The English Heiress (9 page)

The wineshops in the disreputable neighborhood where Roger had made his arrangements with the patron naturally did not shut their doors and cork their bottles as early as the type of establishment patronized by hardworking tradesmen who had to wake early. In fact, all the wineshops were packed to the doors and free-spending agents of the patron were making rounds through the crowds buying drinks and urging the drinkers to stay. They did not need much urging, because they had congregated in response to hints that had flown from mouth to mouth all through the day that something “good” was “on the fire”.

While Roger was sitting in the dark, counting the long minutes as they dragged past, speakers appeared in the wineshops. Each of them complained bitterly of the results of the “revolution” in France and particularly in Saulieu.

“Are we not ‘people’ also?” the agitators cried “Think of the promises made to the ‘people’. Have we benefited in any way from these promises? No! I do not complain that we are still hunted and reviled—although we were promised that all men would be equal. But l say to you that we are worse off than before Jean-Paul Marot took this town into his power, and if he rules here much longer we will all starve. He has taken the wealth and power from those who had it, that is true. But what has happened to this wealth? Why, an honest thief cannot keep flesh upon his bones. There is nothing left to steal. The rich are poor, the tradesmen are poor. Only the town is rich.”

Laughter and cheers hailed these speeches. The various agitators all used the same theme and all used the same reasoning. The patron did not want any blood thirst. He wanted no citizens torn apart, no heads mounted on pikes. The backlash from such a spate of violence would do him and his “employees” more harm than good. The patron had a double purpose. First, to fulfill his bargain with Roger and collect his fee; second, to discredit Jean-Paul Marot even further in the eyes of the townspeople.

Louis was not physically the son of the patron, but he was a son in spirit. If the young thief’s plans worked out, the patron would enter into a liaison with the new town leader that would benefit both greatly. Those who did not pay their “dues” to the patron would be hunted and prosecuted and punished by the law itself. The gendarmes of the town would be the patron’s enforcers. On the other hand, if a particular crime caused a greater than usual outcry, the patron could and would furnish a “criminal” to be punished—even possibly, the criminal who had committed the crime—so that the townspeople would feel secure in the efficacy of their leader at keeping them safe from crime.

Thus, the agitators did not attempt to awaken any real bitterness in those they addressed. They concentrated on inspiring them to raid the town treasury and take back “what was theirs”. There was, in fact, a considerable sum in the strongboxes kept in the Hôtel de Ville, Louis had informed the patron. Marot had been collecting the money for such worthy purposes as founding a hospital for the poor and supporting Saulieu’s home for foundlings as well as for purchasing better muskets for the civil guard. To some extent Louis approved of the last purpose, but in his opinion the first two were completely ridiculous. The money would be far more useful in his and the patron’s hands.

By midnight one group had been whipped up enough to pour out of the wineshop—half laughing, half drunk—roaring, “To the Hôtel de Ville! We will take what has been promised to us.” The movement was totally contagious. From one wineshop to another the crowd rushed, gathering strength and purpose with each influx of men and women. Perhaps those who first rushed out into the dark were partly in jest, but their intention was firmed as the others joined and cheered them on.

Soon the crowd had filled the narrow crooked lanes of the lower town and began to rush up toward the wider streets and central square of the Hôtel de Ville. The patron’s men ran the flanks, encouraging those who wondered whether the plunder of a private home would not pay better—while the civil guard and gendarmes were busy at the Hôtel de Ville.

Somewhere along the way, a dark-garbed figure, face smeared with dirt out of which glinted two bright blue eyes, joined the moving mass. Roger was deeply impressed with the patron’s efficiency and joined in the cries and cheers with a good will. He had been concerned that the idea of looting rather than of looting a specific place might disperse the mob into parties that would commit outrages all over the town and not achieve the primary objective. This did not seem to be the case however, although Roger’s growing confidence in the patron’s management did not diminish the vigor with which he shouted, “The Hôtel de Ville! The Hôtel de Ville!”

