Ship of Spies

by David Healey

  He was busy carving an apple with a small, sharp knife. He cut off a slice and chewed, enjoying the snap of the juice in his mouth. He paused to reach out a hand and let the fire dance along his fingers. Ney felt no more warmth that if he had been soaking up the sun.

  Marshal Ney was among the handful of generals handpicked and trusted by Napoleon Bonaparte. Ney was seen as the bravest and most loyal of them all. His body was marked with the scars to prove it—a bullet wound here, a sword cut there. He had spilled his share of blood leading the Napoleonists. A rugged, broad-shouldered man, he was considered one of Napoleon's fiercest generals—a real lion at heart, fighting for the glory of France. Here was a general who led from the front of his troops, not the safety of the rear.

  He was also much feared, because Ney commanded fire. Like the Emperor Napoleon himself, he was a fire elemental of the first order. He always liked to have flames nearby because Ney was the master of them.

  But Ney also carried a secret. Those who had found it out, Ney had carefully seen eliminated like so much dead wood from a tree. He was as protective of his secret as he was of France.

  His thoughts were interrupted by his aide de camp.

  "Sir, we have news from London," the man said. He looked at Ney by the fire and hesitated before approaching any closer. The very air around the field marshal seemed to shimmer and crackle.

  "Well?"

  "It concerns the engagement in which three corvettes were lost."

  "Mmm," Ney said. Naval engagements did not much interest him. He believed a man should fight on foot or in the saddle—a saddle on the back of a gryphon or a horse would do equally well. Napoleon had very capable admirals, while Ney preferred to do his fighting on land.

  "Our reports indicate something unnatural happened to them."

  That got the field marshal's attention. "Unnatural?"

  “The ships were sunk by a single large wave. Well, two waves, to be exact.”

  Ney waited for the man to go on. “Is that significant?”

  “It is, sir, if the waves were generated by a mere boy. The English may have another elemental."

  "Another besides Wellington?"

  The Duke of Wellington was Ney's arch rival—and a fire elemental himself. All across the battlefields of Europe, the two men had held each other in check, each one matching the other. But another elemental could change the equation and tip the balance of power.

  "Our spies indicate that he is a young officer in the Royal Navy. An ensign."

  "How interesting." He knew that most ensigns were no more than boys, more like officers in training.

  When the field marshal said nothing else, the aide de camp bowed and left the room, glad to be back out in the hallway, where it was cooler. He found that he was soaked through with sweat. Reporting to the field marshal tended to have that effect on a man, regardless of the blazing fire.

  Marshal Ney thought about what he had heard. The English had another elemental? Well, he would be needing more news about that. Who was this boy? What was his name? Where could he be found? And then this boy must be extinguished like a spark burning in the wrong place.

  Ney turned and tossed the apple into the middle of the vast, high-ceilinged room. The apple never reached the floor. Ney flicked his hand and a tongue of flame shot from the fireplace and seared the fruit into ashes, which fluttered down like inky snowflakes.

  Snuffed out, he thought. Before he tips the odds of war in England’s favor.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  "If we push on, we can be there by nightfall," Rigley said into the speaking tube.

  "Then by all means, let us keep flying," Alexander replied.

  "Do you think old Hobhouse can bear it?"

  Alexander glanced over at the professor, who was perched stiffly in his saddle, the reins gripped for dear life, his eyes apparently closed. The poor man was afraid to look down! Alexander had to smile—travel by gryphon was not for everyone. "I think he'll be glad to get this over with."

  Rigley gave Biscuit's broad back an encouraging pat. "Fly on then, old boy. There will be lots of rest for you and a fresh sheep—maybe even two. I hear young Lord Parkington is as rich as Midas, ha, ha! "

  This was their third straight day of flying, with only short stops to eat and sleep. Though they were weary, it did not change the fact that traveling by gryphon over land is perhaps one of the greatest thrills that exist. With Rigley piloting Biscuit, and no threat of attack or battle imminent, Alexander was little more than a passenger. He would have liked to trade places with Professor Hobhouse and pilot the other beast, but found he still didn't have the strength for that. The long weeks of bed rest had probably done him some good, but they had left him weakened in other ways.

