Chapter 4
In which, after the avalanche, an unpredicted attack from a predictable enemy is thwarted by a shadowy figure. A completely unexpected Emissary arrives in an unusual manner and suggests a surprising course of action. With so many surprises it is not surprising to find Roscow more than a little confused as to what mission he is really on! Gareth (the former Royal Dog) is not at all confused. He loves snow and fighting!
Gareth, the former Royal Dog, was utterly unprepared for the avalanche. He had been skipping happily ahead of the short man. (This was how he thought of Beowulf, whom he now regarded as his master. He had formerly belonged to King Lars, ‘the loud man’ and briefly to Grendel the Troll. He had never got round to naming Grendel and then Beowulf had killed Grendel; which although sad, had saved Gareth from the awful strain of thinking up a name for him.)
Although ‘unprepared’ could be said to be Gareth’s natural state, he lived life in a wide eyed joyful way which meant that he was ready for anything; and so, when the ice cracked and Beowulf, Roscow and Gareth began to slide down the precipitous slope in an ever increasing spray of snow, he let out a howl of delight, abandoned all effort to keep his feet and quickly surrendered to rolling, head over heels, happily down the mountainside. Beowulf, who was a quick learner (and a serious existentialist), followed this fine example, and they were swept together, over the edge of the cliff in a torrent of fast flowing snow. This carried them on, down the mountainside and into the forest below.
Roscow, being given to a higher degree of anxiety about whether he lived or died, was not able to yield to the fury of the avalanche with the stoicism demonstrated by man and dog. He threw out his hands to clutch at branches, tried to hook his boots onto edges, ledges, boulders, anything! The result was the same, but far less enjoyable; he was swept over the side and carried away by the same mass of snow into the same forest below.
Grendel’s mother, who had started the avalanche, in an effort to kill them, looked down from higher up the pass. She had been pursuing Beowulf since he had killed Grendel, by the lake where they had both lived, some months before. She would have liked to give a satisfied grunt, spit once at her fallen foe and return to her home; but she could not be sure that Beowulf was properly dead. He might have survived the fall. She doubted it. It was a long way down, but she needed to be certain. So, instead of grunting and spitting, she uttered a curse and set off down the mountain.
She was utterly unaware of a small human figure, even further up the pass, who had been watching her. As she set off towards the forest, the figure began to follow.
Gareth had survived the fall and had quickly dug himself out of the snow. He had begun to run around and search for someone to play with. As he could see no sign of Roscow or Beowulf he ran off into the trees in the hope that there might be some small animals that he could chase. He loved the feel of the snow and the smell of the pines. He was as happy as a dog could be! What fun to fall off mountains and roll in the snow! If he had been able to formulate the thought he would have wanted to nothing more than to climb all the way back to the top and do it all over again. Sadly, this was way beyond his intellectual capability, and so, instead, he had to content himself with running into the woods.
Although still alive (grateful to be so in Roscow’s case; studiously indifferent to the ‘casual ravages of simple fortune’ in Beowulf’s) they were both less happy than Gareth. Beowulf, due to both his smaller size and greater relaxation, had survived the fall better. By the time that Gareth had lost interest in looking for him, he had recovered enough to realise that he had survived the avalanche and was buried under a depth of snow. He had already determined which way he believed ‘up’ to be. He had done this, by wriggling his head, to make a space around his mouth. This enabled him to spit, the spit went down so he knew which way was up and he had begun to tunnel in that direction. Roscow was equally snowbound but had only managed to come to the conclusion that he was alive and that, sometimes- in fact, quite often in his experience, it hurt to be alive. He had as yet no plan to even try and move. He felt that it was only fair that he should be able to enjoy a few moments of self pity before resuming the eternal, unrewarding struggle.
