The Time Pirate (26 page)

N
ick and Eammon found the Baroness at a small French desk in a bay window that overlooked the sea. There were floor-to-ceiling books on every wall. Nick, deliriously happy to have a mug of warm tea in his hands, was starting to feel much better. The white-haired woman with the startling blue eyes looked up from her desk as Darby and the disheveled boy entered the room.

“Beg pardon for the intrusion, ma'am,” Mr. Darby said, “but may I please introduce young Nicholas McIver, madame? I'm afraid he requires some assistance.”

“McIver, did you say? You're not related to—”

“She's my sister, ma'am.”

“Kate's brother! Great fun having such a famous sibling, I imagine. Well, then, what's all this about assistance? What kind of assistance?”

“Any kind would do, ma'am,” Nick said.

“Come closer and let me get a look at you, Mr. McIver,” she said, waving him toward her with a pale white hand. “Mind you don't get any of your mud on my rug.”

Nick did as he was instructed. The sun was strong through
the windows. And he was very conscious of his soggy, ragged appearance.

The Baroness peered into his eyes, looked him up and down, and said, “You're Angus McIver's boy all right.”

“Yes, I am,” a startled Nick said. “You're the living spit of him, boy. I'd recognize those blue eyes and that pugnacious chin anywhere.” She stood up and offered her hand across the desk. “I know all about you, Nick McIver. Lord Hawke, my good friend of many years, is a great admirer of yours.”

“Well, I—I'm, I mean to say, I don't—”

“Always accept a compliment. It's bad manners not to. Now, Eammon, weren't you planning to take the Ghost out for some much-needed exercise? Stetch her legs a bit?”

“Indeed, I was just about to leave when the lad appeared on our doorstep.”

“Well, hop to it. I'm sure young Nicholas and I will have a great deal to talk about.”

Mr. Darby did a little bow and pulled the doors closed behind him.

“You look awful, my child,” she said. “Come over here and sit by the fire. I'll bring you some nice warm blankets and a bowl of stew. Back in a flash,” she said and winked at him merrily.

“Thank you, ma'am.”

Nick must have fallen fast asleep by the fire because it truly did seem like the work of a moment before she reappeared with a tray and some soft woolen blankets.

When he was settled and determinedly eating his lamb stew as slowly as humanly possible, she pulled up a velvet slipper chair, leaned forward, and said, “Someone bombed the aerodrome last night, Nick. The Germans are in a frightful
uproar about it, I daresay. They're going house to house in Saint Peter Port, turning everything upside down.”

“Looking for the pilot,” Nick said, staring into his bowl, thinking of all the trouble he'd caused his fellow islanders.

“Yes, they are. This pilot was, if I heard correctly on the telephone, flying an old World War I aeroplane when he executed a daring nighttime raid. You wouldn't know anything about that, now, would you, Nick?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“First-hand knowledge?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“You were the pilot?” she said in some amazement.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Well, it was brilliant. Really quite marvelous. Apparently you destroyed half their fighter squadon's Messerschmitts and blew up their entire ammunition dump. I've never heard of such a thing attempted by a . . . mere child. How old are you, Nick?”

“Twelve years old, ma'am.”

She shook her head in wonder. “Where is your aeroplane, now, Nick?”

“On the bottom of the sea, I'm afraid.”

“You had to ditch her?”

“I did. She was on fire.”

“What happened?”

“As I was leaving the field there was a lot of flak and heavy machine-gun fire. I think it was the flak finally got her. A hunk of shrapnel must have hit her fuel line. The engine caught fire, and there was no chance to make it home.”

“You're lucky just to be alive, child, ditching a burning aeroplane out there in the dark.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Now, what can I do for you? What do you need?”

“I'd like to go home to Greybeard Island, ma'am. Tell my parents and Gunner that I'm still alive. Then I'd like to go see our family doctor in town, Dr. Symonds. My shoulder hurts pretty badly.”

“I'll get you home, Nick. I've got an old launch I could ferry you across in. Barely seaworthy, but Eammon keeps the steam engine running somehow. Meanwhile, I'll have a look at that shoulder. No blood, so a bad bruise, I imagine. A poultice should do the trick.”

“I'd certainly appreciate that, ma'am. Can we call the lighthouse and tell my parents I'm all right?”

“I wish we could, but the Germans have cut the inter-island lines. Now, listen carefully, Nick. I'll have Bronwyn take you upstairs, where you can have a nice hot bath and a good rest. I've a nephew about your size, and she can find you some clean clothes. As soon as it's dark, I'll take you down to where my boat
Toot
is docked. No moon tonight, and I've been watching the German patrol boats day and night from atop my tower. I know their exact schedule. Silly Germans, you might think they'd understand that random patrols would be more effective! We can slip through tonight. Sound good?”

“Thanks ever so much, ma'am, I don't—”

At that moment Eammon burst through the double doors, his face white as a ghost. “Germans coming, ma'am! A lot of them. They're headed this way, up our lane!”

“What?”

“I was on my way down when I saw them winding up through the woods below. A big Mercedes staff car with two officers in the back, and following that, a half-track full of soldiers!”

“Did they see you?” the Baroness asked.

“I don't think so. I put the Ghost in reverse and backed all the way back up the hill. Tricky, that.”

