The Shadow of Albion (46 page)

Koscuisko murmured.

The disguised Bishop darted him a startled glance, then recovered himself and

threw the dice. Both men inspected the results. Koscuisko laughed, and clapped the

apparent tradesman on the shoulder. He passed the bottle and, when it was returned,

took a drink himself.

The tradesman spent another fifteen minutes throwing the dice against the Hussar,

and among the winnings that changed hands at the end there was a small folded

scrap of paper. Koscuisko shoved it into his pocket along with the small hoard of

greasy coin and wandered unsteadily from the accommodation house.

Wessex had intended to stay circumspecdy in his room at the Golden Cockerel

until Koscuisko had met with the Bishop of Amiens and received Citizen Orders

proper documentation, but once his partner was gone, the Duke found himself too

restless to remain in one place. Despite his discipline, his mind kept turning upon

Sarah. Where was she, and what was happening to her?

It was entirely his fault that Sarah was in danger. If he had not married her, she

would not have become a target for Ripon’s vengeful plots. The mere Marchioness

of Roxbury did not fly high enough for Ripon, nor was she so closely placed to the

Crown.

But the Duchess of Wessex was so placed, and with the Duke’s anonymity

becoming more compromised by the day, the time would soon come when there

could be no place for Wessex on the chessboard of Europe.

Such thoughts disturbed him – the more because there seemed no escape from

them. But there was escape from the small inn, and so Wessex tucked a pistol in his

pocket and went to walk about the town.

His steps soon took him in the direction of the church. Amiens was not a

cathedral town (although, Wessex reflected sardonically, it was the seat of quite

another sort of Bishop) but the Popish church was quite grand enough for all

practical use. Vaulting gothic arches led the eye skyward to battlements encrusted

with saints and gargoyles, remaining despite the best efforts of the atheistic

Revolution to overturn them.

The more pragmatic Bonaparte had restored Holy Mother Church and her

privileges to the country that had fought so desperately to throw off her yoke.

Bonaparte gave Up service to freedom of conscience, but in truth, the highest power

in the land was the Imperial Eagle, and even the Church must bow to that Even the

Powers of the land itself fled before the great beast Bonaparte, causing disturbances

in the Unseen World whose repercussions spread like the lake-ripples from a thrown

stone.

Thinking his bleak thoughts, Wessex found himself gazing at a tiny shop that

stood almost within the church’s shadow. It was such a shop as would never have

existed so openly in Royal France, where the kings had made the promises and

treaties they must but commended their people wholly to the mercies of the Church.

But at the dawn of this new century, the Church’s power to dictate was much

circumscribed, and such things as this shop flourished.

Willing to be distracted, Wessex crossed the square toward the shop. It occupied

a small narrow building, and the age-old symbol of an open hand inscribed with the

symbols of the palmist hung above its door.

Wessex opened the door warily, and a tiny bell rang sweetly as he did so. The

narrow shop was fragrant with the scent of stolen Church incense, and the walls

were covered with gaudy broadsides detailing the phrenological map, the signs of the

zodiac, a prudently unattributed horoscope, and other tools of the prognosticator’s

art. A curtain divided the back of the shop from the front, and as Wessex looked

about, a woman came forward through the curtains.

She was not dressed in Gipsy tawdry as he had half expected, neither was she

some ancient crone; instead, a woman only a few years older man he was regarded

him calmly. She was dressed in neat, plain, sensible clothing, and her blue wool

shawl was pinned at the neck with a scarab-shaped brooch of red carnelian, the only

exotic thing about her.

„Good afternoon, monsieur,“ she said. „Do you seek advice from Madame

Fabricant?“

„Is that what you sell?“ Wessex asked. „Advice?“

To his surprise, the question made the woman laugh merrily. „Oh my! Monsieur,

you know what sort of shop this is. I sell what people wish to buy – but you do not

look as if you need me to petition the Good Mother for health or wealth or love. So

it must be the future you wish to know.“

„I had rather know the present,“ Wessex found himself replying, „if your skills

extend to that, mademoiselle.“

„Your Grace is too kind,“ the woman said, turning to pass through the curtain

again. „But I did have a husband once, though he is dead now.“

Wessex stood as if footed to the spot. Was the tide she had given him just empty

flattery, or did she indeed have the Sight?

Or was she one of Talleyrand’s agents, warned to look for the Duke of Wessex

along the road to Calais?

No answer came; Wessex shrugged to himself and followed her though the

curtain, one hand inside his coat and resting on the butt of his pistol.

Behind .the curtain the shop was dark, lit only by a large pillar candle that stood

upon a massive brass holder in the shape of a monkey. The walls of the room were

lined with cabinets of polished mahogany, whose myriad of small drawers reminded

Wessex of an apothecary. Just as in an apothecary, there were jars of herbs and

flasks of colored liquid, but no apothecary would have a statue of the Blessed Virgin

upon the wall, and before her a small table upon which rested a small votive in a red

glass jar in .the midst of a tumble of less recognizable objects.

Dominating the room was the table upon which the pillar candle rested. The table

was covered with a green oilcloth drape, and in addition to the candle, its surface

held a large crystal ball and a deck of tarots pillowed upon a red silk kerchief.

Smoothing her skirts, the shop’s proprietor seated herself at the far side of the table

and gestured for Wessex to take the other chair.

To do so would place him with his back to the curtain. Wessex did not move.