It was marvelous to be able to shout, to push forward in the crowd. It was a release after the years of strict propriety, of the sober and stuffy behavior required of a responsible barrister. The past few days of growing tension had added to the seething under Roger’s calm exterior. He yelled with a will, releasing just a little of his volcanic emotions.

By the time they reached the Hôtel de Ville, Roger was well up among the ringleaders, He was quite sure the patron would not expose himself to danger by being in the crowd, and the patron was the only man who could recognize him that was likely to be in this mob. There was a small chance that someone else who had been at the wineshop would recognize him, but Roger doubted it. It had been dark and the rest of the drinkers had stayed respectfully well away from the patron while he talked business. Besides, if he was a new member of the patron’s group, there was good reason for him to be in the mob without any particular association with the prisoners. It would be safe enough, Roger judged.

Safe or not, he was determined to be right there when Henry de Conyers and his daughter were released from the cellar. He was taking no chances that Louis or the patron would foist two “ringers” on him and then demand ransom for the genuine pair.

Roger had few moments of renewed anxiety when the mob reached the large, brassbound doors of the Hôtel de Ville. The men and women were largely the dregs of the town—petty criminals, whores, hangers-on of all types. To them the Hôtel de Ville had an aura of awesomeness. It was the place to which they were dragged to hear what punishment would be inflicted for the crimes they had committed. There was, therefore, a hesitation. Roger prepared to leap forward and fling himself at the door to break the pause before the entire crowd thought better of what it was doing and slunk away. He had however, underestimated the patron. Before he could, most unnecessarily, draw attention to himself, one of the agitators seized upon a study bench set near the doors.

“Here,” he cried, laughing. “Here is your key of entry.” Half a dozen men, with Roger among them, leaped forward to swing the improvised battering ram with a will. It did not seem to Roger that those huge doors would even be shaken by so puny a ram, but he was wrong again. For all their imposing height and large, ornate lacks, the doors of the Hôtel de Ville were not meant for defense. The building was not the old donjon of the town; that had been abandoned more than a hundred years before because of its dark, damp discomfort. When this building had been constructed, no one considered needing to resist such an outrage as was now taking place. With the very first blow the doors shivered, with the next the lock groaned in the wood. Three more lusty swings and the brass tore its way free.

The doors were yanked open and the crowd poured in. Torches sprang alight. In a corner of his mind Roger again complimented the patron. Everything had been planned, and planned very well. Mostly however, Roger was wondering how he was going to find Henry and his daughter. A desperate visual sweep of the area, just before it was filled to overflowing with the mob, showed him a small quiet figure standing in a plain undecorated doorway to the far right of the entry. The man who had offered the bench as a “key” now let out a whoop of triumph and called to the mob to wrest open the ornate doors to the offices.

“In one we will find what we seek,” he assured them. “And remember, it is to be shared among us all. We are brothers and sisters in misfortune.”

He harangued for a few moments longer, the crowd pausing to listen to him, but Roger paid no more attention. His watchfulness was rewarded. Two men had very quietly detached themselves and were moving toward the silent figure nearly hidden in the shadow of the doorway. As quickly as possible Roger inched his way in that direction also. He was in time to see that the figure in the doorway was Louis—a strangely disfigured Louis. His hair and face were splotched with blood and his garments were torn, his shirt nearly in shreds.

There was no time to wonder about such signs of violence when no violence had taken place. Roger saw Louis hand one of the men a set of keys and melt away from the doorway into deeper shadow. The door was unlocked and the men went down a steep, unfinished flight of stairs. Roger followed quietly, not too closely, his hand on the pistol set at half-cock in his pocket. Once well down the stairs, one of the men paused to light the torch he carried. Roger stopped abruptly where he was and flattened himself against the wall, afraid of being revealed in the light, but neither man looked back.

