Gideon's Credo: Gideon, #2

Acknowledgements

The hunger to keep writing is fundamental in an author, but it would be a passion easily undone by self-centeredness; so eloquently summed up by my friend Koshy: The act of creation requires humility. How very true!

So it’s with a sense of humility that I must express my gratitude to a growing world-wide band of supporters since the publication of Gideon’s Passage, who, by formal review, spoken word, letter, or email, provided the inspiration that has resulted in this sequel. Sadly, the tyranny of space demands I name but a few:

To Hanna Jasinska, whose empathy for the ‘passage of Gideon’ was tangible; and to the Hon Mayor John Trainer of WTCC, who opened the door for Gideon’s Passage; you have been amazing. To the Library Service providers for putting Gideon ‘out there’; in particular, ALS Library; Westbooks; James Bennett and All Books in NZ; I thank you.

To Fleur Mulgrew of Auckland, Karen Dwarte of Sydney and Laura Herft of Dillon’s Norwood; thank you for extending the palm frond of support and encouragement. To Frank Middleton, fondly known as The Sheikh; whose steadfast hand of mate-ship spans over three decades. To Trevor Adie, a ferocious believer in only expository genres, confessed Gideon was the first book of fiction he couldn’t put down metaphorically as well as in reality; I still remain gob-smacked! To Anthony Cooke, who is relentless in his demand that a movie must be made of Gideon and intends to do something about it! I should caution Mel Gibson and Russel Crowe; ‘beware, for Cookie is tenacious!’ To Sue Dorsey who provided a roadmap for Gideon; and Doug who confessed he had to squeeze in a chapter or two when going to the toilet during the dead of night. Wow! To Garry and Kathy Owens; who wrote to me: Gideon is not just an action epic, it is a story of inspiration that resonates with me. Your inspiration is contagious.  To Sandra Ringrow, Amanda Shell, Donna Jaye, Sandra Stennit and Jillian Semba; who have anointed themselves as my personal fan-club; you make me proud. To Linda Van Hooff, better known as 007; Cynthia and Les Aartsen; Des Tellis and Rose White; you were always there when needed. To the big fellow Wayne Liebezeit [who could double as John Wayne in a pinch], who bailed me up and said: I’m so engrossed in your book I had to discover what was on the next bloody page and concluded with: forget about gardening mate and just keep writing. God, don’t you love ‘em? To Angela de Marco a helping angel in a time of need; Bill and Maureen de Saram, such kindred spirits of a bygone era; and Chris Coe, who taxed my patience considerably for five years; thank you kindly. To Brian Gorham, better known as BG, from the land of the long white cloud; and to Jamie Trahair; as we would say down-under, I owe you! To Nicole Schipper, a lover of Historical genres and Andrew; to Joe Monsigneur the Maltese Falcon; and the charming Linda Germain; thank you for being so positive. And to Scotty Liebezeit who was hypnotized in the reading of Gideon well beyond his bed-time; ‘please get some sleep or your delightful Kathy will shun me!’

To Asok Mukhopadhyay of Calcutta, who offered me, a total stranger, his philosophy and wisdom of the ages. To Pamela Mellor and Yonus Sait of London; Thomas and Verginie Cherel of the gracious city of Paris; Mystic Best of Ohio, who is so honest and incisive; and Patricia of Toronto who read Gideon to settle the nerves while in her dentist’s waiting room; may the force of Gideon be with you. To Divvy, a talented artist of Oman; and last, but not least, D S Rao of Hyderabad; who has ‘taken’ the heroine Catherine, [or Princess Noor un-Nissa], back to her very roots; you are remarkable.

I personally thank you all for being what you are; my absolute inspiration.

In conclusion, I could never write a word, a passage, a chapter or complete novel, without the help of some very qualified people who have brought Gideon’s Credo to life: They are Jeffrey Kosh, my talented Illustrator; Natalie G. Owens my Editor [who justifiably rebukes me for my rebellious ways], and my remarkable Publishers at Optimus Maximus Publishing LLC; Christina Hargis Smith and Maura Atkinson Butler; what would I do without you?

Ben Laffra

Dedication

The world is indebted for all triumphs which have been gained by reason and humanity over error and oppression.

Thomas Jefferson. 1743-1826.

In a beautiful corner of the Western Cape of South Africa, in a valley surrounded by purple hued mountains, nestles a quaint little township called Franschhoek. Here stands a simple yet striking monument commemorating the Huguenot’s, who fled France during the 16th & 17th centuries. The central figure is a statue of a young woman with a Bible in one hand and a broken chain in the other, and seemingly in the act of discarding the cloak that covers her. The implied significance of the statue suggests the spirit of freedom and casting off oppression! On a colonnade behind this statue is the Latin inscription Post Tenebras Lux, which means: ‘After Darkness; Light.’

