Clash of Empires (16 page)

Without warning the claws disappear. Her arms snake, lightning fast, around his neck. She pulls her face down to his and the next thing he feels are lips, soft and moist on his own. He has time to notice their warmth, and the heat of her body, cradling his, then she is gone in a blur of movement, disappearing into the forest.

The others approach and Willem wipes away tears before they become visible in the lamplight.

“Should we search for her?” Arbuckle asks. “The woods are unsafe at night. There are dragonrats in the undergrowth and pregnant adders near the pond. The stags too. They grow more aggressive as the rutting season approaches.”

“The place she is safest is in the woods at night,” Willem says.

“What would you have me do?” Arbuckle asks, looking at the trees where Héloïse disappeared.

“Please do nothing,” Willem says. “Leave the girl entirely alone, and instruct all your servants and groundsmen to do the same. Leave some food in a place where she will find it, but do not be concerned if she does not eat it. She can forage for herself.”

“Willem, we should get back to the barracks,” Frost says. “Before too many questions are asked.”

Willem nods. “Mr. Arbuckle, please thank the earl for us. I will return tomorrow and wait for Héloïse to emerge from the forest, although I fear that may take some time.”

“Your horses are ready,” Arbuckle says. “And this terrible carriage will disappear into one of our stables.” He smiles. “It will make a fine hay cart with a few alterations.”

“Will she be all right?” Frost asks, staring at the dark trees. He does not mean in the forest.

“I pray that she will,” Willem says.

He can still taste her on his lips and he thinks that the taste of a woman is not altogether unpleasant. That and the strange sensations in his belly make him wonder if there is more to their connection than that which is seen. Perhaps fate has bound their paths together from that day, when they were both so young and he saved her life.

He wonders if perhaps this half-crazed wild girl is the one he is destined to spend his life with.

His next thought is of Cosette.

 

THE ROAD TO CORK

The bodies of two British soldiers lie beside the road. One is facedown in a ditch in a jumble of contorted limbs, the other lies on his back, his eyes closed as if sleeping. They were messengers, sent by Fort James to warn the garrison at Cork Harbour. When they were intercepted by French troops, their warning died with them. Their fast horses are now in the service of the French Army.

The first of the artillery rumbles past the two bodies. A team of six horses pulling a gleaming twelve-pounder cannon, followed by three caissons of ammunition. These are followed by another cannon, and another, a seemingly endless train of men, horses, and weaponry.

The artillery is preceded by the cuirassiers, descendants of the medieval knights. The tallest, strongest men, on the tallest, strongest horses, resplendent in their shining armor, heavily armed with carbine, pistol, and saber.

Following the artillery, at a distance so as not to spook the horses, are battlesaurs—beasts such as have never been seen in Ireland before. Nearly twenty feet tall, lumbering along on two giant rear legs, with jaws full of jagged teeth that could swallow a man whole, controlled by riders using a contraption of cords and wires.

As dawn breaks, the teams of horses stop on high ground above the harbor. The invaders pull the cannon around to face the British ships anchored below them and unlimber, making ready to fire. Linstocks are lit, gunpowder is rammed. Cannonballs are loaded.

Sailors on the ships of the British fleet below them awake to screams from Fort Camden, which overlooks the harbor, and a short time later are shocked at the sight of a French flag flying over its walls.

Scouts from the ships retreat under volleys of musketfire.

Suddenly the HMS
Bulwark
, anchored in the middle of the harbor, near the small second British fort on Spike Island, begins to unfurl its sails. A captain brave or foolish enough to make a run for the safety of the open sea.

*   *   *

Thibault smiles. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the heavy stone parapets of Fort Camden.

“Your gunners know what to do,” he says, watching the British vessel's desperate dash for freedom.

Already the corporals in charge of the gun crews on the heights above the harbor are traversing and aligning their cannon. On a signal from the fort, the guns speak in unison.

