The Shadow of Albion (49 page)

Their stories were quickly told – though Sarah sensed that Louis was holding

something back – and by the time they had finished, Sarah had sawn through the

cord. Carefully, she unwound the bonds from Louis’s wrists, then massaged his

swollen hands until circulation returned to them.

The dishes from her morning’s meal were still on the table, and there was still

some water in the pitcher. Sarah tore a square irom her petticoat and dampened the

cloth before using it to wipe the blood from Louis’s face. When she was done, he

took the pitcher and drank thirstily, draining it dry. Afterward, she helped him to his

feet and began to walk with him, helping him ease muscles that were cramped from

too-long confinement.

„So they mean to execute you?“ Sarah asked, resuming their conversation. She

knew that Talleyrand meant to kill her as well, but somehow her own plight seemed

less immediate than Louis’s.

„They must take me to Paris for that,“ Louis said. „It is not enough that I die – I

must die before the eyes of the world. But before that time comes, the Black Priest

means to discover what I know, so that he may turn it to his own advantage.“

„Ah, a man of some importance, I see,“ Sarah teased gently, hoping to keep his

mind from his troubles. For all his laborer’s garb, Louis seemed an educated young

man, though she knew no more of him than that he had been resident in a small

village near where Meriel had escaped from the coach.

„Only in the demented fancies of the Emperor Napoleon and his jackals,“ Louis

answered wearily. „Perhaps we must hope that your husband will rescue us,

Duchess, for I do not see any other way for us to be saved.“

„That remains to be seen,“ said Sarah.

Sarah did not divulge her plans for escape to Louis both from native caution and

out of a desire not to upset the young man. A few hours later, the serving girl

brought another pitcher of water and a bowl of broth, an$ Sarah bullied Louis into

eating and drinking. Afterward, she made him lie down on the bed to rest. Though

escape would be much harder if she had to take Louis with her, Sarah did not

consider for a moment the possibility of leaving the young man behind. His arrival

gave her a goal for her flight – they would return to his village, and there she could

find Meriel again. Meriel spoke excellent French, and Sarah was certain that between

them they could either bribe one of the smugglers to take them back to England, or

at least to take a message there.

But to do all these things, Sarah and Louis first had to escape, and Louis was

battered and weary with two days on the road. Though he protested gallantly, he was

asleep and breathing deeply at almost the moment his head touched the thin pillow.

Sarah retreated into a far corner of the room and squatted down to wait. Her

captors did not provide lamp or candles to light her prison, and her body had

readjusted itself to rising and sleeping with the sun. Tonight she would not have that

luxury; even if their jailers were willing to leave Louis alone tonight, tomorrow they

would surely come for him and do their best to force him to give up his secrets.

They must flee tonight.

Sarah set herself to awaken at midnight and fell into a light doze.

She came awake several hours later, instantly alert in the darkness. The open

window was visible as a paler square against the darkness, but there was no light to

see by. The only sound was Louis’s quiet breathing.

Sarah did not need light. She had spent five days memorizing this room so that

she could move about it without eyes. Pulling her improvised tools from the pocket

of her dress and slipping off her shoes, she stalked cat-footed to the door.

A faint light shone inward through the lock; as she had determined beforehand, a

lantern was left burning in the hallway all night somewhere near this room. She did

not think a sentry was set outside the door, but she put her ear to the lock and

listened intently for several minutes, all the same. If there were anyone in the hallway

outside the door, he was as silent as one of the People, for she heard no sound.

At last she set to work. A corset-stay served as a probe and a bent hairpin as a

lever, the lock was old, and consequently the iron pins were large and heavy – but

someone had oiled this lock well, and the pins would move if she could only

approach them properly.

Time and again she nearly had her picks in position, only to have the recalcitrant

pin slip out from between them, but she dared not hurry, no matter how frustrated

she became. After what seemed like a small eternity – but could not have been much

more than half an hour – the pins finally slid back. The lock clicked open with the

sharp furious sound of a cocking pistol.

Louis stirred in his sleep and then froze, coming awake to his grim surroundings.

Sarah hesitated, agonizing over whether to go’ to him and keep him from crying out,

or stay where she was and keep the unlocked door from drifting open.

Louis solved the dilemma by sitting up – she could tell by the sound – and

swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. In her mind’s eye Sarah could see him

peering out into the darkness, trying to see her.

„Mam’selle la Duchesse?“ he whispered.

„Hush!“ Sarah hissed in an urgent whisper.

Louis made no more sound, and Sarah slowly eased the door open. A thread of

light appeared in the opening, dazzling illumination compared to the previous

darkness, and slowly, breathlessly, Sarah swung the door open.

The corridor was empty.

Louis appeared at her side – moving rather quietly for a city-bred man – and

looked at her questioningly. Sarah held up her hand, motioning Louis to remain

where he was, and eased herself out into the corridor.

Still nothing. A few feet past the door, a candle in a glass chimney rested on a

battered table. Sarah crept down the corridor in the direction she had gone for her

meeting with Talleyrand – moving warily for fear of creaking boards – and finally

achieved the head of the stairs. They were dark and silent; if there were anyone on

the floor below, she could not see them. Sarah retreated as silently as she had come

to where Louis waited, motioning him to follow. Though his face was alight with

curiosity, blessedly he had enough common sense not to ask any questions. He

followed her as silently as he could.

