The Shadow of Albion (40 page)

say that you are?“

Meriel hesitated. But she very badly wished to trust someone, and this engaging

young man seemed as though he might be an ally. Still, she hesitated for a long

moment before she replied.

„Meriel ‘… Greye. Yes. Tell him that. But who are you?“

„You must call me Louis,“ the stranger said, smiling a little bitterly. „It is forward,

I know, but I have had no other name in our glorious Republic these dozen years.“

Chapter 16

The Lion in the Oak

As soon as Wessex had walked into the Parisian cellar, he’d known that this was

a trap. He did not recognize any of the members of this Underground cell – and he’d

been forced to use the cover of M. de Reynard in contacting them, knowing that the

Red Jacks had blown that nom de guerre months ago and that in all probability they

would know him for an English political agent. And so, it seemed, they did.

„Come in, M’sieur de Reynard… or whatever your real name is,“ the leader – a

brunette who must once have been beautiful but who now was merely striking – said.

„Do not try to leave – you will be dead before you do.“

„I’ve come for information,“ Wessex said evenly. „I am not one of the Red

Jack’s dogs.“

„It does not matter whose dog you are, if you are not ours, hein?“ the woman

said. „You will tell us what you know, and then… we shall see.“

„If I knew anything of interest, I would not have come to you,“ Wessex

responded. In his persona of the Chevalier, he wore a saber at his hip, and carried a

number of other little surprises about his person, but he did not wish to kill anyone

here tonight, much less attract undue attention. „Can’t we behave as reasonable

people? My people have always supported the Restoration of the true government of

France – you have worked with us before.“

„Times change,“ the hard-eyed brunette said. She seemed upon the verge of a

drastic decision, when suddenly there was a small commotion from outside the

door, and Victor Saint-Lazarre walked in.

He appeared taken aback by the sight of Wessex.

„Zette! What are you doing?“ he demanded.

„What I must, Victor,“ Zette replied stonily. „Do you think we dare to trust our

so-called allies at this time of all times? They would steal the bone themselves- – “

„Be quiet!“ Saint-Lazarre snapped. „Can we behave like the sans-cubttes and

hope to save France at the same time? This man is a friend – “

„This man has no name,“ Zette noted dryly. „He says he is the Chevalier de

Reynard – but the Chevalier de Reynard does not exist; he is a shadow cast by an

English spy.“

„I know this man,“ Saint-Lazarre said, gazing steadily at Wessex. „I will vouch

for him. He means us no harm and has done me a very great service.“ He turned his

attention to Wessex. „What have you come here for… m’sieur?“

So Saint-Lazarre was willing to keep his secret. Wessex spared a moment to feel

relief. But Saint-Lazarre knew he was the Duke of Wessex, and now knew him for a

spy. Try as he might, the Frenchman could not keep the expression of distaste from

his face, for a spy was the lowest of back-alley skulkers, and to find that a nobleman

had descended to such a level…

„I came to see if the rumors that the Tyrant was behind the disappearance of

Princess Stephanie of Denmark were true. Her ship has vanished, and I do not

believe that she is dead.“

„The little Princess who was to have sealed the treaty,“ Saint-Lazarre said. „She is

gone?“

„Her ship has vanished.“ Wessex admitted only what the whole world knew.

„And the Marquis de Sade is discovered as the Tyrant’s emissary at the Danish

court. What can he be doing there, I ask?“

„De Sade is a foul name indeed,“ Saint-Lazarre said, shaking his head in disgust

„But we cannot help you, m’sieur. The Princess is not in Paris. And I advise you to

go home, Englishman. France will determine her own destiny without England’s

help.“

And so Wessex had left Paris. But he had not gone home.

All his instincts assured him that Princess Stephanie had been kidnapped, and the

only power that could wish to abduct her was Imperial France. But the Princess had

not vanished alone. A Hundred-Gun Ship of the Line carried over eight hundred men

as its crew; over a thousand men and women had vanished with the Princess, and

Wessex did not believe that Bonaparte had executed them all… the little Corsican

was too canny a gamesman to have done that.

They must be somewhere. To search all of France for them was like searching for

a needle in a haystack. But where better to search for a needle than in a haystack

made of needles?

* * *

The medieval walled city of Verdun bestrode the road to Paris like an angry

colossus, but the colossus was a tame giant in the pay of La Belle France. Within the

city’s walls lay all those who did not swell the numbers within French prisons –

enemy soldiers on parole; neutrals who could not be allowed to pass; others who,

though prisoners, had not been judged enemies of the state.

If Avery deMorrissey had been able to escape from the place, Wessex mused, he

himself should certainly be able to get in. He lacked the papers that would allow him

to enter the city’s guarded gates as a bureaucrat or tradesman upon lawful business,

and hacl little interest in entering Verdun as a prisoner. The only remaining possibility

was a clandestine entry that eluded the sentries, and Wessex was considering how he

might effect one when his attention was caught by the sound of hoofbeats on the

road behind him.

Dismounting, he led his horse off the road into a small stand of trees. They would

not conceal him completely, but it might serve to screen him from casual attention.

A few moments later, a lone rider on a neat-footed grey gelding came trotting up

the road. The man was in uniform and cut a fantastic figure, from the leopardskin

saddlepad beneath his saddle to the arcing eagle’s wings that thrust skyward, making

a faint keening sound as they cut through the air.

Wessex stayed where he was. He was too far away to recognize the rider – and

many of those who wore that uniform now served Bonaparte – but the Andalusian

gelding was impossible to mistake.