  The longest flight he had taken before this was the mission into Normandy, and that had been fraught with peril at every moment. There had been the constant threat of enemy patrols, eagle-eyed cuirassiers scanning the skies, and finally a wounded gryphon to coax back to the Resolution. This trip was a joy ride by comparison. Of course, in Normandy he had met Celeste, the French girl who had helped the flyers. She and her family had taken a great risk, and he had thanked her by giving Celeste his prized seahorse cloak pin.

  A gryphon can fly a great distance, but they do have their limits, and Alexander knew that their own beasts were close to exhaustion. But they pushed on. Below, the English countryside was a patchwork quilt in shades of green, dotted with villages and cottages with thatched rooftops. In a way, the countryside wasn't all that different from what they had flown over in France. The Emperor Napoleon wanted nothing better than to invade and occupy even these crossroads villages. Rumor had it that Napoleon kept a map in his war room that showed English towns and places labeled with more appropriate French names. Having conquered most of Europe, he had set his sights on England.

  On occasion, they flew over a great house in the middle of an estate, which reminded Alexander of their ultimate destination. The thought of seeing his old friend Toby—the Earl of Parkington—again gave him more butterflies in his stomach than flying did. How would his friend react? The last time they had seen each other was on the deck of the Resolution, while fighting three French ships. Their own ship was on the verge of being overwhelmed. Lord Parkington had shouted, "Do something, Alexander!" and in the next instant had been knocked down by a French volley.

  Alexander had believed that his friend was dead. The sight of Toby laying there on the deck, torn, bleeding, and still as death, had unleashed something in Alexander. He could barely recall what had happened next. Somehow, he had commanded the sea to crush the Napoleonist ships. His head still hurt at the thought of it. Then he had blacked out.

  He was glad his old friend had survived. But would things be the same between them? Or would Lord Parkington view him with suspicion or even fear?

  Alexander was about to find out.

  "That must be it!" Rigley shouted, pointing into the distance. "It's the biggest manor house we've seen so far."

  Rigley's eyes were strong indeed, and Alexander squinted into the distance. There! Night was coming on, but the turrets and towers caught the last light of the sun. There were so many of them that the house practically bristled like a brush. Alexander had always taken a certain amount of pride in the house—tumbledown though it was—where he had grown up in the care of his stingy uncle. Now, that house seemed very humble.

  The sun was sinking, and as they watched, torches flared to life in the highest reaches of the hall. Alexander realized that the torches were lighting the way toward a gryphon port, similar to what they had on board HMS Resolution, only this one was far more grand. One side of the upper floor of the hall was in fact open to the elements, with a massive stone ledge jutting into the air. There was an iron gate that ran the length of it, like the gate of a castle, but that was being raised for them. The sputtering light of the torches played across stone carvings of snarling gryphons and gargoyles. A figure stood silhouetted in the light—not a
particularly tall figure, and of rather slight build.

  Biscuit swept in first, landing gracefully for all his size. A gryphon has the agility and grace of a cat—albeit a very large one. Biscuit's paws barely made a whisper as they touched the stone.

  Professor Hobhouse's gryphon landed just beside them, though no less gracefully. Hobhouse practically fell out of the flying saddle in his rush to get something solid beneath him. A gryphon groom ran forward to take Gimcrack’s reins.

  "I am in no hurry to climb aboard one of those beasts again," Hobhouse announced. He shuddered. "Man was not meant to fly."

  The figure in the shadows stepped forward. "Welcome to Bancroft Hall," Lord Parkington said in a formal voice. "I was expecting you hours ago. Rigley, I thought you would have made better time."

  "I had to bring the professor along," Rigley said, sounding a bit peeved. "That gryphon he's on is gentle as a merry-go-round horse, but rather slow and steady."

  "Well, here you are at last," his lordship said. "You all must be tired after such a long flight. I'll have the groom see to the gryphons. As it so happens, you're just in time for dinner. Follow me, if you please."

