Clovenhoof 03 Godsquad Page 4

  They came upon an external door and stepped out onto the outer deck. The cold wind slapped Francis in the face with a startling freshness he had not experienced in centuries.

  “Blimey!” he said, as the stiff breeze whipped around, through and under his habit. “That is bwacing!”

  They stepped to the railing and over the steely blue sea. Joan shuddered and grinned.

  “That’s sharp,” she said. “So chill it almost..”

  “…hurts,” said Francis.

  Joan nodded.

  “Not in a bad way but it…”

  “…hurts.”

  Francis looked at Joan’s reddening cheeks and could see the wind had brought tears to her eyes.

  “I’d forgotten what pain was,” she said.

  “We forget,” he replied.

  “Oh, cheese and crackers! What in Heaven’s name is that doing here?”

  Francis looked and his stomach flipped.

  “I told you to wait in the cubicle,” he hissed.

  The Wolf of Gubbio shook itself, its shaggy fur tousled by the wind, and gave Francis a look which clearly said that this particular wolf did not hang around in toilet cubicles for any man.

  “You brought the wolf!” exclaimed Christopher.

  “Why?” cried Joan. “In the name of all that’s holy, why?”

  Francis went and stood beside his savage pet.

  “He’s never weally liked Heaven. We’re going to be twavelling across the gweat wilds of Euwope. Wide open spaces. Dark fowests. It’ll do him good.”

  “I can’t believe you’ve been so reckless,” said Christopher.

  “You’ve already put our entire mission in jeopardy,” Joan added.

  “It’s not that big a pwoblem.”

  Joan’s furious gaze said otherwise.

  “Not a problem? Not a… I’m going back to Heaven right now,” she said coldly. “And I’ll tell them what you’ve done. Your little holiday is over.”

  The Wolf of Gubbio whined and then Francis realised it wasn’t the wolf but himself.

  As Joan stomped back inside, Christopher patted Francis on the shoulder.

  “You are a knuckle-brain, mate,” he said kindly. “Let’s go get some grub while we wait for Heaven’s judgement.”

  With the Wolf of Gubbio at their heels, Francis let Christopher steer him back into the tavern place and to the food counter. Christopher called for the serving wench’s attention but she ignored him, even when he clicked his fingers at her and whistled.

  “Come on,” he said. “I’m bloody starving.”

  “Excuse me,” called Francis.

  The young woman drifted over. She looked Francis up and down, clearly taken by his rough-woven Franciscan habit.

  “We would like some food,” said Francis.

  “What can I get you?” she smiled.

  “Do you have jugged venison?”

  The woman frowned.

  “Or some game tart?”

  “I’m sorry. We only have what’s on the menu.”

  “Not even some forced gwuel? Or sops?”

  “Only what’s on the menu.”

  Francis peered at the large printed sign behind the woman. The names of the food items were meaningless nonsense. What was a ‘tuna melt’? Or a ‘cottage pie’? ‘Curly fries’ sounded sinister and a ‘kid’s selection box’ sounded like goat offal.

  “Do you have a Breville sandwich toaster?” suggested Christopher helpfully but the woman paid him no attention.

  Francis opened his purse and laid two gold florins on the counter.

  “My friend and I just want something wholesome and tasty. Whatever you recommend.”

  The wench picked up one of the heavy gold coins and inspected it critically.

  “What are these?” she said.

  Francis was about to explain when there was a tap on his shoulder. A man in a white shirt, with a thin patterned cravat tied around his neck and a clipboard in his hand, pointed at the Wolf of Gubbio.

  “Is this your dog, sir?”

  “It is.”

  “You know that animals are not allowed out of the kennels during the crossing?”

  “Do I?”

  The man jotted something down on his clipboard.

  “Could I see your ticket and passport, sir?”

  “Ticket?”

  “And passport.”

  Francis looked helplessly at Christopher.

  “What’s a passport?”

