hoofbeats were like a martial drumroll, too swift to impute any rhythm to.
Lady Meriel clung to the creature’s back for dear life. There was no time now to
wonder which half of her petition the fay had granted – discovery or rescue – or
even to ponder what her destination might be. She buried her face in the animal’s
neck, feeling her tightly pinned braids dragged free by the wind until her hair
streamed half-undone down her back. She lost her clogs the first time the pony
jumped, and the wind quickly stole her shawl as well, leaving Meriel only her cotton
dress and petticoats for protection against the summer’s night.
But the phouka must be taking her to Louis. That was the only thing that mattered
now. The landscape swept by faster than a bird could fly, so that a church steeple
would loom into view and vanish behind them in scant minutes. Meriel looked for the
waning moon in the sky;’ she could not see it, yet the landscape all around was as
bright as if a full hunter’s moon shone upon it. She dared not even pray, lest calling
upon the Holy Names cause the fairy horse to vanish like morning mist.
The Emperor’s bright new kilometer-posts flashed by like the white-painted
pickets of a giant’s fence, and Meriel ‘s fingers and toes ached with unnatural cold.
But she was determined not to give up, or to beg the animal to stop. She must
rescue Louis. There was no one else to do it if she did not.
She did not know how long the pony had run tirelessly forward when finally its
speed began to slacken. She blinked wind-caused tears from her eyes and looked
around.
The brilliant blue moonlight had faded with the pony’s slowing speed, and now
the world around her was merely dark. Perhaps a mile distant loomed the ruined
towers of some vast crumbling casde. Meriel could hear dogs barking in the
distance, and the village clock striking the half-hour. Now the horizon was a faint
dirty oyster color, harbinger of dawn, and her fey mount had slowed to a walk,
though its coat was still as cool and dry as if it had not run tirelessly for leagues like
some automaton.
„Where have you brought me?“ Meriel asked unsteadily: The phouka had been
supposed to bring her to Louis. That was the bargain she had struck… wasn’t it?
„Where is Louis?“
The pony tossed its head, as though shrugging off her questions, and began
trotting once more. But this time the world did not make its strange shift into brilliant
blue light, and Meriel found herself more conscious of her own foolishness with
each passing second.
What could have possessed her to endanger her immortal soul in this fashion?
And her«sudden disappearance would be certain to grieve the Abbé de Condé, who
would have no way to know what had become of her. As dawn brightened, the pact
Meriel had made came to seem more and more outlandish – and futile, besides. Even
if Louis were being held prisoner near here – perhaps even within that nearby chateau
– how could she reach him?
I am no better off than I was before!
For the last several minutes, the phouka had been traveling along the highway;
now Meriel became aware that two horsemen were approaching from the other
direction. She dragged at the pony’s mane, trying to turn it from the road, for she
knew what a freakish sight she must represent, barefoot and with her hair tumbling
down her back, and had no desire to be made sport of by early travelers.
But the pony did not respond to her tugging. In fact, her fingers passed through
the wiry mane as though it were so much sea-mist, and the compact, muscular body
between her knees melted away like sugar in hot tea. Meriel tumbled to the road
almost at the feet of the approaching horsemen.
The two men had ridden through the night, with Wessex wracking his brain to
provide some clue to the sorceress’s riddle. The identity of Geoffrey’s paymaster
was simple enough: the Black Priest ran the network of agents confidential and
provocateur who worked clandestinely for Imperial France. If Geoffrey Highclere
were in French pay, it was Talleyrand who was paying him, and to Talleyrand that
Highclere had taken Sarah.
But where was Talleyrand? Sarah was not in Paris – Saint-Lazarre would have
mentioned that fact. Sarah had saved his life while he had been her guest at
Mooncoign, and Saint-Lazarre would welcome the chance to even the score.
Suppose, however, that Talleyrand had not only the Duchess of Wessex but the
King of France – or thought he did, at any rate. The spymaster was not above
intriguing against his Imperial master, but even Talleyrand was not so bold as to plot
against the Corsican in the City of Light itself. The spymaster would seek some
out-of-the-way retreat where he could assess the worth of his prize at leisure.
For some time the White Tower Group had known that Talleyrand had a
particular bolt-hole here in the countryside. Centuries before, Chateau Roissy had
been a castle, and that ancient heritage remained in tower and moat. Later the castle
had become more home than fortress, and later still an abattoir to the family and its
servants who had lived here. After that revolutionary bloodbath, Chateau Roissy had
fallen into disuse until the Black Priest had found a use for it. What pleasures
Tallyrand indulged within the chateau’s blood-soaked walls was something unknown
to Baron Misbourne’s busy agents, but one might as well assume the worst That
Sarah had been taken to Chateau Roissy was, at best, a guess – and one built upon
the most tenuous chain of inferences. If Highclere was a French agent – If
Talleyrand was his paymaster – If Highclere had brought Sarah to Talleyrand – If
Talleyrand was keeping her at the chateau –
If, and if, and if. But Wessex knew there was no other choice for him, for he only
had time to act upon one guess. Let it be this one. He must break into the Chateau
Roissy and search the ancient place.
He had not told Koscuisko of this plan, for the volatile Pole would only dislike it,
and Wessex had no time for argument. By now Koscuisko knew all that Wessex had
learned since the Duke had arrived in Copenhagen, and Wessex meant for his partner
to cross the Channel with that report and deliver the information to Misbourne with
all due dispatch. So they rode on through the summer’s night. When they reached
the place where Wessex was to turn off for Roissy, the Duke reined in.
