The Spy's Reward (14 page)

Even with the lantern, it was slow going. She could hear a stream below. She wondered what she would do if she reached the stream and had not found him. Would she wade across? Give up? She stopped, and almost turned back, but then caught—faint but unmistakable—a thread of scent. Sulphur. She closed her eyes and breathed. It was coming from the bottom of the hill.

Two minutes later she found unmistakable signs of the recent presence of at least two horses. And one minute after that, she found the flattened brush, the oilcloth, and the blackened stump of clay pipe. It was still smoking gently in the ground. Setting the lantern down, she tried to make sense of what she saw. A pile of salt. An empty burlap sack with traces of charcoal. An empty jar. The paddle from a butter churn. It was like a riddle in a nightmare.

There were more hoofprints here, first a jumbled trampling around the oilcloth and then a clear trail along the side of the stream below the waterfall. Pulling her skirts closer, she followed. After a quarter mile or so, the trail widened and angled up steeply. She found herself standing on the road. It was completely deserted. To her left, barely visible, a few distant lights shone from the windows of wakeful citizens in the town of Corps. To her right the road was climbing another hill. Common sense told her to stop right now, to go back, before she became irretrievably lost. But the tracks led up the hill, away from Corps. Perhaps she would be able to see something from the crest. She promised herself that she would go only that far. No farther.

By the time she had climbed the hill, the distinctive tracks were gone, merged on this drier section of the road with the wear and tear of hundreds of other travelers. And at the top she saw nothing, save a few lights on a ridge some miles away. She turned slowly in a circle, holding the lantern close to the ground. No hints, no clues emerged from the pebbles and crushed fragments of straw at her feet.

Then, faintly, she heard the hoofbeats. They were coming from the direction of the farmhouse. Could she have been mistaken, followed the wrong tracks? The sound was getting closer. She stepped out into the middle of the road and raised the lantern.

There were six horses. Too many. The lead rider, clearly visible in the moonlight, was a complete stranger.

“Halt!” he called in French. Then, to the men behind him, “Lower your weapons! Await my orders.”

It did not even occur to her to drop the lantern and run away.

He cantered slowly up to her and studied her for a moment, noting her damp cloak, her mud-spattered skirts and boots. A slender young man, in very rumpled, once-elegant clothing. Then he dismounted in one easy movement and bowed gracefully. “Raoul Doucet, madame, at your service.” He spoke in English. “I presume you are Mrs. Meyer? I am seeking your husband.”

“I am not Mrs. Meyer,” she informed him coldly. “And I, too, am seeking Mr. Meyer.” Presumably this was one of Meyer's criminal associates.

“But how unfortunate that I have missed him,” he said. He raised his voice. “Marcel!
À moi
!” Another man came riding up, then halted in puzzled dismay at the unexpected sight of a genteel female on foot, alone, in the middle of the road.

“Where is the rest of your party?” the slender man asked Abigail.

For the first time it occurred to her that perhaps this man was not a friend of Meyer's. He was handsome, in a delicate, languid way. He spoke English. He knew of their party. But Marcel, the new arrival, was in uniform. It looked like a more complete version of one of the uniforms she had seen at the roadblock. Hadn't Meyer told her that some of the officers in Napoleon's border police spoke English?

“I don't know,” she said. Her voice was shaking. “I am lost.”

He seemed to accept that. Presumably her voice would also shake if she were lost, instead of lying. He turned to the trooper, speaking in French. “You will conduct this lady—” He paused and looked inquiringly at Abigail. “It is mademoiselle? Madame?”

“Madame. Mrs. Hart.”

“Ah. Yes, how stupid of me. I believe I knew that.” Then he resumed his instructions to the soldier. “You will conduct Madame Hart to the guard's station in Pont-Haut.”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“She is to be treated with every courtesy.” He switched back to English. “I regret the necessity of confining you temporarily, madame, but as you see . . .” He gave a classic and very elegant French shrug.

“You will release me?”

“Naturally.” He bowed. “As soon as I find Mr. Meyer. And I have a very good idea of where he is. Please consider this a momentary inconvenience. It would be unthinkable in any case to allow a lady to risk herself at night on this road with so many soldiers about.” He took away the lantern. “Allow me.”