  “I think it’s some sort of papers. Is that right, mate?”

  The man was not listening.

  “You do have a passport, don’t you, sir?”

  Francis could tell from the tone of the man’s voice that to not have a passport would be a very bad thing. He grinned.

  “I’m sure I do. Somewhere. What do they look like?”

  The man sighed.

  “Don’t play games, sir.”

  Christopher cast about.

  “A passport. You need documents, Francis.”

  “I know,” said Francis.

  “You know what, sir?” said the man.

  Christopher grinned. “You need travel documents.”

  He clapped his hands and something was suddenly thrust into Francis’s hand. Francis looked at the small purple booklet and length of stiff card he held.

  “I knew I had them somewhere,” he said hopefully, holding them out to the man as an offering.

  The official scrutinised the items.

  “Thank you, Mr D’Assisi. Now, we might not be far from port but we must return your… what breed of dog is this?”

  “A wolf… hound,” said Francis. “A Gubbio Wolfhound.”

  “Yes, we must get it back down to the kennels. He’ll be perfectly safe there. Follow me.”

  “How did you do that?” Francis asked Christopher as they walked down some stairs. “The little book thing…”

  Christopher shrugged.

  “Patron saint of travel, aren’t I?”

  “Do what?” asked the clipboard man, who had apparently not heard Christopher.

  “My friend was just… commenting on your witing stylus,” said Francis. “I believe that’s one of Mr Laszlo Biro’s new fangled pens you have there. Vewy modern.”

  “Friend?” said the man, looking past Francis and entirely ignoring Christopher.

  “My fwiend…” began Francis but Christopher put a hand on his arm to stop him.

  “The man’s an imbecile,” he whispered, a strange quality to his voice. “Just nod and smile.”

  Francis did as he was told and gestured for the man to lead on.

  Joan emerged from the toilets, still angry and feeling more than a little lost. Of course, there had been no way back to the Celestial City through the stalls in the ‘gents’, although she’d given it a good go. She banged, rattled and implored the Almighty in each of the tiny chambers and had only stopped when the third successive man asked if she was feeling all right.

  And now Christopher and Francis were only enhancing her anger levels by disappearing from sight. With increasing speed and armour-clanking volume, she strode around the lounge area, searching for them and drawing the attention of many.

  “Oi, love!” called a man, sat on a high stool at a drinks bar. He beckoned her over with a jerk of his head.

  His friends whispered and grinned. One hid his smile in his glass of frothy beer.

  “Yes?” she said.

  He gestured up and down at her plate armour with his pint of ale.

  “What is this?” he leered. “Some kind of marketing gimmick?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “What are you selling? Medieval banquets? Metal polish? I don’t mind taking a consumer test. Happy to buff you up.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m busy,” she said. “I’m looking for two men.”

  This drew uproarious laughter from the drinkers.

  “Course you are,” said one.

  “Looking for a bit of sword action are you?”
said another, nudging his mate.

  “Do you have weapons?” she asked, frowning. “Perhaps a lightsaber.”

  “Love, the only weapon I would need is a tin-opener.”

  “Tin-opener?”

  “Nah,” said the ale-drinker. “Bet she’s wearing an iron chastity belt under that lot.”

  With a horrible sensation, Joan realised that they were making vile suggestive comments about her and had been all along. She was appalled with herself for taking so long to realise. Men had not changed at all in the last six hundred years.

  “Not to fear,” said ale-drinker. “I bet I could get her to lower her drawbridge, raise her portcullis and let me storm her—“

  He stopped abruptly, as one might with the tip of a broadsword at one’s throat.

  “Easy, love,” he said. “We were just having a joke.”

  The sword quivered in Joan’s hand. Here she was, the only modestly dressed woman in a room full of women in licentiously skimpy skirts and tops, and yet these oafs had made her feel ashamed, as though she was as naked as Eve. It would only take a moment to make an example of this lecherous brute. Perhaps it would make the world a better place…

  “Joan!” called Francis, panting as he ran up to her.

