Jesse Bullington - The Sad Tale of the Brothers Grossbart

“Deranged or not, he seems far from stupid enough to bring all of Christendom down upon his head by doing me harm,” Buñuel whispered in the scarlet ear of the doge. Then, turning back to Barousse, he raised his voice. “And surely, as my host, you would consent to my bringing a guest whom I vouch for, the honorable Sir Jean?”

“Without reservation, and the doge as well if-No?” Barousse masked his displeasure at Strafalaria’s shaking head with an even broader smile. “As you choose, then. Now, if I may have the good doge’s word his men will not attempt to storm my residence when I open the gate, we may get this over with and I may finish my repast.”

“That’s fine.” The doge grimaced. “You have my word. If they are not returned with the felons in very short order you also have my word they will come in whether you open the gate or not.”

Barousse waved his hand dismissively while the gate swung open, the captain’s men clearly as relieved as the doge’s that things had ended thus. The cardinal and the chevalier left their reins in Strafalaria’s hand, making him wish he had brought a page along. The gate clicked shut again, and Barousse winked at the fuming doge before escorting the men into the house. Rodrigo hurried around the side to the kitchen door, dumb-struck that the frenzied plan Barousse had whispered to him on the short walk to the meeting had unfolded so flawlessly but worried the Grossbarts would not be where the captain insisted they would be. Their presence in the kitchen was not surprising but still a relief, prone as the Grossbarts were to thwarting expectations.

“To arms, Grossbarts,” Rodrigo panted. “Our enemies are upon us.”

“How’s that?” One hand went to Manfried’s mace but the other stayed on his cheese.

“The doge has come to arrest the three of you, bringing with him a French knight and a cardinal as well as men, but the captain has outwitted them, and now,” Rodrigo tilted his head toward the sound of the great door in the foyer opening, “he has lured the doge’s guests inside, and we must take them prisoner. Now! And by force!”

Shouting reached them, and still chewing their breakfast the Grossbarts hurried down the hall after Rodrigo. Martyn followed at a sensible distance, a bottle in his good hand. Entering the spacious chamber they saw four of Barousse’s men aiming crossbows at two impressive figures, one bristling in plate and chain armor, the other draped with lily-white, coal-black, and blood-red cloth. Both were shouting at the pleasantly smiling Barousse, but they quieted when he stepped forward and laid the edge of his cutlass against the cardinal’s throat.

“Better.” Barousse nodded. “Much better. May I present Cardinal Buñuel and His Lordship Sir Jean Gosney of Meaux. Cardinal, Sir Jean, this is Hegel Grossbart and Manfried Grossbart, my two advisors. Rodrigo you have already met, and who is this? Ah, of course, the supposedly defrocked priest, Father Martyn.”

“We are already intimately acquainted,” Martyn sneered, making directly for Buñuel. “You have erred in the introductions, however, captain, for this man has no authority over a servant of God. This heretic presided over my torture! How dare you wear those robes in my presence? You are hereby excommunicated!” To the delight of Barousse and the Grossbarts and the horror of everyone else, Martyn slapped the cardinal in the face. He then twisted around and stormed back to the kitchen before he committed greater sins.

“Blasphemy,” Buñuel gasped. “Seize them, Jean, dash their mouths!”

Like many veterans of his age and country, Sir Jean had been captured and ransomed several times in his life, and found the arrangement far more comfortable than a martyr’s death. His command of Italian therefore failed him, and he unfastened his helm to better demonstrate his obedience. Bowing to Buñuel, he remastered the language of his captors and turned to Barousse.

“If you will give me your demands I will shout them to the doge, and I vouchsafe he will prove more honest in his negotiations than most.” Sir Jean shrugged at the livid cardinal.

“Tell him to wait until Vespers for your release, at which time I will have received a full pardon from Church and city for my regrettably forceful keeping of both of your company,” said Barousse. “Furthermore, all of my men and guests will likewise receive identical pardons, I will be recompensed to the sound of one thousand ducats, and receive the word of both of you as well as the doge that this matter, soon to be forgiven by the Lord, will be forgiven by you personally as well. Tell that weasel to wait at his palace for any further demands, which shall be sent before dark.”

“Churl!” Cardinal Buñuel spit. “Think you can imprison us by sword and get whatever you desire? Heaven is not granted to such rogues!”

“Imprison?” Barousse adopted a pained expression and sheathed his sword. “Never! You are free to leave at your will! Of course, if you choose to leave before I grant it my men will murder you where you stand. But imprison? No, no. No irons, no cages, simply hospitality as befits men of your station.”

The Grossbarts were staring at the weathered chevalier, who without his sharp-visored hounskull helmet looked decidedly less intimidating. His paunchy jowls were smooth, and what few scars he possessed were shallow and indistinct. Compounding matters, he had lathered himself with perfume, reminding the Brothers of the witch’s pungent hut.

“Hop to, then.” Barousse had moved to the door when the cardinal, who saw the fear on the faces of his guards, addressed the crossbowmen.

“By directing your weapons at me you have damned yourselves! Only if I live may you be absolved!” Then the cardinal broke for the door.

Hegel caught him in the shin with the haft of his pick, sending Buñuel sprawling in the doorway. The Grossbarts snatched him up and held his arms while he spit and kicked, his normally placid nature undone by the indignity. With a nod from the captain they dragged him to the kitchen while Barousse, Rodrigo, and the guards supervised Sir Jean’s recitation of demands to the furious but not entirely surprised doge.

The doge left his pikemen blocking the gate and rode off while Barousse shut the door and clapped Rodrigo on the back. The scheme had succeeded more than even he had hoped, and after apologizing again to Sir Jean, he disarmed the knight and escorted him to the dining chamber along with three of the crossbowmen. With the servants dismissed, Rodrigo hurried to fetch wine and food for the captain.

Loading up several plates with what little cold meat the again-feasting Grossbarts had not already claimed, Rodrigo descended to the cellar for wine. Gasping at the sight awaiting him, he raced back up the stairs and shouted at the Brothers, “What have you done with the priests?!”

“Put’em down there.” Manfried tossed his crust at Rodrigo. “As you’s just seen, I imagine.”

“Fools! That crazed priest’s killed the other one!” Rodrigo yelled.

“Goddamn it all!” Manfried jumped up. “I told you to tie him good!”

“I did!” Hegel followed. “If he’s so worthless as to be slayed by a trussed-up man he deserves what he gets.”

They stumbled down the stairs and saw the naked Buñuel swaying from the rafters, ordure dribbling down his legs. Martyn had traded his worn robes for the scarlet-piped finery of the cardinal and prayed fervently in a corner, oblivious to the ruckus he had caused. The Grossbarts relaxed upon discovering the miscommunication and Manfried chastised Rodrigo.

“Gotta use them eyes, boy.” Manfried shook his head. “With the clothes switch I can see the cause, but even a cursory glance would tell you it was the other way round. Bein perceptive’ll keep you alive longer than runnin hither and thither squawkin all kinds a meck.”