever havoc had occurred.

    Before he got to the bend, he hear the sound again, and it was definitely a scream. Not a scream of fear, either, for it came from no human throat. That was the sound of a badly-injured horse.

    When he came around the bend and could finally see down the next stretch of road, his worst fears materialized. Some thirty yards beyond, the royal carriage was a shattered wreck. He could see a deep rut in the road ten yards ahead of him, and what was left of one of the carriage’s wheels.

    He was aghast, but nor surprised. Having a wheel or axle break on a carriage, especially a heavy one, was a frequent occurrence. Adventuresome young men in taverns would make bets that they could make it from one city to the next without a broken wheel or axle—and the house odds were against them.

    That was in midsummer. Nobody laid bets on the matter in wintertime, not even drunken young carousers.

    To make things worse, the royal carriage was of the new “Cinderella” design. [NOTE: Would that term have been used at the time?] They were fancy looking things, but their suspension was even more fragile than that of most carriages. They were particularly prone to having the rear axles break.

    Leebrick had no trouble figuring out what had happened. Coming around the bend as fast as it had been going, the carriage must have started to slide on the slick surface. Then, either from panicky movements of the team, or too sharp a correction by the driver, or simply a minor obstruction in the surface—any or all three put together—the axle had broken. That, in turn, had simply splintered the wheel.

    Within a few yards, the carriage had spilled on its side—and then, on this surface, it had slid right into the wall of a building. One of the horses had been killed outright, and at least one—the one screaming in agony—had suffered a shattered leg. Two others were lying on the road. One appeared to be just stunned but the other was clearly dead. A great jagged piece of wood had been driven into the creature’s belly.

    They were the only horses in sight. The harness had come to pieces in the accident. The pole holding the doubletrees must have shattered—that would be the source of the wood that had killed the one horse—and the four lead horses must have continued their panicked race around the next bend in the road. At a distance, Leebrick could see the body of the coachman who’d been riding the near lead horse. He, too, might either be dead or simply stunned.

    But he’d have to wait. Anthony needed to find out what had happened to the king and queen. He still had hopes they might have remained uninjured—or simply bruised, at least. They’d had the protection of the carriage body and all the cusions and blankets within.

    But as he came nearer, Anthony’s hopes started fading. He’d thought at first that the carriage had struck the side of the building and then been upended from the impact. But now he saw that the situation was far worse. There was apparently a sunken stair into which the carriage had plunged. Instead of the weight of the carriage’s body protecting the occupants, the body had caved in on them.

    He brought the horse to a halt, got off, and clambered onto the carriage. The first thing he saw was the driver. His body, rather, for there was no question whether this man was dead or stunned. He’d been thrown into the stairwell and part of the carriage had landed on top of him. The front axle had crushed the poor man’s chest like a great blunt spear. His sightless eyes staring up at the sky were already half-covered with sleet.

    Almost frantic now, Anthony reached the carriage’s door and tried to pry it open. Finding it jammed, he drew his sword and used it as a lever. Thankfully, it was one of his everyday swords, not the expensive one he kept at Liz’s lodgings for ceremonial occasions. He was quite likely to break it, since swords were not designed to be tools for such use.

    Indeed, it did break—but not before it finally snapped whatever obstruction was keeping the door jammed. Anthony tossed the hilt onto the ground and, using both hands, pried the door the rest of the way open.

    Peering in, he couldn’t determine anything at first. It was a dark day because of the overcast and very little of what light there was made its way into the carriage. To make thing worse, the interior of the carriage was in a state of sheer chaos. The trunks must have been flung open and had scattered their contents everywhere. At first glance, the interior looked like nothing so much as a huge, half-filled laundry basket.

    Then something pale moved, coming up from under the blanket that had been covering it. A face, Anthony realized.

    The king’s face.

    “Help me,” Charles whispered. “My leg…”

    Hearing a call, Anthony looked back. To his relief, he saw that Patrick had arrived with his Irish skirmishers.

