The Misadventures of John and Frank

COMING VERY SOON IN BOTH PRINT AND EBOOK!

“Really, you cannot be serious, John!” says a large, round, and yet deceptively muscular man, who appears to have weathered some thirty years in this uncertain world.

“Oh, but I am, Frank!” returns his companion. He stands the same height as his sturdy comrade—lean as a rapier, supple as willow; and, likewise, carrying the mark of his early thirties.

The two comrades present an extraordinary study in soldierly contrasts as they linger upon the terrace near the Whitehall barracks, leaning over a battered balustrade to watch the slate-gray waters of the Thames churn beneath the morning coal-smoke of London. John cuts the figure of a threadbare cavalier down on his luck: his buff leather coat, though brushed with meticulous care, is rubbed white at the elbows, his linen cuffs fray faintly against his wrists, and his knuckles bear the dark, telltale stains of midnight ink of verse-making. At his hip, however, slung from a tarnished baldric, hangs a steel-mounted rapier polished to mirror brightness—the weapon of a man who, though peaceful by nature, could pass for one who lives by the point . . . Frank, by contrast, looks forged from an anvil: his broad chest strains the horn buttons of an oxhide doublet, thick wool stockings hug calves like cider kegs, and his iron knuckles are scarred by a score of tavern brawls.

“You mean to tell me,” states Frank, his voice thick with unyielding disbelief, “that this Duchess has actually asked for a rendezvous with you?”

“And, why not, you incorrigible doubter?” says his friend, drawing from his doublet a handkerchief, infinitely delicate and steeped in a dizzying cloud of perfume. “Here is the proof! Do you imagine for one fleeting instant that such a thing belongs to me? As you may or may not have known,” he adds, leaning in to fortify his comrade’s faltering faith, “the Duchess de Chantilet is an acquaintance of mine. A new acquaintance, granted—but, an acquaintance nonetheless!”

“Well, I must confess,” says the other, shaking his head with a reluctant glimmer of admiration, “that this truly astounds me. You, a mere Guard in the service of His Majesty King Charles II, securing a midnight rendezvous with a Duchess!”

“Well, believe it, you unpolished brute!” John retorts, his lips parting in a devilish, theatrical grin. “We are hardly languishing in the Dark Ages, you know! This is 1673, my friend; and, this modern woman—like all the spirited, carefree ladies of the day—simply dotes upon a dashing soldier, even if his fortunes began in the dust.”

Frank merely answers with a dry, skeptical chuckle.

“You may laugh now, Frank; but, after tonight, the jest will be on you!”

“Why?” asks the other, his laughter still bubbling beneath the surface. Then, cocking a cynical brow, he adds: “Are you taking me with you on your grand romantic excursion?”

“Why, yes!” pronounces John, with magnificent audacity.

At this, Frank’s merriment cuts off dead. His jaw drops, and he glares at his companion in utter, unvarnished horror.

“What!” he barely manages to stammer.

“Precisely that, Frank—you are coming with me!”

“But, John,” he protests, throwing his arms wide in exasperation, “whatever for?” Then, bending forward, he lowers his voice with immense suspicion: “Is not an affair of that delicate nature strictly reserved for a gentleman and his lady?”

“Even though this exquisite creature undoubtedly adores me,” John begins, tapping his temple with a solemn forefinger, “I have reason to suspect that she’s unsettled in the mind.”

“Capital!” Frank mutters, knitting his thick brows in total mystification. “Now, you have completely outrun me . . . Whatever are you babbling about, man?”

“Well, my dear friend, I suffered a most extraordinary encounter this morning.”

“An extraordinary encounter?” Frank sneers, folding his arms. “You fancy yourself a poet, John—to a poet, a stray dog barking at a lamppost is an extraordinary encounter!”

“I am in earnest, Frank. This business set my poetic wits working at a furious gallop.”

“I can hardly endure the suspense,” Frank groans, rolling his eyes about, though the ghost of a smirk creeps back across his mouth. “Very well, John,” he adds, looking back at the poet, “my curiosity is properly baited . . . What happened?”

“Well, I was taking the air near London Bridge early this morning, turning a few modest verses over in my mind; for, you are well aware that I have that recital tomorrow evening at our favorite little tavern—”

“Ah, yes!” Frank interrupts, suddenly all ears. “The Porker’s Inn . . . Go on.”

“Well, a fellow whom I had never laid eyes on in my life approached me and struck up a discourse. At first, I observed him sauntering along the lane toward me at a snail’s pace, so I assumed he was absorbed in the very same elevated pastime as myself—you know, composition.”