While Beowulf was tunnelling and Roscow was getting ready to ‘await rescue,’ Gareth had run on. He had startled some squirrels, who had defeated his vigorous yet simple assault by sprinting up the trees in a most unsporting manner. He had contented himself by running around the base of the trees barking and howling aggressively in an upward direction. The squirrels, wisely, were not at all inclined to come down and give him a rematch, and so, after a while he lost interest and wandered on, further up the mountain. Here, he would have witnessed something much more interesting if only he had continued up the path for a few more minutes; however, at the critical moment he caught the scent of the squirrels again, and being utterly incapable of learning, he optimistically assumed that this time he would run them to earth. In order to achieve that noble dream, he ran off, back into the wood.
Had he ventured that short distance further, he would have seen Grendel’s mother. She was swiftly climbing down the mountain. She was a tall, powerfully built Troll, just a shade less than seven feet tall, with sharp, strong nails and a fierce array of teeth mounted in a powerful jaw. Her face betrayed the murderous concentration and intensity she brought to her quest for vengeance. She was determined that nothing should distract her from her quest, however…
‘Coooeee! Hey, Lady Troll! Ztop vor a moment!’
The voice was human and female and came from higher up the mountain. Grendel’s Mother stopped and looked up to see a small, black clad human female waving at her. The girl (or woman-it was hard for Trolls to tell) was short, dark haired and dark eyed. All her clothing; her boots, her tunic, her cloak were pure black. She had pale hands and a pale face, the only colour being the red of her lips, which Grendel‘s mother assumed she had enhanced, in the way that human females did. She was now climbing rapidly down the slope towards her, still calling out.
‘Lady Troll! Lady Troll! I am coming.’
In a short while the small woman was stood next to the Troll.
‘Thank you for waiting,’ she began, ‘it is most urgent that I am speaking with you.’
Grendel’s mother towered over her and eyed her suspiciously,
‘Why?’ she asked, ‘Who are you?’
The woman giggled; Grendel’s mother noticed that her lips were very red and her teeth were very white.
‘The last, first,’ she said, ‘I am Gretza the Angel. I come from zhe East.’ She gestured to somewhere far beyond the mountain.
‘I am on a mission for my Mazter. He knows of you and he knows of your quest. He likes Trolls and he understandz vengeance.’
‘Who is he?’ asked Grendel’s Mother.
‘I am not to zay,’ replied Gretza the Angel, ‘but I am to zay to you, “do not kill Beovulf yet.” I am to zay this, as my Mazter has commanded me, and I must do as I am commanded. He did zay zhat I must stress the vord “yet!”’
Gretza the Angel waited. Grendel’s mother thought about this.
‘Why must I not kill Beowulf? He killed my only son. I have tracked him for miles across forests and mountains and now my enemy is at my mercy.’
‘I am not to be saying. It is not for me to zay. I must just zay what I am commanded. My Mazter vants you not to kill Beovulf yet.’
Grendel’s mother lost patience.
‘This is foolish! Your master, who you will not name, wants me to spare my son’s killer, but you will give me no reason. I will not assent to his request. I will have my vengeance!’
Grendel’s mother turned and set of down the path. Gretza the Angel looked sadly at the ground.
‘He said zhat you vould be saying zhat,’ she said to herself quietly, and then with an outrageous burst of speed she ran after the Troll and sprung onto her back. Before Grendel’s Mother could react, the small woman had struck her repeatedly on the back of the neck wit
h what appeared to be a rock.
She collapsed like a felled tree and Gretza the Angel jumped clear as the Troll fell to the snow covered ground. She landed neatly on her feet, took a deep breath and said again, sadly,
‘He said you vould be saying zhat. Vhy is he alvays right?’
She cleaned her rock in the snow and went to check on the body. It seemed that Grendel’s Mother was unconscious. Gretza the angel rolled her onto her side and said,
‘Zhat should give me time to get zhem away. Sleep vell, Troll Lady.’
At that moment, Gareth came running up barking. He had heard the sound of the falling Troll and come to investigate. He growled at the small woman who seemed quite unafraid. She stared, hard at him.
‘Come here, good dog!’
To his surprise Gareth wandered over and licked her hand. She laughed,
‘Come on let us go and find your Mazter. My Mazter requires him saved- so saved is vhat he must be.’