    “Just a moment, Your Majesty, I’ll be right there,” Anthony said hurriedly. Then, to Patrick: “I need three of your men up here. Have the rest tend to whatever else they can—but don’t  shift the carriage about yet.”

    Hearing the horse scream again, Leebrick winced. “And put that animal out of its misery, would you?”

    That done, he lowered himself into the carriage, being careful not to step on the king’s body. Wherever that body was, since all he could see was still just the royal face, staring up. He had no idea at all where the queen had wound up.

    Once he got to the king, he slid his arm down into the tangle of blankets and cushions to cradle the man’s shoulders and lift him. But the moment he did so, the king started to shriek. “My legs! My legs! Stop, damn you!”

    Anthony left off immediately. He’d thought from the king’s first plaint that he’d suffered a broken or wounded leg. But “legs” probably meant something worse. He didn’t dare move Charles at all until he could see what the problem was.

    One of the Irish soldiers was at the window, now.

    “Come down,” Leebrick ordered. “But make sure you put your feet over there.” He pointed behind him, to a part of the carriage that seemed safe enough. He still didn’t know where the queen was.

 

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    While the skirmisher lowered himself into the interior, Anthony shifted himself a bit and began carefully removing the items that covered the king’s body.

    “Where’s my wife?” Charles asked. He seemed more puzzled than anything else.

    Leebrick decided to ignore the question, for the moment. He had no answer, and that was more likely to panic the king than anything else. He just kept at his labor.

    “Where’s Henrietta Maria? Where is she? Why isn’t she here?”

    Thankfully, it was clear from Charles’ tone of voice that the king was in a daze. He wasn’t really asking a question aimed at a specific person, he was simply uttering a confused query to the world. He sounded more like a child than a grown man.

    Finally, Anthony cleared enough away to see most of the king’s body. By then, he knew the situation was a very bad one. The last blanket he’d removed had been blood-stained.

    Charles’ hip was shattered. Anthony could see a piece of bone sticking up through the flesh and the heavy royal garments.

    He tried to restrain himself from hissing, but couldn’t.

    “What’s wrong?” asked the king. Still in that confused little boy’s voice.

    “Everything’s fine, Your Majesty. It’ll just take us a moment to get you out of there.”

    Leebrick wondered if he even dared move the king at all, until his men had cut away most of the carriage. If Charles’ hip was shattered, there was a good chance he had a broken back also.

    But he decided he didn’t have any choice. If the only problem had been the king, he’d just wait. But even after spending several minutes in the carriage, he’d still seen no sign of the queen. He had to find her, and probably very soon—if it wasn’t too late already. The carriage had landed on her side, not the king’s. If the impact had caused this much damage to Charles, it was likely to have caused worse to her.

    A second skirmisher had made his way into the carriage.

    “All right, lads. Here’s the way we’ll do it. Tell Patrick to have two men—no, it’ll likely take four—to start cutting away the side of the carriage. And tell him, for the love of God, to do it carefully. This carriage is half-shattered already. We just need enough space to lift His Majesty out using a sling of some sort. A big one, that’ll cup his whole body. We can make it out of these blankets and what’s left of the harness. Understood?”

    Gravely, both men nodded.

    “All right, be about it. I’ve got to find out what happened to the queen.”

    The last he said very softly, not to alarm the king. But when he turned back, he saw that his caution had been unnecessary. Charles was no longer conscious.

    Under the circumstances, that was a blessing. Moving as fast as he could in the cramped space, Anthony used a blanket and the aid of one of the skirmishers to shift the king’s body far enough to the side to be able to see what might be lying under him. That took some time, despite the urgency of the situation, because he had to be as careful as he could not to twist the king’s back in the process.

    But, finally, it was done. Feeling like a miner digging through expensive clothing and blanketry—practically tapestries, some of them—Anthony worked his way toward the side of the carriage that now served as its floor.

    The first thing he spotted were the queen’s eyes, staring at him. He couldn’t see the rest of her face, because it was covered by some sort of heavy garment.