„Why did you address me as you did, Citizeness?“ he asked. „I am no aristocrat,

but a proud citizen of France.“

She glanced up from beneath her lashes, and the candlelight seemed to gather in

her eyes, making them glow like an animal’s.

„I shall call you what you wish, Citizen,“ Madame Fabricant said with a shrug,

„but I will not say I do not see what I do. I have the Sight, as my mama did – we are

from the Languedoc, and me Old Blood runs strong there – and I have known for

days that one would come for whom I had a message.“

„And I am that one?“ Wessex asked. His voice was skeptical but civil.

„Do you want the message or not?“ Madame said tartly. „I was to tell you this

first: I am the key for every lock.“

Wessex went very still. He knew the Roxbury motto as well as he knew his own

family’s – this was either a trap, or a true sending. Without responding, he went

back through me curtain to me shop, and occupied himself for a few minutes closing

and locking the door and pulling the shutters across the window.

When he was done, the shop was so dark that he could see the thin line of

candlelight that leaked out from beneath the curtains between the front room and the

back. He dragged the curtains open and tied them securely.

„Very well, Madame,“ Wessex said. „Deliver this message you say that you have

for me, and I shall see you properly compensated for your troubles.“

„How cautious you are,“ the sorceress mocked. „You are a man who is no

stranger to trouble, so I mink. You are not the client I would have chosen, but I do

not turn away any who come to my shop. It is bad for business,“ she added with a

very French shrug.

Wessex smiled sourly and seated himself opposite her at the table. The

candlelight collected in the crystal ball, showing him the whole room turned upside

down.

Madame Fabricant took his hand and turned it palm upward. She gazed into his

palm intently, as another of her ilk might stare into a bowl of water or ink, „Monsieur

is married?“ she asked after a moment.

Ridiculous that the question should pain him so, as if an escape route he had not

noticed before was closing even as he gazed upon it. But escape from what?

„You tell me,“ Wessex said.

Madame Fabricant made a face.   „So cautious! Very well, Your Grace. I see that

your wife is in danger, over stone and water, but not far from here. She is guarded

by Time itself, and her danger will only increase once she has France in her charge.

She relies upon you to aid her, so you must follow the setting sun until you come to

the ancient regime.“

„You must admit that the message is a bit vague,“ Wessex drawled politely.

„It is what I have been told, Monsieur le Duc“ the fortune-teller snapped. „Go

west without delay – or you will lose your wife… and your heart.“

Lady Meriel sat on a little stool placed beneath one of the trees in the garden,

using the strong summer light to work on a shirt she was making for Louis. It had

been five days since she had come to the Abbé and stumbled upon his great secret,

and though she worried constantly about Sarah’s fate, the days had passed like

something outside of time, like a beautiful dream out of which she must someday

awaken. Here she could be herself, not an actress in a wicked masquerade, playing

out a part written for her by someone else.

And Louis was a part of that dream.

Louis could not be for her, Meriel told herself firmly.

For Louis was the true King of France, and reject his birthright though he might,

others would force him to take it up as soon as he declared himself.

Meriel set another stitch in the shirt, reproaching herself for her foolishness in

giving her heart to a man who – no matter how much he loved her in return – could

never marry her. A king must have a princess, and, though the blood of kings flowed

in her veins, Meriel was not one such as Louis would be forced to accept as his

wife.

Let us have this little time together then, before they take him. Oh, Blessed

Virgin, surely that is not too much to ask of You?

Louis would return soon. He had gone to the village – Père Henri was a member

of the Royalist Underground, and through him, Louis could reach those who had

eyes and ears in every part of the land. Already they had discovered that Meriel’s

uncle Geoffrey Highclere was in Talleyrand’s pay. If they could only discover where

Uncle Geoffrey had taken the Duchess of Wessex, they might be able to rescue her,

and then the great burden of guilt that Meriel carried would be eased.

She continued sewing – she was happy enough to take up what work of the

household she could, and a basket of whitework lay at her feet, awaiting attention –

but could not keep herself from glancing toward the road every few minutes, hoping

to see Louis’s return. When she saw him at last, walking up the road with his

wide-brimmed hat in his hand and his white shirt open at the throat in the country

fashion, Meriel surrendered to her impulse and put the shirt aside, running to greet

him.

They met at the gate, where Louis set his hat upon Meriel’s head and kissed her

soundly. He smelled of clean linen and sunlight, and Meriel’s heart swelled with

present joy and future sorrow.

„Marry me,“ Louis said instantly.

She laughed, because it was a familiar demand. „No, and no, and no again! I’ve

told you, Louis – one so. great is not for such as I.“

„I have renounced my throne,“ Louis reminded her, coming through the gate and

closing it behind him with his free hand. His other hand was on her waist. „I am no

one greater than Citizen Capet, and Citizen Capet wishes very much to marry a

pretty English girl.“

„Louis, don’t tease me,“ Meriel begged. „Renounce what you will – no one,

English or French, will leave you in peace. You are too important to them.“

„Too important to their games,“ Louis corrected bitterly. „They are like children

with toy soldiers, forgetting that these toys of theirs bleed and the. It is different in

the New World. We can be free there, Meriel. Wessex will help us.“.

„Against his King’s wishes?“ Meriel asked. „Oh, let us not quarrel now, my love,

but tell me: what news do you have of Her Grace?“

„I only spoke to a messenger,“ Louis said, „a drover who had come to town. But

he brought word of a meeting – at the ruins of the chateau that is about five miles