Chapter Thirty-Two The Whip of Justice, by Corso

Tremble, thou wretch,
That hast within thee undivulged crimes
Unwhipped of justice. (Shakespeare, King Lear)

Athos aims his boot at the heavy oak door, it flies open, and he rushes into a chaotic scene, Lucien hard on his heels.  Bullets ricochet, the harsh bite of exploding gunpowder stings his nose. He gulps air coughing and choking on thick smoke.  More bullets, Lucien ducks down grabbing for Athos’ doublet, pulling him out of the spray of gunfire, shouting to Raoul and Olivain, ‘save your bullets!’  Men block their way.  Athos yanks free, swinging sword and fist to get clear of the entryway and get to the stairs … Lucien sees it etched in his grim expression … Alessandra.  He blocks a man coming from Athos’ left side, killing with a sword in one hand, dagger in the other, scything his way through the enemy’s mass.  He loses sight of Raoul and Olivain fighting to the right, intent on the corridors and rooms beyond to search for Alessandra.   In one abrupt moment, the stairs are clear … he blocks another man, slashes a throat and shouts at Athos, ‘go now…find her!’   Athos leaps up the stairs two at a time … Lucien digs in to block the stairs behind him, windmilling sword and dagger and howling his war cry. The scene is swiftly shifting from chaos to complete bedlam, guns blasting, ringing swords, courage bolstered with shrieks and cries. Porthos bellowing, ‘attack!… attack!’  – his mercenary army swarming the entry taking advantage of reloading to strike at the enemy with sword and dagger.   What Comminges’ men lack in skill, they make up in numbers and it is two or three against one.  But Porthos’ mercenaries know their business, they are cunning, patient, feet step, slide and pivot, weapons in two hands working in harmony, thrusting, slashing, stabbing, back to back with a comrade.  Gasparo, Martin and Porthos fight with deadly efficiency among their men.  The air thickens with a stench of sour sweat, fear and the iron taste of blood. Men trip over the dead and dying piling up on the blood slicked floor, the cacophony deafening and the enemy keeps coming, pouring in from all sides…

A booming explosion rips through the house, giant hands lifting and shaking the house from its earthly foundation, slamming it down again. Lucien staggers on the stairs, men are thrown to the ground, dirt and debris rain down and smoke surging through corridors, spilling into the entryway and spreading into the adjacent galleries.  Lucien grabs at the handrail to keep from falling, choking on the dust and smoke … d’Artagnan! 

The grenades, buried in the deep underground cellars have exploded, ripping through floors, walls collapsing.  D’ Artagnan and his men are rushing a rear attack on the enemy.  Bete leads the Aigle’s pirate crew, shrieking their boarding cry, Loup bawling orders, ‘move your useless skinny arses! To your captain!’  Fou’s shoulders clear the heads of most men, swinging his deadly axe, he has seen Lucien and is carving a path.

“Putain picaroons!  Your granny fights better than you!’ Ver taunts the enemy.  Poilu and Crotte each grab a man and spin him around laughing maniacally slicing from belly to chin, ‘doing you a favor mate!  You are too ugly to live!’  Pirates and mercenaries dive into the melee of fighting men. 

Lucien battles his way clear to follow Athos up the stairs.  His legs are grabbed from behind, he falls forward up the stairs kicking out but missing his attacker who is raising a dagger to drive into his thigh or stomach.  Lucien twists to get his legs free when the man falls against him, eyes fixed in surprise – dead.  Yusuf is looming over him. ‘This is new kardes,’ he comments mildly, grasping Lucien’s hand to pull him upright, ‘fighting on your back now?’ 

‘Is that a sense of humor I hear?’ Lucien toes the dead man down the stairs.  Yusuf starts to reply, but Lucien has abruptly whirled around to face the landing.  He hears a voice … he cannot make out the words but the voice … an English accent … belonging to a man whose name he last heard on a rainy night in a blood soaked plaza in Genoa, whispered to him by Gabriel, his dying son…de Winter…

He races up the stairs…the voice is to his left…he follows it, glimpsing two figures, swords and pistols in their hands, walking quickly.  One turns into an intersecting corridor, the Englishman raises a hand, calling ‘good luck,’ and keeps walking, unaware of his silent stalker.  The house is a labyrinth of corridors, rooms and doors opening into more corridors.  The map his mother and Athos constructed from memory was incomplete, but still, he has a sense of where he is and where the Englishman is going. 

