The Shadow of Albion (47 page)

from here. He says that if I will meet their leader there, he will have news of the

Duchess.“

„It is too dangerous!“ Meriel said.

„And that is why we will not say a word of this to Père Henri,“ Louis said firmly.

„When we have certain knowledge of where your uncle and Her Grace are will be

time enough to involve him. He has risked too much, hiding me here as he has, for

me to worry him now.“

„But if you should – “ Meriel began.

„These people are friends,“ Louis cut her off gently. „They believe in France and

the King – riot in that opportunist who has lately crowned himself Emperor in Paris.

They will not betray me, though they do not know who I truly am. Now, we should

go in. If we hurry, we can be married before Madame Carmaux has supper upon the

table.“

„No,“ Meriel said, smiling back at him.

But her fears would not be put to rest. In some ways she was wiser than Louis –

though he had been in danger since he had been a small boy, he had always been

surrounded by those who wished him well. He believed in happy endings.

Meriel did not.

And so, when Louis left the house a few hours after dark to keep his appointment

with the Underground, Meriel followed him.

The moon was only a couple of days past full, and still provided enough light for

Meriel to find her way. Louis carried a dark lantern, but did not need it to find his

way over familiar roads.

The chateau had burned many years ago, during the riots that had plagued the

countryside as the Glorious Revolution took hold. The great house had been looted

before it was set ablaze; now only a few walls and charred timbers remained to mark

the spot where it had stood, since all else had been carried away by the people or

masked by Nature. The gatehouse had been pulled down entirely, its stones carried

away by the villagers to repair their own homes and barns. Even the iron gates had

gone for Bonaparte’s cannon. The sweeping lawns had turned to wild meadows; the

formal gardens had become a wilderness of thorn and bramble.

Now Louis used his lantern to find his way, and Meriel – who had lagged far

behind, both from fear of discovery and because her skirts did not allow her to keep

to his pace – saw its tiny golden spark bobbing on ahead of her. As she tried to

follow, she stepped into a rut and fell fall length.

She froze where she lay as Louis, yards ahead, looked around for the source of

the sound. As she lay sprawled in the dirt, her outstretched hand touched another rut

in the ground, twin to the one she had tripped in.

Wagon tracks. But who would be taking a wagon up to the ruined chateau?

Louis moved on. Meriel rose to her knees, tracing the shapes on the ground by

touch. New marks – ’the ground was still moist. The wheels that made the tracks

had been , very wide, and the wagon heavy; the tracks were deep. j Meriel got to her

feet, her heart hammering with more than exertion. Gathering up her skirts in her

hand, she I began to run after the bobbing lantern light I Let her be wrong. Merciful

saints in heaven, let her be wrong!

She had thought to catch Louis before he entered the ruin, but the darkness

caused her to misjudge the distance between them. When she stopped to catch her

breath, she i saw that he was almost to the chateau itself.

What if she were wrong? If Louis were truly coming to meet the Underground

leader, she would frighten the man! away if she cried out, and then they might never

have what information about the Duchess of Wessex he possessed.

There was little time to weigh her options – she must choose between her lover

and her friend. But though her heart broke at her own betrayal, Meriel did not find

the choice hard.

„Louis!“ she cried as loud as she could. „Ifs a trap! It’s a trap!“

Louis turned. She saw him raise his lantern high, saw its golden beam fall across

his face as he looked for her. And then the ruin blazed with light, as though the

abandoned chateau had been set afire once more, and soldiers were shouting and

running from their places of concealment.

„Run!“ Louis shouted as they grabbed him. „Meriel – run!“

She hesitated for only a moment, then, fleet as a white deer, turned and ran.

She stopped for nothing. Shots were fired past her, but she felt nothing. She held

her skirts as high as she could and ran as though Hell’s mouth had opened behind

her, ran until she reached the church door and rang the bell that summoned the priest

to midnight emergencies.

When Père Henri came Meriel could not speak. She crouched at his feet, gasping

for breath and fighting the nausea and faintness that gripped her.

„Louis!“ she finally managed to say, gesturing back the way she had come.

As if she had summoned it, a black coach came rattling down the lane in the

direction of the road to Paris. It was drawn by twelve black horses, and needed

every one of them, for the coach was made entirely of iron, and its narrow windows

were barred. The padlocks on each of its iron doors made a din like rolling thunder

as it passed, and six mounted soldiers rode before and six behind, and four more

rode upon the coach itself, all armed with muskets.

„No,“ Meriel whispered in despair.

The Abbé de Condé lifted her to her feet. „You must be strong, my child,“ he

said.

It was long past midnight. Meriel knelt before the statue of the Virgin in the village

church, a borrowed rosary between her fingers. She was numb with the prayers she

had said, but sleep was impossible. All she could think of was that Louis – her Louis

– was in the hands of his enemies.

Because of me. Always because of me….

The Abbé had roused the town and made inquiries. The drover Louis had spoken

to was nowhere to be found, though the man’s cattle were still in the barn of a local

farmer. No one had seen sixteen soldiers and an iron coach enter the village – but

there were other routes to the chateau.

Louis was gone. The Abbé was in his study, writing letters that might help his

young cousin but more likely would not. And Meriel was kneeling here, beseeching

the Blessed Virgin for a miracle. Not even a great miracle. She would understand,

she told the Mother of God, if she could not set Louis free. But that he should die

alone – that Meriel should live without him – she could not bear.