Sarah suffered a thousand silent deaths as she and Louis descended the stairs, for

they were both clumsy in the darkness and each tiny sound was magnified a

thousandfold in Sarah’s hearing. When they reached the first floor at last, she was

nearly too exhausted to go on.

Which way? The room in which she had had her interview with Tallyrand was on

the floor below, though at the opposite end from the older stone section of the

chateau in which she had been held prisoner. The chateau was built on uneven

ground and she thought they could get out through the windows on that side; she

had seen no sign of the water lily-filled moat seen from her prison window. Surely

the chasseurs could not guard every window?

No matter, for they must try that route. It was now not long until sunrise, and they

must be miles away from here by daybreak.

There were two staircases on this floor, at opposite ends of the wing, both

leading up. Across the open expanse of inlaid marble was the stair to the ground

floor, as wide as both the other staircases put together, with gilded and scrolled

banisters that were still lovely despite the damage that had been visited upon the rest

of the house.

Sarah took Louis’s hand, feeling as though they were children tiptoeing through

some dark forest, and led him toward the stairs. His hand was cold, and she could

feel him trembling. For herself, she could barely breathe for the fierce desire for

freedom that she felt To be out of here – away – to be her own person once

more——

They reached the bottom of the stairs. Sarah stopped, orienting herself in the

darkness.

„Wait,“ Louis breathed, pulling back against her hand.

But Sarah had already heard the sound. The scuff of a boot-sole against the stone

floor. The rasping sound as a shuttered lantern was opened.

Sarah lifted her hand to shield her eyes from sudden brightness.

„Why, my dear Duchess. How positively intoxicating to see you again,“ Geoffrey

Highclere said fulsomely. He set the lantern down and stepped into its light.

Mr. Highclere was wearing an unfamiliar but very ornate uniform of black

embellished with silver lace and red flashes. A saber hung from his swordbelt, and

his blond hair gleamed in the lantern light. There was a pistol in his hand.

„And your Royal Majesty. An unexpected bonus.“

„I have never cared for the company of traitors,“ Louis remarked

conversationally.

Sarah stared at Louis. France’s Revolution had been an inevitable subject of

conversation during the time she had spent in England, and so she had heard that

Louis XVI had been executed; his son long presumed dead. Was Mr. Highclere

saying…?

„But my very dear Majesty, you will certainly not be forced to suffer such

company for long,“ Mr. Highclere said cordially. „When Talleyrand returns from

Paris, you go to your execution. And I’m very much afraid that the Duchess will be

leaving us… now.“

Illya Koscuisko and the Duke of Wessex had left Amiens that same day, heading

westward to the coast. Wessex had refused to allow the Bishop of Amiens to pass a

message to England for a ship to pick them up; in fact, the Duke seemed to be in

such a towering inexplicable passion that even his partner trod warily. It had been

foolish to leave the city that evening; their rooms were already paid for the night and

their traveling papers, still damp from the forger, would not stand up to close

inspection should suspicion fall upon them.

What was still more foolish was that Wessex did not seem willing even to keep to

the road. Instead, he made side-trips through hedges, took them along narrow

country lanes, and even backtrailed once or twice.

He seemed to be looking for something.

At last Koscuisko could stand it no longer.

„Look here,“ he said to his friend. „I don’t mean to exhibit a vulgar curiosity, but

where are we going and what are we doing? Princess Stephanie isn’t here, and – “

„I don’t,“ said Wessex pleasantly, „give a damn about Princess Stephanie.“

Koscuisko waited.

„I want my wife back,“ Wessex said, as if the words hurt him. „And I’ve even

been told where to look for her: over stone and water, but not far from here. So I

must follow the setting sun until I come to the ancient regime.“

„And are we to think this information reliable?“ Koscuisko asked cautiously. „I

should only wish to point out that the sun has already set, making it somewhat

difficult to follow.“

„I think it’s all a bag of moonshine,“ His Grace said roundly. „Some Gipsy

nonsense; I can’t imagine why I ever listened to it,“ he added, his voice troubled.

Koscuisko shrugged. „Across stone and water, not far from Amiens. That could

mean across the city and the river, of course, but where is one to encounter the

ancien regime these days?“

„The prophecy improves,“ Wessex added. „I am told that the Duchess of

Wessex is guarded by Time itself, and is about to take France into her charge,

wherefore I must rescue her at once.“

„Easier said than done,“ Koscuisko agreed. „So she has France? What did she

do, pinch one of Boney’s eagles? That’s all the France I know of.“

„Not,“ said Wessex in a peculiar voice, „if the Young King is alive, as everyone

seems to mink. If he is, King Louis the Seventeenth is France itself.“

„Well men, that much is made clear,“ Koscuisko said derisively. „Geoffrey

Highclere is not in the pay of Napoleon, but of King Louis, to whom he has

conveyed the Duchess. Now all we need to do is find Time and the Ancien Regime“

Wessex stood in his stirrups, stretching, and gazed around himself speculatively,

as if he were hoping that his landmark would spontaneously appear.

„Koscuisko,“ Wessex said, a considering tone in his voice, „who do you

suppose is truly Geoffrey’s paymaster – and where do you suppose he is?“

.The grey phouka that Meriel rode traveled faster thari any mortal animal, swift as

an arrow in flight. In moments the little town of Trois Vierges had been left behind as

the fairy pony vaulted ditch and wall and hedge with equal facility. The sound of its