  It was an oddly muted welcome. His old friend seemed distracted. Alexander received the barest of nods, when he had expected a handshake at the very least. Alexander worried that his fears had come true and Parkington now saw him in some new light, or with suspicion.

  They followed the young earl through the gryphon stables, which seemed empty, with just a couple of stalls filled with fresh straw for their own gryphons. The groom set about brushing down and watering the beasts.

  "Biscuit was hoping for a fresh sheep," Rigley said.

  "We all hope for a lot of things," Lord Parkington said. "It just so happens that there's salted beef for his dinner tonight. It's just the thing after a long flight because it's easy for gryphons to digest."

  "Lovely for them," Rigley said with forced enthusiasm.

  "Where's Lemondrop?" Alexander asked, hoping to change the subject. Lemondrop was Lord Parkington's gryphon. Too late, he wondered if perhaps he shouldn't have asked—he didn't know whether or not Lemondrop had survived the battle against the French fleet. He had blacked out too soon to know much of anything.

  "Mother doesn't care for the gryphons to be kept in the house," the earl said. "We have an excellent stable on the grounds."

  "I'm glad to hear Lemondrop is fine," Alexander said.

  "Oh, he got a bit banged up in the battle—I suppose I did too—but it's nothing a bit of rest couldn't fix. That was a hard day. I scarcely believed that I would see you again." A change seemed to come over his lordship. It was as if the aristocratic mask he wore had slipped, revealing that he was just a boy, after all. “I’m afraid I haven’t been a very good host. Maybe I’ve just been afraid that all of you somehow aren’t real, that you were somehow just ghosts and memories.”

  “Oh, we’re real, all right,” Rigley said. “And we really smell like we’ve been traveling for three days straight on a gryphon. That should be proof enough.”

  Parkington gave a rare smile, then called out to the groom. "Henderson! Bring up two sheep for these gryphons. They've flown a long way."

  The groom seemed taken aback. "My lord, her ladyship has said—"

  "Never mind my mother," Parkington said. "I will deal with her when the time comes. Make sure it's two large sheep, Henderson."

  "Yes, my lord."

  "What's the point of this fancy stable here without keeping gryphons in it?" Rigley wanted to know. Rigley was nothing if not blunt.

  "A long time ago, gryphons were kept here to defend the house," the earl explained. In Alexander's opinion, calling Bancroft Hall a “house” was a stretch of the imagination. It was like calling a cannon a pop gun. "Bancroft Hall was built in the twelve hundreds, you see. Back then it was more like a castle. It even had a moat around it in case we were attacked by bandits or Normans or rival earls. Now, the gryphons have their own stable, which does keep mother happy. She's not very keen on gryphons in the house because she claims they smell. I suppose that if the French invade we'll put the gryphons back in the house."

  "You may want to set someone to digging that moat again," Rigley said. "Very handy is a moat."

  Massive stone steps led down from the gryphon port to a long hallway that functioned as a sort of mudroom, with benches where one could sit down to take off boots, and pegs on which to hang traveling cloaks. While the gryphon port had seemed deserted and windswept, the mudroom was positively swarming with servants.

  "We only allow the grooms up on the gryphon port," the earl explained, seeming to read their minds. "There have been a few accidents in the past with snappish gryphons and nervous servants. Someone steps on a tail and the next thing you know, they've lost an arm or a leg. It does upset the gryphons so."

  "Never mind upsetting the servants," Hobhouse muttered.

  "I'll have someone take all of you to your rooms," Lord Parkington said. "You can wash up there and change for dinner."

  Professor Hobhouse cleared his throat. "I'm afraid we had to leave Gibraltar in something of a rush," he said.

  "Assassins were trying to kill Mr. Hope," Rigley explained.

  "We don't have any clothes to change into," the professor added.

  They were all a bit ragged and smelly from flying all day and sleeping in fields by night for the past three days. Rigley still wore the Spanish shepherd's outfit, and looked somewhat ridiculous now that they were in England.