Perhaps it is a fitting monument to all mankind who had to bear the consequences of oppression wherever and whenever it may have occurred. Yet, the supreme irony; is that, despite this history lesson, barely two centuries later, the very decedents of those Huguenot’s that fled persecution violated the values of justice and dignity of the native South African peoples by denying them their own freedom and justice. 

And so, whether by a supreme quirk of happenchance or twist of fate, in this very region one finds another memorial that rests in the valley of the Dwars River barely eighteen miles away from Franschhoek. It is the infamous institution of the Victor Verster Prison, wherein stands another statue. This was erected to honour the greatest statesmen of modern history, who spent the final three years of his twenty-seven years of incarceration in this prison. His epic fight was also for freedom, change, and justice ... justice for his people from oppression and the tyranny of apartheid!

His name was Rolihlahla Dalibhunga Mandela, better known to the world as Nelson Mandela and affectionately called Madibaba by his adoring peoples.

[Franschhoek, April 2003]

Ben Laffra

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Dedication

PART ONE

1

2

3

4

5

6

PART TWO

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

PART THREE

22

23

24

25

26

PART FOUR

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

41

42

43

44

45

46

47

48

49

50

About the Author

PART ONE

FLASHBACK!

The Sailing Ship Charytee II, skirted the Iles du Fñoul and was towed to dock alongside the Quai de Rive Neuve, Marseilles. The first to disembark with some considerable luggage was Mademoiselle Marina di Andrea Gamba, dressed once more in mourning habit, black veiled and gloved and covered from head to toe. She was gracious in her thanks to the acting Captain Pierre Le Blanc and, praised the courage of de Boyne, referring to him as the ‘architect of our survival.’ She squeezed his hand warmly, stating her hope to meet him in Paris; and was then escorted by a Royal Equerry to a waiting carriage with royal emblems and a guard of troop. It was a long way to Paris.

The two friends stood at the Poop Deck railing, observing the disembarkation.

‘Royalty, eh, Gideon?’

‘Yes, Pierre. Most probably a cousin of the diminutive Italian.’ No self-respecting Frenchman would accept their King Henry II’s wife, Catherine de Medici, as their Queen.

‘A rather remarkable yet strange young lady, eh?’

‘Yes. There is a strange dark side to her young mind that is excited and thrilled by the act of killing. I saw the madness and excitement in her eyes. Yes, strange and complex a personality she herself is too young to understand. I don’t know why but despite that, I have a feeling there is something noble in her as well. May she find it one day.’

Pierre Le Blanc pronounced the word ‘Amen.’

First Mate Daniel Mouton stood leaning on the rails sometimes ruefully rubbing his sore private parts, waiting for all the passengers to disembark so they could unload the cargo. Mademoiselle Gamba did not even spare him a parting look. He shrugged his shoulders. Who will believe me in the waterfront bars that I have fucked a noble dame. They may be rich and noble by birth, yet strip them naked and they are all the same; just common salope! He shrugged again and spat over the rail.

Perhaps Mouton’s contemptuous and crude conclusion lacked the far more charitable opinion of Gideon concerning the young Medici!

City of Marseilles

Gideon de Boyne made his way along the busy Quai de Rive Neuve, threading his way between cursing teamsters and their heavily laden ox carts, boisterous seamen, and the nobility on horseback or in their horse drawn carriages. Few took notice of the tall dark figure with a limp wearing a large leather hat and carrying a heavy leather satchel over his shoulder with ease. Like any busy seaport dock area, it was noisy and smelly; but this was France, so he drank in the sights, sounds and smells with undiluted pleasure. He stopped at the head of the Vieux Port in front of the Inn de Ville, measuring up the horses lining the rails in front of the building with a practiced eye. He did not have to wait long as a young man came out of the inn and started to unhitch a fine thoroughbred stallion that Gideon had picked out.

‘Your pardon Monsieur; I wish to make an enquiry.’

The young man looked up into his eyes thoughtfully, no doubt trying to make sense of his rough clothes that was incongruent with his refined French accent. He raised his eyebrows. ‘Yes Monsieur?’

‘I wish to purchase two good horses and some riding gear. Perhaps you can advise me where I can find a good stable.’

They held each other’s gaze for a while. Finally; the young man shrugged ‘There are several places, Monsieur. But you say good horses; for distance travelling, perhaps?’