“Yes,” says Frank, leaning in with rapt attention, “go on, go on.”

“And, when he came abreast of me, he launched into the matter, thus:

“‘Good morning, my dear sir,’ said he; his English wrapped in an accent straight from the boulevards of Paris, ‘could you perhaps assist with a trifling difficulty that seems to plague me?’

“‘Well, I can certainly try,’ I replied to him.

“‘Every man in this city appears to possess a motto!’ he announced, throwing his hands up in apparent despair. ‘I am utterly weary of hearing them! However, merely to keep pace with the fashion, I am attempting to devise one for myself . . . Tell me, sir, do you possess a motto?’ he inquired, laughing in a most curious fashion.

“‘A motto?’ I replied, my eyes bulging in astonishment, for the question took me entirely off my guard. But, then, observing the broad smile upon his countenance, my own features caught the infection, and I answered: ‘Why, to be sure; I do, in fact, maintain a motto!’

“‘You do?’ the stranger cried, his features lighting up with astonishing excitement.

“‘Yes; it runs like this: My motto is not to have a motto!’

“‘Bravo!’ cried the fellow, clapping his hands together with frantic delight. ‘A magnificent motto! A veritable treasury of intellect you possess between those ears!’

“‘So, you genuinely despise men’s mottos, do you?’ I inquired, once he had concluded this shower of compliments.

“‘Mottos do not vex me half so much as another matter,’ he declared.

“‘Oh?’ I asked.

“‘It is the melancholy truth,’ was his reply. ‘The plague that truly torments my soul is philosophies!’

“‘Philosophies, eh?’

“‘As I live and breathe!’ said he.

“‘And, do you cultivate a philosophy of your own?’ I asked him, wearing a grin of amusement.

“This time the Frenchman stared back with wide, startled eyes. But, taking his cue from me, his mouth spread once more into a broad smile as he answered: ‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I do possess a philosophy.’

“‘Capital!’ said I, immensely diverted by the game. ‘And, what might it be?’

“‘Simply this: My philosophy is not to have a philosophy!’

“‘Neatly turned,’ I remarked, ‘though you have pillaged my own invention.’

“‘Ah, but it was so sublime, it admitted no improvement!’

“‘You flatter me, sir,’ I answered, eyeing him with mounting skepticism.

“‘I merely flatter a master of the pen!’

“‘Aha! You are acquainted with my poetry, then?’

“Certainly!’ he declared with grand authority. ‘You are a master! I have perused several of your most delicate compositions.’

“‘In truth? Well, that explains why you smother me in praise!’

“‘You’ve caught me! So much the better. Yes, it is entirely on your account that I have ventured down the thorny path of the muse. Yet, alas, I can never hope to rival your command of flowery eloquence—just as that brilliant quip you let fall just now!’

“‘Come, now, there was really nothing to it,’ I added, bowing modestly to the compliment.

“‘Oh, but you are far too modest, sir! Can you truly be blind to your own towering genius?’

“‘Genius, you say?’ I repeated, entirely mechanically.

“‘Admirably, undeniably, and deservedly so!’

“‘Surely, sir, you heap far too much credit upon my head,’ I answered, beginning to feel thoroughly uneasy in my skin.

“‘Not a grain too much! But, that is of no consequence; I am simply overjoyed to meet you at last—the greatest poet in London, in all England—nay, in all Europe!’

“‘I suspect you push the compliment entirely too far, sir,’ I remarked, feeling my brows knit in dark suspicion.

“‘Well, if you insist, I shall keep my adoration to myself . . . but tell me, shall we collaborate?’

“‘Upon what?’ I inquired, taken aback yet again.

“‘Upon poetry, of course!’

“‘You propose that you and I compose a piece together?’

“‘Precisely so!’ said he, his smile stretching from ear to ear.

“‘Well . . . the muse does not happen to visit me at present.’

“‘She will return, sir! In time, inspiration descends upon all great poets.’

“‘Well, perhaps at some vague, distant hour we might, perhaps, collaborate upon a stanza or two . . . perhaps.’ I had offered, stammering like a schoolboy caught in an orchard.

“‘Splendid! How does tomorrow suit you?’

“‘Tomorrow?’ I repeated, the word leaping from my throat in an absolute shout. ‘Well . . . if not on the morrow, then on some other occasion . . . perhaps . . . I tell you what, simply give me your address, and I will appear at your lodgings when I am ready.’

“‘A marvelous arrangement! I reside at the grand hôtel of the Duke de Chantilet, over in Pall Mall.’

