Inferno (46 page)

‘Might I enquire—'

‘No, sir, but I give you my solemn word upon it.'

Tucker paused, looking at him speculatively. ‘I'm minded to believe you. You will not profit by this knowledge, and it seems beyond belief that any lesser concern would see a child of Neptune so far from his natural element. Do tell me more.'

‘I have little to add other than that they'll be here in a matter of days at most and that it is my sworn duty to convey His Majesty to a place of safety beyond the seas.'

‘Ah. Then you will face more than a few difficulties. Let me be frank. My rank and position is anomalous and low, for King Louis the Eighteenth of France is an
embarrassment to the British government, who are reluctant to acknowledge him as an equal or yet more a supplicant. In short, my duty here is that of friendly ear and from time to time disburser of the generosity of King George's private purse, no more.

‘This implies you will not be thanked for any gallantry that involves a king's ship, for that does morally bind the principal into offering sanctuary, an alternative place of exile. At ruinous expense, you may accept. For that reason it would be trespassing beyond my powers should I assist in this way.'

Kydd bristled. ‘Sir Benjamin, I'm astonished at your attitude. Do you not have a duty to your masters?'

‘The Parliament of Great Britain and Ireland. Which requires I do not fluster them with distractions.'

‘Then, sir, out of your own mouth you are condemned. Our own King George thinks him of value, else why does he find it in his heart to fund the poor wight out of his own pocket? It would not go well with you, Sir Benjamin, should King Louis be taken by Boney's assassins.'

‘Calm yourself, please. I cannot assist, but I can most certainly be free with my advice, which if followed might achieve the object you desire.'

‘Which is?'

‘Let me set the scene for you. The Mitau Palace is in the gift of the Tsar of Russia who now, being under Bonaparte's spell, would be miffed indeed if its chief guest decides to depart, he no doubt seeing the King of France as a valuable bargaining piece. Therefore all Russians are your enemies. Now, in the palace our sainted king is at the pinnacle of a vast and complex establishment, all of which ceases to exist should its principal be removed, resulting in the throwing into penury of a legion of nobles and followers beyond
counting. And so we must accept that all royalist Frenchmen are your enemies.

‘The country you are in does not even have a name. The Duchy of Courland, the Livonians, the Polish-Lithuanians, others, even the Teutonic Knights have all ruled territories but none paramount. The natives speak a heathen tongue, Latvian, and cling to the distinction. But, mark me well, all are proud that the King of France has chosen their land for exile and revere him. Therefore you must count the local peoples as your enemy.'

‘What of his family here? If they heard that—'

‘His queen, Marie Joséphine, is his unforgiving foe for having been deprived of her female lover and would like nothing better than to see him to perdition. The Comte d'Artois, his brother, is a well-known thief of France's patrimony and requires the King to practise upon, while his closest confidant, the Comte d'Avaray sees everything, circling like a hawk over all, and would, without question, take it as his duty to frustrate any attempt to spirit him away. The
garde du corps
, his personal bodyguard, is half a regiment strong and are sworn to defend his body to the death. Added to which the palace heaves with spies and corruption in which nothing may pass unseen.'

Kydd smouldered. ‘Sir, I believe if I may have audience with His Majesty I can—'

‘As I've made abundantly clear, sir, that can never happen.'

‘God rot it, sir, but you're a sad comforter,' Kydd came back.

‘You'd rather I left it in your hands, an innocent to blunder about in such a moil? No, sir. I've but given you the lay. Now without doing violence to my conscience I believe I will tell you something more to your advantage. The Queen
is long retired to her apartments, taken by the dropsy. In her place as chatelaine, as we may say, is this king's niece whom he dotes upon. Marie-Thérèse is married to Louis Antoine, Duc d'Angoulême, a callow youth but of known sympathy to England. Should you declare a pressing desire to be introduced to this noble lady, then of my esteem for your rank, naturally I will feel obliged to grant it. It is then for you to convince her of your case, after which, if you are successful, she will go to the King and matters may well take another course for you.'

‘Sir Benjamin, I'm most obliged to you.' Like a foul wind turned fair, he was back on course.

‘You should be aware that the lady is a summer short of thirty and intelligent, but has suffered most grievously. In a fortress prison with her kingly father and mother while the revolutionary mob raged, she was torn from them, first one then the other taken to the guillotine, while she remained in durance for some years. She has the melancholy honour of being the only royal prisoner to survive the Terror, and has reason to fear the regicides. I conceive, Sir Thomas, that you will find a ready ear.'

‘S
ir Thomas Kydd,' blared a bored functionary. Kydd advanced, executed an elegant leg and raised his eyes.

‘Dear sir, be welcomed to us.'