She ran off, surprisingly quickly. Gareth followed. They ran together into a clearing where the avalanche had deposited a great field of snow. Gretza the Angel stopped; hushed Gareth and then directed him to a particular area of snow. She pointed,
‘Dig zhere,’ she said, ‘and you vill find him. I vill have done my job for now.’
Gareth began to dig, while Gretza the Angel walked away into the woods.
‘It is remarkably fortuitous that we were accompanied by Gareth on our trip down the mountainside,’ Beowulf observed to Roscow some time later. This was after Gareth had dug out Beowulf, and Beowulf and Gareth had dug out Roscow. They were all (except for Gareth, who had gone to further pursue his acrimonious relationship with the squirrels) exhausted and had sat down in the wood to enjoy the last bit of sun before the cold alpine night began.
‘Although, I had correctly located the direction to dig, the limits of space and oxygen may have caused me to fail had not our intrepid canine companion lent his unlikely assistance.’
‘You mean without the dog, we would have been dead,’ said Roscow.
‘Drearily put, but true,’ observed Beowulf, ‘whoever would have thought of Gareth as a hound of destiny? If I were inclined to gratitude I should feel grateful!’
Roscow smiled at this and asked,
‘Where are we actually going? I know we are on the run from the Duke, the Troll and the Pope, but since Wittenberg you have formed some kind of plan. Don’t you think it’s time to let me in on it?’
Beowulf yawned.
‘Are you sure you wouldn’t be happier not to know?’ he enquired, solicitously. ‘You know that you do have a terrible tendency to worry about trivia.’
‘You mean things like “life and death”?’
‘That kind of thing, yes-’ Beowulf broke off suddenly, ‘Do you see that tiny speck just to the left of the mountain? I think it’s getting bigger. Do you think it’s moving?’
He pointed up towards the peak of the mountain. Roscow was unimpressed.
‘I’m not falling for that! What are we doing?’
‘It is definitely growing,’ Beowulf insisted, ‘I think that it is a man of below medium height, attempting to float down the side of the mountain using a large sheet as some kind of braking or flying device to which he is harnessed, but if you unwilling to contemplate such an interesting sight I will ignore the phenomenon and interest you in our involvement in French politics.’
Beowulf paused. Roscow opened his mouth, but decided against arguing. He knew it was no use.
‘The late King Jacques of France, (a boring old buffer the world is better off without) had two identical sons; Louis and Louie-Louie; why they can’t think of more interesting names is beyond me. I suspect that they’ll probably have a stack of them before they get bored of monarchy and start cutting their heads off, but that’s beside the point. (It definitely is a man falling from the sky using a kind of sheet to slow his fall; not that I wish to distract you, but it is amazing! I’ve never seen anything like it!) Louis was bought up by our old friend Marshall Gney and the runt went to Cardinal Mascarpone, of whom the less said the better! Somehow, that villain, the Pope, has managed to switch the twins and left Louie-Louie on the throne (disguised as his brother). This is to ensure that the Pope and the Duke of Jutland keep their revenues from Holy Gambling, which Louis, before his substitution was going to stop in order to help the Old Marshall build a massive army and attack them. By “them” I mean, of course, the Pope and the Duke. The Marshall, who had left me a message at Wittenberg, wants us to go to Monte San Carlos, locate the lost Louis and substitute him for Louie-Louie without anybody noticing. Simple! Now can we watch the falling man, please?’
Roscow was already watching the falling man, as was Gareth, who had run up barking. The falling man was an incredible sight. He was, as Beowulf had estimated, a man of below average height; apart from that, almost everything else about him was unusual. He was wearing a black, polished metal helmet, from which two delicate silver horns protruded. Flowing out from under the helmet was a great mane of long yellow hair. He had a small, scrunched up, round, pink face that was dominated by a huge downturned blonde moustache. Underneath the rope harness that attached him to the floating sheet, he wore a black furry jacket that had tiny strips of grey running through it and on his legs he wore yellow and black checked trousers. Above him floated the great white sheet. As Beowulf, Roscow and Gareth watched, he landed, with a delicate roll, a short distance away from them, on the snow. The sheet deflated. The man unfastened the harness and approached,
‘I say!’ he shouted, ‘that was dashed exhilarating! What ho! You must be Beowulf,’ he pointed at Roscow, ‘and you must be Roscow,’ he gestured at Beowulf, ‘and that fine pedigree hound can only be the one and only Gareth!’