“‘Well, in that case, it is very possible we shall meet before long. Take care!’ said I, wheeling about and making off down the street without lingering to discover what manner of creature he truly was—that is to say, without even learning his name.

“‘Adieu, sublime poet!’ he bellowed after me as I hastened my retreat.

“‘Adieu,’ I flung back over my shoulder, quickening my pace to a near sprint.

“‘Good night, sweet Prince!’ his voice pursued me down the alleyway, carrying clear across the morning air. ‘Parting is such sweet sorrow!’”

“And?” Frank demands, practically shouting the word the instant John pauses for breath, his features twisted in monumental perplexity. “What’s the big deal about that? So, you crossed paths with a wandering lunatic—what of it?”

“Did your ears fail you, Frank? His lodgings are the château of the Duke and Duchess de Chantilet. That is the very roof under which my romantic interview with the Duchess is appointed for midnight!”

Frank blinks, remaining thoroughly confused.

“Listen to me, my friend,” continues John, his voice sinking to a grave murmur. “That encounter with the Frenchman was entirely too contrived for my liking. I warrant the rascal was merely sizing me up, though for what sinister purpose, I cannot divine. But, if that eccentric inhabits the very same household as my lovely Duchess de Chantilet, there may well be an ambush lurking in the shadows.”

“Oh, what a feverish imagination you verse-mongers possess!” Frank cries out, rolling his eyes once more in supreme disgust.

“Well, you may scoff and doubt until the stars fall; but, you are accompanying me nonetheless!”

“Says who?” Frank snaps, his heavy brow darkening.

“Says your truest friend—myself! Come, Frank, I am truly in need of your stout arm.”

A heavy silence settles between them. Frank glares, his resolve crumbling under the weight of his companion’s desperate gaze.

At last, blowing out a long breath that ruffles his collar, he surrenders to fate.

“Oh, very well, you terrified goat!” 

Chapter 2: The Rendezvous 

Late that night, the dark silhouettes of two men steal cautiously along the perimeter of an imposing residence in Pall Mall, ducking into the dense shrubbery bordering the drive. Endeavoring to achieve the utmost stealth, they appear instead like two blundering jesters tripping incessantly over one another’s boots.

“Watch out, Frank!” cries John, wincing with a sharp pain. “You are trampling straight over me.”

“Well, I cannot see a single solitary thing,” says Frank in aggrieved self-defense. “Where has the moon gone off to tonight, anyway? There is only one oil streetlamp anywhere near this cursed place, and its meager flicker falls exclusively upon the front of the grounds.”

“Quiet, you beast!” comes the hurried retort. “Do you intend for the entire château to hear your grievances?”

“Well, what precise service do you expect of me out here in the dark, anyway?” Frank inquires, making a heroic effort to lower his rumbling voice.

“I stand in dire need of your celebrated sword mastery,” replies John, also in a whisper, “as preposterous as that may sound.”

Frank emits a sudden, muffled chuckle. “John, I am notoriously the sorriest swordsman in our entire regiment!”

“Well, no living soul shall ever discover the truth unless you announce it yourself! Now, hold your tongue on that subject; and, if I should run into foul play—if, for instance, I happen to walk into an ambush—the cutthroats will have no inkling that you are merely an overgrown, clumsy cow.”

Frank chuckles anew. “Clumsy cow! That is rich.”

“Silence, you animal! You are making enough racket to awaken the dead. Now, plant yourself right here and keep a vigilant watch. I am appointed to meet her beside that great tree in approximately five minutes.”

“Good luck, lover boy!” Frank whispers with an undisguised giggle.

“Is it necessary for you to speak at the top of your lungs?”

“My apologies, John; but, a quiet voice simply was not bestowed upon me.”

“Well, too bad this isn’t one of your belching contests at the Porker’s Inn! You speak as loudly as you belch—and, that is saying a dreadful deal.”

Once again, Frank’s shoulders heave with silent amusement. “Belching contest! Ha! That is a good one.”

“Oh, never mind! Remain where you are, and try to keep silent. But, should your eyes light upon anything remotely suspicious, then please do something!”

“Would you like me to belch?”

“Oh! You’re in a rare mood tonight!”

With that dry parting shot, John leaves his giggling comrade behind in the leaves and advances boldly toward the solitary tree.

