Clash of Empires (25 page)

“This wily old magician still has a few tricks up her sleeve,” Sofie says.

 

A MAN OF GOD

François has a perch high in a leafy tree, from where he can see most of the comings and goings of the abbey. He has built himself a platform on which to sleep and strung unobtrusive ropes to neighboring trees that let him move around the forest without being seen by those on the ground.

Today he is sharing his perch with a bellsaur, a good-natured tree-dwelling saur that is harmless unless provoked. François knows not to provoke it.

He rubs absently at the scar on his head. He does not remember getting the scar. His cousin Jean told him it was from his own ax as they leaped off a waterfall to escape a firebird. He pretended he remembered, but he didn't. However, he remembers his cousin. More like a brother. It was a tragedy that Jean didn't have the faith, the belief in God and in Napoléon. That his sinning led him to the wrong path. It was an even greater tragedy that it was François who had to be the one to relieve Jean of his burden of sin, and help him on his path to heaven.

Cosette emerges from the gates and heads for the rock pool. François watches her walk for a moment, admiring the lithe confidence of her gait and the proud angle of her head.

After checking that she is not followed, he slithers along one of his rope walks to a different tree. There are two ropes, a low one to stand on and a high one for his hands. It was his uncle who taught him this. The memory of his uncle brings a smile until he remembers he is dead, and who killed him.

Thibault.

A quick climb down and he emerges from the trees just as Cosette reaches the pool.

“François,” she says.

There is a depth of meaning in her voice. A raw emotion, and he wants to think that it is happiness at seeing him, he so wants to believe that, but there are many things that could cause that ragged edge to her voice and that sudden shortness of breath. Only time will tell if the heavens have more in store for the two of them.

“Cosette,” he says graciously, with just the right touch of formality.

“Did you meet Sofie?”

“I did, but she could not help,” François says. “I gave her the message regardless, in the hope that she will be able to pass it on.”

“You were careful? Nobody saw you?” She looks nervous.

“Nobody,” François says. This is true. Nobody saw him go to the old lady's house. It is not the whole truth, but at least it is not a lie.

Cosette breathes out slowly. “It was dangerous. It was stupid of me to ask you to perform this task. I am sorry.”

“The smallest task for you brings me the greatest pleasure,” François says, and immediately regrets it. Has he overstated things? Too much, too soon? It seems that he might have.

“Willem is my one true love,” Cosette says, and her words cut like knives. “If my actions have put him in danger, I could not forgive myself.”

“I was extremely careful,” François says. “I would not want harm to come to him.”

This, finally, is an outright lie, and he chastens himself for it, but he could not avoid it. More and more he is hoping that Willem has been killed and thus removed from the affections of the beautiful creature who stands before him. If that is God's will, if it is God's will that François and Cosette should be together, then surely He would ensure that Willem met a quick and painless end.

“And, besides, if Willem was captured or killed, Napoléon would have us executed,” Cosette says.

François is shocked. Why would she say such a thing?

“That is not true,” François says. “Napoléon is a man of God. A man sent by God. You speak perhaps of the devil, Thibault.”

“I speak of Napoléon,” Cosette says. “That is what I have heard. When he no longer needs us, he will have us killed. It is more important than ever for us to get away.”

François shakes his head. She must be confused. Napoléon would not do such a thing. She is wrong, but he elects not to argue with her. Let her find out in good time what a godly man Napoléon really is.

“Come with me now,” François says.

“I cannot—I will not leave the others,” Cosette says.

François nods. “If you can find a way to get all three of you outside the main gate, I will get you to safety. Can you do that?”

“I can try,” Cosette says.

 

THE ROAD TO CALAIS

Through a narrow gap between a dead man's arm and a dead man's leg, Jack sees the gates of a walled city slide past the cart. There are no signs, but he has heard the French soldiers speak of Calais more than once.