„Only let me know where he is, Holy Mother. Only let me go to him.“

But there was no answer.

‘ People came and went that day – some to pray for young Louis, whom all had

known and liked even when they had thought him merely a young nephew of the

curé; some to pray for themselves, for if it became known that their village had

sheltered the Lost King, the Emperor, in his wrath might raze the place to the ground.

Meriel remained, resisting all attempts of Mme. Carmaux to put her to bed, until at

last, in the late afternoon, the curé himself came for her.

The Abbé de Condé had aged twenty years in a night His eyes were sunken in his

head, and Ins skin was papery and grey. Looking at his face, Meriel could see the

memento mori, the skull beneath the skin.

„Meriel?“ he said. „Child, you must rest You cannot go on like this; it does not

help him.“

„Then my prayers are useless?“ Meriel asked scornfully.

„But it is said that Our Lord loves sinners prayers best – and I have betrayed so

many in my life that surely He will listen to me now – “

„Do not talk so,“ the Abbé said sternly. „You are overwrought and grieving; you

do not know what you are saying. But do not mock God, child.“

„I do not mock God, Father,“ Meriel said. „But I do not think He is listening.“

In the middle of the night, Meriel awoke abruptly, sitting bolt upright in the bed,

her heart hammering as if someone had shouted her name. The windows had been

carefully closed and shuttered against the dangers of night air, and the room was

stiflingly close; Meriel slipped out of bed and went to the window. Shoving up the

sash and throwing back the shutters, she looked out over the garden.

Everything was calm and quiet. The only light was the faint spark of vigil candles

in the church. From within the house, there was no sound – and there was no one in

the garden.

Louis….

For a moment grief welled up inside her, shaking Meriel as a terrier shakes a rat.

Roughly, she pushed the emotion aside. Now that she was awake, the determination

that she had taken to bed with her returned. There was something she must do.

By moonlight, she dressed quickly in the cotton de Nimes dress she had brought

with her, and picked up a borrowed shawl and clogs. Carrying the heavy shoes

bundled in the shawl, Meriel tiptoed from her room and through the silent house.

In the kitchen, she unbolted the door and stepped out into the garden. Meriel was

not certain what time it was, but the hour was somewhere in the deep trough of

country night, long after all the folk are abed and hours before the rooster crows to

wake the dawn. She closed the door slowly, wishing she had some way to lock it

once more, and went on her way.

No dogs barked as Meriel took to the road and began walking toward the village.

She passed by the wall of the church; though she hesitated, Meriel did not stop. She

had begged God for help and He had not answered. Now she would go elsewhere.

Every village in France had such a place: a well, a tree, a stone sacred to the

Oldest People, where offerings could be left and boons begged. Good Christians

were sternly forbidden to have aught to do with such, for (so the priests said) all

Power came from the Most Holy God, and to worship His mere creations rather

than God Himself was a grievous sin. But simple countryfolk knew a deeper tram:

Christ’s Holy Mother could not always aid them if it went against the wishes of her

Son, who was less understanding than His Holy Mother, and God Himself was

impartial, and just, and could not be bribed.

But the Fair Folk could.

Meriel had heard that their kind did not care for silver, but what she had brought

with her was gold: coins and jewels she had sewn into her petticoat on the eve of her

flight from England. Nothing that she could buy on earth mattered to her now: she

would give them all as an offering, and hope that the Fair Folk would hear.

Louis had pointed out the place to her a few days before: a cluster of stones at

the edge of two fields. She’d been afraid that day; when he’d dared her to step

inside them, she’d run away instead.

Now she was coming back.

It did not seem like so fearsome a tiling: three pale grey blocks of stone arranged

in a rough triangle. They were not very large – the tallest of the three barely came to

Meriel's chin – and looked like half-worked mileposts. Between them the grass grew

lush and green (even, so Louis had said, in the deepest summer’s heat), but that

could mean nothing more supernatural than a buried spring.

But as Meriel approached the stones in the still summer’s night, her heart beat fast

with holy dread, and she was filled with superstitious fear.

It is for Louis, she told herself fiercely. Fear and anger at what might be

happening to him even now drove weakness from her heart, and she stepped boldly

into the center of the triad of stones. It was cold between them, though the summer

air had been hot only a moment before.

This was her last hope. If THis did not work Louis would be taken to Madame

Guillotine. The soldiers would be back, looking for her as well, and if she too

disappeared there would be no one else who knew where Sarah had gone.

Determined none of these things would happen, Meriel rucked up her skirts and

with clumsy chilled hands ripped at the secret seam of her petticoat. Coins and

jewelry spilled out into the grass. Meriel carefully collected gold and gems together,

piling her offering in a heap upon her handkerchief. She stared at the small treasure –

 – and then, standing within the fairy ring, Lady Meriel began to weep, for she

suddenly realized there was truly no hope left. Not even for her Louis’s life could

she summon up the Fair Folk – she did not know how. She sank slowly to her

knees, clasping her hands tightly together. She would have prayed, but in this place it

seemed blasphemous, and she did not know who she could pray to. If Louis died –

if her prayers were not answered – she would have no more faith in God, and she

feared that nearly as much as she feared losing Louis.