The Shadow of Albion (39 page)

looking up and down. He could smell the scent of the ocean, and the riper scent of

trash fish left to rot on the beach even through the veils of soft ram that gave the

landscape a misty, unreal quality. It made visibility difficult, and though he strained

his eyes, he saw no sign of light except the vigil lights in the church up the hill and

the lanterns hung at the front of the inn.

Tne coach was here. The horses were here.

The Duchess was not Lady Meriel awoke to violent rocking and the overpowering

smell of fish. She opened her eyes and then wished she hadn’t, for the action

brought on a headache that made her gasp in protest „Awake, are you?“ There was

the sound of a lamp chimney being removed, and then a sudden wash of light over

the rocking walls of what Meriel realized must be a ship bound for France.

But why? Uncle Richard was fanatic about the restoration of the True Faith to

England, but France had not been a Catholic country since the Revolution banned all

churches nearly twenty years ago. Uncle Richard would never ally himself with the

Emperor.

But Uncle Geoffrey would. Uncle Geoffrey would do anything that would cause

someone else pain.

Having little choice, Meriel rolled over on the narrow bunk and sat up. The flare

of pain on her welted back anchored her further in consciousness. She looked up.

Uncle Geoffrey was standing beside the hanging lantern he had just lit, looking like

a rose-gold Satan. Meriel flinched involuntarily at the sight of the riding crop in his

hand.

He laughed. „Oh, you’ve earned yourself a proper hiding, my dear, but at the

moment I'm minded to be pleased with you. I'd never have winkled Wessex’s

Duchess out of her burrow half so neatly, and, I'm forced to admit, she’s of a lot

more use to me at the moment than you are.“

„But you’re certain you will find a use for me later,“ Meriel said bitterly. „How

did you find us? We were not followed – I made sure of that.“

Geoffrey laughed again. „I hadn’t the least need to follow you, my poppet: I've

read every letter you’ve posted since your dear father died and Dickon hatched this

cloudwitted scheme to make you Queen of England. Knowledge is never wasted, so

I've found, and what an inventive little plotter you are! So once the carriage turned

up at Vauxhall empty, I just assumed you’d bolted for Auntie and set my course

accordingly. Your precious blockade runner doesn’t give a fig what cargo he carries,

you know, so long as the price is right And I've found over the years that gold is

always right.“

Meriel hung her head. It had all been for nothing, and the brief illusion of freedom

she’d cherished was only that But in the midst of her despair, a faint spark of

defiance kindled and swelled within her. More than she wanted her own freedom, she

wanted to deny her tormentors the prize they sought „So you want the Duchess,“

Meriel said, making certain she sounded cowed and bitter. „But why?“

„Because the Duchess has a Duke,“ Geoffrey said. „And at the moment, he’s a

most inconvenient one.“

It was nearly midnight when the three of them were rowed ashore on the French

coast Sarah still slept heavily, for Geoffrey had given her more laudanum a few

hours into the voyage, something Meriel had not been able to prevent Now Sarah lay

on the sandy shore bundled in her traveling cloak, while Geoffrey waited for a

response to the message he had sent from the ship. He still carried the hoodwink

lantern in his hand, as if he thought to have further use for it Meriel crouched beside

Sarah’s slumbering form. Geoffrey had not bothered to drug her – one unconscious

female was burden enough, he’d said. Meriel knew that he was certain she was

cowed into submission, and she meant for her uncle to go on thinking so.

She also meant to run at the first opportunity – although she knew any apparent

opportunity would only be the illusion of a chance. Geoffrey had only to run her

down to capture her once more.

Therefore she must run when he was not able to follow. And she still had money,

gold coins in the pocket in her petticoat Uncle Geoffrey had overlooked that.

To Meriel’s disquiet, their signal was answered by men in French uniform. The

French Captain did not seem at all surprised to see such strange and ill-assorted

arrivals on the beach at this hour, and spoke for some time to Geoffrey in a French

too low and rapid for Meriel to follow, though she knew the language well. The party

was then brought to what was probably a local inn; the landlord, yawning and

unshaven, provided hot soup for Meriel and whiskey for Geoffrey. Their respite was

brief, however; by the time Meriel had finished the cup of broth, a carriage had

arrived, and once more the little party was on the move.

The miles passed slowly. As the sky lightened toward dawn it began to rain. This

was unusual weather for July, but Meriel blessed it; rain would help to cover her

escape. As they traveled on, Meriel stared out the window, wondering where she

was. She was too young to have memories of France in happier times and so had no

hope of discovering their location, but that did not dissuade her from her plans in the

slightest.

The sun was well-risen when the coach jolted to a stop in front of an inn of the

sort that catered to travelers. The rain had recently stopped, and the dampened

countryside was shrouded in veils of steam. The country here was pretty and rolling,

and in the distance Meriel saw the spire of a church. There would be a village

nearby, then.

She did not try to feign sleep, for Uncle Geoffrey would see through that ruse and

it would make him suspicious. Instead, she concentrated on projecting an air of

abject fear and dejection – it was not hard, for she could not see much future for

herself along any course she pursued. Spain and the dubious support of her

mother’s family was very fer away, and there were many perils set in the path of a

young girl on her own.

Still, she would not let Uncle Geoffrey win.

The coach rolled to a stop. There was bustle and rocking as the team was

unhitched and led away; the mounted French soldiers who accompanied them took

the opportunity to reconnoiter the taproom with an eye to refreshment and comfort

Geoffrey stretched, and leaned over to inspect his sleeping prisoner. Sarah’s hands

were icy and her breathing was slow, but Meriel believed that the dose of laudanum

was not fatal.