The trip has taken most of two days and he has not eaten in that time. He has toileted just once, at night, climbing down off the cart when the French soldiers were asleep. He tried to get to the caged wagon with the prisoners more than once, but there were always guards stationed around it.

He needs to urinate now, and does so, without shifting his position. The cart already carries the stench of excrement; a little more will make no difference.

The warmth of it is strangely comforting in the fabric of his trousers.

He has shifted around so that he won't have to face Lars's cold, sightless eyes. There is something accusatory in that gaze, and Jack feels responsible for the big man's death, although he does not know why.

It is easier to turn the other way and stare at the back of a balding Frenchman's head than to face those eyes.

They finally come to a halt outside a high-walled courtyard with a heavy, barred door. The clanking of chains comes from the front of the column and he hears McConnell's voice swearing at someone.

He eases himself over the back of the meat cart and slips into a shadowy doorway. He waits until the rest of the column moves off, then crosses the road to a stable where a pair of gray horses eye him incuriously as he nestles in the pile of straw between them, keeping an eye on the building across the street. It has high walls and barred windows. A prison.

It is warm in the straw and despite his best intentions, after being awake constantly for two days, he sleeps.

 

THE DEVIL'S RETURN

Thibault climbs carefully down the side of the French schooner into the unsteady belly of the flat-bottomed boat that has been waiting for him. He does it with seeming ease, despite having only one hand to grasp the rope netting.

It is not easy, but he will not look weak or crippled in front of others.

The shores of Berck are wide and flat, and only the flat-bottomed fishing boats of the village are shallow enough to navigate them.

The small, fast schooner that has brought him this far raises its sails the moment he is aboard the smaller boat. The schooner escapes to the north.

Napoléon may own the land, but the Royal Navy owns the sea, and the schooner's captain does not want to be trapped against the Berck shallows should a British warship appear.

The fishing vessel slaps and wallows in the wake of the schooner and Thibault sits, holding on to the seat, although the boat's master continues to stand, seemingly unaffected by the rocking. He is a surprisingly young man with skin brown from the sun and lined with salt from the sea spray. He does not look at Thibault. Not once.

The boat itself smells so strongly of fish, old and new, that Thibault has to turn his head to the side, toward the breeze, to be able to breathe.

The fisherman raises a tall sail and the boat is quickly tugged in the direction of the shore.

Along the shore Thibault sees carts lined up, waiting to receive today's catch from the school of boats, just like this one, that dot the sea off the coast.

When the flat bottom of the boat slides softly onto sand, Thibault climbs over the prow onto the shore, to avoid wetting his boots. He turns and tosses a small pouch of coins to the fisherman, who nods gratitude, still without looking at Thibault. He will probably make the sign of the cross, Thibault thinks, as soon as his back is turned.

A soldier is waiting with two horses on the beach. Evidence that his carrier pigeon message was received. The stench from the fish-carts is worse than that of the boat, and Thibault is glad to mount and follow the young officer across the hard sand up toward the land.

He smiles when they reach the road and head north. Ireland is taken. The invasion of Britain is about to begin.

He spurs his horse on, the lieutenant following close behind. It is a four-hour ride to Calais.

 

CONFUSION

“I have done everything you have asked, have I not?” François asks.

He has met Baston on the outskirts of Brussels. They ride together as if they're old friends taking the air. Baston's men ride a few paces behind them, just out of earshot.

“You have been a diligent and faithful servant of Napoléon,” Baston says.

“And I have helped you capture Willem,” François says.

“He eludes us as yet,” Baston says. “But not for long.”

“Then you have no longer any need for the prisoners you hold. Release them to me. I will take them far from here.”

“Yes, you are right, François,” Baston says. “When Willem is captured we will no longer have a need to keep the prisoners. But I will not release them to you. I cannot. I am under strict orders.”

“What will happen to them?” François asks.

“That is military business, and not yours,” Baston says.