Most of the cannonballs miss, but a few cut through the rigging and sails of the
Bulwark
. The French corporals are adjusting their aim, the spongemen are swabbing out the barrels, and the bombardiers are reloading the guns.

The cannon on the ships do not respond. They do not have the elevation to fire up at the hills.

The second cannon volley is more accurate and a deadly hail of iron balls smashes into the
Bulwark
. Twice more the cannon sound, then they fall silent at another signal from Thibault.

There is no need to waste any more shot. The crushed wreckage of what is left of the ship is already slipping beneath the surface.

“Raise the parley flag,” Thibault says to an aide. “We will accept nothing less than their unconditional surrender. That includes the fort on Spike Island. And send a messenger to Napoléon. Tell him that England is ripe for the plucking.”

He turns to Montenot. “Ready the saurs. As soon as the British ships strike their flags we will ride for Ballincollig. Let the battlesaurs lead the way.”

“Lead the way, General?” Montenot asks. “You don't wish to hold them in reserve?”

Thibault shook his head. “When the cavalry at Ballincollig see my fine young ladies, they will melt away into the hills. The battle will be avoided. And if not, then my girls will have a fine feast of horse.”

 

CONFINEMENT

Cosette waits as the guard's footsteps draw close by the door to their cell, then gradually recede. Since shortly after her return, the whole encampment has been in an uproar about the disappearance of Sergeant Belette. She and Marie Verheyen have been confined to their cell, a guard posted outside day and night. This is the first time they have been left unattended.

She had come under suspicion herself; however, nobody in the French camp seemed able to believe that a young, slender girl could have had anything to do with the demise of a tough old boot like Belette. She has dared say nothing that might reach the ears of the guard, although she has indicated with gestures to Marie that she has news.

When she hears the door at the end of the corridor open and shut, and the click of the lock, she moves quickly over to the square hole in the stone wall, the airhole that connects their cell to the one adjacent. Marie moves to stand next to her.

“I saw François yesterday at the rock pool,” Cosette says.

Marie gasps.

“The son of the priest?” The voice of Maarten Verheyen, Willem's father, sounds hollow through the narrow airhole that leads to the other cell.

“Yes, him,” Cosette says.

“So he escaped Gaillemarde?” Maarten asks.

“He did, and saved a number of the children of the village,” Cosette says.

“God bless him,” Marie says.

“Where has he been for all these months?” Maarten asks.

“I do not know, monsieur,” Cosette says.

“Was he responsible for Belette?” Maarten asks.

“He was,” Cosette says. “Belette attacked me at the pool. François saved me.”

“Saved you how?” Marie asks.

“We shall see Belette no more,” Cosette says. “But there are more important things to discuss before the guard returns.”

“Did François bring news?”

“No news, but perhaps hope,” Cosette says. She makes her own voice small, to conceal the excitement she feels.

“What did he say?” Marie asks.

“He confirms that Willem is alive,” Cosette says.

Marie gasps and places a hand on the wall for support. “God is merciful,” she whispers.

“I told you this was so,” Maarten says from the other side of the wall. “Why would they keep asking you about him if he was dead?”

Marie seems not to hear him. “François is certain?”

Cosette looks around sharply at a noise from outside, but it is nothing but the breeze. “He says Willem, Héloïse, and some British soldiers escaped through passages, caves, underneath the forest, that the emperor's men do not know about,” Cosette says. “Then Willem used some kind of illusion to vanish from under the emperor's nose.”

Maarten snorts with laughter.

“The boy is his father's son,” Marie says, with clear affection for them both.

“The boy is now a man,” Maarten says. “And one to be proud of.”

“It is true,” Marie says.

“These passages,” Maarten says. “Could we not also use them to escape? Can François help us?”

“Even he does not know the ways through the caves,” Cosette says.

“We must let Willem know where we are,” Maarten says.

“You must not involve our son in our plight,” Marie says. “He is safe somewhere. Let him stay that way.”