‘Yes, please. That’s correct.’

‘Go to the Pochox Stables on the Rue de Grigan. It is some distance toward the very end of the street.’ He gave him directions of how to get there. ‘I can tell from your accent you are not from these parts Monsieur, so be careful. The Pochox’s have a reputation as thieves and thugs, but they somehow have good animals.’ He shrugged again; ‘it may or may not be true, but it’s best you be warned. After all this is Marseilles Monsieur;’ as if the mere name of Marseilles should explain everything.

Gideon nodded. ‘I am much obliged, Monsieur. I will.’ It was a long distance, almost clearing the township as the small houses became sparse along the way. But, he did not mind, revelling in the walk after over a month at sea. He felt strong, alive, and invincible. He stopped at some carriages in the large yard in front of a stable, a smithy’s shop, and a rundown hostelry across the dusty road. A man was lying underneath a carriage, working on the axel.  ‘Bonsoir’ he called out. ‘Where can I find Monsieur Pochox?’

The cursing and banging stopped. ‘Who asks?’ came the rude reply.

Gideon did not bother to answer his impertinent question. ‘I am told I could purchase two good horses here.’

A small bullet head with pig-like, bloodshot eyes appeared from under the carriage, followed by a short, powerful, stocky body wearing a leather apron that exposed long but well-muscled arms. The arms of a smithy; the tallow whale oil, and pulverised lead of the black axel grease ingrained under his nails and into the skin forever. The pig eyes appraised him insolently, noting the rough clothes but obviously taking in the good leather boots and soft leather bag. Opportunism sparkled in his eyes. 

‘Leave your satchel here, Monsieur, and check the horses in the stables. You will surely find more than two good ones.’ His tone was far friendlier now. ‘I will join you in a moment after washing my hands.’

Gideon headed for the stable, carrying his bag despite the gratuitous advice. A quick look, despite the gloom of the stables, told him that they were hacks. He stood in the back of a stall and waited quietly, adjusting his eyes to the gloom.

Pochox soon entered the gloomy stables, too fast on his heels to have bothered with washing his hands. Carrying an old broken wheel spoke, he cautiously walked down the stalls, peering inside, then froze when Gideon said. ‘Looking for me, Monsieur?’ There was a challenge in the voice as his eyes lazily took in the wooden spoke in Pochox’s hands.

Pochox looked down guiltily at his weapon. ‘Ah, yes, Monsieur,’ he grunted, then smiled cunningly, exposing his dirty teeth. ‘One cannot be too careful, eh?’ He threw the spoke into a corner, clearly in disgust that he had been outwitted.

‘True, very true; after all, this is Marseilles, isn’t it so?’ The irony of Gideon’s words seemed to be wasted on the burly rogue. ‘These are hacks, Pochox, so don’t waste my time.’

‘Perhaps in the yard then, Monsieur?’ and he led the way through the wide back door into a large fenced grazing yard.

Gideon did not waste time as he vaulted the fence and whistled shrilly. ‘Hi, yup, yup!’ When he slapped his leather bag loudly, the horses startled and cantered around the yard in fright. He watched carefully, and then picked the two he wanted, roped them, and checked them over again; mentally ticking off the hock, cannon bone, fetlock, pastern, heel, hoof, etc.  A stallion and a mare, both Percheron crossed with Arab thoroughbreds. So the murdering rogue does have some good horses. I wonder how he gets them. They were good; not fast, but just what he required, strong, obedient and with stamina for the long ride ahead. Ignoring Pochox, he led them out and selected a well-worn saddle and a pack girdle with two water bags. ‘How much do I owe you, Monsieur?’

Pochox relapsed into deep, affected thought and launched into a performance about the value of the two horses; then, as expected, named an exorbitant price. Gideon grinned and nodded, saying nothing as he saddled the stallion and set the pack girdle on the mare, strapping his satchel firmly on and attaching the long trailing reins to the saddle. He then counted out some coin from a leather pouch noting Pochox’s expression with amusement, and, without a word, put it into his greedy hands. He mounted the stallion and waited as Pochox carefully and laboriously counted the amount. His little pig eyes looked up in astonishment, then filled with righteous anger as he squealed, ‘This is less than half of what I told you; get off my horse.’

‘Yes, Pochox, you are right, and that is all you will get, for I have paid you more than what they are worth.’ Pochox advanced angrily toward the mounted Gideon and grabbed the reins; then looked up straight into the unwavering muzzle of a pistol. ‘Well, Monsieur Pochox’ he said menacingly, ‘shall we part as friends or shall I put a ball between your eyes? The choice is yours!’

