Which was a relief, just as much as it was puzzling why she was so entranced. There had been ‘trouble’ galore to begin with.
‘Unhand her!’
Said in colloquial Swiss-German, the command carried a lot of weight. The Swiss Guardsman swivelled round expecting to see one of his own officers.
Instead, it was Julius bearing down on him: a mere civilian and stranger—and an impudent one at that, never mind that he might be a fellow countryman.
They dressed in archaic uniforms designed by Michelangelo himself (so it was said) and some of them still carried halberds as their main armament, but no one doubted the Swiss Guards were soldiers in earnest. Most had long records of mercenary service behind them and now they’d come here to cap their career and redeem all the mere money-making by service to His Holiness. A service where the entrance exam was a vow to die for him if required.
Though their generosity stopped there. Laying down your life the once was love enough they thought: and so in battle many wore plate-sized medallions packed with gunpowder, ensuring that, if hit, they’d be beyond use by Revivalists and (profane) resurrection. True, the Church was dead-set against Revivalism anyway, but maybe in dire emergency…, under pressure… You couldn’t trust anyone nowadays.
In fact, many soldiers in many armies did the same, but their assured destruction buttons had to be worn covertly, because forbidden. Their armies signed them up for ‘Life-plus’…
Suffice it to say that the Swiss Guard viewed their watch over the Papacy with great (indeed, Swiss) seriousness. Therefore, orders shouted at them (by civilians!) in the august hush of the Vatican were not designed to endear.
The towering Guardsman said nothing and his face revealed even less, but he kept his grip on Lady Lovelace’s shoulder. His colleagues round about tuned in to the potential incident and stood ready. Their intentions were crystal clear.
Even Foxglove understood. If only frowns had power the Guardsman’s paw restraining his mistress would have burst into flames. But they hadn’t, nor was Foxglove the force he once was; not since he lost his leg. In his diminished state the servant simply stood and awaited guidance. Ada merely glowered.
Julius gave thanks for English upbringings and their freezing effect on emotions. Otherwise, hatpins and crutches might have been wielded as weapons before he had time to arrive and take charge.
Though they still might. The Swiss Guardsman’s hold on Ada was firm and he obviously felt no obligation to be polite. He conversed to Frankenstein in their joint native tongue.
‘No walking-dead in here. It is not permitted. As should be well known. There are notices. Is she yours?’
Lady Lovelace had always kept her range of linguistic skills a mystery, but Julius suspected she knew more than she let on. He observed her stiffen.
‘Yes, she is,’ he said. ‘My apologies. I should have kept her on a leash.’
Ada’s lips thinned yet further, to vanishing point.
Frankenstein couldn’t afford such luxuries. His heartfelt but impertinent order to ‘unhand’ Ada must be draped in forgetfulness. Instead of affronted, he had to be all sunshine and light.
So the sun shone and light spread around
And in case that wasn’t visible, Julius melodramatically clapped a hand to his forehead.
‘I’m a dolt! I of all people should have known the ways of this place. I lived here as a boy, you see: whilst my father was in the Guard. Tell me, is Centurion Hauptmann still serving?’
Suddenly, things were different. Admittedly, the grip on Ada’s shoulder remained, but not so severely. She couldn’t bruise in any case, but it was the principle of the thing…
‘Hauptmann retired two years ago, back to Canton…’
The Guardsman paused—pointedly.
‘Canton Uri,’ said Julius, filling in the deliberate gap. ‘He had daughters there. Three daughters. All married now I expect.’
The guardsman actually smiled.
‘With children. Two of them serve with us.’
Julius was genuinely glad to hear it.
‘Carrying on the family line, of course,’ he said, smiling. ‘Like I should have done. Instead, I chose medicine instead of soldiering…’
They were getting on like a house on fire, and the Guardsman even proved to have a sense of humour. Residence in Europe’s soft south sometimes had that de-starching effect, even on the Swiss.
‘But still up to your arms in blood, eh?’ the man said. ‘If not in quite the same way…’
Julius thought about slapping his thigh in out of control hilarity; but decided that might be overdoing it.
‘Very good. Very droll. And I trust Hauptmann’s boys are a credit to his name? He was a fine fellow…’
The guardsman nodded.
‘A great man. He led the Guard’s charge at the Battle of Ravenna. A French ball took his left arm off.’
‘I think you’ll find it was his right arm, actually…,’ Julius corrected, skirting round the obvious trap.
‘So it was,’ ‘remembered’ the Guardsman: the test was passed. ‘You said your Father was here…’
‘Many years ago.’
‘What’s your name? I might have heard of it’
Indeed he might. In fact, Julius dared say (to himself) the probability was approaching certainty. But he absolutely could not admit to the family name here, even though Frankenstein senior had served His Holiness with distinction and honour. Since then, their surname had acquired evil associations, and nowhere more so than in this epicentre of dogmatic opposition to Revivalism.
‘Eberhardt,’ said Julius. ‘Julius Eberhardt. Papa was Marius.’
It was a real name, drawn from Julius’ childhood memories. A dapper little officer with a blonde moustache, as he recalled. A popular man. He’d made Julius a toy sword.
The Guardsman pondered.
‘No, I can’t place it,’ he said eventually. ‘Before my time…’
‘Long before…,’ Frankenstein/Eberhardt agreed.
The Guardsman shot back from memory lane to the present.
‘Even so, we cannot allow this cold-one to enter here. I’m sure you understand. Scripture prohibits their very existence.’
Julius showed by every sign that he couldn’t agree more: even whilst his words contradicted.
‘Yet she does exist, does she not?’ he said, trying to sound reasonable. ‘As does her husband, or ex-husband I should say; my servant here, maimed in the wars against the cursed French. I rescued his beloved when grave-robbers revived her. It was the least I could do after he took the bullet meant for me. Now she is his mainstay and sole support…’
The Guardsman surveyed Foxglove’s as yet amateurish balancing upon his crutches, and conceded some support might be indeed be necessary.
‘Well…,’ he wavered.
‘And you cannot expect me to carry a cripple around!’ said Julius.
‘No, I suppose not…’
The iron law of social etiquette precluded that. In emergency, a master might carry his inferior off a battlefield: but not further or after. It wouldn’t look right.
‘So I wondered,’ said Julius, ‘if… on this occasion? We have come a very long way…’
That was the unvarnished truth—and it seemed even longer. Pursuit, assassination attempts and amputations have that effect on a journey.
The Guardsman beckoned to a nearby nun. Teams of them stood at the Vatican’s main entrance to dole out coverings to those deemed improperly dressed—hussies with a visible ankle or glimpsed shoulder and the like.