single-barreled gun she had used all her life remained unchanged. She slung the
ammo-bag over her shoulder and rummaged in it, then automatically swabbed the
barrel clean and began to load the weapon.
Wessex regarded her with a nonplussed expression.
„Sarah?“ he said again.
Sarah glanced up from her loading, and in that moment realized what a freakishly
un-English picture she must represent. There was nothing she could do but smile
apologetically.
„I got Louis out of the dungeon,“ she offered hopefully. She rammed down the
charge and slid the ramrod back beneath the barrel of the musket.
„So I see.“ Wessex was struggling not to smile back, she could see – even
though the situation was as black as it could possibly be.
„What do we do now?“ Louis asked.
Sarah saw Wessex’s face change as he looked at the young man; saw the pang of
unwilling recognition that told her that the wild story was true: that somehow, this
bedraggled young man whom she’d rescued was the true King of France, saved
from his executioners a dozen years before by Wessex’s father.
„Come on,“ Wessex said shortly, leading them back up the stairs.
* * *
His plan was to escape across the roofs – or at least to see if such escape were
possible – but when Wessex reached the tower room he was met by a grinning Illya
Koscuisko.
The Polish Hussar was stripped to his shirtsleeves, his dyed-blond hair hanging in
his eyes. But he looked far too pleased with himself to be bearing news of anything
but success.
„Your chariot awaits,“ Koscuisko said, bowing and flourishing in the direction of
the open trapdoor in the ceiling.
„What… is that thing?“ Sarah demanded in astonishment when all five of them
were on the roof. The day was fully advanced – blue, bright, and cloudless – and the
stones of the roof were already warm beneath her feet. The air smelled of smoke.
„It is a hot-air balloon, I think,“ Louis said. „One was demonstrated in Paris a few
years ago. They allow a man to fly.“
Meriel crossed herself, looking as appalled as Sarah did.
„It is unnatural,“ Meriel said.
They were staring at a wicker basket the size of a pony-trap, secured by stout
ropes to an enormous bag of bright-colored silk that was attached to an iron ring
suspended over the basket by iron rods. A brazier filled with burning coals hung
beneath the ring, and the air above the coals shimmered with hot air that was slowly
inflating the balloon.
„This is your idea of an escape plan?“ Wessex demanded of his partner.
„It has the virtue of originality,“ Koscuisko explained. „I set fire to the West Wing
about an hour ago – they ought to be discovering the blaze soon – and I have hopes
that it will distract them, as well as conceal our retreat.“
„In that,“ Wessex said without inflection, regarding the hot-air balloon skeptically.
He crossed the roof and looked out over the edge. „The fire seems to be working
well, at least.“
Another gust of smoke sailed past the tower as the wind shifted, and Sarah
fancied she could hear the distant crackling of flames.
„Well,“ Koscuisko said modestly, „between that and the gunpowder – “
There was an earsplitting roar, and the tower shook. Meriel screamed.
„Ah,“ said Koscuisko with satisfaction. „I hadn’t been entirely certain of the
timing of the slow match. Still, I think it works out well.“
„You’re mad,“ Wessex said comprehensively.
Koscuisko shrugged meekly. „I think we ought to get into the basket. I wasn’t
able to tie it down particularly well, and we’d best be aboard when it decides to fly
free.“
„Well,“ said Sarah, almost at a loss for words. „Well. If it does not work, it shall
almost certainly kill us, which I suppose is all to the good.“
Once the five of them clambered aboard, Koscuisko untied the ropes with which
he had bound the balloon to the battlements. He piled more coal into the brazier
from the sack at his feet, and the swelling sides of the balloon began to lose their
softness and take on the taut aspect of a windjammer’s sails.
„Can this possibly work?“ Sarah wondered, clutching at the barrel of her musket.
Now that she was armed at last, she had no intention of leaving her weapon behind.
„A question that is on everyone’s lips,“ Wessex murmured.
Meriel simply clung to Louis, more terrified of the airship than she had been of the
White Lady, the dungeon, and all of Talleyrand’s soldiery combined.
It seemed like an eternity, but it could not have been more than a quarter of an
hour before the basket began to bob gendy as the upward force of the heated air
began to lift it from the roof. They were playing a dangerous waiting game – could
the balloon whisk them away before the soldiers discovered where they were and,
broke through the trapdoor to the rooftop?
The balloon inched upward, pulled by the wind. It slid the length of the tower and
stopped, held in place by the crenelations.
„The sandbags,“ Koscuisko said. „It is time to lose them, I think.“
„Look!“ Meriel – who had been staring back at the trapdoor as though it offered
her only hope of eternal salvation – shrieked and pointed.
A chausseur had climbed up through the trapdoor and seen them. Only the man’s
upper body was visible, but he would reach the roof in a moment, and it would be a
matter of only a few saber-cuts to detach the balloon from the basket, stranding
them here.
Wessex reached for his own sword, as Louis and Koscuisko frantically untied
filled bags of sand from the basket.
„Get them out of here, Koscuisko,“ Wessex said, preparing to climb out of the
basket. „I’ll join you later.“
„You will not,“ Sarah said, lowering the musket and taking aim. „I’ve chased you
all over France, Your Grace – and I’m tired of it.“ She squeezed the trigger. There
was a flash as the powder in the pan ignited, and the beau sabreur fell backward
into the room below with a cry of surprise.
Sarah calmly began to reload. As the last of the sandbags fell free, the balloon
surged upward with a bound, sailing westward on the wings of the morning.
