Copyright © 2018 JP Robinson
All Rights Reserved
Logos Publications
PO Box 271
Lampeter, PA 17537
Scripture taken from the New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
In the Shadow of Your Wings (Northridge Heritage)
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
In the Midst of the Flames Prologue
Author’s note
Historical Notes
About the Author
Also by JP Robinson
Praise for JP Robinson
Dedicated to those who wander, seeking fulfillment in illusions. And to the fathers who wait faithfully at the gate, watching for their prodigal’s return.
The Steele Family
Thomas Steele—Head of the Bank of England
Malcolm Steele— Thomas’s son and heir of Northshire Estate
Leila Steele—Malcolm’s wife, German spy
The Thompson Family
Will Thompson—Eleanor’s husband
Eleanor Thompson—Will’s wife, Red Cross volunteer
Abby Thompson—Will and Eleanor’s infant daughter
Prominent members of Northshire Staff
Harold Greyson—Butler & personal assistant to Thomas
Jenny Edwards—Lady’s maid to Leila
The Haber Family
Fritz Haber—German chemist pioneering the field of chemical warfare
Clara Haber—Fritz Haber’s wife
Prominent Figures in Government
David Lloyd George—Prime Minister of England
Robert Hughes—Head of British Secret Intelligence Service
Miscellaneous
Charlotte Nathan—Fritz Haber’s mistress
Veronica Coughlan—Leader of Red Cross volunteers
Elsbeth Schragmüller—Head of an espionage school in Antwerp
Elijah Farrows—Farmer and pastor to Northshire’s tenants
Lieutenant-Colonel James Stewart—British army commander (28th Division)
Prologue
Temple Prison, Paris. April 1794.
The flames of flickering torches jerked like spasmodic fingers, casting a ruddy glow on the stone walls of Temple Prison, but did little to dispel the gloom that saturated the dungeon’s atmosphere. Outside the ancient fortress, a torrential spring rain soaked the ground, causing small rivulets of water to seep through cracks in the aged stones and drip with an ominous plop, plop into the puddles of sewage that pooled across the damp floor.
The scene made General Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier—also called the Marquis de La Fayette—feel that he had lost his spiritual connection with the throng of saints for which he had been named and had somehow blundered his way into a waterlogged version of hell. The ragged screams of tormented prisoners completed the illusion.
Covering his nose, Lafayette choked back a cough, repulsed by the stench of putrefying flesh and human waste that filled the stagnant air. Tonight, his mind was not on those who would end their miserable lives inside the fortress, but on the prisoner who would escape. More precisely, the prisoner that he would help escape. For tonight—after more than two decades of loyal service to the government of France— the illustrious General Lafayette would commit treason.
The harsh squeak of a grating rusty bolt alerted him that he was no longer alone. The sound materialized into furtive movement at the far end of the murky hallway, confirming his suspicions. Lafayette melted into the wall, determined to remain unseen until he identified the newcomer.
Although he was a decorated war hero who commanded the Paris militia known as the National Guard, more than one member of France’s radical government had begun to question his loyalty to the revolutionary madness that consumed France. If the wrong people discovered what he had done—or what he was about to do—he would be guillotined before he could say his whole name.
The footsteps came closer and Lafayette’s nose twitched as he recognized Luc, a captain of the Guard who, like himself, secretly harbored loyalty to the murdered King Louis XVI and the surviving members of the royal family. Lafayette hoped that Luc’s allegiance was as strong as the cologne he wore. If not, they were both dead men.
He spoke from the shadows, his voice a hoarse whisper. “Do you have the boy?”
The captain pulled up short, caught off guard by Lafayette’s voice and sudden appearance. Recovering, he knuckled his forehead toward his superior then pulled back the voluminous black cloak that enveloped his body. Extra length had been added to help him smuggle the child into the prison.
Grimacing, the general took in the innocent brown eyes and shaggy hair of a ten-year-old boy. No fear marred the child’s face, but Lafayette felt his own heart tremble. Throughout his career, he had slaughtered hundreds on the battlefields of America and France without a qualm, but this solitary act of desperation repulsed him. His conscience rebelled at the atrocity he was about to commit, but his inner soldier shoved all scruples aside. This was war. A war to save France from the anarchy it had unleashed upon itself. He was prepared to commit any crime—no matter how abominable—to save the country he loved.
He jerked the cloak back over the boy’s frame and retreated a step, lifting his eyes to Luc’s grim face. “Bring him.”
A STEADY RAIN FELL from a morbid predawn sky, sending rivulets of cold water over the brim of Cyrano Durand’s tricorn hat and down the nape of his tanned, stocky neck. Oblivious to the shower, the middle-aged fisherman’s attention remained riveted on the impassive gates that rose before his bleary eyes. These were the gates through which his son had passed.