Gareth feeling delighted at this recognition began to jump up at the stranger who petted him generously. He appeared to genuinely enjoy being dribbled on. Beowulf and Roscow exchanged a look.
‘So, vhat if I am being Beovulf?’ asked Roscow, affecting what he thought was a good German accent. He was often mistaken for Beowulf as he looked far more heroic than his small, bald, bearded, spherical (and infinitely more dangerous) friend. Whenever this occurred he liked to adopt an accent (‘as part of the disguise’). Beowulf had been unable, so far, to insist that he discontinue this irritating and pointless habit.
The stranger eyed him coldly.
‘I say, sir, that you are who I have said and I will not be importuned by any imposture.’
He paused, to allow this important, although curiously phrased, point to sink in.
‘I am Carruthers, Caractacus Carruthers. I am here representing Her Majesty Queen Boo Dikka of Britain. I am from Her Majesties’ Secret Service.’
He bowed. Beowulf was fascinated, but allowed Roscow to continue.
‘Vell!’ he snorted, ‘you are not very secretive in this Secret Service, are you? Now ve all know who you are and vhat you do.’
Carruthers appeared to think for a moment.
‘Dash it! You are right of course,’ he conceded, ‘we seem to have got off on rather the wrong foot. I am on frightfully important business and Her Majesty needs your help. If you wouldn’t mind I could simply sit down and explain. This whole Secret Service thing is all a bit new to me.’
He patted Gareth and smiled. Roscow assented and soon Caractacus, Gareth, Roscow and Beowulf were sat in a small circle amongst the trees.
‘How can we be of service to the Queen of Britain?’ asked Beowulf. He was still posing as Roscow.
‘That is an absolute first rate question!’ exclaimed Carruthers, ‘As you know Britain is a rather new country, still very much looked down on in places such as Italy and France where people have been, at least by their own account, civilised for a long period of time; but the new Queen; she wants to change all that. She said to me, “Caractacus, we shall have a mighty empire too! We won’t have those other nations looking down on us, just because we are a beer drinking, woad wearing, bog dwel
ling group of odd fellows from a rain sodden island!”’
‘So she sent me to find you in order that I might inspire you to help us with what we call “the problem of the French succession.”’
Both Beowulf and Roscow groaned.
‘I can see you know what I mean!’ shouted Caractacus excitedly, ‘But let me explain: Old King Jacques of France who recently died, had-’
‘-Twin sons!’ Roscow and Beowulf interrupted him together.
‘Well,’ said Caractacus, slyly, ‘that is what everyone believes; however the truth is often just a tad different from that which is generally believed by the common herd. The late King of France had triplets! Three boys! The second (who is generally known as the first) is called Louis and was briefly the King of France (in an acting capacity) before being stolen and replaced by his brother, Louie-Louie. Louie-Louie is actually the third son of Old King Jacques, as the first son was smuggled away from both the Marshall and the Cardinal, so that he could be bought up to rule France as King Jacques would have wished.’
‘In short, he was sent to England?’ asked Beowulf.
‘Mr. Roscow,’ replied Carruthers, ‘There are no flies on you!’
He looked at Roscow, who he presumed to be Beowulf.
‘I thought you were meant to be the smart one?’
‘Zhat I am.’ agreed Roscow, but Beowulf was keen to seize the initiative.
‘I am Beowulf,’ he said, ‘and this is Roscow. People often make this mistake. Even people in what could be called “the intelligence community.” ’
Before Carruthers could reply, he continued,
‘You claim that the rightful heir to the French Throne, the eldest of the three identical triplet sons of the late King Jacques, is in Britain?’
Carruthers looked uncomfortable.