  “We’ve got problems,” said Christopher, a footstep behind.

  “Where have you been?” she snapped. “I was…”

  Francis stared at her blade.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” she said and, with a flick of her sword, smashed the base of the man’s glass, emptying its contents into his lap.

  “Good,” said Christopher. “Now about this problem…”

  Joan tried to make sense of what her two companions were saying as they descended the spiral stairs into the bowels of the ship.

  “It’s called a passport,” said Francis.

  “What’s it for?” said Joan.

  “It allows you to pass through a port, I guess, and we’ll be in Zeebrugge vewy soon.”

  “Well, can’t Christopher magic up some more?”

  Christopher looked back her as he turned a corner.

  “I produced something that looked like a passport. I think we’ll be put under greater examination when we dock.”

  “I don’t recall the Flemish being particularly officious people,” said Joan.

  “Well, it’s not just that.” Christopher gestured at the three of them.

  “What?”

  “It’s clear that our appawel is dwawing some attention,” said Francis. “We’re hardly going to be able to slip ashore unchallenged.”

  “I think Gabriel intended us to buy local clothing when we arrived.”

  “But did he intend for us to appear on a ship leagues and leagues from Holland?” Christopher had a point.

  “...a good point,” said Francis. “Whatever the case, we need a solution.”

  Christopher stopped before a heavy metal door and raised the locking bar with a twist of his mighty fist.

  “The man with the clipboard and the Laszlo had us bring the wolf down here.”

  “Where is the wolf?” asked Joan.

  “He instwucted me to put him in a cage weserved for another hound. There might have been some confusion with the ticket Chwistopher pwoduced. What is a Bichon Frisé anyway?”

  “’Curly bitch’?” Joan frowned at her own translation. “What was it like?”

  “A big ball of yarn with legs.” He shrugged. “I’m sure they’ll get on perfectly well. Thwough here.”

  Joan stepped through into the cold hold, yet another space of astonishing dimensions.

  “It’s full of horseless carriages. And those… thingies, for going on a short crusade to the shops.”

  “Buses,” said Christopher.

  “That’s the ones. Why, half the cars and buses in the world must be here. Why?”

  “Perhaps the English are sending them as twibute to their overlords in Bwussels,” suggested Francis.

  Joan nodded at this sage piece of deduction.

  “Regardless,” said Christopher, “they will need to unload them when we dock.”

  Joan smiled.

  “And all we need to do is hide inside one.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Smart thinking.”

  In their ensuing search for the ideal carriage within which to hide, most were discounted on account of their windows and the lack of places to hide. Christopher ultimately located a large square wagon with windows only in the front cabin. The metal door at the rear was held in place by a padlock, which Joan removed with a stab and a twist of her sword. Once the door had rolled magically into the roof of the wagon, the three saints climbed in among the boxes and plastic-wrapped furnishings. Christopher reached up and pulled the rolling door back down, plunging the interior into darkness.

  Joan felt her way through the darkness, tripped and landed on a large and fortunately soft bag that appeared to be stuffed with beans or peas.

  “Well, this is good,” she said.

  “All we need to do is wait until the ship is unloaded at the port,” said Christopher, “then we slip out, find the wolf – I guess we have to – and be on our way.”

  A small bright circle of white light appeared in the wagon and bobbed around.

  “It’s a torch with the spiwit of light twapped inside it,” said Francis. “Look. These boxes are full of twibute for the empwess.”

  Further torches were produced and the three of them were able to explore the hoard around them.

  “They are gifts for the empress’s palace,” suggested Joan. “A chaise longue. A mattress. And, here, a box marked ‘Kitchen’ full of goods for the palace kitchens.”

  There were sounds of general movement beyond the walls of the wagon: chatter, footsteps and the echoing thuds of car doors.