„This is where we part, my friend. You’re no more than two days from the coast;
the Bishop of Calais should be able to get you across, and men – “
„And then I can have the ineluctable joy of explaining to the White Man that
you’re wandering around France in solitary splendor? No thank you, Your Grace, I
had rather face a line of French artillery.“
„English artillery would be more likely to hit you,“ Wessex pointed out mildly.
„But see here, Koscuisko – “
„Don’t you ‘see here’ me, Your Grace,“ his partner objected. „You’ve figured
out that Gipsy’s riddle, haven’t you? Well don’t think you’re going to cut me out of
the fun-– and as for your report, the Bishop of Amiens can forward it as well as I,
so that excuse won’t fadge,“ Koscuisko added gaily.
„I’m breaking into Roissy Castle,“ Wessex explained patiently. „I expect that
M’sieur le Pape Noir will have something to say to the matter.“
„Then we shall answer him as we always have,“ Koscuisko responded. „It
sounds like grand fun – and surely you don’t think you have the least chance of
success without me?“
„You never did know how to follow orders,“ Wessex grumbled, but surrendered
to the inevitable and spurred his horse into motion once more.
It was near dawn by the time they reached the neighborhood of the chateau, and
both men were wary. Wessex knew he could not enter the chateau unobserved –
success or failure depended upon whether Talleyrand was present at Roissy. For if
he were not, then the shift they had employed at Verdun might work twice and allow
them to enter the chateau in the guise of messengers from Paris.
But if Talleyrand were there at the chateau…
On a memorable occasion in the not-too-distant past, Wessex and the Black
Priest had encountered one another face-to-face; Tallyrand would be certain to
recognize the Duke of Wessex behind the thin disguise of Citizen Orczy. Koscuisko,
uniformed as one of the Garde Polonnaise, might baffle Talleyrand a while longer,
but not by much. And men they, too, could be executed, along with whatever poor
fool Talleyrand had found to impersonate the Young King.
Firmly, Wessex turned his thoughts aside from that path. What would be, would
be. All he could do was to make me best of what came.
As they approached Roissy, Wessex began to wonder if it might not be possible
to sneak inside after all. The great house was dark, even though at this hour servants
should be rising to begin their daily tasks. No guards patrolled the road or the
grounds; there were not even dogs to bark and raise the alarm. Perhaps Talleyrand
was, in fact, elsewhere.
Then the two men heard the sound of hoofbeats upon the road.
The noise came from the west, along the high road; as Wessex looked in that
direction he saw a faint lunar glow, like a will-o’-the-wisp, moving toward him.
Almost in the moment Wessex became aware of it the creature had closed half the
distance between them and Wessex could see it clearly. A moon-grey pony, faintly
glowing in the pale dawn light.
Wessex heard Koscuisko mutter an oath and sketch the sign of the Cross in the
air between himself and the apparition.
And in that instant the spectral equine vanished, as if it were in fact the marsh-mist
it had reminded Wessex of. The sound of hoofbeats stopped, but in the same instant
there was a prosaic mud and a soft female outcry. In place of the horse, a black
shape remained upon tile road.
Wessex urged his hors» forward. Behind him, he heard Koscuisko mutter
something in disgust before doing likewise, but while Wessex believed in devils, in
his experience all of them had worn human flesh. A man in his profession must
accept the inexplicable, but he did not fear it any more than he feared a man with a
loaded pistol. There was no irrational world in the Duke of Wessex’s cosmos, only
a world imperfectly understood.
In mis case, the ghost-steed resolved itself into a grubby female person in a
shabby cotton dress, her hair a tangled black mass of elf-locks. As she pushed her
hair from her face and stared at him in fear, Wessex realized with a pang of
amazement that this was someone he knew.
„Lady Meriel,“ Wessex said in disbelief.
„Oh, Blessed Virgin, it is you!“ Meriel ran to him, clutching at his booted leg for
support. „Your Grace, you must help me! I know not how you come to be here, but
your wife and – and Louis are in terrible danger. Mr. Highclere spies for France, and
– “
„Where did he take her?“ Wessex demanded, cutting through her babbled
explanations.
Meriel drew back with a cry of fear at the sight of Koscuisko in his fantastic
costume. Wessex leaned forward, seizing her hands to keep her from fleeing.
„Where did he take her?“ Wessex demanded again.
„I don’t know – I don’t know – “ Meriel was nearly frantic. „She – the Lady in
the Circle – she told me she would send me to him but I do not know where I am –
“
„You are near the Chateau Roissy, mademoiselle,“ Koscuisko said. He removed
his coat with the towering wings and dismounted from Spangle, hanging his shako
on the saddle as well. Well trained, Spangle stood patiently as Koscuisko walked
toward Meriel, holding out his pelisse. „If mademoiselle will forgive me for
observing, she seems chilled to the bone – and to go out without one’s footwear
cannot be considered a prudent act, even in summer weather.“
As he continued his nonsensical prattle, Koscuisko reached the girl and slipped
his wolfskin-lined pelisse over her shoulders.
„Really, Wessex, that face of yours would be enough to frighten a gargoyle,“ he
said chidingly. „I am certain that Lady Meriel means to be entirely forthcoming with
us at the earliest opportunity.“
Once more the Polish Hussar’s easy charm produced the desired result. Lady
Meriel lost much of her wild-eyed look and, encouraged by Koscuisko – and
refreshed with strong brandy from his pocket flask – told them everything, from her
arrival in Trois Vierges to Louis’s kidnapping by the men in the iron coach as he
tried to discover from the Royalist Underground the fate of Her Grace of Wessex.
„And I did not know what to do, but I went to the circle, and the White Lady