Satisfying himself that Sarah would not move, Geoffrey pushed open the door of

the coach. „I’m off to breakfast. As for you, poppet, wait right here, or Uncle will

be very, very angry.“

Meriel hung her head and did not answer. But as soon as her uncle was gone, she

pushed open the door on the far side of the coach and slipped out. Her borrowed

traveling boots slipped and squished in the inn-yard mud, and she clutched at the

frame of the carriage for support She did not like to leave Sarah a helpless prisoner

in Geoffrey’s hands, for she well knew his implacable cruelty. But her uncle had

claimed that Sarah was necessary to some plot he was hatching against the Duke of

Wessex, which must mean that he would not harm the Duchess.

Meriel had to believe that.

Carefully she closed the door of the coach behind her. The main road was at her

back, and behind the inn she could see the hedgerow that flanked the country lane.

Throwing the hood back – she dared not look as if she were skulking, should

anyone notice her – Meriel began walking toward the hedge.

She was nearly there when she was seen, by a soldier who preferred to take his

beer and bread in the fresh air, even if the weather was damp.

„Where are you going?“ the soldier asked in French, but his tone was curious, not

sharp.

„I have a necessity,“ Meriel replied in that same language. When the soldier took

her meaning he looked away, begging her pardon as the color rose in his cheeks.

Meriel walked briskly past him, in the general direction of the privy.

If Uncle Geoffrey knew his niece so well, then equally Lady Meriel knew her

uncle. Unwilling to share his information, intent upon keeping others in tile dark as

much as possible, why should he tell them that he did not trust his niece, and that

she must on no account be allowed to escape?

She’d gambled and won. Now let her luck only hold for ten minutes more….

The angle of the building now concealed her from the curious soldier, and Meriel

picked up her skirts and began to run. She reached the hedge and scrambled through

it, blessing the ever-practical Sarah for insisting on the nigh-indestructible Cotton de

Mmes traveling dress that she wore, and the stout boots that were on her feet.

Swathing her cloak tightly around her and gathering a fistful of skirts, Meriel hurried

in the direction of the village.

She could not get far before she was discovered; but Meriel knew that Uncle

Geoffrey had urgent business elsewhere, and she thought she could manage to hide

until her uncle could no longer afford to search for her. She hurried through the

town, assessing every building she saw in light of her needs. She could rely upon no

one to help her escape, for anyone might betray her to Geoffrey.

At last, nearly despairing of finding a haven, Meriel reached the old church at the

edge of the village. For an instant she considered seeking Sanctuary at its altar, then

dismissed the foolish romantic notion. That custom was centuries dead, and even if

it were not, Geoffrey Highclere did not respect man, God, or devil.

But the church was attached by a wailed garden to the residence of its abbé, and

at this hour of the day the garden was deserted. Meriel opened the little gate and

stepped inside, glancing fearfully toward the house. But no one had seen her.

Flitting through the garden like a feral ghost, Meriel found sanctuary in a

gardener’s shed at the foot of the garden. Gingerly she pulled open the door, fearful

of spiders, but even spiders were not as terrifying as her uncle. She slipped inside

and closed the door behind her, then groped through the darkness until she found an

empty corner. There she crouched down and settled in to wait. And as the slow

minutes passed and nothing happened, Meriel fell asleep.

„You can come out now, you know. He’s gone.“

With a gasp, Meriel snapped awake, heart hammering. The little hut was stiflingly

hot now, but a cool breeze wafted in through the open door, and slanting golden

afternoon light filled the dusty shed. A figure stood silhouetted in the doorway, but

her dazzled eyes could not make him out. As she struggled to her feet she became

tangled in her cloak, and fought the cloth as if it were a living tiling.

„It’s all right,“ the stranger said, taking her arm and raising her to her feet. „He’s

gone. He was looking for you, wasn’t he – the ill-tempered Anglais with the golden

hair?“

Meriel could see him now. He was at young man, near her own age, dressed in the

plain simple clothing of the country burgher. His toffee-colored hair was pulled back

in a short queue, and his blue eyes regarded her inquiringly.

„He’s gone?“ she asked, wanting to be sure of the most important thing first. She

spoke in French, as he had addressed her in that language.

The stranger smiled. „He has gone hours ago, Mademoiselle. I waited for you to

emerge, and then I Began to think that you meant to spend the night in Jacques’s

shed, and that certainly could not be allowed.“

Meriel shook out her skirts and attempted vainly to brush some of the dust and

dried mud from her draggled cotton gown. Her mind was working frantically, trying

to decide whether this was salvation or yet another form of trap.

„If you knew I was there, why did you not tell him when he came looking for

me?“

The stranger laughed. „Because I did not like him, Mademoiselle! And Père Henri

– I suppose I should say the Abbé de Condé, but he has lived here for so long that

everyone in Trois Vierges calls him Père Henri – did not know you were here, so he

was not forced to perjure his soul with lying, which is a very good thing,“ the

stranger said piously. „But now the Anglais is gone and I may present you to Père

Henri, so that we may all decide what to do. This is a very bad man you are running

from, Mademoiselle, is it not?“

„He is a devil,“ Meriel said with feeling. „If he should find me again, he will kill

me.“

„Alas,“ the stranger said. „There are many devils in France these days – but Père

Henri is very good at making sure that they do not find those whom they seek. And

now I shall present him – poor man! – with someone else to hide. Only – who shall I