“Safe?” Maarten asks. “How can he be safe? The emperor's men hunt for him everywhere. They will not stop until they find him because they fear what he knows.”

“He has sense,” Marie says. “He was trying to reach England. He will stay there and be safe.”

“He will not,” Cosette says quietly.

She is conscious of Marie turning slowly to look at her.

“He will hunt for us,” Cosette says. “For you, and for me. He has fire, your son. He will not stop searching.”

“And England will not be a safe place for him,” Maarten says. “The guards talk every day of the invasion. Soon England will be just another of Napoléon's conquests. Then where will Willem hide? We must get word to him. We must let him know where we are.”

“But how?” Cosette asks.

“François,” Marie says.

“He does not know where Willem is,” Cosette says.

A cockroach crawls slowly along the small air passage between the two cells.

“Sofie Thielemans knows where Willem is, or at least how to reach him,” Marie says. “I gave Willem her name when last I saw him in Gaillemarde.”

“That was wise. But we cannot involve her in this again,” Maarten says. “It is too dangerous.”

“You fear for your old teacher, yet are prepared to risk the life of our son!” Marie says, and she weeps silently.

The cockroach emerges from the hole and begins to climb the wall. It crawls across Marie's hand, but she does not seem to notice. The wind stirs again in the corridor outside the cells. Cosette examines the sound for any hint of the guard returning.

“Can we trust this boy?” Maarten asks softly.

“François? Of course,” Cosette says quickly. “He saw what happened at Gaillemarde. He has no reason to favor the French. And he killed Belette.”

“But what if he is captured?” Maarten asks. “And reveals Sofie's identity? If she does know Willem's location, then that will put both of them in danger.”

“He says he knows these woods better than a thousand Frenchmen,” Cosette says.

“The risk is too great,” Maarten says softly.

“My husband is right,” Marie says. “Say nothing to François.”

Cosette nods, but she thinks they are wrong. She thinks of the way Willem used to look at her. Of the flush in his face when she once kissed his cheek. And Willem would never stop searching for his mother. Not ever.

 

COUNCIL OF WAR

Of all the places that Jack least expects to find himself in his life, the War Office in Whitehall is probably at the top of the list.

This is a place for leaders and noblemen, not lads like Jack. But here he is, at an emergency meeting of the War Council.

Some faces he does know because he has met the men: the Earl of Leicester, and the Duke of Wellington. Others, such as Viscount Melville, the First Lord of the Admiralty, and Lord Liverpool, the prime minister of England, he knows because their portraits hang on the wall at the barracks.

Lord Liverpool sits barely ten yards from where Jack is standing, and just to be in the presence of these great men makes Jack nervous, afraid that he will do something wrong. That he will talk too loudly or say something stupid.

And of course the more he thinks about not doing these things, the more likely it is that one or the other of them is to happen.

He is grateful for Lieutenant Frost's presence by his side. Jack has been the lieutenant's official aide for just a few days. Not for writing or reading—Frost has an adjutant for that—but for helping Frost get around without his eyes. He
is
Frost's eyes, and the thought makes him proud.

He and Frost are in a raised gallery that surrounds the War Office on all four sides. It is packed with generals and admirals.

Jack whispers to Frost the names of those attending, at least those he knows. “But I can't see the king,” he says.

“The king is unwell,” Frost whispers back.

“I hope he is soon recovered,” Jack says. “Long live the king.”

“Our king will not live long,” Frost says. “And he no longer functions as a king.”

“I ain't sure what you mean, sir,” Jack says after a moment.

“The king's mind has gone,” Frost says.

“Gone where?” Jack asks.

“He is mad,” Frost says. “But we must not talk of this. It could be considered treason.”

Jack looks around quickly to see if anyone has been listening to their conversation. For the moment, the others all seem to be engaged in conversations of their own.

“I hope he's not at Bedlam,” Jack says. “I didn't like that place.”

Frost smiles. “The king is not at Bedlam.”