It was all so absurd. The polite phrases, the courtly gestures, on a deserted hillside at midnight.

He escorted her, with that same terrifying courtesy, to a horse, assisting her to mount behind the trooper. He arranged her cloak. He asked politely whether she had further need of the lantern. But when he turned to go, the polished surface disappeared for a moment, and he said gently, “Do not worry. Your lover will come to no harm so long as he is prepared to be reasonable. We are civilized men.”

He thought she was Meyer's mistress. For a moment, she was simply incredulous. Then she said, enunciating each word very clearly, “Mr. Meyer is not my lover.”

Doucet's smile was absolutely enchanting. He swept her the most magnificent bow yet. “I would say, then, madame, that he is either blind or foolish.” The smile faded. “How did you come to be traveling with him, in that case? If I may be so bold?”

Of course he could be so bold. She was his prisoner. “He is a friend of the family.”

“Then he does care for you? He will be concerned for your safety?”

“If so,” she said bitterly, “it will be the first time, to my knowledge, that he has cared about anything or anyone except himself and his schemes.”

He looked grave. “Let us hope that you are mistaken. For both your sake and his.”

15

Everything always took longer than you thought it would; that was one of the first rules of engineering, and it was true whether you were building something or knocking it down. The uncooperative moon had set by the time Meyer had managed to maneuver both himself and the barrel onto the Roman level of the bridge. Without a dark lantern, he had worked by feel, testing cracks with thin slivers of wood to check for dampness. It had taken quite a while to find a reasonably dry fissure that ran near the base of one of the upper piers. At that point he had been forced to light his candle briefly to make sure that the crack was not too large for his small supply of powder. But the guards on the bank above him had not seemed aware of the momentary flicker by the water. They were watching the road.

He was scooping the powder in—an agonizingly slow operation—when he became aware of a light moving in the darkness behind him. He turned, squinting up at the cliff. Someone was waving a lantern. It was not Rodrigo; his servant would have used their prearranged code. The lantern stopped waving. It was moving towards the southern end of the bridge. For a few moments it disappeared, but then it emerged again directly overhead, dangling over the water. Now, bizarrely, it was descending. The mysterious signaler was lowering it over the side from above. He watched, fascinated, as the lantern came down to his level in a series of jerky movements.

He wasn't fool enough to stay anywhere where the light would reveal him to a sharpshooter; he ducked deep into the arch. Something else was coming down now. No, someone. A man. He could see boots gleaming. He took out his pistol. What kind of fool would expose himself like that, suspended and helpless, lit from below?

“Meyer, it's Doucet,” shouted the owner of the boots in English. His voice was barely audible over the noise of the water. “I'm coming down. Don't shoot.”

Not a fool, then. Someone who knew Meyer well enough to be sure that he would hesitate before killing. He put away the pistol and got out his tinderbox.

A minute later, Raoul Doucet bumped down the side of the bridge next to the lantern and swung himself onto the platform. “Meyer?” he called again. “We know you are here; we found your ropes on the cliff. We saw your light.”

Without answering, Meyer lit the tinderbox, and then his candle.

Doucet came forward, very slowly, hands held out to show he held no weapon. When he was close enough to speak without shouting, he stopped, and peered uncertainly at the shadows beneath the candle Meyer was holding over the fissure. “I take it there is powder in that hole at your feet?”

“Yes. Not as much as I would like, but quite a bit.”

“You don't strike me as the martyr type,” the Frenchman observed.

“I thought perhaps I could use a little leverage in this situation. If one of your troopers shoots me, I would at least like to take the bridge with me as I go.”

“No one is going to shoot you,” said Doucet irritably. “I left very strict orders. Taking potshots at a man who is standing on half a barrel of gunpowder in the middle of the only bridge over the Bonne River strikes me as remarkably counterproductive.”

“Well. We seem to be at an impasse. Although I believe I am holding the trumps at the moment.” They were very warm trumps; the hand shielding the candle was uncomfortably close to the flame.

“That depends,” said Doucet. His tone was oddly apologetic. “I met someone on the road on my way here. A Mrs. Hart. She claims she was searching for you and lost her way. She is presently enjoying my hospitality nearby.”

