The Shadow of Albion (54 page)

the spymaster was quite that simpleminded. At any rate, they would be gone from

here in a few hours, for to stay longer was to place the villagers in more peril than the

Duke cared to.

The only question was, who would go… and who would remain here?

„I should very much like to encourage Your Majesty to come with us to

England,“ Wessex said, when the dishes had been cleared away and the servants had

departed, leaving them alone. „Naturally I cannot compel you – “

Here Illya Koscuisko coughed, and Wessex’s mouth twitched.

„Say rather I shall not compel you, then, Your Majesty, though it must be known

– in certain circles – that you survive. Surely you understand that?“

„And what of Lady Meriel?“ Louis asked. There was an undertone of anger in his

own voice, but he was too much a man – and a King – to let it show.

„She shall be under my personal protection,“ Wessex promised. „There is

nothing more she need fear from the Earl of Ripon or his plots.“

„So. You dispose of us all very ready, Monsieur le Duc. But I do not wish to be

so disposed of, either to France or to England. And I do not wish to be King.“

„My son – “ the Abbé said, but Louis raised his hand for silence.

„I am sorry, mon oncle – I know how very much you have sacrificed to this

dream, and how many good men have died to keep me safe. But it is not my dream.

Let me renounce it, here and now.“

Stricken, the Abbé stared at his royal charge.

„It is better so, papa,“ Louis said. „Let it be so.“

„Has Your Majesty fully considered what your renunciation of the Crown will

mean?“ Wessex asked. „You are the kfst of the True line – if you are not King, who

will there be to make the Great Marriage with the soul of the land?“

„No one,“ Louis said briefly. „Let me be, Monsieur le Duc.“

„Is that what you will choose for France?“ Wessex persisted. „That the magic will

be gone from la Belle France, and she will become a mortal kingdom at last?“

Louis shrugged, looking Wessex in the eye. „That happened upon the day my

Either was murdered, Your Grace. I was far too young to be taught any of the Old

Rule, and all those who might know the Covenants and Pacts are surely dead. The

Corsican Tyrant has broken the power of the Hollow Kingdoms – he has boasted of

it – and whether there is ever again a King in France or no, he .will not have the

power of the Old Rule to call upon.“

„But Your Majesty – “ Wessex began to protest, and Louis held up a hand,

stopping him.

„Do not call me that; what do I know of being a king? No.“ Louis shook his head.

„If I were mad enough to claim the throne, I would be no more than a puppet

dancing upon gilded strings.“ Louis’s voice held a quiet dignity; his words a finality

that admitted no argument „Let me go, Your Grace. France’s fete and mine do not

lie together, and… and I would start a new life with the woman I love, far away from

crowns and thrones.“

Louis looked toward Meriel She smiled at him, and then looked back at Wessex.

All her arts of dissembling could not disguise the hope in her eyes.

„Very well,“ Wessex said, hesitating only a moment. „It will be as you wish.

Come with me to England, and I will see you and your bride safely boarded on a

ship bound for the American colonies – but I hope I may call upon you, Your

Majesty, should there be need?“

„For anything save to rule France,“ Louis promised, breathless and laughing with

relief. „And now my lords – and Madame la Duchesse – may I invite you to attend

upon my wedding?“

„I must speak to you,“ Sarah said to Wessex.

The Duke turned to face her. The others had already left me church, returning to

the priory for a small celebration, but Wessex lingered in the doorway, and Sarah

had turned back to find him.

„I had thought that you would,“ he said quietly. „I assure you, once we have

returned to England I will place no obstacle in your way, but you might consider

whether it would suit your purposes better simply to live apart. Mine is a dangerous

life, and it is quite possible that you will soon be a widow. It is a less scandalous end

to a marriage than dissolution.“

„What are you talking about?“ Sarah said blankly. „I have come to tell you who I

really am.“

And she did, with brisk efficiency. The strange tale was soon told – of all of it,

the part that Wessex found hardest to believe was that the Americas would revolt

against their King – or that Englishmen would not always have Stuarts to govern

men, „But the ring you wore – the one that was your father’s – what of that?“

Wessex asked. Did the Boscobel League exist in both worlds? And if it did, how

had England’s rightful king in Sarah’s world ended his days a hunted outcast?

„I never knew the ring’s story,“ Sarah said, „and now I never shall. But what am I

to do, Wessex? For I cannot go home.“

„Not unless Grandanne has another string to her bow,“ Wessex agreed, „though I

shouldn’t discount that, my little Colonial. But you were brought to this world

a-purpose – do you think you have discharged your task?“

„I don’t know,“ Sarah said honestly. „What work could the Marchioness of

Roxbury have left undone that was so important that she needed to call me from

another world to finish it? I do know that that creature – that Jack-in-the-Green –

said that I must become one with Has land: and I have not figured out what he

meant, much less how to do it.“

„As to that,“ Wessex said, „I think I may have some notion.“

He drew her gently to him – she did not resist – and carefully sealed her mouth

with his own.

EPILOGUE

The Lioness of England

The heavily-laden haywain rambled down the road to the coast in the fading

afternoon light. It was months too early for the new hay harvest to be ready, and

thus, highly unlikely that such a waggon would be making this journey, but the

cavalry units that patrolled this coast had very few farmers among them, and Wessex

and the Abbé both thought the deception would pass.

