Clash of Empires (11 page)

“Of course, my lord,” Congreve says.

The duke turns to the earl. “Lord Wenzel-Halls, will you ride with me back to London?”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” the earl says. “But I have another matter to attend to. I will find my own way back.”

“As you wish,” the duke says with a short bow.

 

IN PRIVATE

“Lieutenant Frost, I am given to understand that you requested a private audience with me,” the earl says. He pushes his plate away from him with an expression of contentment.

“That is true, my lord,” Frost says, including Willem with a nod. “For both of us.”

“The two saur-slayers,” the earl says. “Is it anything that cannot be said in front of your fellow officers?”

“It is a private matter concerning your son,” Frost says.

The earl's expression grows cold. “Come with me,” he says. “We will adjourn to the smoking lounge.”

The earl's aide, a hard-faced man, is the first to stand.

“A private matter,” Frost emphasizes.

“There is nothing that Arbuckle's ears cannot hear,” the earl says.

As they walk, Willem says quietly to Frost, “I did not get the chance to ask the duke about Héloïse.”

“For the best, I think,” Frost says. “However, the earl also is a man of great influence. We will ask him.”

The smoking lounge is a plush room that reeks of cigars. Arbuckle closes the door and stands in front of it. He is more than an aide, Willem thinks. He is a protector, a guardian. Arbuckle is a dangerous-looking man. One of his sleeves rides up a little as he folds his arms across his chest, and he smooths it back down, but not before Willem has seen the hilt of a weapon, probably a small dagger, strapped to his wrist.

The earl settles himself into an armchair and produces a box of snuff. He takes a pinch and discards it before speaking, dabbing at his nose with a handkerchief.

“My son,” he says. “I was blessed with only one. Therefore you speak of Dylan.”

“We do, my lord,” Frost says.

The earl lifts his head, as if raising himself above such conversation.

“Lost at Waterloo,” he says. “His body was not found, therefore I still hold hope for his return. Unless of course he was eaten by one of Napoléon's monsters.”

“Your son survived the battle,” Frost says.

“He was not eaten,” Willem adds.

The earl sits forward suddenly in his armchair. “You know this for a fact?”

“The British Army set up a field hospital in my village,” Willem says. “It was there I met Lieutenant Frost. Your son was there, also.”

“So you saw him, Lieutenant?” the earl asks.

“My eyes were lost before I arrived at the hospital,” Frost says. “I did not see him, but I spoke to him.”

“Then what became of him?” the earl asks. “Is he held prisoner by the French? There has been no ransom demand.”

“He aided us in our flight from the village,” Willem says. “But he had been wounded and was near death, even then.”

There is a silence.

“You are sure this was the earl's son?” Arbuckle asks. His voice rasps like rough stones.

“I am an officer and a gentleman,” Frost says. “You have no need to doubt my word.”

“You were blinded,” Arbuckle says. “And dependent on the word of the man you met. And I mean no disrespect, but you are still a child.”

“As was Dylan when he was wounded in battle,” Willem says. “And as he was also when he helped us escape, at risk of his own life.”

“If it was my son,” the earl says.

“He gave me this,” Willem says, taking a leather cord from around his neck. On it is a ring, with a crown below a lion. “He asked me to return it to you.”

The earl, who has opened his mouth to speak, now closes it. He reaches out and takes the ring, turning it over and over in his hands. His shoulders crumple and the whole man seems to deflate. Eventually he slips the ring onto one of his fingers.

“You really believe him to be dead?” he asks softly. “I have long suspected, but still, in my vanity, have held on to the idea that he hides somewhere in Europe, banded together with other survivors, or perhaps taken in by the Prussians.”

“The amputation was a high one,” Willem says.

He does not have to explain what that means. Dylan had little chance of survival.

“There was little life left in his body when we bade him farewell,” Frost says. “I feel he used his last breaths to buy us time to escape.”