Chapter 19
The Road Not Taken
The five of them arrived at Trois Vierges in the dead of the night, but Sarah would
not allow anyone to approach the Abbé’s house. Instead, she settled her little band
into the shelter of a hedgerow to watch the house until dawn.
If not for Sarah’s woods-cunning, they would never have made it this far. With
only one horse among them – Koscuisko’s Spangle, who had followed the balloon
until the contraption had settled to earth several hours later – there was no possibility
of outrunning their pursuers.
They had hidden from them instead. Shabby as tinkers, traveling by night and
hiding by day, living on what they could catch or steal, they had taken three days to
traverse the distance that Meriel and the phouka had covered in a single night.
Sarah’s greatest worry had been to keep the grey Andalusian hidden, for the only
way such a modey crew as they currently appeared could have come across such a
fine animal would have been to steal it. But Koscuisko refused to abandon his horse,
and Wessex had agreed with him: if they were surprised, at least one of them might
be able to reach safety on horseback.
There was no certainty that they could find sanctuary in Trois Vierges, but neither
Louis nor Meriel had been willing to abandon the Abbé de Condé, and Wessex
himself suspected that the old priest would be a useful ally… if, of courses the Abbé
was not dead.
Lying pressed against the cold damp earth of France, Wessex regarded his
Duchess.
Her face was smeared with earth and animal fat, her hair skinned back into a
greasy braid. The traveling dress that once must have been grey twilled Gros de
Naples was now mud-colored, its shoulder seam ripped to expose an equally dirty
chemise. Her feet were bare, – her lisle stockings now swaddling the precious
musket against damp and dust She was as impassive and unmoving as the carven
figurehead of a sailing ship.
Wessex realized that he did not know her at all. Here at last was the woman he’d
thought he’d met at Mooncoign: the savage, efficient warrior, fellow soldier in a
private war. But that woman had vanished when King Henry had forced their
marriage. All that had been left was the reputation of a flighty, heartless, fashionable
hostess, a woman of the sort who held no interest for the Duke.
They must talk. She knew what he was now, he owed her the chance of an
honorable release from the wedded -state. But the business of survival had taken up
every waking hour since their escape from Hoissy, and now was no time to strike up
a conversation: voices, even whispers, carried too damnably well in the absence of
all other sound. Instead, he watched as she did, and with as much suspicion. Louis
had been taken from this place. It was not unreasonable that Talleyrand would again
be looking for him here.
Louis. The long-lost King of France, returned to the political chessboard, to the
consternation of friend and foe. His reappearance among the living would redraw
alliances all over the map of Europe. Royal blood and rightful kingship was a
powerful lure.
But young Louis did not wish to rule. He had told Wessex what he wanted – to
emigrate to Louisiana, there to live out his life as an ordinary man… with his wife.
Lady Meriel even now had not agreed to marry Louis – something which did
much to repair her reputation in Wessex’s mind – but only a fool wouldn’t know
that it was Midsummer Moon with the chit. And even though Mr Highclere was
dead, Lord Ripon remained, and would have to be dealt with. So something must be
arranged for the girl.
Something must be arranged for Wessex, as well. It would be months before the
White Tower knew whether Wessex’s true identity was known to the French,
months in which he could not go abroad with any degree of safety. If the Danish
Princess had been recovered, there would be work enough for him in London.
If he still had a Duchess.
Lying beneath a hedge in the middle of the night, watching the serene intent face
of his wife (who flatly refused to surrender the rifle for any reason whatever),
Wessex discovered that he very much hoped that he did.
The sun had risen. The Abbé had said early Mass, and returned to the little house
across the garden. A few hours -before, just as the sky was turning light, Sarah had
moved the fugitive band from their perch beneath the hedgerow to a new
hiding-place at the bottom of the garden. Now it was time to make their move.
„Louis?“ she said, as politely as if they were all in her London townhouse.
„Would you care to go to the kitchen door and see if your uncle will receive us?“
„No!“ Meriel instantly protested, clutching at Louis’s arm.
„It must be, ma petite“ Louis said. „Madame Carmaux will let me in, but she
does not know Monsieur le Duc nor Madame la Duchesse, nor yet the excellent
Koscuisko. And I am afraid we are such as to make any prudent housewife recoil in
alarm.“
„What if the Red Jacks are there?“ Meriel persisted. No matter how long they had
watched, the fear remained.
„Then Madame la Duchesse will shoot them with her large gun,“ Louis said. „But
I do not think they are there.“
With that, Louis wriggled out of his concealment and got to his feet, walking
across the garden as if nothing in the world were the matter. He reached the kitchen
door, opened it, and disappeared inside.
Silence.
„It isn’t that I’m in any way apprehensive,“ ffiya Koscuisko said apologetically.
„It’s simply that I’d like to know how long we are to wait here.“
Meriel began crawling out of her hiding-place next to the wafl.
The door opened. Louis stood in the doorway, beckoning them on.
By the time luncheon was placed upon the Abbé’s gleaming white linen tablecloth
by a much-less-than-mollined Madame Carmaux, the five refugees had been restored
to some vestige of tidiness. The Abbé de Condé assured Wessex that he could
arrange transportation to the coast, where the Duke could signal a patrolling English
warship and arrange for the party to be picked up.
Talleyrand had not come to the village – possibly he thought that his captives
were all dead in the fire that had engulfed the chateau, though Wessex did not believe