He pressed drooping shoulders against rough limestone walls that reflected the soft glow of torches from the inner courtyard of Temple prison.
“Jacques?” He made the sign of the cross as he called the boy’s name once more, praying for a miracle that would undo his crime.
“Jacques?”
But his ten-year-old son, Jacques Durand, was gone—a sacrificial victim on the altar of his father’s greed.
A man named Luc, who had worn no uniform but carried himself like a soldier, had approached Cyrano two nights ago as the fisherman drank away the sorrows of a life threaded with disappointment. The stranger had complained in hushed conversation about the revolution’s failure to purge the evil from France. Cyrano had wholeheartedly agreed.
The revolution which had overthrown the tyrant King Loui
s was supposed to have brought him wealth and dignity. But his life still stank of failure and fish. Nothing had changed... at least not for the better. And so, he had listened as the soldier, who reeked of cologne, spun a web of glittering promises.
His son would be a hero. His uncanny resemblance to the deposed King Louis’s son, Prince Louis-Charles, would be used by those who sought the good of France to break the chains that enslaved the nation. They only needed his son, Jacques, for a few hours. A heavy pouch of silver coins had dissolved Cyrano’s questions. How much brandy could all that money buy?
Cyrano cringed as he remembered the first thought that had crossed his mind. He had agreed, snatched the bag, and led the soldier to his home where he had handed over his son.
Unnoticed, he had followed Luc to the prison, realizing only when outside its gates that he had been tricked. His son would never come home! Just before passing through the gates, a puff of wind had briefly parted the soldier’s cloak allowing a glimmer of light to touch a small tousled head.
At the memory, Cyrano’s heart clenched. “Jacques.”
Fear had turned his feet to roots, preventing him from rushing forward and ripping his son from the clutches of the deceiver. Like a child, he had cowered in the dark, looking on with a rising sense of panic as his only son was secreted past the guard on duty into the black jaws of the Temple.
The heartbroken father’s shoulders now shook with sobs as he cursed his stupidity and the craving for liquor that impaired his ability to think, driving him insane.
“Jacques!” His voice was a guttural cry that echoed off the merciless stones in front of him. Cyrano Durand trembled and pressed himself still further into the shadows, hoping for one more glimpse of the child that had been taken from him.
No. Not taken. He dropped his head and felt for the swollen pouch of silver at his side as shame swelled within his chest. Sold. Dimly, like a thought from another world, his mind registered a rooster’s crow as it announced the impending dawn.
“What have I done?” The brandy. I need the brandy. His fingers twitched as they slid to the pocket of his faded trousers and retrieved a small flask of corn brandy. He thrust the container to his lips, ripped the well-worn cork out with his teeth, spit it to one side and opened his maw wide, guzzling down the dark liquid.
Warmth spread throughout Cyrano’s body, dulling his senses and numbing the guilty ache in his heart. More!
His wife, ignorant of her husband’s scheming, had gone to spend the night with her dying mother but how would he explain what he had done when she returned? What would his daughter say when she learned that her little brother was gone?
Cyrano groaned and tilted the flask again, only to realize it was empty.
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” His voice broke under the weight of his remorse. He peered around the corner.
“Identify yourself!” The voice reached his ears as his own tears mingled with the cold rain. He had been seen! Cyrano forced himself to peer around the edge of the wall. An armed guard strode toward him, musket in hand. Only one? Cyrano was no soldier but, even to him, the courtyard seemed empty.
“Come into the light or die where you stand!”
Panic flared in his chest as the soldier raised the gun. Cyrano glanced over his shoulder. The road behind him had no obstructions. If he tried to flee he would be shot in the back. But even as the thought crossed his mind, he realized that death alone could provide the final absolution for his guilt. He had failed his family. His death would be the price of his redemption. He stood to his feet, tossed his hat aside, and stepped into the light.
GENERAL LAFAYETTE’S tall, wiry form framed the doorway of the narrow room into which Luc ushered the boy. A single candle burned on a wooden table. It was the only furniture in the dank, stone cell.
“I am sorry, my Queen, but you must say adieu.”
“You would deny a mother her last moments with her only remaining son?” The voice that spoke from the darkness was low and tight with pain.
“We have only minutes before the guard changes.” Lafayette stepped inside. “I placed only one man at the gate tonight, but more will arrive at any moment. I do not need to tell you what will happen to us all if we are discovered.”
“Come here.”
The boy hesitated, then moved closer, his gaze no longer on the queen but on the other child who stood next to her.
The queen’s eyes flitted between her son and this stranger. “You have done well, Lafayette.” The boys were the same age, the same height and the same build.
“We were fortunate, your Grace.” Lafayette grimaced as he spoke. “We conducted discrete searches for more than a year before finding the perfect substitute.”