“Which would explain why there has been no contact, no ransom demand,” the earl says. He bows his head, all trace of arrogance now gone. A father grieving over a lost son. No longer a nobleman, just a man, suddenly old.

“Your son was a hero, my lord,” Frost says. “Without him, we would not be here, and our army would not have the benefit of Willem's knowledge. Thanks to your son, we have a chance against the battlesaurs.”

The earl nods. “He was a strong boy, in character and in body. He would one day have made a fine earl.”

“I am sorry for your loss,” Frost says.

Willem echoes the words but they seem trite and meaningless in the face of the earl's misery.

“I thank you for the return of this ring,” the earl says. “And for your information about my son. If there is ever anything I can do, a favor to return, you need only ask.”

“The rescue mission to the abbey in the Sonian Forest,” Frost says.

“That will have to wait,” the earl says. “The duke has made his decision.”

Willem draws a deep breath. “I do not want to go to the Sonian,” he says. “I am frightened of the place. I am frightened of what I might find there, of what I might have to face. I am secretly pleased that the duke has said no.”

“Then we are agreed,” the earl says.

“All I have lived for these past few months is the warmth of Cosette's smile and the sound of my mother's voice,” Willem says. “Each morning I wake thinking of the day when I will see them safe from Napoléon's grasp. This is my only desire. I will go to the Sonian, despite what I may find there.”

“You offered a favor,” Frost says.

“I will speak to the duke,” the earl says. “That is all I can do.”

“Speak firmly,” Frost says.

“There is something else,” Willem says. “There is a girl in the lunatic asylum of St. Mary of Bethlem.”

“Bedlam,” the earl says with a sigh.

“She is a friend,” Willem says. “She saved my life.”

“And mine,” Frost says.

“This untamed creature saved your lives?” The earl looks incredulous.

“In our escape from Gaillemarde she showed us secret ways through the forest,” Frost says.

“And in Antwerp she outwitted a traitor,” Willem says. “We would not be here except for her.”

“Remarkable,” the earl says. “But if she is in Bedlam, it is for a reason.”

Willem shakes his head. “She is unwell, but not in the way they think. She is not mad. She is just … different. Someone beyond their experience or their ability to ‘cure.'”

“Different. Beyond their experience.” The earl repeats the words, not as a question, just sounding them out with his own voice.

“I fear they simply do not understand her,” Willem says. “They cannot comprehend who she is or what she has suffered.”

“Which is?”

“She is a child of the forest,” Willem says. “For her, safety lies in the natural world, in trees and streams and caves. She cannot cope with a city such as London. She may not have been mad when she came here, but confinement in an asylum, in this city, will surely drive her mad if she is not released soon.”

“It is true,” Frost says.

“And I need her, if this mission is to succeed,” Willem says. “We must again travel through the Sonian Forest, using the secret ways that only she knows.”

“But I am not sure what I can do,” the earl says. “The principal physician at Bedlam is Thomas Monro, a most single-minded man.”

“We met him,” Frost says.

“He has consulted on the sad case of our dear, demented king, and is held in high regard within his profession,” the earl says.

“Surely he would listen to you,” Frost says.

The earl glances over at Arbuckle and they smile at some private joke.

“Most unlikely,” the earl says. “I have many times decried the conditions, and the treatment of inmates, at Bedlam. I have been a vocal supporter of St. Luke's Hospital, which makes me an enemy to Bedlam. I am afraid that Doctor Monro would probably do the opposite of what I say.”

“Then tell him not to release her,” Willem says.

The earl just smiles. “If I ask him and he refuses, then I feel it would take no less than an order from the king to obtain her release, and I fear such an order would be a long time coming, considering the king's current state of health.”

“So there is nothing you can do?” Frost asks.

“Officially, no,” the earl says. “Unofficially, if you were to somehow spirit the girl out of that godforsaken place, then I could find a place for her where Monro cannot reach her.”

“Wenzel Park?” Arbuckle asks.