This oak, venerable and monstrous in girth, stands planted squarely in the dead center of the front lawn. Not a scrap of brush nor a single ornamental bush surrounds it to offer sanctuary, for every shred of manicured shrubbery hugs the walls of the grand French château, precisely where the two intruders first gained the grounds and where Frank remains crouched in the dark. The solitary oil streetlamp, mounted upon a post out along the thoroughfare skirting the mansion, casts a pale, sluggish amber beam across that lone open patch of earth. It falls dimly against the rugged bark of the oak, creating an exquisite, romantic stage for John to encounter his noble lady.

As the stroke of midnight draws near, John waits with admirable patience. Doing his level best not to glance back toward Frank’s thicket, lest a furtive gaze betray his confederate’s lurking presence, he occupies himself by keeping his eyes glued to the grand entrance of the mansion. Yet, maintaining such discipline proves an excruciating ordeal, for odd rustlings, scrapes, and smothered snorts emanate from Frank’s direction at regular intervals, testing John’s patience to its uttermost limit.

At precisely one minute past the midnight hour, a light tap descends upon John’s shoulder from behind, causing him to leap several inches into the air. Spinning violently upon his heels, his hand flying to his sword hilt, he finds himself standing face-to-face with the radiant Duchess de Chantilet.

“Oh, my dear!” he breathes, his heart hammering against his ribs. “You nearly frightened the life out of me. Why did you not emerge from the château? I have kept my eyes fixed upon the main doorway, and you never crossed the threshold.”

“I have been wandering abroad for some time,” she murmurs, her voice purring with a strange, undulating cadence as she casts her gaze toward the stars, “breathing in the divine midnight air.”

“Of London?” asks John, raising an eyebrow in sheer bewilderment. “If you regard the pungent perfume of household chamber pots flung liberally into the gutters as an invigorating tonic, then I must insist on escorting you into the country air very soon!”

“Cease toying with my poor, wretched heart!” she bursts out abruptly. Clasping a hand to her bosom with an agonized sigh, she wheels her back toward him, dissolving instantly into a tempest of grief.

“Toying with you? By mentioning human waste?” he asks, his brow furrowing in utter mystification.

Without warning, she spins on her heel and flings herself passionately into his arms, gazing into his eyes with blazing, smoldering affection. “How wonderfully stout and strong you are, you irresistible devil!”

“Well,” John replies, a roguish grin immediately conquering his confusion, “I have never been one to lodge a complaint against my own virtues.”

At that instant, a tiny, ill-suppressed giggle drifts softly out from the distant bushes.

“What was that?” the Duchess gasps in terror, breaking from his embrace and wheeling her head toward the dark perimeter.

Recognizing the author of the disturbance all too well, John hastens to restore calm. “Pay it no mind, my angel; it is merely an eccentric owl that was hooting earlier among the branches.”

“I need you to assassinate my husband!” she cries out in a sudden, breathless shriek, throwing herself back against his chest and staring wildly into his eyes once again. But, before John can even register the shock, she tears herself from his doublet just as quickly, while turning her back to him to bury her face in her hands, as her shoulders shake with genuine sobs.

“I must admit, my dear,” says John, his brows knitting once more into a frown of profound skepticism, “that does not strike me as the most charming overture for our first romantic evening together!” Then, permitting a wry smile to creep across his lips, he adds: “Ought we not, at the very least, indulge in a preliminary kiss?”

“How can your mind dwell upon kisses at a frightful hour like this?” she cries out, refusing even to look round at him. “When my very existence hangs by a thread of danger?”

“Danger?” he repeats, his swagger evaporating as he glances anxiously about the shadowed lawn. “What manner of danger?”

Spinning back upon him with a passionate fury, she hurls herself into his arms for the third time, clutching his lapels with desperate ferocity. “Oh, you are magnificent beyond words,” she sighs, “it is pure torture to tear my eyes from your countenance!”

From the thickets, another stifled, unmistakable giggle floats through the darkness.

“Hold your tongue, you wretched, mangy excuse for an owl!” the Duchess screams at the top of her lungs, shaking her fist toward Frank’s shrubbery.

“Such fiery passion, my love,” murmurs John, his eyes shining with sudden, reckless abandon. “Kiss me before my senses return!”

She immediately seizes his face and plants a crushing, impassioned kiss full upon his mouth. And, at that very second, a colossal belch echoes strongly from the bushes, shattering the stillness of the night.

Breaking their embrace with a violent start, the Duchess blinks in horror. “Was that the owl?”

“Actually,” John stammers, his romantic fervor dying on the spot, “I suspect that is our discreet signal that company is arriving!”

“I shall not inquire how you come by such knowledge,” she says, backing away with frantic speed, “but if peril approaches, we must part this instant. I shall communicate your instructions to you without delay.”