    “Your Majesty! Just a moment and I’ll have you out of there.” Hurriedly, he shoved more things aside to clear her shoulders.

    “Your pardon, please.” He took her shoulders and tried to lift her up. But after shifting perhaps two inches, her torso seemed to hit some sort of obstruction. A very sudden one, in fact.

    To his surprise, he realized that the queen still hadn’t said anything to him. Very unusual, for her.

    He looked down at her face and instantly understood the reason. Her eyes were still looking at him, but that was sheer chance. Those weren’t eyes, any longer. They were just pieces of a human body. Henrietta Maria, sister of King Louis XIII of France and wife of Charles I of England, would no longer be saying anything to anybody, in any language, except whatever tongue might be spoken in the afterlife.

    Below, the mouth gaped open. What had once been a torrent of blood was starting to dry on her chin and her neck and what he could see of her chest. Roughly, he shoved the rest of the material down to her waist, trying to spot the obstruction.

    Nothing, oddly. But there was certainly no question the woman was dead. Even if she could have survived that much loss of blood, the fact that there was no further blood coming was proof enough.

    He closed his own eyes, and took the time for a quick prayer for the woman’s soul. Then, moving much more quickly because he needn’t fear any longer the queen’s displeasure at having her body groped, he pried his hand under her back looking for the obstruction.

    It didn’t take him long to find it. Her torso hadn’t been kept from moving by something on top, it had been hooked from beneath. From what he could sense with his fingers, a large piece of the carriage’s frame had been smashed up just as the queen’s body came down. As ragged-edged as a barbed spear, the huge splinter had pierced her heart and jammed somewhere in her ribs, or perhaps against her spine.

    He’d seen very much the same thing happen as a young man, when he’d spent some time serving on a warship. After two naval battles, he’d decided to make his fortune as a soldier rather than a seaman. A soldier had to fear metal in many shapes and varieties, but at least simple pieces of wood weren’t likely to tear him to shreds. For a boy whose father had been a cabinetmaker and for whom wood had been a comfort, that seemed somehow grotesque.

    He heard Patrick’s voice. “We’re ready, Captain.”

    Looking up, Anthony was surprised to see that Welch and his men had already cut away most of the carriage’s side. Roof, now, the way it was lying. He must have spent more time working to find the queen than he’d realized, and he’d been so focused on the task that he hadn’t even heard the noise they’d been making.

    That meant there was also more light coming into the interior, thank God. Looking over, Anthony saw that the king was still unconscious. Thank God, again.

    “All right,” he said, standing up. A bit carefully, because although his footing wasn’t as bad as icy mud, it was still nothing much more than soft rubble. “Let’s get the sling under him and get him out of here.”

    “The queen?”

    Leebrick shook his head. “I found her, but there’s no hurry there. No hurry at all.”

    Patrick winced, understanding. “There’s going to be hell to pay, Anthony.”

    Gloomily, Leebrick nodded. Hell to pay, for sure and certain—and the devil was most likely to present the bill to the officer in charge. Given that he had neither friends in high places nor fortune of his own.

 

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    In fact, when he emerged from the carriage after the king’s body was lifted out, Anthony saw that the devil’s book-keeper had already arrived.

    The Earl of Cork himself, no less.

 

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    But, to his astonishment, Richard Boyne was both friendly and considerate.

    “Yes, yes, Captain—Leebrick, is it?—I understand completely,” said Boyne, waving down Anthony’s attempt at an explanation. The earl jabbed a thumb at his two companions. Anthony recognized them also, although he couldn’t say he really knew either of them. Sir Paul Pindar and Endymion Porter, both prominent figures in court. In his few encounters with the men, he’d found Porter to be something of a aloof non-entity but Pindar to be a civil enough fellow. Perhaps that was because Pindar’s influence was due to the wealth he’d amassed as a major figure in the Levant Company and a moneylender to the crown, rather than pure and simple favoritism from the high and mighty.