Abigail. His hand shook slightly, and the candle dipped suddenly towards the lip of the fissure. Alarmed, he jerked it up again. That would be the crowning jest, to blow up the bridge by accident because he panicked at the mere thought of her in captivity. Where was Rodrigo? he wondered. Surely he should be here, to witness his predictions coming true. The pawn had been captured, and the king was in check.

Behind Doucet the lantern sputtered and went out. The younger man's voice came out of the darkness, remarkably calm for someone who had just been an inch from being blown to pieces. “Perhaps it would be more prudent to continue our discussion with the candle on the ground. You can always knock it in if I make any sudden movements.”

He found another large crack and wedged the candle in, crouching behind it to block the wind. “What are we discussing?”

Doucet lowered himself to a sitting position on the other side of the flame. “Facts. Three simple facts. Item one: Mrs. Hart is in a house we have commandeered in the village, with several of my guards. She is being treated with great consideration. It is my hope that you will soon be taking her back to join the rest of your party. You, at least, presumably know where they are.”

Another threat. Doucet would have no trouble finding the farmhouse once he questioned Abigail more closely. Anthony was there, perhaps feverish again. Rodrigo. Diana Hart. The gruff farmer and his family. It didn't matter. Abigail was more than enough leverage, to use his own term.

“Item two: This bridge is important but not essential. If it is destroyed, it will delay us by at most two days. Is it really worth the price we would all have to pay, to buy forty-eight hours?”

“There is a royalist regiment chasing you up this road,” Meyer said. “The delay would allow them to catch you. You would be pinned against the ravine. So far you have had everything your own way. The loss of morale might well be the tipping point between a successful and unsuccessful attempt to retake France.”

“That is true,” acknowledged the other man. “But there is also a royalist regiment waiting for us on the other side of the bridge, halfway between here and Grenoble. Why not let us go and meet it?”

“What is your third fact?”

“You saved my career last year, perhaps even my life, when you warned me that my mistress was framing me for treason. Cambronne is grateful to you as well, for protecting the emperor on his way to Elba. We are not yet the official government of France. There is nothing that compels me to shoot you as a spy. We are therefore prepared to be very generous. If you will agree to certain conditions, we will release Mrs. Hart. We will escort your party towards Grenoble as our honored guests and will guarantee your safety. Once we reach the city, you will all be at liberty.”

“And what are those conditions?”

“The first is the bridge, of course. You will make no further attempt to destroy it, and will disarm any devices you may have set to hinder our progress.”

That condition was an obvious one. “And the second?”

“You will return immediately to England. During the voyage home you will do nothing that might endanger our campaign. No pigeons, no messengers, not even a verbal report afterwards to your superiors in London. If you wish to be a private gentleman, escorting your countrywomen away from a war zone, then you must conduct yourself as one, from this moment on.”

That was more difficult.

“So I am to be, in effect, blind and deaf for the rest of this journey.”

Doucet shrugged. “Surely you would not wish to endanger the ladies in your party by inviting unwanted military attention?”

“Why don't you just lock me up?”

“We've tried that,” Doucet pointed out. “You've escaped every time. The last time you were running a messenger service from your cell, remember? Cambronne and I believe your parole is a more effective cage than a jail cell.”

The younger man waited, an oddly sympathetic expression on his face.

“I suppose I should be flattered,” Meyer said at last. He would have to accept, of course. He would have to watch Napoleon march on to Grenoble, where the not-so-former emperor would receive a hero's welcome.

Slowly, he reached over and pinched out the candle.

“You could have waited until I lit the lantern again,” said Doucet dryly.

“I thought it best to remove temptation,” he said. He tilted his face up and felt the breeze circling through the arches.

 

 

Marcel, if that was his name, apparently took the command to treat Abigail “with every courtesy” very seriously. She was taken to a small house at one end of the street—the single narrow street which comprised Pont-Haut. A sitting room was instantly cleared for her private use, with only a few empty wineglasses and crumpled tally sheets remaining to indicate that it had been full of a dozen soldiers playing dice when she arrived. From somewhere, a sleepy village girl was produced to serve her. She was offered tea, wine, cakes, a very smelly cheese wrapped in leaves, and some pickled fruit. The earnest young trooper came in at regular intervals to make announcements, bowing and removing his hat each time.