‘There are two points of interest here, where there is a small degree of variance from the case, as you put it. The first is an elementary issue, the rightful heir, or “Lewis” as we like to call him, is not in Britain. He is in disguise. He is at the French Court, posing as a footman to our noble Queen Boo Dikka; long may she reign in grace and splendour! They are there to attend the Royal Wedding.’
‘Who iz getzing married?’ asked Roscow, unable to drop the accent.
‘Why, the King of France, of course! He is marrying Amarilla De Cassiones. She is the niece of Grand Marshall Gney.’
‘But who the King will be at that moment is the point of interest,’ said Beowulf.
‘At present it is Louie-Louie, pretending to be Louis; if the Marshall has his way then it will be Louis; and if you and your Queen have your way, it will be Lewis, pretending to be Louie-Louie, pretending to be Louis. I concede that it is an almost interesting situation. There was another point that you needed to make?’
‘Ah,’ said Carruthers cautiously, ‘you used the word, “identical?”’
‘Yes,’ replied Beowulf, ‘Louis and Louie-Louie are identical twins, or two thirds of identical triplets. They are both short of stature, slow of speech and have black curly hair, dark brown eyes and nothing to recommend them. They are utterly uninteresting and reputedly indistinguishable from each other.’
‘Well,’ said Carruthers guardedly, ‘I would not go so far as to say that Lewis is “exactly identical.”’
Beowulf raised a quizzical eyebrow,
‘How far down the road of “not saying this” would you like to go?’
Carruthers considered this carefully; his brow crinkled and his bushy moustache twitched,
‘I would have to say that, in order to be accurate, open, honest and truthful; I would have to venture a considerable distance down that particular road. I would be compelled to say that Lewis was not physically similar to his siblings, however I would say that he is both mentally and materially similar-’
‘By which you might mean that he is slow witted and rich?’ interrupted Beowulf, who was beginning to form a particular conclusion about the relatedness of the ‘triplet.’
‘Please describe the first born son of Jacques, the late King of France to me.’
‘As you wish,’ Carruthers conceded graciously, ‘it will be my pleasure. He is slightly tall.’
‘How tall is he?’
‘I find your metric measures quite difficult,’ Carruthers prevaricated, ‘about two thingies, I think.’
‘You mean that he is two metres tall,’ asserted Beowulf.
‘Zhat is close to being az massive az I!’ observed Roscow, ‘Zhat is not zlightly tall, zhat iz gargantuan!’
‘And he has long, blond hair and blue eyes.’ Carruthers concluded speedily. He then sat back, as if daring Beowulf to point out the problem.
Beowulf exchanged a glace with Roscow; the big man shrugged to indicate that this was an impossible mission; Beowulf grimaced to convey the idea that, despite the impossibility, he was interested.
‘I anticipate that the putative Monarch of France does not even speak a smattering of the language of his native nation?’ Beowulf asked Carruthers, ‘I base this prediction upon the established certainty that no one from your island is at all capable of learning any language other than their own.’
Carruthers smiled,
‘It is because of that inestimable ability to estimate that we came to you! You are, of course, correct! Lewis has no French whatsoever, not one dickey bird!’
Beowulf returned the smile, although there was little friendly about it,
‘So Carruthers, my old mate (as they say in Britain); what you want me to do is this; kidnap the imposter to the French Throne, thereby further annoying the Duke of Jutland and the Pope (who already want to kill me) and replace him, not with the identical rightful heir to the French Throne, as I have been requested so to do by my old friend, Marshall Gney, but with a giant, blonde, British imposter, who will be utterly unable to help me in this task, as he doesn’t even speak any French.’
‘I think that’s about right,’ agreed Carruthers after careful deliberation, ‘although I wouldn’t say that Lewis was an imposter. He is, after all, the oldest of the non identical triplets and was removed from France for very good reasons.’
Beowulf considered,
‘Why would I want to do this?’
Carruthers had clearly come prepared to answer this question.