They moved forward from the base of the stairs. Roger came down only a step or two farther. He found that if he crouched and peered down the stairs he could see what was happening. Farther along was another door with a heavy lock. One man was struggling with it and finally got it open. Roger could not hear the click of the latch because of the noise behind him, but he heard a girl’s light voice, high with fear cry, “Papa!”

“Courage, Leonie, courage,” a man’s deeper voice came. Roger’s heart jumped and began to pound even harder. The man had spoken English! This must be de Conyers. That there should be two Englishmen imprisoned in a town like Saulieu was virtually impossible.

“Come quickly!” one of the patron’s men urged. “Quickly! Quickly!”

“Remember what I told you, Leonie,” Henry said firmly but still in English. “We are forewarned.”

The man in the cell door stepped back, the other raised the torch a little higher to provide better light. Roger saw a man—gaunt, bearded, clothed in filthy rags. Immediately behind him came the girl, one hand stretched to touch her father as if she feared to be separated from him. She was a little less ragged, a little cleaner, so that Roger could make out her features clearly—and the face held him riveted for a long moment before he remembered how dangerous it would be for all of them for him to be caught. He backed hastily up the stairs, just before the man with the torch came into sight.

Beautiful! No, not really beautiful, Roger contradicted himself as he drew back farther into the shadows where Louis had disappeared. Not really beautiful, but… What am I thinking, Roger snarled to himself. I will not be caught by a pretty face again. Besides, she must be young enough to be my daughter. And then, just as the patron’s man emerged from the doorway to the cellar, the tocsin began to clamor from the belfry. Roger gasped a curse, and the crowd which had been cheerfully engaged in looting the building, froze silent for a moment.

In the next moment a new and more urgent bedlam broke loose. Snatching at anything of value, the mob began to rush for the doors. The alarm bell would bring the civil guard. What had been an amusing adventure with a chance for loot had taken on the aspect of real danger. If the mob had been inspired by a desire for justice or revenge or political purpose, they might have stood their ground, barricaded the doors, and demanded to parlay. Since no high ideas had animated them, only a desire to steal, they thought only of escaping.

To Roger, cursing luridly under his breath, the meaning of Louis’ disheveled appearance was suddenly apparent. The little devil was saving his hide. Roger was far angrier with himself than with Louis. It should have been obvious from the beginning that Louis would need some defense. He was the night watch. If he did not intend to leave Saulieu forever, he needed a good excuse for not sounding the warning before the mob reached the Hôtel de Ville. Roger could not guess what that excuse would be, but no doubt Louis’ bloodied and tattered condition would lend verisimilitude to what might otherwise be an unconvincing story.

Those thoughts flicked across Roger’s brain only briefly. The one really important aspect of what Louis had done, as far as Roger was concerned, was how it would affect getting Leonie safely away. It did not occur to Roger at the moment that it was Henry he had come to rescue or that it was remarkable her name should come first into his mind.

He had looked away from the doorway for just an instant after the tocsin rang and the crowd reacted to the warning. Now Roger’s eyes swung back just in time to see the patron’s man pitch forward as Henry pushed him violently from behind. Simultaneously the light in the stairwell went out and a crash came as Leonie turned and shoved the man behind her down the stairs. Meanwhile Henry had kicked his victim in the head hard enough to stun him and turned to help his daughter. She needed no assistance but bounded up the remaining stairs and slammed the door behind her.

Shock at the mass of men and women struggling in the exit was mirrored on both faces, but Leonie grasped her father’s hand and pulled him strongly toward the struggling figures. “Let us mix with the crowd,” she called. “It will be harder to find us.”

“No,” Roger shouted. “Wait!”

But he was too late and could only force his way forward, keeping as close as possible. He had one advantage at least. Although Leonie and her father were as dirty and ragged as everyone else, Henry de Conyers’ gray-blond hair and Leonie’s honey-gold mane gave him a way of following their progress in the generally dark-haired mob. He pressed hard toward them, but did not attempt to call out again. For one thing, he doubted he would be heard over the shrieks and imprecations all around them for another, he did not wish to call out in English for fear of calling attention to them.