“You are under strict orders,” François says, “from General Thibault?”

Baston's face changes suddenly and he seems to be watching François closely. He chooses his words carefully. “My orders do not come from General Thibault. They are from a much higher authority.”

“From Napoléon?” François asks.

Baston nods.

François lowers his eyes, turning away in case any of his private thoughts betray him and display on his face. Baston means to kill the prisoners. That is clear. The old man he does not care about, but the others are women. Innocents. Willem's mother, who has always been good to him, and the beautiful Cosette. God would not condone the slaughter of these two. But Napoléon is the instrument of God.

It does not make sense.

 

THE GOD OF WAR

The sun has long since dropped behind the stone walls of the prison, yet Jack waits, watching the deepening sky as the hard shadows of the buildings soften and darken. When the twilight ocher has faded and the stars have made their appearance, he slips quietly out the stable door.

He was not bothered during the day. His stall remained empty, and the stable workers did not see him in the rear corner, covered in straw. They did come in several times to attend to one of the horses, a small gray Arabian that bears the scars of battle. This horse belongs to someone important, Jack feels, and he wonders if it is the famous Marengo, the steed of Napoléon himself. He examines the ornate leather saddle on the bar at the front of the stall and decides that it probably is.

The street outside the prison is quiet. It is not a main thoroughfare. At this time, when most people are in their beds or at their dinners, it is deserted. Jack picks up a rock from near the stable door. Palm sized, it is smooth like a river stone. He pockets it as he sees an empty wine bottle lying in the gutter. He takes the bottle and fills it with water from the horse trough. He stoppers it with clay scraped from the side of the road, pressing it into the neck until it is as watertight as he can make it. He swings it in his hand, feeling the weight, then with a quick glance up and down the lane, crosses to the outer wall of the prison.

*   *   *

Inside the prison walls, General Marc Thibault sits in a chair in the corner of a room and watches the young British lieutenant who squirms under his one-eyed gaze.

“You are alive only by my grace,” Thibault says at last. “Spies are to be executed immediately on capture.”

“I am no spy,” the lieutenant says. “I am a soldier on a soldier's mission.”

“You wear a French uniform,” Thibault says. “That makes you a spy.”

“I am no spy,” the lieutenant says, spitting on the ground in front of him.

Thibault stares at the spittle for a moment before continuing.

“A soldier,” he says.

“I am Lieutenant Hew McConnell,” the lieutenant says. “A soldier in the Fifth Artillery and the son of a nobleman.”

“A soldier and a nobleman,” Thibault says. He smiles, and it is clear that the British lieutenant misinterprets the reason for it.

“My father is Lord Byron McConnell of Inverness,” McConnell says. “He will pay a handsome reward for my return.”

“Yes, soldiers can be ransomed,” Thibault says evenly. “But spies cannot. If you are a soldier, you must be a brave one, to be on so dangerous a mission.”

“There is none braver,” McConnell says, then pales as he realizes the trap he has fallen into.

“Convince me, then,” Thibault says. “Tell me of your mission.”

“I will not, sir,” McConnell says.

“The mission is already a failure,” Thibault says. “We captured or killed all of your men. What harm can it do to reveal details of a mission that will no longer take place?”

“I am a man of honor,” McConnell says. “Surely you would not expect me to talk to the enemy.”

“A spy has no honor,” Thibault says.

“I am no spy,” McConnell says.

“This becomes repetitive,” Thibault says, standing and pacing. “There are two very simple possibilities in front of us. Either you are a soldier, which you can prove by revealing details of your mission, or you are a spy. I will give you exactly five seconds to choose which you are. At the end of the five seconds, if I have had no response, I will take you for a spy and have you shot. One.”

“That is not enough time—”

“Two,” Thibault says.

“I will tell you,” McConnell says, his eyes darting desperately around the room as if looking for a means of escape. “I am no spy. But I want a promise that I will be ransomed back to my father.”