Pochox shrugged as his lips shifted in a cunning grin ‘Yes, yes, of course, Monsieur. You are right. Which route do you travel? Perhaps I can help with directions.’

Gideon returned his grin with a shrug, yet kept the pistol trained on him. ‘Who knows, Monsieur? I cannot go south for that is the sea; so perhaps West, East, or North, eh?’ He turned the horses and trotted away with a friendly tip of his broad brimmed hat, as he heard the swearing of Pochox while he rode off. 

Still swearing at the departing figure, Pochox placed two fingers in his mouth and whistled. Two rough figures came stumbling out of the hostelry. ‘You useless oafs have been drinking again?’ he swore, and cuffed them toward the stables. ‘Now don’t waste a moment. Select two fast horses and fetch your arms.’ He then carefully gave them a description of Gideon. ‘Don’t get near the bastard. Shoot him at the first opportunity and bring the horses and his possessions back to me. And don’t be too clever, I know what his bag contains. Understand?’

‘Yes; Father, but how shall we find him if you don’t know the direction he took?’

He sighed dramatically and shook his head. ‘Oafs, use your brains. From his accent the dandy is most probably from Paris, eh? So quarter the main north road and then the two tracks going north. Ask the village bumpkins travelling on the route. They will easily recognise a big fellow wearing a hat with a trailing horse. Is that clear?’ His two sons nodded in unison. ‘Now check your weapons once again and be cautious as I have warned you. He is no fool,’ he added with emphasis before they galloped toward the northern outskirts of Marseilles. 

Gideon had planned his route and the distance to cover each day so there was no need to push the horses. He avoided the main thoroughfare and, after a few enquiries, he chose the track to Avignon, a comfortable ten hours’ trotting ride from Marseilles. He knew that it was shorter than the main route and he would have no trouble for fodder and water for the horses. Whistling happily to himself, he kept his pace, comfortable with his plans of going directly to Orleans to first visit his beloved Catherine for a day or two, before returning to his father’s home in Bourges. Merde, it is almost eighteen months. I hope my letters have reached you Catherine. He shrugged off a pang of guilt.

Gideon cheerfully greeted the few peasants in their laden carts travelling the route, rarely getting a response, except some smiles from the children. He stopped briefly to rest the horses and give them a drink of water using his leather hat as the container. ‘Ah, ah, ah now, big fellow, don’t chew the hat,’ he admonished as he rubbed one of the beasts affectionately on the forehead. Sometimes he stopped at a village to buy chaff for the horses, using these rest times, as a bonding process and to gain the total trust and obedience of the animals. He played a game teaching them to come to him when he whistled, giving them an apple as a reward.

Meanwhile, the Pochox brothers argued briefly on which route to quarter first for information on their quarry and chose the most obvious main road, stopping the peasants and questioning them rudely. They usually received a blank stare and a shake of the head, earning the curses of the brothers. Peasants were naturally suspicious, especially of two rough-looking fellows riding, on horseback, with muskets slung over the shoulders. So, they gave up after two hours of questioning. After an hour of futile questioning the peasants the older of the two brothers was now in a foul mood. ‘Stupid idiots and country bumpkins’ he swore at them; then turned to his brother, ‘let us try the northerly tracks.’

They chose the first northern track and went through the same process, except there were fewer on the route to accost; all travelling in numbers for their own safety and carrying only stout cudgels or staves and the ubiquitous long bladed knives used by peasants. They got the same baleful stare and shrug of shoulders or shake of the head. After about an hour, they struck luck. One burly peasant, riding alone with a cartload of piglets rubbed his chin in elaborate thought, spat, and then asked. ‘How much is it worth?’ The elder Pochox fished a coin out of his pocket and held it up.  He pointed back up the track, adding, ‘a dark fellow leading a pack horse,’ he said, and then held out his hand for the coin. The brothers rudely laughed in his face, pocketed the coin and galloped off laughing at the peasant cursing them roundly. Honour, it appears is not the strong suite of thieves and murderers.

‘We must get the Paris dandy before nightfall, if possible,’ the elder brother grunted, so they rode hard to make up for lost time and ground.