Illya Koscuisko reined in. Spangle stopped, bowing and prancing.

„I do hope it’s you cowering there in the bushes, my dear fellow. I’d hate to have

to shoot another in a series of minor French bureaucrats in order to cover my

traces,“ Koscuisko said.

For a long time Sarah had only come near the surface of wakefulness before

being forced down again into darkness by the sick-sweet taste of laudanum. In her

mind, her drugged state became the insensate period just after the carriage accident,

when she had been reshaped by careful instruction into the semblance of the

Marchioness of Roxbury.

But now that shaping had fallen away, and having been caught so once, she could

not be beguiled so again. She was Sarah Cunningham of America – and it was that

peculiar stubborn independence of mind, forged in the aftermath of a war this world

had not experienced, that allowed her to force herself awake at last The drug still

anchored her body in the bed like the press of a heavy hand, and her head felt made

of lead, but at last she could open her eyes and think—-after a fashion.

Geoffrey Highclere had found her and Lady Meriel in Talitho, drugged them, and

brought them… where?

The room she lay in had the same impression of heavy stone and hint of damp

that Sarah associated with the chapel at Mooncoign, only here the sensation was

magnified a thousandfold. The bared plaster upon the walls was stained with

moisture, and in places the plaster had flaked away to reveal the grey shapes of

dressed stone beneath.

The ceiling was crafted of massive age-darkened beams, adding to the sense

Sarah was gaining that she lay within the walls of some medieval fortress. When she

at last managed to lift her head, she could see that a window – the sole source of

light in the room – was set deep into the opposite wall. Two cross-bars blocked off

that avenue of escape.

Groaning, Sarah levered herself into a sitting position. The room contained only

the bed she was on – a thing of delicate curved and gilded and enameled wood that

looked jarringly out of place in this rude medieval keep – and a rough wooden table

upon which sat a carafe of water and the ominous blue bottle of laudanum.

The upright position brought with it lightheadedness and thirst. She was still

wearing her traveling clothes, down to her cloak and shoes, and wondered how long

she had lain drugged. Her hair felt sticky and disheveled, and her feet had swollen as

she lay abed until they ached like a bruised tooth. Using the frame of the bed, Sarah

dragged herself to her feet, wincing at the pain. The room reeled savagely around

her, but she was determined to prevail. At last she managed to make her way over to

the barred window.

She was in a castle.

Outside her window, the tower wall dropped sixty feet to a stagnant moat almost

overgrown with water lilies. The landscape stretched soft and green, verdant with

summer growth. In the distance she thought she might be able to see the spire of a

village church, but she couldn’t be certain.

England… or elsewhere? Meriel had planned to go to Lisbon –

Where was Meriel?

Still light-headed and groggy, Sarah turned and looked around the room. No

Meriel. Sarah shook her head, trying to clear it. Mr. Highclere had meant to bring

both of them with him. Was Meriel being kept somewhere else?

Sarah ran her hand through her light brown hair, dislodging the last of the pins and

sending it cascading down her back in a tangled mass. Gould she get out of the

room to find out? Sarah studied the stout, iron-bound oaken door with misgivings.

She wasn’t certain she even had the strength to drag the heavy door open – and

what if it was locked?

She was spared having to make that discovery. There was a rattle of keys (so it

was locked!) and a groaning of unoiled hinges as the massive slab swung inward.

A young woman dressed in country homespun entered, carrying a large wooden

tray containing a bowl and a pitcher. Behind her came Geoffrey Highclere, neat and

immaculate in Revolutionary black. He looked like an elegant ferret, and Sarah felt

even more disheveled and grubby by contrast.

The servant uttered a distressed squeak at the sight of Sarah on her feet, and

scurried over to the table to set down the laden tray burden. Mr. Highclere merely

smiled.

„So you’re awake then, Duchess? Well it saves me the trouble of wakening you.“

„Where is Meriel?“ Sarah demanded with Yankee bluntness. If he expected fits or

vapors, Mr. Highclere was going to have to look elsewhere for them.

He smiled, obviously about to spin her some faradiddle, and Sarah’s frayed

patience snapped. „And the truth, if you please, Mr. Highclere! I am in no mood for

one of your Banbury tales.“

„You ought, you know, to be more conciliating,“ Mr. Highclere pointed out in

hurt tones. „After all, you are my prisoner.“

Sarah’s only response was an unladylike snort „Oh, get out, girl, and go tell the

Monsignor that he can talk to her now,“ Geoffrey snapped in French.

The frightened maidservant bobbed deeply and scuttled from the room.

Sarah faced Mr. Highclere. Her heart was fluttering frantically, but she knew that

her face was an expressionless mask, and that such a Sphinx-face would unnerve

him. Her enemy was a soft city-dweller, and he would not survive a day in the

boundless forests of her homeland. If she could only escape from this keep, she

could vanish into the French countryside beyond his ability to trace her. tcYou may

think you have the upper hand, but the Monsignor won’t care for that. He’ll break

you the same way he shells a walnut; he has but to tighten his fingers –

„And then he can eat me,“ Sarah supplied helpfully. „Well, while I must admit it

sounds a useful party-trick, Mr. Highclere, I can hardly see that it is of the least use

here. You are a traitor to England, Mr. Highclere, and while I have some passing

sentiment for traitors and revolutionaries, I cannot approve of the way you have

treated Lady Meriel,“ she said firmly, returning the conversation to the matter she

most wished to know.

„It is nothing to the way I would have treated her,“ Mr. Highclere snarled, „and I