They enter a wide gallery.  Moonlight streams through tall windows along one side, reflected as repeating streams of light along the mirrors adorning the opposite wall. It was a strange imagery of light and shadow. Between the mirrors are dark empty shapes, ghostly memories of where portraits had once hung.  Their boots sound on the stone, Lucien is not bothering to silence his footfalls, walking faster, he does not want to lose this man.  The Englishman slows his pace, Lucien glances at the end of the gallery and sees the reason and the problem.

The explosion from the grenades blew through floors, damaging ceilings and walls.  High against the doorway is a pile of debris blocking the exit. The Englishman looks up at the heap, searching for a way over or around it.  He tilts his head, startled as he registers the second foot falls.  He turns around.

Someone is at the other end of the gallery, shrouded from view by shadowy moonlight.  He has the sense of a tall man, a casual stance, his sword balanced on his shoulder.  The man looks up at the ceiling, at the wall of windows and then the opposite wall of mirrors.  Finally, he looks down at the length of the gallery, as though curious how de Winter will solve the problem of getting out of the gallery.   

‘You see my problem friend,’ de Winter gestures to the debris pile. ‘To leave, I will need to go through you,’ he makes a sarcastic laugh.  ‘There is no need for you to die here.  I can pay as well as they can.’  He tosses a bag of coin to the floor. 

From a distant corridor, Loup and Yusuf are searching for Lucien, opening doors into empty rooms.  ‘Where the putain d’enfer did he go?’ Loup mutters.  Abruptly Yusuf stops, holds up his hand, listening intently. He looks intently at Loup who hears it too …voices… they hurry in that direction.

De Winter waits, but the man does not move or speak.  Henri de Winter mocks a theatrical sigh of regret, ‘Well then.’  He lifts and rotates his sword in his hand, a distracting movement to mask raising his pistol. 

A flash of fire, a pistol shot exploding and echoing loudly in the empty gallery, gray smoke billowing.  A pistol skitters across the stone floor.  De Winter cries out, staring at his hand where now fragmented fingers once held his pistol.  Blood drips to the floor. He snatches a scarf from his neck and wraps his destroyed hand, gasping in pain and fury.  He bares his teeth, glaring at his attacker who is looking at his pistol as though its action had been independent of him.

‘I am surprised too,’ Lucien admits, ‘my daughter will be pleased that her lessons were not wasted on me.’ He regards de Winter, ‘not the daughter you kidnapped and tried to sell to Hispaniola.’

‘Bastard!’ de Winter screams, in shock and pain, not comprehending Lucien’s words. ‘I will kill you!’  He holds his hand up to staunch the flow of blood.

‘I did assume you would try,’ Lucien acknowledges with a low chuckle.  De Winter barks a bitter laugh, ‘Is it easier for you? To fight a man with one hand?’ 

Lucien nods slowly with a considering expression, looking at his dagger.  He tosses it away.  ‘Fair is fair,’ he says stepping forward from the shadow into the moonlight.  De Winter suppresses a gasp.

‘Lucien Grimaud,’ he scoffs, ‘at least with you I assume you will not crawl and beg for mercy – like your sniveling bastard son.’

A full beat of time passes as the two men stare at each other.  The pain radiating up de Winter’s arm is excruciating.  He grits his teeth, determined to show nothing to his enemy.  Lucien breaks the silence.

‘No, I will not beg for mercy,’ he replies softly.  Idly, he rotates the sword, stretches his neck side to side, rolls his shoulders, and walks closer, lowering his head.

‘But you will.’

De Winter charges, a furious series of rapid thrusts and parries, wild swings, swords clanging and squealing as they slide together. He feels a burst of triumph as he dictates the fight, Grimaud is easily driven back, de Winter preserves his strength, turning with Grimaud as he moves in a wide circle around him, slow to engage.  De Winter laughs, ‘not what I expected from the great Grimaud.’  He is tiring but keeps Grimaud on the defensive and then Grimaud moves tentatively forward.  De Winter snarls, triumphant … finish him! … he makes a precise aim, a decisive lunge, startled when Grimaud leans the exact distance away… and de Winter’s sword slides past his face, Grimaud dragging his blade’s edge against de Winter’s side.  De Winter stumbles forward, grunting at the sharp slash of pain, turning to find Grimaud still there and punching his face with an iron fist. Blood spurts from his mouth and broken nose, de Winter staggers to stay on his feet. Now Grimaud dances back watchful … and waiting.