“My thoughts exactly,” the earl says. “My country estate. It is not far from the city yet has wide stretches of forest. Perhaps she would feel at home there.”

“It sounds wonderful, but if we cannot get Héloïse out—” Willem begins, but is cut off by Frost.

“A kind and generous offer,” Frost says.

“I am sure you will find a way,” the earl says. “The building is a collapsing morass of broken walls and uneven floors. Many doors do not even close, let alone lock. And most of the staff have already shifted to the new hospital, leaving only a skeleton staff at the old.”

“Patients often escape and are found wandering in the streets,” Arbuckle adds.

“That may be the case for ordinary inmates,” Willem says. “But I fear that Monro will be taking special care with Héloïse.”

“You mean he suspects our plans?” Frost asks.

“Yes,” Willem says.

“Then he may move her sooner than we think,” Frost says.

“You must not wait until she is transferred to the new asylum,” the earl says. “The doors there are strong and it has high walls. Once she is inside, you will never get her out.”

Willem thinks for a moment, then says, “Can you find out when she will be moved?”

“My man can make some discreet inquiries,” the earl says, and Arbuckle nods.

“Not too discreet,” Willem says, and for the first time that day, he smiles.

 

A PROUD AND LUCKY SHIP

“The little fish is about to see the hook,” Lavigne says. “We shall watch her squirm.”

Thibault does not reply, but he smiles, briefly.

A British frigate had appeared off their starboard bow just after dawn, materializing out of a rainsquall. She had probably located the French invasion fleet earlier but held position, undetected, until first light when she could gauge their course and the number of ships.

The dark and the weather could not conceal the frigate for long, and just after five bells she was spotted by lookouts on the
Magnanime
, a seventy-four-gun ship of the line on the French fleet's eastern flank.

The frigate had maintained her position, unaware of the trap that was already being laid for her.

There are eighteen ships in the French fleet. Nestled in the center are the three first-rate ships of the line, the
Duc d'Angoulême
, the
Montebello
, and the
Impérial
, each with a hundred and ten guns, each towing a heavy barge with its valuable cargo. They are protected by an outer screen of second- and third-rate ships.

At the rear are two sheep in wolves' clothing. The
Canard
and the
Mouette
: the duck and the seagull. These ships are freighters, lightly loaded and fast, able to fly across the tops of the waves, unencumbered by the apparatus of war. They are not weighed down by cannon, barrels of gunpowder, and racks of heavy cannonballs, nor by a large crew and all the necessary provisions that entails.

Each of the freighters is disguised as a heavy man-o'-war. The gun ports are merely painted on and the cannon on their top deck are made of wood, but on the heaving sea in the first light of morning it would take the eye of an eagle to tell the difference.

At the first sighting of the British ship, Thibault had ordered the fleet to bear away to the northwest.

The
Canard
and the
Mouette
dropped back, as if unable to keep pace, although in reality they are the fleet's fastest ships.

The British frigate followed the fleet, unconcerned about two lumbering men-o'-war fading away to the rear.

As soon as the rain and mist had closed in around them, the
Canard
and the
Mouette
had changed course, raising full sail, bearing to the northeast, invisible to the frigate, cutting off her escape route.

Now Thibault stands on the poop deck, steadying himself on the railing of the stern. He raises his spyglass and examines the British ship through the slowly easing rain. She seems a sleek little vessel, a twenty-six gunner, square-rigged on all masts: a nippy little dog with a sharp bite and an even sharper turn of speed. A trio of officers stand on the foredeck of the frigate, watching him watching them.

Showers and squalls, some heavy, have been with them since the French fleet left the port of Brest on the French coast. The rain at times is cold and hard, driving in on whiplike gusts of wind. But now it is fading and as it does, so the visibility increases and the
Canard
and the
Mouette
appear like ghosts, shimmering apparitions that gradually solidify into ships, to the stern of the frigate.