    Porter was considerably younger than the other two men, being in his late forties where the earl and Sir Pindar were well into their sixties.

    “We happened by chance to be in the vicinity and saw the whole thing unfold,” the earl continued. “No fault of yours or your men, it was obvious. The king—”

    Boyne shook his head lugubriously. “Well, who’s to say what motivated him? Most unfortunate. Had he simply stayed in place, the whole affair would have ended with no trouble. A splendid company you have, by the way.”

    Endymion Porter was frowning at the carriage. “The queen…?”

    “She perished in the accident, I am most aggrieved to report. Must have died instantly, however, so she didn’t suffer.”

    The earl’s head-shaking speeded up. “How terrible. His Majesty will be beside himself.”

    So he would—and beside himself did not bode well for one Anthony Leebrick, captain of the royal escort.

    As much as he disliked asking for favors, Anthony saw no choice. He cleared his throat. “Begging your pardon, My Lord, but…”

    The head-shake turning into a nod faster than anything Leebrick would have imagined. “Oh, yes, certainly. You needn’t fear, Captain, I shall be glad to give the same testimony to the king himself.” He looked a bit startled. “Well…”

    “The king won’t want to hear it, Richard,” said Pindar quietly. “You know he won’t, whether it’s true or not. Not from you, not from anyone.”

    The merchant looked at Leebrick. “If you’ll take my advice, Captain, I strongly recommend that you”—he glanced at Welch—“as well as your lieutenants, make yourselves hard to find for a few days. Once he recovers consciousness and discovers his wife is dead, I’m afraid His Majesty is likely to simply lash out at the most obvious and convenient target.”

    That was exactly what Anthony figured himself. “Yes, Mr. Pindar. But if I do that, I’m just likely to bring further suspicion on myself.”

    Boyne went back to head-shaking. “Only if you do it the wrong way, Captain. Go into hiding somewhere unknown… then, yes, certainly you’d draw suspicion.”

    The head-shake came to an abrupt stop, and a big smile appeared on the earl’s face.

    “But not if you place yourself in the custody of a respected public figure, and await His Majesty’s pleasure at a well-known location. I’d recommend, in fact—”

    “Richard!” said Porter.

    The earl waved his hand impatiently. “Be done with your constant caution, Endymion. Be done, I say!  Captain Leebrick, I recommend that you simply return with me to London—you and your lieutenants; Paul’s quite right about that—and plan on spending a week or so at my residence there.”

    Anthony stared at him. The offer made him suspicious, simply because Richard Boyne, the Earl of Cork, had no reputation at all for being a man given to goodwill toward his lesser fellows. Quite the opposite, in fact.

    Apparently sensing the hesitation, the earl’s smile became something vaguely predatory. “Oh, please, Captain. Surely it’s no secret to you—is it to anyone in England, other than village idiots?—that I’m on no friendly terms with Thomas Wentworth.” His mouth pursed, as if he’d tasted a lemon. “The Earl of Strafford, as he likes to call himself now—but he’s only an earl due to the king’s favor. Which I daresay—”

    There was nothing at all vague about the predation in that smile, now. “—is about to be abruptly removed. Indeed, I shall do my very best to see that it is.”

    Put that way…

    Anthony felt his suspicions ebbing. At the same time as he felt his distaste for the Earl of Cork rising, to be sure. Given a choice, he’d far rather serve a man like Thomas Wentworth than Richard Boyne.

    But he probably didn’t have a choice, any longer. And when it came down to it, although he’d found Wentworth a good master, he was hardly what you’d call a personal friend of the man. It was likely true that the kingdom was about to be swept by another royal storm, and that Boyne would surge to the fore as Wentworth was cast out. Better to be in Boyne’s good graces, then, than stranded as he now was with no friends at all in court.

    He glanced at Patrick, who’d overheard the whole discussion. The Irishman gave him a slight nod. He’d come to the same conclusion, obviously. So would Richard, most likely, had he been present.