“Hold on, my lady—I never agreed that I was going to—”

Before the protest can form, the words wither upon his lips; for, slipping like a phantom into the murk, she avoids the safety of the mansion entirely and vanishes into the silent shadows of Pall Mall.

Standing alone beneath the branches, gazing after her retreating silhouette, John suddenly feels a firm tap land squarely upon his shoulder from behind. Leaping into the air a second time this night, he wheels around, ready to strike, his right hand finding the sword hilt once again. Yet, to his utter astonishment, he discovers the very same eccentric French rhymester who had accosted him that morning.

“Ah!” says the Frenchman, his face radiating an enormous, beamish grin. “It is none other than Monsieur John Smith!”

“Oh . . . good evening, Monsieur . . . Monsieur...?”

“Paul du Voy is the name,” says he, bowing, “at your service.”

“Ah, Monsieur du Voy,” says John, offering a returned, though stiff bow.

“A trifle advanced in the night for poetic composition, do you not think, Monsieur Smith?”

“Composition?” echoes John, completely caught off-guard. “Oh! You mean verses? No, sir, I am not here on poetic business. Quite the contrary—I was merely strolling through the neighborhood, when my eye was captivated by this extraordinary tree.” He pats the rugged bark tenderly with his left hand, gazing up into its dense canopy. “That lone streetlamp out upon that lane casts a truly magnificent beam of . . . of absolute pertinence across its branches.”

“Pertinence?” repeats du Voy, his brow furrowing into a sneer as he scans the foliage. “What an extraordinary choice of vocabulary. That conveys no earthly sense to my mind.”

“Oh, but it makes the most profound sense imaginable!” John insists with vigorous conviction, holding the Frenchman’s gaze. “In fact, I find myself in the very throes of composing an ode regarding a specimen of identical majesty. I have christened the work: ‘The Pertinent Tree!’”

“I see...” du Voy murmurs slowly, his skepticism lingering as John resumes his enraptured study of the trunk. Yet, slowly stroking his chin, the Frenchman’s eyes narrow to slits as he inspects the timber from its roots to its uppermost crown, and begins to falter. “Well, now that I apply myself, I confess I can almost discern the quality you describe.”

“You can?” John gasps, utterly startled, tearing his gaze from the wood to gape at his companion.

“Why, yes, beyond all doubt!” the Frenchman declares, his face brightening with fresh delight. “Indeed, I believe I am beginning to experience a touch of its pertinence myself.”

At this revelation, John turns his head back toward the oak, his features the very picture of bewildered astonishment.

“Surely, we both perceive the truth of it now, Monsieur,” continues du Voy with mounting warmth. “It is one of your glorious English oaks, standing in solitary grandeur . . . Yet, do you mean to tell me,” he adds, tilting his head with sudden curiosity, “that you traveled across the city, toward this specific château, for the sole purpose of admiring our solitary tree?”

John freezes, once again caught entirely flat-footed.

“Aha!” du Voy suddenly cries, with a huge grin upon his face, and striking his open palm. “I knew it from the start!”

“Knew what?” John stammers, his pulse quickening.

“I, too, have stolen out to this very oak at all hours of the night to drink deep from the spring of poetic inspiration. Great minds run in the very same channels, do they not, Monsieur?”

“Oh, undoubtedly; I could not agree more,” John sighs with immense relief. “And, now that my soul has been suitably refreshed,” he adds, taking a cautious backward step toward the street, “I believe it is high time I took myself home to my own quarters.”

“Not so fast, Monsieur!” du Voy calls out, raising a cautionary hand.

John halts dead in his tracks, his eyes bulging wide once again.

“Why squander such a magnificent evening?” du Voy asks cheerfully. “Since the muse has descended upon you, and you are already upon the grounds, what is preventing us from undertaking our grand collaboration this very hour?”

At that precise moment, another unmistakable, suffocated snicker erupts from Frank’s hiding place in the bushes.

Both men turn their heads in unison toward the sound, staring fixedly into the ink-black thicket. The heavy silence between the two lasts only an instant before du Voy loses all patience and bellows into the dark: “Silence, you loathsome, abominable owl!”

Without daring to exchange another syllable or glance back at Monsieur du Voy, John bolts across the lawn at full speed, shouting over his shoulder as his boots strike the road: “I must fly! A very good night to you, Monsieur du Voy!”

CHAPTER 3 WILL BE UPLOADED ON TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 17, 2026! DON'T MISS OUT ON THE FUN!