The curiosity in her voice was undisguised – how many Englishmen of note would reach this far into the continent of their own desiring? And Tucker had been right: she was a handsome woman of character, her direct and strong features reminding him of Cecilia.

‘Oh, old chap, well met, what?'

Astonished, Kydd acknowledged the slight figure to one side, presumably her husband, the Duc d'Angoulême.

‘Sir, your English does you credit,' he replied.

‘As I was guest in your splendid country for too few years, Sir Thomas.'

‘Yes,' the duchess said cuttingly, in French. ‘Captain, Sir Benjamin did allow that you have something of mutual interest to discuss.'

The duke fiddled nervously with a tassel.

‘Of the most urgent and compelling nature, Your Royal
Highness.' Kydd looked about him meaningfully. ‘As must be communicated privily.'

She contemplated him with interest. ‘I really cannot conceive of what an English sea captain might consider a French duchess must know in so importunate a manner. However, I shall indulge you, sir, for a brief space.' An imperious wave of the hand and the drawing room was vacated by all save the duke, who stood up uncertainly, then sat again. ‘Now, Sir Thomas, pray what is your business?'

‘Madame, I'm captain of a frigate lately cruising off Stralsund.' He spoke in low, urgent tones and with as much conviction as he could muster. ‘And lately in possession of intelligence of an unpleasant nature concerning your king.'

‘Go on, sir,' she said steadily.

‘There is at this very moment, a party of assassins sent by Bonaparte to seize King Louis and take him to Paris. I'm here to provide a means of conveying him to a place of safety.'

The duke spluttered, ‘Even the Corsican would not stoop to—'

‘Be quiet,
cher cœur
. Captain, we've rumours enough in this place. Why should I believe this?'

‘The information came from one who is in a position to know the truth of the matter and can gain nothing by its falsity.'

‘Sir, this is hardly grounds for requesting the King of France to flee with you. I'm mindful that a distinguished gentleman such as yourself would not be here unless convinced, but to satisfy me you must disclose your source and why you do believe the same.'

‘Madame, it is … Marshal Bernadotte of France.'

There was a frozen silence.

‘From his lips?'

‘Just so. He deplores the tyrant's dishonouring of the name of France for reasons of personal insecurity, and—'

‘He is known to me. You will tell me his appearance, his style and bearing that I may be assured it is he.'

‘Ah, he is tall and slender, with dark curled hair. He dresses richly but plainly and, er, women might well account him handsome. He commands men as if born to it and—'

‘Thank you. Even if he serves Bonaparte he is a man of honour.' She bit her lip, concentrating, then came to a decision. ‘Very well. I will accept that you have trustworthy information. Because of the need for haste I shall go to the King immediately. Do hold yourself ready to see him, if you will, Captain.'

She left in a swirl of brocade.

Kydd tried to make conversation with the agitated duke and was glad when Marie-Thérèse swept back in.

Wringing her hands, she told Kydd, ‘He refuses to leave, saying they wouldn't dare to move against him in his own palace, this is only another foolish rumour, and there is no proof they exist.'

‘Madame, I must press you. In a very short while they will be here. If there are traitors and such who will aid them there's every—'

‘Sir, I know more than you do that this may well be so, but you must understand. My uncle is stubborn and, as a king, set in his ways. I cannot so easily move him.'

‘You must, Madame! Time presses and this band—'

‘You ask too much! He's the King of France and not to be commanded.'

Kydd saw there was no more to do. He'd done all he could
and had been spurned. Already guilty of being off-station he was not in a position to wait indefinitely. ‘Then, with much sorrow, I fear I must take my leave, Your Royal Highness. There are duties my ship must perform that require her presence in distant waters. I shall depart in the morning.'

‘Is there nothing I can do to persuade you to remain a little longer? The King may—'

‘It is a time of war, Madame. My ship's movements are out of my hands. I'm desolated to refuse you but I must.'

K
ydd knew the charade could play out over weeks or months if Bonaparte's agents didn't end it first. He'd kept his word to Bernadotte but his attempt to save the King of France had been disdained, so he could depart with a clear conscience. When Dillon heard what had happened, he agreed there was nothing else to do but prepare to leave.

The morning was grey and dull, suiting Kydd's mood. The coachman chatted to Dillon in German, letting it be known that a return to Libau instead of the crowded squalor of Riga had much to commend it.

As the quaint-coloured houses gave way to fields they lurched to a stop and the coachman shouted down.

‘He says someone follows,' Dillon said darkly.

The sound of a galloping horse closing with the carriage grew louder and Kydd leaned out of the window to see a single rider, who was up with them in a crash of hoofs. A sealed note was thrust at him, the horse gyrating in impatience as Kydd tore it open.

It was from Marie-Thérèse: ‘Return, I beg you. Everything
has changed. We have desperate need of you.'