“How long have we got?”

“Ten minutes, ma'am. Maybe less. They were going pretty fast for that curvy little lane.”

“Do they know what you look like, Nick?” she asked. “There was one soldier on the beach with a dog. He may have seen me swim ashore. And then when I climbed along the jetties he might have gotten a look at me. I can't say for sure.”

“We have to hide you,” she said, her mind obviously racing. “But where? The cellar?”

Eammon said, “They'll search every inch of it, ma'am. But we could put him in the garage attic. It's a wee space and very hard to reach without a very shaky ladder.”

“They always search attics and cellars,” the Baroness said, looking hard at Nick, as if staring at him might give her an idea. She jumped to her feet, “I've got it!”

“Where to, ma'am?” Darby said.

“The chapel, of course.”

“Wherever could he hide in the chapel?”

“In the priest-hole, naturally!”

Eammon nodded, and being a good Irish Catholic, he knew all about priest-holes. He just didn't happen to know there was one at Fordwych Manor. And he'd been in service here over thirty years!

“The priest-hole?” Nick asked, having never heard of such a thing.

“Hasn't been used for aeons, mind you. It's not quite the Ritz. Quick, follow me. Nick, bring your blankets. It's very cold in there, and you might have to hide for quite some time.
Depending on the persistence of these wretched Huns in searching my house.”

As they reached the main hall, they heard the two German vehicles roaring up the drive.

“Eammon! Go to the front door and stall them there as long as you can. I'll take care of the boy.”

“What shall I say, ma'am?”

“Heavens, Eammon, I don't know. There's a black livery jacket hanging in the hall coat closet. Fling that on and pretend you're a butler. A butler who's very hard of hearing and a bit off his nut, you understand? Not altogether there. Now, go!”

Fleur de Villiers and Nick raced down a long hallway full of large portraits and suits of armor. At the end was a stone arch and beyond that, an arched door.

The chapel was much larger than Nick would have imagined one family needed. It had beautiful stained-glass windows, and the altar beneath the crucifix was massive and lacquered with gold. And two great golden candelabras stood atop it, a burst of fresh lilies set in a vase between them.

The baroness had her arm around Nick and hurried him up the aisle to the altar.

“I don't see a place to hide in here,” Nick said, his eyes darting everywhere.

“Behind the altar,” she whispered.

“Behind that?” Nick asked, wondering how on earth a boy and an elderly lady could possibly move such a huge object even an inch. “How could we ever—”

“It's hinged to the wall. And it's on wheels. When Catholicism was forbidden, the penalty for priests was beheading. All these old houses have priest-holes. Now, help me. We'll both work from this end . . . you push and I'll pull it out from the wall.”

Nick started pushing with all his might, but he was hampered by his bad shoulder. The altar didn't move an inch.

“Nick, I know that bruised shoulder must hurt terribly. But now you have to ignore the pain. You must push and push with everything that's in you. Or else . . .”

Nick took a deep breath and said, “On three, then. One . . . two . . . three!”

He pushed and the pain almost brought him to his knees. But the heavy altar had swung away from the ancient wall, and there gaped his salvation: a simple hole in a stone wall about four feet thick. The hole was round, about three feet in diameter, roughly a foot off the floor.

“Dive in. I think I hear them coming! There are candles and matches in there. Don't worry about the light. No one can see anything once the altar's back in place.”

Nick dove through the hole, then turned and looked back at the Baroness. “Can you possibly close it by yourself?”

She smiled and said, “Do you think this is the first time in my life I've had to do something all by myself? Besides, there's this rope connected to the back of the altar. Here, take this end and start pulling for all you're worth, Mr. Nicholas McIver.”

Nick sat on the cold stone floor and braced himself, putting his feet against the wall on either side of the hole. Then he pulled as hard as he could, and with the Baroness pushing, the altar swung back in place a second after Nick heard loud German voices echoing down the long hallway.

It was pitch black inside the priest-hole. His fingers skit-tered across the floor until he felt a large taper and a box of matches. He lit the candle and held it up. He was in a small arched room with brick walls. Along the back wall stood a wooden cot. He crawled over to it and saw that it had a
straw-filled mattress and even a pillow. And, from under the pillow, he pulled out a very old Bible.

He lay down upon the bed, blew out his candle, put his weary head back on the pillow, the Bible resting on his chest, and fell into the deepest sleep of his life.

D
elicious tea, Baroness de Villiers,” Kommandant Wilhelm von Mannstein said, setting down his cup and plucking another cucumber sandwich from the silver platter. He was very young for a general, tall, blond, and quite handsome, were she to be honest. Although he was wholly unaware of it, she was surreptiously searching his face, ticking off clues to his character. Vanity. Susceptible to flattery. Prone to alcohol abuse. Intelligent but not wildly keen. Cruel.

“
Danke schön, danke vielmals, Kommandant,”
she said in reply.

“You're quite welcome. And please tell me, how is it that you speak such lovely German?”

The Baroness sat back in her chair by the fire, looking carefully at the young officer over the rim of her teacup.

“I was born in Bavaria. In Berchtesgaden, in a lovely home overlooking the Königssee, Kommandant. My mother was German, a von Steuben, and my father, Auguste, was a French diplomat. So I grew up speaking both languages.”