Marie’s head dropped to her chin. Her own plans to defeat the rebel leaders in the waning years of her kingdom had failed miserably. Even now Maximilien Robespierre, the man who had masterminded her downfall, prepared for her execution. This desperate gamble to save her son’s life was all she could do to thwart the diabolical lawyer’s plan to eradicate her bloodline.
“Incredible.” She lifted her gaze and cupped the boy’s chin in her hands. “Two boys so alike yet from different mothers. One would almost think this moment was ordained by the hand of God.”
She released her hold on her son and knelt before the child.
“Do you know why you are here?”
The boy shook his head.
Marie swallowed hard. “You will... take my son’s place.” She glanced back at Louis-Charles, who stared at this living reflection of himself with wide eyes.
“You will remain here while he goes away.”
The words seemed hollow. They did not begin to describe what actually lay ahead. How could she tell this ten-year-old boy that he would be subjected to mental torture, brutal beatings, and most probably a cruel death? If he ever denied being her son, the jailers would assume he had lost his mind.
It does not matter. Within a few hours, my son will be safe. That is all that counts now.
Conflicting emotions cut through her heart. Her maternal urge to protect her offspring wrestled with the knowledge that she was about to condemn a child to an abysmal fate. His crime? He had the face of a prince. That and a father whose weaknesses were greater than his love for his own flesh and blood.
“Are you willing?” The question was redundant, but she had to ask, if not for his sake then for that of her own conscience. The boy remained silent and she realized that she had not asked his name.
“What is your name, dear one?”
Silence.
“Jacques Durand, Altesse.” Lafayette’s accomplice supplied the answer, still addressing the deposed monarch by her official title. “Your son will take his name and, for all purposes, this boy,” he pointed at the fisherman’s son, “will be the prince, Louis-Charles.”
“That purpose will die along with us all if we do not leave at once.” Urgency tinged Lafayette’s voice.
Marie took the clothes from her son’s body and replaced them with those that Jacques discarded. The exchange was completed in silence and, when it was over, she clasped her son to her bosom, knowing that this would be the last time she would ever see him in this life.
Tears welled up in her eyes. “Somewhere in the vast world lies your only chance of survival. Make a new life outside of France and never return.”
She held him a moment longer then released him to Lafayette. “Find him safety in England, mon générale.”
Lafayette met her eyes. “I will, my Queen. I swear it.” Then, without another word, he took the boy’s hand, put his finger to his lips, and led the way toward the iron gate.
“WHO ARE YOU?” THE VOICE behind the musket was young.
“A man who wishes only to die.” Cyrano shuffled forward.
The soldier’s gun wavered. Cyrano snorted. Clearly the man before him had never met a suicidal drunk in his career with the Guard.
“Stay where you are!” The young soldie
r centered his musket on the fisherman’s chest.
Cyrano did not obey. “If you’ve got any kindness in you, boy, you’ll pull that trigger now.”
The young man’s face had gone white.
He’s never killed anyone before. The realization brought Cyrano to a halt. There was no way the young man before him would end his life unless....
He launched himself forward with a shout, determined to make reflex force the soldier’s hand but, at that moment, the clatter of hooves rang out across the courtyard. He pivoted as three horses swung around the furthermost corner of the prison walls and rushed headlong toward the gate he had just vacated. Three hooded figures rode single-file, their horses’ legs eating up the short distance. Cyrano’s desperate eyes flitted toward the smaller form that rode between them. His breathing stopped. It was—
“My son!” He threw himself toward the child, mind spinning. He would do anything, give anything to undo the sin of his betrayal.
His fingers touched the boy’s saddle and he grunted in satisfaction as his hand brushed Jacques’s leg. Why is he not jumping into my arms?
“This is not your son, you fool!” A coarse voice shouted from above. “Let go!”
“Give me back my son!” Cyrano rushed forward again, fingers outstretched. The horse stumbled beneath his unexpected weight and a rough hand from behind jerked him away. The unforgiving, wet cobblestones punched into Cyrano’s side as he fell, and he cried out. But the thought of losing his son a second time drove him back to his feet.
“Jacques. Jacques Durand!” He flung his wet hair out of his face. “Come to me boy. Jump!” But there was no response. The distance between himself and the horses grew, but Cyrano staggered forward. He would fix this. He would!
He gritted his teeth as pain flared in his side and ran with all his might. His breath came in ragged gasps, but he felt his hands connect with the boy’s slick saddle. So close!
“Jump boy!” He pulled at his son’s leg. “Jump into my arms!” The young rider swayed in the saddle and hope flared in Cyrano’s chest.
At that moment, a thunderous roar filled the courtyard. Pain erupted in his shoulder.
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