  "In my experience, it's better to be underdressed than late for dinner at my mother's table. See you promptly at seven in the dining room," Lord Parkington said. He turned on his heel and walked out.

  "What's up with him?" Alexander wondered out loud.

  "He's an earl," Rigley said with a shrug. "What do you expect? He's used to bossing the peasants around."

  Alexander looked him up and down. "Rigley, have you seen what you're wearing? You are a peasant."

  "I'm a flying peasant, thank you very much." Rigley sniffed. "I never thought I'd say this, but I can't wait to get back into uniform."

  Alexander didn't even know where his uniform was, so the clothes he had pulled on during the escape from the house would have to do. One of the servants found him a clean shirt and then brushed down the coat so that he looked somewhat presentable. He then took Lord Parkington's advice and started out early for dinner to make sure that he wasn't late.

  It was a good thing that he got a head start, because Alexander actually got lost on the way. He got caught up looking at the old portraits that lined the hallways in between suits of armor. Stern faces peered down at him, and he knew the paintings were old because the paint was actually cracked in places, plus some of the men and women in the paintings wore outlandish laced collars or silk doublets from the age of Shakespeare. And of course, no one had worn armor or wielded a broadsword in 300 years. He tried to see if any of them looked like Toby and decided that he did see some resemblance in their noses. Before Alexander realized it he was at the end of the hallway, where a different staircase presented itself. By the time he reached the next floor, he had utterly lost his way. He found a maid hurrying past with a stack of towels and asked for directions to the dining room.

  For a servant, she turned out to be outspoken. She looked him up and down dubiously. "You've been asked to dinner and you're going dressed like that? I wouldn't give a brass farthing for your chances with Lady Parkington!" She pointed him down the hall. "Good luck!"

  Fortunately, Alexander arrived before the soup was served. Professor Hobhouse was already there, sipping a glass of wine. Rigley showed up soon after. Someone had loaned him a jacket, but the sleeves were too long. He looked a bit like a boy playing dress up in his father's clothes.

  "Give me the Royal Navy any day," he grumped. "This is all too namby pamby for me. I'd be more at home in the stables with the gryphons."

  "I wouldn't mention that last bit, Rigley," Hobhouse said. "Someone may
take you up on it."

  A moment later Lord Parkington entered the dining room, followed by his mother and sister. Lady Parkington was a tall, striking woman who wore a shimmering gown and jewels that glittered in the candlelight—no wonder Toby had worried that his shipmates from the Resolution would seem underdressed. His sister was like a younger version of the earl—blond and pretty, though not as tall as her mother. She also wore a fine dress, but it was simpler in style than her mother's and she had limited her jewelry to a necklace of pale blue stones that matched her eyes. Those blue eyes quickly took in her brother's shipmates, looking them up and down as they hurried to their feet. Her gaze lingered frankly on Alexander, sizing him up.

  "May I introduce my mother, the Lady Parkington," Toby said. "And this is my sister, Catherine. Or Cat, as we like to call her."

  "How do you do," said Professor Hobhouse, bowing stiffly. His long frame bent reluctantly, like a tree in the wind. Alexander and Rigley followed his example.

  They all sat down, and were promptly served the soup, which was delicious. Alexander was starving, but he took the soup in polite spoonfuls, which was torture.

  "My son tells me you've come quite a distance all on the back of a gryphon." Her ladyship shuddered. "It's certainly not my favorite way to travel! Gryphons do smell so. It's an odor that clings about one." At this remark, she seemed to look pointedly at Alexander.

  "Gryphons do smell, mother, but in a good way," said Cat, her blue eyes flashing. She also looked at Alexander, but not at all with the same expression her mother had used. "Gryphons smell the way that horses or leather do. It's a smell that reminds one of action and excitement."

  "Like salt air," Alexander said. "Or the fresh smell of the spring plowing."

  "Exactly!" Cat said.

  "Like baking pies," Rigley offered. "Or a roast beef, or—"

  "Do pass the salt, Rigley," Professor Hobhouse interrupted.