These bulletins were meant to reassure her, but they had the opposite effect. The first announcement came after she had refused all the offered refreshment save the tea. Marcel knocked, entered, removed his hat, bowed, and said, “Madame will be pleased to be informed that this house is at a safe distance from the bridge.”

“I beg your pardon?” she asked, bewildered.

His round face flushed slightly. “In case of an explosion, that is.” He looked acutely embarrassed, as though the mention of exploding bridges was inexcusably vulgar.

“The bridge is in danger of exploding? The bridge at the end of this street?” She had caught only a glimpse of it before Marcel had detached her from the rest of the troop and brought her down to this house.

“We hope not, madame. But if by some unfortunate chance something were to occur, madame is not to be alarmed, no matter how loud the noise.” He bowed again, and withdrew.

The next interruption told her to be pleased to be informed that the general would be here shortly. More prudent this time, he bowed himself away before she could ask him who the general was and why she should be pleased that he was coming.

Five minutes later, Marcel advised her that the additional troops who would arrive shortly would not dream of invading her private sitting room. Next, that the general did not stand on ceremony and she was to have no fear that he would expect to be treated with any great formality. Abigail was tempted to tell the young soldier that it would serve the general right if she smothered him with impersonal periphrases in imitation of his own behavior to her, but he was gone again before she could marshal enough French to deliver her witticism.

Five minutes later, by the clock, the door opened again. Marcel entered, removed his hat, bowed. “Madame is pleased to be informed that General Cambronne wishes to speak with her.” He stepped aside, and a thin, hawk-faced man with curly graying hair strode into the room. He, too, bowed. At least he did not remove his hat. Someone had obviously taken it, along with his coat and gloves; he was carrying a sheaf of papers in one hand and looked at them now as though only just realizing he was still carrying them. He gave them to the ubiquitous Marcel and waved the boy away.

“Pierre Cambronne, madame. Your most obedient servant.”

“General Cambronne.” She curtsied.

“You are free to go.” Cambronne's speech was considerably more concise than Marcel's. “You may wait for Monsieur Meyer, or I will send one of my own men to take you back to Corps.” He added after a moment, “I must tell you that I have the most sincere admiration for your
ami
.”

“Monsieur Meyer is merely a family friend,” said Abigail, gritting her teeth.

Cambronne raised his eyebrows and shrugged.
You Englishwomen! So prudish!
said that shrug. “As you wish. But he is a very fine gentleman, even if he is a Jew. I am relieved this incident has ended so happily. I am too much in his debt to wish otherwise.”

What incident? she wanted to ask. What do you mean, happily? Marcel-happy, as in “the explosion will not reach this section of the street”? Why are you in his debt? She had been constructing wilder and wilder theories in her head ever since her conversation with Roth. She had known perfectly well that his tale of Meyer's seductions was a desperate fiction. Meyer was certainly attractive enough, but there was a reserve there which was incompatible with the picture of a dashing Lothario. No, Nathan Meyer was no Doucet. But her own theories were hardly more plausible. He was a bandit. A gunrunner. An assassin. Now it appeared he might be working for the French. But then why would they be holding her hostage?

Doucet came in now, without knocking. He looked even more strained and disheveled than he had an hour ago. There was another round of bowing, and Doucet repeated Cambronne's assurance that she was free to go.

“Where is Monsieur Meyer?”

Cambronne seemed to want the answer to that question as well, and Doucet addressed himself to him. “He is making certain that the powder is thoroughly soaked. He will be here shortly. You were told, were you not, that he agreed to all our terms?”

“Excuse me, General,” she interrupted.

Their expressions changed; the serious, military air disappeared and the courtly gallantry returned. They were, she decided, simply more polished versions of Marcel.

“Yes, madame?”

She did not think he would answer her question, but the increasingly tangled assortment of half-explained allusions to explosions and bridges and powder was maddening. “What is Monsieur Meyer's connection with the possibility of an explosion at the bridge? The powder is gunpowder, is it not?”

“He did not take you into his confidence?”

“No,” she said bitterly.

Cambronne gave her a paternal smile. If she had been a little girl, Abigail thought, he would have patted her on the head. “It is just as well. These matters are not suitable for the tender ears of ladies.”