  “People are readying to leave,” said Christopher and then shushed himself as they heard the doors to the wagon’s front cabin open.

  A muffled roar and subsequently ceaseless thrumming startled Joan so much that she dropped the dustbuster she had found.

  “What is that?” she squeaked, fighting to keep her voice down.

  “It is the power of horses that makes the wagon go,” said Francis.

  “It’s the engine,” tutted Christopher.

  “That’s what I said,” snapped Francis.

  “Shhh. Not so loud,” said Joan.

  Christopher shook his head.

  “They won’t be able to hear us over the engine, and look!” In his hands, Francis held a long floppy spring which shifted from one hand to the other as he moved them up and down. “It’s a slinky!”

  “Put that down!” said Joan firmly. “Before it explodes.”

  Chapter 2 – Amsterdam

  Francis shifted position on the chaise longue, taking care not to dislodge the cushions that were holding the very dangerous slinky as still as possible.

  “How far do you think we've twavelled now?” he asked.

  Christopher considered the question.

  “It's been two hours by the chimes of that clock in the box.”

  “We could have covered sevewal miles in that time,” said Francis, wringing his hands.

  “The wolf is fine, Francis,” said Joan, reading his mind. “It’s the rest of the world we need to worry about.”

  “These new-fangled contrivances can travel for many miles without stop,” said Christopher.

  “And I'm guessing we're moving too quickly to jump out,” said Joan.

  Christopher moved towards the door and rolled it upwards.

  “I think I'll have a gander. Maybe it's not so — aargh!”

  His hands remained gripped on the door as it rolled up. He was flung forward and swung out over the road, his sandalled feet flailing in the air. Joan leapt across and grabbed at the giant saint’s shoulder.

  “Can you see the wolf?” said Francis.

  “Francis!” Joan yelled.

  “Sorry. I was just a
sking—”

  “Grab his other shoulder, man!”

  Francis looked down in horror at the road whizzing beneath them. It was brutal and unnatural. How were the people of this modern world able to survive such stomach-churning speed? A car was travelling close behind them. The driver flicked his eyes towards the open door of the lorry but seemed unconcerned with the man hanging onto the edge.

  “Francis!”

  He moved forward, fearful and hesitant. He gripped the edge of a large box with one hand and tentatively gripped Christopher's sleeve with his free hand. He tugged, eyes shut tightly against the terrifying view. He kept his eyes shut until he heard the door slam back down.

  Christopher lay on his back panting, and Joan stood shaking her head, throwing displeased looks at Francis from time to time.

  “We do seem to be twavelling at gweat speed,” said Francis.

  “You think?” panted Christopher.

  Joan threw herself down on the chaise longue.

  “Whatever will become of the poor wolf?” said Francis.

  Joan flung a cushion at his head. Francis ducked.

  “Oh no!” he shouted, pointing.

  The slinky rolled away from its nest among the cushions and fell, expanding, onto the floor.

  Francis threw his hands over his head and waited for death.

  “Milou's making a lot of noise in there,” Adelaide Chevrolet suggested to her husband, as they drove south away from the ferry terminal.

  “She wants to come out,” said little Anna in the back.

  “She still wishes she was on holiday, like us,” said Antoine Chevrolet.

  “Hey, I’m sorry,” said Adelaide. “The office called. This computer hiccup clearly hasn’t resolved itself.”

  “Sure,” said Antoine peevishly. “And only you can fix it. Well, we will be able to let Milou out for a proper walk at Willemspark.”

  A curiously loud growl came from the carrier in the back of the car, followed by a tiny whimper.

  Travel sedation rarely agreed with Milou’s temperamental constitution. Adelaide reflected on the fact that Milou had a digestive tract like the army’s computer facility. Whatever the quality of the input, everything was magically transformed into an unholy mess that she would need to take care of. Her heart sank as she imagined the cleaning up that might be needed.