Sarah, Louis, and Meriel were hidden in the false bottom of the waggon, while

Wessex and Koscuisko, in suitable rustic disguise, rode upon the box. Koscuisko

had finally been persuaded to abandon his mount; Spangle remained behind in the

Abbe’s stables until the animal could be sent for – the gelding was far too valuable

to abandon if there were any hope of rescuing it later.

The pickets on station in the Channel would know to ,, look for them, thanks to

the Bishop of Amiens. They were within sight of the sea; at the farmhouse the Abbé

had marked out for them they could leave the haywain. Then all they needed to do

was walk a mile or so to the coast, wait until dark, and signal with the dark-lantern

and mirror that the Abbé de Condé had provided.

It seemed, on the face of it, a simple matter, and Wessex had been in and out of

France more times than he could count in the years since the Revolution. But there

was always something that could go wrong, even when the situation at hand verged

on… boredom.

Case in point: what should have been a simple drive in the country.

A dispatch rider had passed them an hour before, heading eastward. They had

seen nothing since, nor had they expected to; it was the wrong time of day for traffic

along this offshoot of the Paris – Calais road.

But there was a sound of hoofbeats in the distance. Koscuisko pointed in the

direction of the rising dust cloud and shrugged inquiringly at his partner.

If it was a French patrol, in all likelihood it was searching for them. The only

question was, would a patrol recognize them when it found them? They could bluff,

or they could fight: Wessex would prefer to bluff, if the choice were offered. He

shook his head at Koscuisko and made a clicking sound at the horses, encouraging

them to pick up their pace.

The mounted troop appeared – six French chausseurs, light cavalry whose

primary use in war was scouting and skirmishing. They were also used to patrol

disputed areas, such as the coast near Calais, and it looked as if one of their sweeps

had borne fruit, for they had a prisoner, riding, hands bound before him, at the

center of the troop. Wessex recognized the mustard-colored uniform of the

Kongelige Livgarde amidst the black French chausseur uniforms.

„A Dane,“ Wessex said quietly. „One of the Queen Christina’s complement. He

might have news of the Princess.“ The Livgarde had not tendered his parole – if he

had, he would still possess his saber and pistols – and so would be likely to fight if

the chance of rescue loomed.

„It is our duty,“ Koscuisko said piously, reaching for his sword and pistol.

„Denmark is an ally of England, or ought to be.“

* * *

The waggon was prudently pulled off to the side of the road, leaving the highway

clear for the soldiers. The unexpected shots rang out when the troop was a few

yards from the haywain.

The Captain and his Lieutenant fell, and Koscuisko ran out to seize the lead

horse’s bridle and drag the wounded rider from the saddle. In an instant Koscuisko

was mounted, turning the skittish animal and galloping back upon the others.

Wessex emptied both pistols – a provident gift from Abbé de Condé – and then

ran forward with his saber. A man on foot was at a great disadvantage when facing a

man on horseback,, but there was no time now to count the cost.

A shot whisded past his ear; Sarah had slithered from her hiding-place and had

added her expert marksmanship to the fight The Livgarde at the center of the melee

had not been slow to seize this opportunity for freedom. When the first shots rang

out, he had flung himself at the nearest chausseur, throwing both of them to the

ground, where he was giving a good account of himself even with his hands bound

before him.

It was over very quickly.

The Livgarde got to his feet. He’d freed his hands with the aid of a bayonet, and

stood surveying the carnage surrounding him, a cocky grin on his face.

„A most provident rescue, m’sieur,“ the Livgarde said in French as Wessex

approached him. Sarah and the others were standing beside the waggon now –

confused, perhaps, but blessedly unhurt.

The Dane’s voice was light and husky, and from the look of him he hardly needed

to shave yet – the bushy mustaches and sideburns favored by the Kongelige

Livgarde were conspicuously absent.

„To a certain extent it was motivated by self-interest,“ Wessex said as Koscuisko

joined him. „You were on the Queen Christina, were you not?“

„I think so,“ Koscuisko commented, and reached out swiftly to knock the

Zzvgarde’s shako from his head.

„Damn,“ the Livgarde said ruefully as his – her – blond hair tumbled down over

her shoulders.

„I’d had you fooled, didn’t I?“ Princess Stephanie of Denmark said.

Princess Stephanie told her story to Wessex and the others as she helped them

collect the members of her former escort. There was no need to execute them all;

bound and gagged and concealed beneath the hay in the waggon, the survivors

would live to fight another day while giving the five – now six – fugitives the

headstart to reach England that they needed.

And the French had kindly donated mounts enough for the party to quickly reach

the shore, as well.

„I must say, Your Highness, that such a masquerade shows a great deal of

personal resourcefulness,“ Koscuisko said respectfully, as the party rode westward.

„Oh, pho!“ the Princess said. „No one ever looks at a soldier – they expected to

see a Princess in a crown and a gown, and looked no farther than that. And my lads

wouldn’t give me away – they are my grandfather’s regiment, but it is I who wear

their uniform and drill with them. But you are Anglais, and will think my wearing

men’s dress very shocking, hein?“ she added, grinning at Koscuisko.

„Polish,“ Koscuisko corrected. „The disapproving gentleman on your left with

the terrible hat is English. May I present to Your Highness the Duke of Wessex, one

of Your Highness’s great admirers?“

Princess Stephanie threw back her head and laughed. „What a company we are –

Dukes and Duchesses, Princes and Princesses! What trouble we could make for the

French, if only we stayed!“

„Alas,“ Wessex said. „I do not need to remind Your Highness that her duty is

elsewhere?“

The Princess heaved a deep sigh and gazed at Wessex saucily. „What a bore that