1635_ The Eastern Front - Eric Flint [122]
Then he realized that the Swedish princess and the Danish prince were underneath the table, being sheltered from the rain. Ulrik was in front, with Kristina just behind him. Behind her came the prince's burly Norwegian aide.
Al last! They'd at least be able to take down two of their three targets.
He turned his head and hissed, getting the attention of the five men hiding farther back in the alley. Charles was the lookout at the corner and the only one of them who'd seen the royal party emerge from the palace.
"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