Meanwhile, far ahead, Gideon had cleared the plains and was through the escarpment of Cheval-Blanc. The trees became more plentiful, the ground damp and softer, and the air cooler. The track had narrowed to barely a cart width, rutted from the passage of laden wheels. He’d reached the top of the climb when the ears of his mount began to twitch and swivel, but it was the mare that snorted and whinnied softly. Gideon pulled up and looked back, alert to the sounds of the country. The mare’s head was turned back along the track. ‘Ah, my pretty, you sense something familiar?’ He could neither hear nor see anything back down the winding track. Dismounting, he checked his pistols, took his sword that hung off the pommel, and belted it on, then settled the spyglass on the farthest point of clear track he could see. He didn’t have long to wait; two tiny riders came into view. Uhmm, very unusual for this lonely country track, two fast riders eh? I wonder if Pochox has sent them after me. About an hour’s ride behind I think. He patted the mare on her rump in thanks.

He rode on leisurely until he came to a narrow cutting with heavy shrubbery along the sides and overhanging trees which opened up at the end in a tiny clearing. ‘This will do,’ he muttered to the horses. He deliberately tethered the mare in full sight on the narrow trail, then gave her a drink and a nosebag of chaff. ‘That should keep you quiet, my pretty. No whinnying, mind!’ He then tethered the stallion out of sight off the track and did the same favour for him. Pulling out some bread, cheese, and an onion from his bag, he sat comfortably against a tree; to first eat and then doze off contentedly. He knew he would hear them in good time. It seemed to him like hardly a dribble of sand in the hour clock when he heard the laboured blowing and snorting of tired horses coming up the long incline. ‘Merde, the poor animals are almost blown’ he said aloud to himself. He rose and went back down the track, gauging where the two would sight the mare and probably pull-up in surprise. He hid in the dense shrubbery and waited.

His judgement was accurate. The two horsemen pulled up abruptly and the elder Pochox hurriedly unshouldered his musket and cocked it with a loud metallic click. ‘There’s the mare, but where is the bastard?’ One whispered.

Why do the fools bother to whisper when cocking a musket and the blowing and snorting of their mounts could be heard by anybody? Gideon stepped out of the foliage five paces behind them. ‘Don’t move, my friends. I would hate to shoot you in the back.’ Startled, the elder ruffian started to instinctively swivel his musket around. ‘Stop’ he commanded loudly ‘don’t move, I said; unless you want to die.’ They both sat still in their saddles. ‘Now listen carefully, and you may still live.’ Gideon knew to always give cowards hope to calm their jangling nerves. ‘You cannot run left or right, only straight, and the mare will block your free passage. In any case, you will be shot in the spine and left to die here in slow agony. Of course, if you want to try it, you are most welcome’, he added in a matter-of-fact tone. The men shifted uncomfortably in their saddles; until the younger man could not resist turning his head. ‘Don’t move idiot’ Gideon warned and he promptly jerked his head back around again.

He couldn’t curb his fright as he stammered to his elder brother, ‘he has a pistol trained on each of us.’

‘Shut up, you idiot,’ was the brutal reply.

‘Now that we understand each other’ Gideon’s matter-of-fact voice continued ‘you with the cocked musket, uncock it first and slowly drop it on the ground.’ They both did as told. ‘Good, now slowly remove the pistols and knives from your person and also drop them on the ground. Do it now and slowly, like said.’ Again they obediently complied. ‘You on the right’ Gideon barked ‘remove the knife from your boot.’ The man sheepishly complied. ‘Now don’t try anything foolish, dismount, leave your horses where they are, and walk five paces forward. Merde, I said five paces, not three idiots! Can’t you count?’ He waited until they followed his orders. ‘Good. Now lie down with your hands stretched forward.’ The younger man was trembling with fright and did so promptly, while his elder brother did so more slowly; no doubt in concert with his slow brain trying to figure a way of escape or surprise attack. No idea of what he could do came to him. All he heard, with his face to the ground, were their weapons being collected.

Gideon collected the reins of their blowing mounts before continuing in a conversational tone. ‘Fine animals, my friends, but you idiots have almost ridden them into the ground. Now get up,’ he said sharply, ‘and walk forward slowly until I tell you to stop.’ Gideon escorted them into the tiny glade, and roped them back-to-back to a tree. He gave the two thoroughbreds a drink of water and some chaff on the grass. They drank greedily. ‘Not too much just yet, fellow; I will give you more after you have cooled down.’ They ate contentedly, their tails swishing.

Gideon drew his sheath knife and squatted on his haunches in front of the older man. ‘Listen to me carefully pig, from now on you are in control of what happens next; freedom perhaps or pain, a lot of pain and ultimately a slow death. You decide eh? I will put to you, questions. You will tell me the truth. Agreed? So first question; who are you?’ The red pig eyes of the man glared back in defiance and he spat on the ground. Gideon’s blade