‘Papa knows a few tricks,’ de Winter sneers spitting out broken teeth.  ‘Gabriel was a miserable braggart, de Soto and I never got bored humiliating the son of the mighty Grimaud.’  He wants to inflame Grimaud into reckless action.

‘You knew Benito well?’ Lucien widens his eyes, seemingly impressed and curious.

‘I know a great number of people,’ de Winter declares with air of importance. Lucien Grimaud looks amused.

‘Well,’ Lucien’s smile is a sinister warning.  ‘You do not know me.’   He extends his left arm, fingers beckoning… come to me…

De Winter’s destroyed hand and arm throb, blood seeps from the wound in his side. De Winter wipes the blood from his face, looks down, surprised to see blood soaking his shirt from multiple piercing wounds …when had that happened?   

‘Putain de bâtard,’ De Winter rages, his blood races, a rush of strength seizes him.  He lunges hard to dig his sword deep. This time Grimaud does not move, their swords collide, screeching steel against steel. With force of will against failing strength de Winter pushes forward at a furious pace up and down the gallery, boots grinding against the stone floor, the smell of sweat, the taste of blood. Lucien sidesteps, delivers a deep jab to his shoulder.  They break apart, gulp air, Grimaud circles de Winter, who turns with him, breathing hard, muscles burning and jittery from effort, sweat dripping to the floor.  De Winter frowns uncertainly as Grimaud mocks sniffing the air.  He makes a mirthless smile at de Winter. 

‘I smell fear.’

‘Va te faire foutre,’ de Winter swears at him. A tremor seizes him, he tries to lift his sword, but his arm can only take it half way.  Grimaud walks around him, randomly jabbing the tip of his sword into de Winter’s body.  He sags to his knees.  Lucien places his boot on his chest and pushes him over, arms falling outstretched.

At the far end of the gallery, Yusuf, Loop and the rest of the Aigle pirates wait as blood pools under de Winter’s failing body. Each man bears an impenetrable expression within his own thoughts and memories of the years the Burla Negra stalked the seas.  Stories told and retold in portside taverns of Lucien Grimaud, the grim reminder of Benito de Soto’s bones moldering in the deep tunnels under Paris, Teeth tossed into the Irish Sea to be torn apart by sharks,  and countless others who died by the hand of Lucien Grimaud.  Death for Henri de Winter will come as he bleeds to death from a thousand cuts in an empty gallery at Saintonge. Silently they wait for the final scene.

Lucien drops to his knees, straddling de Winter’s body, the blade of his sword against his neck. De Winter’s eyes are open, ‘do it!’ he commands hoarsely.  ‘Be quick about it.’

Lucien regards him steadily, not moving, the blade pressing against de Winter’s throat. He coughs unable to draw a breath, uncontrollable panic rising at the crushing pressure on his chest. He looks into the dark soulless eyes of Lucien Grimaud.

‘Please…’

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

Lucien stands up, blood dripping from his sword.  He stares down at the lifeless body of Henri de Winter. He takes a deep breath, the roaring in his head is subsiding, muscles still twitchy, but it is familiar and a strange comfort.  He is done here.  Time to find his brother. He looks to the end of the hall and strides to Yusuf and his men.

‘Where is he?’

‘He is not in the other wing, so he must be here, somewhere,’ Yusuf answers quietly.  Lucien nods, scanning the faces of his crew who look back at him, eyes steady, waiting for his orders.

‘This way is blocked, we go back to a corridor or a room that was missed,’ he points with the bloody sword, ‘find him.’

It does not take long to wind through empty corridors and empty rooms opening into hallways or an adjoining room. Lucien peers down an intersecting corridor, dimly lit and signals to the others.  At the far end, there seems to be a body slumping against the wall.  Quietly, they walk quickly down the corridor.   

‘This must be the place,’ Lucien whispers, crouching down with a grim smile.   Comminges stares up at him with wide eyes, surprised to find himself dead, his throat crudely slashed open.  Not a measured act of killing, but hurried and violent.  Lucien looks at the open doorway opposite the body, hanging by broken hinges.  Someone kicked in the door. 

Loud voices… a woman and … Lucien jumps up, hearing the one he wants …  Athos!

He gestures to Yusuf to follow him, and then to his men to guard the corridor, lifts his bloody sword and rushes through the door.