Inferno (47 page)

Did this mean …?

‘Take us to the palace!' Kydd ordered.

Outwardly all was calm as a blank-faced major-domo escorted him to the quarters of the Duc d'Angoulême.

She was waiting for him. After a warning look to remain silent until they were alone, she said flatly, ‘You were right. They are here, now. A spy has reported seeing Lecoq – one of Fouché's assassins – in a nearby village. There's a coach-and-six with him.'

The fastest mode of transport, impossible to catch in pursuit.

‘The King?'

‘He's prostrated in dread – his memories. He desires nothing more than to be taken from here by any means.'

The whites of her eyes were showing – this woman of any would know what it was to live in terror.

‘My frigate lies at Libau. On board he'll be perfectly safe, I do assure you.'

Marie-Thérèse paced nervously about the room. ‘To get him out of the palace will be hard. If he's seen to be fleeing it will cause chaos, panic. And it will tell Lecoq all he needs to know. We must think.'

Her husband entered, distraught and unsure.

Glancing at him, she came to a decision. ‘Yes. We will move immediately. Captain, if by some means we bring the King to you in hiding as it were, would you take him with you to your ship?'

Kydd bowed. ‘Yes, Madame.'

She considered for a moment, then went to an ornate desk and wrote something on a slip of paper. ‘Give this to your
coachman and tell him to wait in the courtyard of this house.'

‘Your Royal Highness, I—'

‘Leave now, and you will not be suspected. We will meet again in happier times, you may be sure.'

K
ydd, Dillon and Tysoe waited in the spacious courtyard of a country manor as inquisitive servants were driven inside by an agitated owner. Their coachman remained on his seat, keeping the restless horses still.

Suddenly, in a burst of noise, a white-plumed carriage crashed on to the cobblestones and swept into the yard. Footmen and guards dropped to the ground, the cipher-emblazoned door was opened and a nervous Duc d'Angoulême was handed down.

‘Th – the King,' he gulped, turning aside to hold a deep bow.

From the dark inside of the curtained carriage there was movement and Kydd dropped to an elegant courtly bow, hearing a strangled gasp from the coachman, who hastily got to the ground.

King Louis XVIII of France emerged – wig askew, eyes wild. He was heavily overweight and puffed like a whale as he pushed past Kydd into the other coach, hastily followed by the duke. ‘Let us go, Captain!' he called urgently.

The coachman thrust himself in front of Kydd, jabbering angrily.

‘He swears he won't be a part of this, Sir Thomas,' Dillon interpreted.

A chinking purse was thrown from the vehicle and landed at the man's feet. He picked it up, weighed it appreciatively and, without a word, returned to his seat.

‘Dillon, you and Tysoe ride on top.'

Kydd entered the carriage. The King took up most of one side, the duke was opposite. With muttered apologies, Kydd sat beside him and gave an awkward nod to the King.

The coach swayed and they were off, leaving behind the royal carriage with its attendants.

It was absurd, bizarre. In the coach with him a king was pulling a lap rug over his head and doing his best to slide down low while a duke in plain garb had on a too-large floppy gardener's hat.

‘Your Grace was successful in leaving the palace without difficulties?' Kydd asked the duke, at a loss as to the demands of etiquette.

‘Oh, yes. My wife is very clever and advised I take His Majesty for his morning ride in my carriage with picked men, then to draw the curtains and quit the palace as if going to see …' he giggled foolishly ‘… my mistress.'

‘So no one knows the King has departed?'

‘No. The duchess will say that he desires not to be disturbed and later will allow that he left with me for Riga.'

‘She's a fine woman, sir.'

‘Yes,' the duke said distantly, and stared obstinately out of the window.

Kydd wondered what would happen when the King was found to be absent.

In the midst of the consternation Lecoq would move fast to discover his escape route. The Riga deception would last only so long – with a coach-and-six at his disposal, he could make the distance in an hour or so and, not having overtaken the fleeing king, would reason that he must be on the only other major road out of Mitau, the highway to Libau.

They had very limited time in which to reach the sea. As the endless plains passed by in dull succession, Kydd tried not to think of the fate of witnesses if Lecoq caught up with them.

Changing horses was the only relief in the tedium, and eventually, without incident, the outskirts of Libau came into view.

‘He wants to know where to go!' Dillon shouted through the coach window.

Kydd told him to make for the waterfront. There, it would be simply a matter of hiring a boat to take them out to
Tyger
, lying offshore. It really did seem that they were going to succeed.

The King cowered lower as they trotted through the streets. When they reached the harbour Kydd saw at once that they were in trouble. Between the approach roads and the wharf there was a spacious open area thronged with stevedores and porters, Customs officials and beggars. The instant the King emerged from the carriage he would be mobbed. Should he take a chance that they could fight their way through? Too risky.

