The Eastern Front(97)

"They're coming," he said. "Kristina and Ulrik, with the Norwegian. Two palace guards also."

In his excitement, he forgot to mention the table.

The five Huguenots moved forward until they were all gathered near the alley's entrance. Mademann was still the only one who could see the royal party, though. That was as it should be. Even in the pouring rain there was a chance they could be spotted lurking in the alley. One person there might be ignored. Half a dozen would cause alarm.

The soldiers were almost trotting, obviously eager to get out of the rain. The party would come abreast of the alley's entrance within seconds.

Mademann gauged the situation. Tactically, given the downpour, there seemed to be only one sensible strategy. Just rush their targets and shoot them down.

"Get ready," he hissed.



Mathurin Brillard was watching the scene from the other end of Slottsbacken. He was farther away but had a better view because he was looking through a window on the upper floor of a tailor shop. Half an hour earlier, when he'd come into the shop, he'd forced the elderly tailor to close the shop and come with him upstairs. Once in the bedroom above, he'd clubbed him senseless.

Judging from the evidence of the bedroom, there should be a wife somewhere. Wherever she was, though, she wasn't in the shop or in the living quarters above. Perhaps she was running an errand or visiting relatives. It was also possible the tailor was a widower but hadn't been able to bear getting rid of his dead wife's belongings.

Whichever the case, all the woman had to do was stay away for a few more hours and it would all be over, one way or the other.

He saw the party coming out of the palace and stiffened. That was the princess and the prince. Not his targets, technically, since he was supposed to take care of the queen. But the queen would probably never make an appearance, anyway, so Mathurin raised his rifle. If his comrades' attack on Ulrik and Kristina ran into difficulties, Brillard would come to their aid.

In good weather, he'd have positioned himself farther back in the room in order to avoid being spotted in the window by a passerby. In this downpour, though, he didn't think that was a problem, and the direction of the wind was keeping the rain from coming into the room. He was standing close enough to the window that when he took aim, most of the rifle's barrel would extend outside. It would get wet, but that wasn't a problem with a breech-loading rifle like this one. Mathurin had fired the gun several times on the tavern's island, to get accustomed to the thing. It was very accurate. A truly delightful weapon in every respect except that it was quite heavy. This was a full-sized rifle intended for infantrymen, not the carbine version of the Cardinal. Brillard didn't envy any soldier who had to carry the gun on a long march.

That was not something an assassin had to deal with, thankfully.

Behind him, the tailor let out a soft moan. He was lying on the floor near the bed.

Mathurin must not have hit him as hard as he thought he had. Now that the rifle was loaded, he didn't want to use the gun butt again. So he went over and stamped on the man's head. Once, twice, thrice. That should do it.

Quickly, he returned to the window. The royal party was coming abreast of an alley where Brillard thought Mademann and the others were probably hiding. The fight should start any moment.



"Now!" shouted Mademann. He rushed out of the alley toward the prince and princess.

A shot rang out almost immediately. Then, another.

The shots had come from behind him. Which idiot—?

To his consternation, Charles saw that at least one of the two shots had struck the soldier holding up the front end of the table. The man was already collapsing. Much worse, so was the table.

And God damn all quick-thinking princes!



Ulrik caught the edge of the table and tipped it so the table would fall on its side and provide them with a barricade.

Tried to, rather. The soldier holding up the rear end was too confused to understand what the prince was trying to do. He was still trying to hold the table up.

Baldur kicked him out from under it. The soldier was flung onto his back, his head hitting the street hard enough to be knocked unconscious. Baldur caught his end of the table. He realized what Ulrik was trying to do and followed suit with his own end. A moment later the table was lying on its side with its heavy top facing their assailants. Ulrik and Baldur crouched down behind it. The princess did so herself, without needing to be told.



What a mess. Still, the situation favored them. Locquifier—another idiot!—fired a shot from his percussion cap pistol at the table top. The wood splintered, but it was thick enough that the bullet didn't penetrate.

That left Locquifier effectively disarmed, of course, because his percussion cap pistol only had one barrel. No way to reload in this downpour.