‘There are a number of splendid reasons for you following this admirable course of action. The first is that this would not just annoy the Pope and the Duke of Jutland, it would infuriate them! They already hate you and wish you dead and so I say to you, “spit in their eye and let them have it!” You have nothing to lose by angering them.’
‘I am sure that, while you regard Marshall Gney as a friend, I think that if you reflect, you will find that there is more than a grain of truth in the “whey faced, flatulent, posturing fool who could no more command an army than he could expound the ideas of Plato,” comment. Bearing that in mind I am sure that you would not want his protégé running wild in Europe. With the revenues from Holy Gambling the French would soon become too strong and they would establish an Empire. You would not like the orderliness of that arrangement. I think that you would feel constrained; you are at your diabolical best in a chaotic world tortured by conflict, rather than a world marshalled (if I might use that phrase) by the Gneys.’
‘Obviously you would be well remunerated, which I imagine interests you, to some extent. You would also be known as friend of Britain. This could become important, bearing in mind all the powerful people who want to kill you. Our island will always be open to you as a refuge.’
‘The final reason that this may appeal to you; and personally I think that this is the best reason of the bunch; is that this is a completely impossible task! The idea that a man, virtually unaided, could thumb his nose at the Pope and the Duke of Jutland, steal their fake King and replace him, not with an identical imposter, but with the true and rightful heir to the throne (who incidentally looks totally unsuitable for the part and does not even speak the langua
ge) under the watchful eyes of the leaders of Europe and the mighty French Army, is so far from possible, that it must appeal to a man of your beliefs and skills. It is the challenge of a lifetime!’
‘Or,’ argued Roscow, ‘It iz a fools’ errand and you vill be killed. Probably in some ‘orrible vay.’
‘Uhm,’ grunted Caractacus, ‘that is, of course, a possibility.’
Roscow knew Beowulf as well as anyone in the world, but he was utterly unable to penetrate what thoughts were going on behind his impassive face. It was clear that he was thinking things through, but Roscow had no window into these thoughts. His friend’s motivation was always an enigma to him. On occasions Beowulf seemed to be motivated by simple things, such as greed, revenge and lust. On other occasions he had deliberately done things against these objectives. Roscow had heard Beowulf expound his philosophy that ‘absolutely nothing matters at all, whatsoever, so an enlightened man should do whatever he wants.’ Roscow was not at all enlightened himself and was even less enlightened about what Beowulf actually wanted, if he wanted anything at all. He wished that Beowulf could adopt a more consistently self serving philosophy that gained them some tangible benefits, such as security, wealth or power. Roscow was certain that they would go to France and somehow get embroiled in this messy succession; but which side Beowulf would take he could not foresee.
‘I will help your Queen,’ Beowulf declared. He sounded so convincing that Roscow almost believed him. He might help the Queen, he might not. There was no way of knowing until it was too late. Roscow reluctantly admitted to himself that this was part of the joy of Beowulf and then was angry with himself for, yet again, failing to be pragmatic.
Caractacus Carruthers was very happy.
‘Excellent decision, Old Man! You won’t regret it. The Queen and Lewis are already in situ at Monte San Carlos. If you hop over the next few mountains you can catch up with them there before the Royal Wedding, swap the groom and Bob’s your uncle!’
Suddenly Beowulf glared at Caractacus.
‘I have no uncle – my father would have killed him!’
Caractacus looked sheepish,
‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘that’s not what I meant. It’s a British expression. It means that things will be straightforward.’
‘But they won’t,’ Beowulf rebuffed Carruthers sharply; ‘This is very complex. You should understand this. It will be very difficult and dangerous. There will be a large pile of gold in a small castle in Switzerland for me to return to when this is done.’
‘Of course, of course,’ agreed Carruthers meekly.
Roscow liked the sound of this, but he was not at all convinced that Beowulf would take the gold.
‘I’m supposing,’ he said, ‘that ve vill start over theze mountains in the morning?’
‘No,’ said Beowulf, ‘we will leave at once; and you will use a less annoying accent once we are in France.’
Roscow cursed under his breath and then replied,
‘Vell, I vill be doing my bestest!’