    “Very well, My Lord. I accept your offer, and with thanks. I’d need to bring Patrick here with me, and one other man.” He pointed up the road. “That’s Richard Towson, the lieutenant I left in charge—”

    “Oh, yes. Splendid man. He sent those Trained Band louts scampering smartly. I saw a bit of it before I raced off to see what had become of His Majesty.”

    That very moment, Anthony heard the sound of a military force approaching. A few seconds later, the first ranks of his company appeared around the bend. At the fore was Richard himself, on his horse. Still better, the carriage holding the children came right after him, with soldiers helping the driver and coachmen to steady its team. Whatever else had happened, at least the heirs to the throne were still safe.

    “I’ll need to see to my men first,” Anthony said.

    “Don’t tarry, Captain,” said Porter. “Haven’t you a good sergeant or two, who can take charge of the rest of this business and then get your company back to their quarters?” He pointed at the carriage. “We still need to extract the queen’s corpse, you know. And get the king himself back to the palace where he can get proper medical attention.”

    Before Anthony could say anything, Pindar spoke up. “Yes, Captain, that will also stir Wentworth into motion—and he’s a man who can move quite well, under most circumstances. But not these. I’m afraid the so-called Earl of Strafford is about to discover that turning most of the court into enemies is a tactic that only works so long as you have the royal favor.”

    The merchant glanced at the king. Charles was now resting in the same sling that had gotten him out of the carriage, but two poles had been added to create a litter held by four of Patrick’s skirmishers. Welch must have ordered that done. Wisely, he’d decided that on the road today, a litter would be safer carried by men than horses.

    “A royal favor which is not conscious at the moment,” Pindar continued, “and will almost certainly vanish when consciousness is regained. Time presses, Captain. If you intend to take up the Earl of Cork on his gracious offer, you’d best do it very quickly. We weren’t the only witnesses, be sure of that. It won’t be long before word of the disaster reaches Whitehall. By mid-afternoon, if you and your lieutenants aren’t in the earl’s custody, Wentworth will have you arrested. He’ll have no choice, you understand.”

    No, he wouldn’t. Somebody would have to take the blame for this. Were there any justice, the blame would be accepted by the man actually responsible, who was the man lying unconscious in the litter. But there was less chance of Charles I doing that than there was of the sun stopping in its tracks.

    For a moment, Anthony found himself desperately wishing he’d joined his friend Christopher Fey and enlisted in the new regiments that Gustavus Adolphus was forming in the Germanies. True, Kit complained bitterly in the letters he occasionally sent Leebrick about the riotous conditions in the ranks of those regiments. But Kit was a complaining man at all times—and the one complaint that had been noticeably absent in those letters were any complaints about the monarch he served. The Swede wouldn’t have panicked in the first place, at the sight of a ragged militia. And, if he had, would have taken the responsibility for whatever happened on his own shoulders.

    But, Leebrick had turned down the offer. The money Wentworth had offered was better, first of all. Even more important was that Liz was in London, not Magdeburg. Ten years ago, that wouldn’t have weighed much with Anthony. But once the age of forty was nearer than the age of thirty, he’d found the pleasures of a purely bachelor mercenary’s life were waning. Rather quickly, in fact. There was a lot to be said for the regular company of a woman he liked and trusted, even if her history wasn’t much different from those of any camp follower. It wasn’t as if Anthony Leebrick came from the sort of family that had to worry about such matters.

    “Yes, you’re right,” he said. He gave Richard Boyne a little bow. “If you’ll just give me a moment or two to speak to the sergeants.”

    “Of course, Captain. There’s not that much of a hurry, never mind what Paul says.”

    The smile hadn’t left the man’s face, although it wasn’t that of a predator any longer. Not, at least, a predator in pursuit of prey. It was simply confident. As a lion’s might be, after a meal.

    “I am the Earl of Cork, after all. Hardly likely that anyone—including Wentworth—is going to pester me when I’m about my lawful affairs, now is it?”