Jesse Bullington - The Sad Tale of the Brothers Grossbart

“ Our council through your lips,” Manfried corrected. “Credit yourself by creditin us.”

“Ah.” Martyn nodded. “My tongue tripped over my pride.”

“And the Arab?” Hegel asked.

“No doubt dozing in the desert.” Martyn smirked. “Unsuspecting their days of idolatrous sloth are waning.”

“No, you twit, the Arab what was on our boat. The mecky little cunt with the mustache,” Hegel clarified.

“With the horses.” Martyn tapped his foot. “Below, where he belongs.”

“Keep him outta trouble.” Manfried nodded. “And the captain?”

“Who?” Martyn blinked. “Barousse?”

“Who else?” Hegel opened the other bottle of wine.

“He’s, well, he’s dead.” Martyn glanced nervously from brother to brother.

“We know that,” said Manfried. “What they did with his flesh and bones?”

“Buried him in the churchyard of the Knights of the Hospital of Saint John,” Martyn answered. “He received final absolution and reward for his devotion to the cause.”

“Knights a what?” Hegel asked, remembering Sir Jean’s treachery.

“The Hospitallers.” Martyn’s pupils crested the tops of his eyes. “They who saved us, and now journey with us on their ships?”

Manfried scowled at this but Hegel seemed satisfied. “If they’s takin us to Gyptland I reckon they’s likely not heretics, brother.”

Martyn spluttered on his second glass of wine and set it on the table. “I would not talk so of these men, Grossbarts. The wild hair of youth must be tamed, and you must master that tongue of yours, especially in the company of cardinals and monastic knights, to say naught of the king.”

Manfried hooked his foot under Martyn’s chair and pulled, sending the man toppling to the floor. “I’d mind that tongue a yours, lest it get slit like a serpent’s!”

“See now.” Hegel leaned in. “You sayin there’s a king round here? He a relation to old Charles back home?”

Martyn picked himself up from the floor, eyes narrowed at Manfried. “You bed in the cabin reserved for he, who, in his benevolence, granted it for your convalescence. As you both seem recovered, I’ll send for him, as he has anxiously awaited your council.”

“Send up Rigo and that other, we got words for them, too.” Hegel reclined in his chair, enjoying his drink.

Rodrigo had been taken onto the ship by force after insisting they not inter his beloved captain in the Hospitallers’ cemetery and that he instead travel with them. Only Martyn’s insistence on the young Italian’s faith spared him the noose when he kicked and fought rather than leave the side of the festering remains.

Despite his wish to put his brigand days behind him Raphael had little choice but to follow after hearing every last gold bar on board their boat had gone with the cardinal. Being better sorted after a day’s rest and drink than any other save Martyn, the mercenary conned his way into a suit of armor and new weaponry before joining the grief-addled Rodrigo in the new ship’s berth.

Raphael and Rodrigo dutifully came to the cabin and drank with the Grossbarts. Raphael had also noticed a distinct shift in Martyn’s character, suspiciously observing the man rarely drank more than a sip or two of wine, and never stonger stuff. Any hopes the mercenary held of thanks from Grossbart lips now that they were in good health dwindled as they badgered the two about slacking at the sails and letting Martyn call the shots. Furthermore, there was the question of where exactly all their gold had gotten to.

“The prie-Er, the cardinal say he takes care of that.” Raphael looked around but Martyn had vanished.

“Mecky fuckin hole!” Manfried yelled. “Martyn! Where’s that trickster?”

“What was you doin while our gold was gettin cardinal-touched?” Hegel asked Rodrigo.

“Nothing,” Rodrigo replied, his once-bold face wearing a wan grimace.

“Gotta been doin somethin.” Manfried considered slapping the man to get him to pay attention when the door opened and the King of Cyprus entered.

The Grossbarts blinked at the friendly, immaculately dressed man approaching their table, accompanied by several no less suave advisors. He congratulated them on their recovery and praised the Trinity, offering his condolences for their illness and loss of crew. Then he exuberantly launched into the specifics of their plan, righting Martyn’s spilled chair and joining their table. They did not understand a word he said, and Manfried rose to strike the dandy for his ill manners. Rodrigo finally smiled, expectantly watching Manfried, but Raphael intervened as translator.

“This own person be the king,” Raphael explained, slipping from his chair and kneeling.

“Oh,” said Manfried, and extended his hand. “Manfried Grossbart, servant a Mary.”

“Hegel Grossbart, living saint.” Hegel held a bottle in one hand and offered the other.

Peter coddled Manfried’s hand in both of his and pumped it excitedly as Raphael translated. The murmurs of his advisors that these men had not showed proper supplication was quieted with a word from Peter, and with their flawed but earnest translator resuming his seat the men talked of Gyptland, Jerusalem, and Mary. Rodrigo occasionally interrupted with harsh statements on the nature of devotion and eternal rewards, and if either brother had understood Italian they would have struck him for his foolishness. Luckily they did not, and in light of the man’s loss Peter took no offense, so only the advisors and Raphael were concerned by the fellow’s vindictive pronouncements.

Had Rodrigo accurately interpreted the dialogue between Peter and the Grossbarts the Brothers’ gross blasphemies would surely have caused trouble, but he did not and the tongue-tied and awestruck Raphael could not have conveyed the extent of their heretical ramblings had he even been inclined. Instead, all save Rodrigo and the worried advisors enjoyed the wine and conversation, supplemented by a feast brought to them by servants toiling somewhere below. Although a touch put out that they had not offered him back his cabin, Peter left satisfied they were indeed divinely inspired, and the Grossbarts agreed the king was not such the cunt for being a noble.

Time passed, the Grossbarts spending their days in the ordinary fashion of fighting, eating, and drinking, and their nights in the extraordinary company of a king. The cardinal often joined them but abstained from helping translate as much to save his own skin as to save theirs; instead Martyn glumly watched the imported tiger lilies he had plucked from the gardens of Rhodes lose their ginger luster and become ashen. Rodrigo was excluded from these repasts as his offensiveness was easily understood by Peter; the despondent man would gaze north from the stern, his tears joining those of Mary, which fill the oceans of the world.

As the ruby clouds swirled atop the horizon like steam atop a stew, Manfried strode up beside Rodrigo. The Grossbart had noted the change in the man’s demeanor, and such melancholy sat poorly with Manfried. The boy would either straighten out or go over the side, because with Gyptland at hand he would not tolerate such folly.

“Still worryin on the captain’s account?” Manfried shook his head in disbelief.

“He was all I had,” Rodrigo sniveled. “First my mother, then father, then my brother, and now him. All dead.”

The tears returned but before Rodrigo could turn back to the sunset Manfried had snatched him by his hair, tugging on his healing, scabby scalp and turning his head to face him.

“Tell me he ain’t better served where he’s at,” Manfried snapped, and when the lad dumbly stared at him he went on. “Still the doubter, eh? You say he ain’t better served with the Virgin than on this lousy boat with a company a blood-handed men?”