‘Drive on!' Kydd ordered.

There had to be—

For a heartbeat in a chance alignment of side-streets he saw a vision: a low, sleek coach pulled by six horses.

Time had suddenly run out.

By now Lecoq would have extracted full information on which coach had been taken. If they were seen it would all be over. There was only one course left.

‘Dillon!' he snapped. ‘Ask the coachman if there's a quiet cove or sandy beach along the coast as will take a boat.'

A few moments later he had an answer. ‘Then you're to hire a fishing boat and take it there.'

It was little more than a windswept passage through to a small sandy inlet, deserted and exposed, but hidden on all sides by dunes. The coach came to a stop on the flat hard at the head of the beach. Kydd hadn't the heart to tell the frightened passengers what he'd seen, for they were already in a state – but who was he to judge, given the horrors they'd experienced during the Revolution?

Something else caught his eye on the skyline along the top of the dunes. Small figures, excited, pointing.

Children. Nothing to worry about – unless they told someone of the remarkable sight of a coach and pair for no apparent reason sitting squarely at rest on the beach.

They disappeared after a while but returned with older children, who stared down at them. More arrived until there was a small crowd.

Where was Dillon's fishing boat, damn him?

If this excitement brought Lecoq they were trapped: there was only one track to the beach. They would stand no chance against armed professionals and—

A fishing boat suddenly appeared around the point, dousing sail and loosing an anchor. A dinghy was soon in the water and two figures got into it, one taking the oars.

It
was
Dillon!

The dinghy came in and grounded in the sand. Dillon leaped out and the fisherman boated oars and stood edgy and resentful. Without waiting, the King burst open the coach door and tottered down to the water's edge. Dillon held out his hand to steady him amid a swelling roar of amazement from the dunes.

The fisherman gobbled in fright. He tried to work the boat out again but Dillon held on to it, the man's increasing panic threatening to upset it.

‘Give! Give!'

At this, the King struggled to remove an emerald ring from his fat finger. He thrust it at Dillon, who passed it with a bow to the pop-eyed fisherman, probably more wealth than the man had seen in his life.

The tiny boat put off, rocking alarmingly, but the King of France was on his way to sanctuary.

On the dune the crowd was growing and becoming noisier.

The dinghy eventually returned and Dillon with the pale-faced duke set off next.

After an age the last run was made. Kydd and a perfectly unruffled Tysoe found their places and the boat put off.

A sudden swell of noise from the gathering made Kydd look back.

To the satisfaction of the enthusiastic watchers the show had concluded in a finale that saw a full coach-and-six race down the sandy track and come to a flying stop at the water's edge. Half a dozen angry figures spilled out to watch helplessly as the dinghy made its way out to the fishing boat.

King Louis of France was safe and had escaped Bonaparte's clutches.

‘Hmmph.' Commodore Keats was not to be persuaded so easily. ‘What if the French had decided on a sortie to the
east, hey? No one there to see 'em go, follow the beggars. Your orders were plain, sir. No gadding about on a whim to suit yourself.'

‘Sir, I conceived it my duty to preserve the government of the day the embarrassment of explaining—'

‘Yes, yes, any fool can see that. I suppose I should now send you to Admiral Gambier to tell him you've left the King of France on his own in Sweden – where was it? Karlskrona?'

‘Sir.'

‘Very well.' A reluctant smile surfaced. ‘My occasional dispatches will go to Copenhagen with you. Tarry a while – over dinner you can tell me all about your little adventure.'

R
enzi listened politely; the nurse was taking great risk in concealing them.

‘And then the gunboats returned in victory, after sinking nearly half the English fleet!' Frue Rosen finished, not quite smothering a burst of pride.

‘Are you sure? Half?' he teased.

‘That's what they're saying in the market, m' lord.'

They were in the billiards room where lights could not be seen from the outside. By now they were used to moving about in the dimness of the deserted mansion.

Renzi gave a half-smile. It was past the point where he could logically deduce the truth. Since the news that Copenhagen had been completely surrounded he'd tried to reason out the course of events but nothing made sense. He'd accepted the landing as necessary if the Danes had not been impressed by the armada brought against them. But since then not only had they been cut off from all succour but he'd heard guns and sharp musketry exchanges, a full-scale war that could have only one ending. Why
weren't the Danish treating for some kind of honourable armistice?

‘I beg you'll excuse our dining tonight, my lord,' Frue Rosen said humbly. ‘There's only this bacon with your cabbage, all I could get.' Crestfallen, she held up a sorry-looking piece of meat.

‘Why, that's wonderful!' Hetty said, with forced enthusiasm. ‘Our thyme will go so nicely with it. I'll fetch some for you when it's dark.' There was a herb garden on the roof that had gone far in making their increasingly bleak rations palatable, all that Frue Rosen could find in her daily expedition.