by C. S. Quinn
‘It is all our business,’ replies Greta evenly. ‘And no woman in the Faubourg ever refuses help.’
‘If you are truly family,’ says Ovette, the birthmark on her face flushing deeper, ‘then prove it. Fight for them. Ring the bell.’
Greta’s head turns towards the nearest church, only half a street away. She drains her tankard.
‘Very well.’ She shrugs with the ease of a drunk who has had her first drink. ‘I’ll go ring the bell,’ she says, loud enough for the market women to hear.
There is a murmur of hope from the group. They can see how Greta might terrify the priest into compliance with her strange swaying belly and general stink. ‘I only need two big girls with me,’ she adds, pointing to the fishermen’s wives responsible for hauling in the nets. A couple of thick-armed women stand.
‘This way, then,’ says Greta, with the air of a military general. ‘Follow me.’
A surge of excitement ripples through the marketplace as the bell-ringing contingent departs. Women begin talking earnestly to older children, arranging for them to guard pitches, make sales if necessary. Messages are to be relayed. But at the heart of it, no one is yet entirely sure. It is like the first drifts of smoke, before you know how quickly a fire may catch.
There is a sound of breaking glass and a shout from the church. Then Drunk Greta emerges, grinning, with a jug of Communion wine clutched to her protruding stomach. The priest is giving chase, but not very convincingly.
Then they hear the bell. A smile breaks out on every face.
The big-armed women emerge from the church, victorious. Greta reaches the market woman and the wine is passed around. The priest has prudently made himself scarce.
It is the first rule to be broken, but the effect on the women is pronounced. A drunken mirage of possibilities unfolds, in which they have the power to demand what is fair.
‘To the baker!’ roars the previously timid woman, with the unmoving baby strapped to her. ‘And the baker’s wife!’
The chant is taken up and the mood is joyous. It is all so simple, how could the men not have seen it? The King loves his people. All they need do is knock on his door. He will provide them with bread, and that will be that.
Greta has an idea.
‘The Marquis de Lafayette,’ she tells Ovette. ‘He hates the Queen, does he not?’
Ovette nods slowly. ‘She threw him out of court for wearing the wrong coat.’
Marie Antoinette’s reasons for disliking the Marquis have filtered down to the masses in Lafayette’s favour. If she doesn’t like him, the people think, then we do.
‘We should ask Lafayette to lead us,’ says Greta. ‘And if he doesn’t, we’ll string him up.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
ROBESPIERRE SITS IN A BUMPING CARRIAGE, CRUSHED IN next to Georges Danton’s large frame on the hard wooden seat.
‘This riot of women is your doing, Max. You’ve been riling them up for months.’
‘I cannot take credit,’ replies Robespierre. ‘The King and Queen’s spectacular indifference to their own starving people must take that honour. And it is not a riot,’ he adds. ‘They protest against injustice.’
‘Even so,’ rumbles Danton, ‘the thing is well played. Those women …’ He squints at the raging scrawny people. ‘I really do believe they might run her through. Mon Dieu.’ He wipes his forehead with a handkerchief. ‘I have hardly seen men on the battlefield look more bloodthirsty. I should not like to be in Her Majesty’s silken shoes.’ He barks a short laugh.
‘They believe the Queen responsible for starving their children,’ says Robespierre. ‘One can hardly blame their anger. I tell them there is virtue in poverty. They seem to like it.’
‘So you made certain this Pimpernel will not interfere with our business at Versailles?’ Georges asks. ‘He is caught?’
‘Not yet,’ says Robespierre. ‘But the thing is imminent.’ He looks out of the window.
‘Don’t be coy with me, Max,’ says Danton. ‘I can see you’re dying to tell me your cleverness. Let’s have out with it, then.’
Robespierre withdraws from the window and turns to his friend. ‘Ciphers, puzzles, problems of wit and logic. I have always enjoyed them. And then, the strangest thing of all. The tokens. A code I could not break.’
He pauses for effect.
‘So you unravelled the code?’ Danton slaps his back. ‘By God, I knew you would! You always were a clever fellow.’
Robespierre frowns at the interruption.
‘I did not break the code in the way you might imagine,’ admits Robespierre. ‘I looked at the problem from another direction. Perhaps you were correct and the tokens tell me nothing. Pah. So then what about the man himself? What if I regard him as the code?’
‘Go on.’
‘A code must be poked and pushed and turned about to make it reveal itself. And so I determined to study the people the Pimpernel aids, looking for a pattern.’ Robespierre’s fingers move lightly in the air, as though conducting an unseen orchestra. He closes his eyes for a moment, a smile on his lips. ‘It was an enjoyable practice,’ he says. ‘Something I had not done before. I had what a religious man might call an epiphany, Danton. I did not need to find the man. I only needed to find the person who would draw the Pimpernel out. His favourite prey, if you will.’ He manages a thin smile.
‘Oh ho, so that is why you were making terms with the arms dealer. Put two rats in a box and they will eat each other, is that not how it is? Paris rats, at least,’ adds Danton.
Robespierre smiles thinly, but makes no reply.
‘We’ll make a politician of you yet,’ says Danton.
Robespierre bows slightly, accepting the compliment.
‘It is a kind of politics, isn’t it?’ he says thoughtfully. ‘In any case, I broke the code. Slavery was the connection. But he has another weakness I had not previously considered.’
Danton’s eyes have glazed over. ‘So long as he cannot bother our plans.’
‘Since I have discovered his code,’ says Robespierre, ‘I was able to bait the hook. He will soon try to leave Paris. When he does, he shall be caught.’
‘That is why you were so adamant about keeping the customs gates manned?’
Robespierre smiles widely. It is such an unusual expression that Danton draws back, a little disturbed.
‘The Pimpernel has taken the bait. Now all that remains is to reel him in.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CENTIME AND I LIE ON THE STRAW, HER ARM DRAPED ACROSS my naked belly. She is watching my face.
‘There are stories,’ she tells me, dark eyes gliding to mine, ‘of an Englishman. A rescuer, who goes by a flower symbol. The token you gave me, at the weapons fayre … It is you, isn’t it?’ she asks. ‘You get people out of France.’
‘What makes you say it?’
‘Just a feeling.’ Her mouth twists. ‘The lawyer, Robespierre. He wants to find out who you are. I heard him talking about you with Salvatore.’
I turn in the straw. ‘What was said?’
She frowns. ‘Only that Robespierre wanted Salvatore to tell him about a slave dock that burned down in Lisbon. He thought the Pimpernel was involved somehow.’
My stomach turns. Robespierre knows far more than I thought. I try to deduce what this could mean for Robespierre’s using Salvatore but the answer eludes me.
‘He has big plans, though, the lawyer,’ says Centime. ‘Salvatore told me so. He said the lawyer had a crazed idea that would soon get him killed. That is why he wanted the key.’
I sit up a little, as things fit together. Salvatore passing something hard and gleaming to Robespierre. The lawyer tucking it in his coat.
‘What does it unlock?’ I try to keep my tone casual, but something in Centime’s face tells me she sees through it.
‘Oh, something at the palace, I believe,’ she says disinterestedly. ‘As a commoner, Robespierre is permitted in a few areas with the other politicians. He wanted ac
cess to the Princes’ Court where the soldiers enter to guard the royals. Salvatore was in the army so it was simple for him to get a key.’
‘Why should Salvatore help Robespierre break into that part of Versailles?’
‘I don’t know.’ She shakes her head slowly. ‘Only that Salvatore thought it was in his interests, whatever Robespierre was planning.’
I try to think this through, but it’s like a snake with a tail I can’t catch.
What shared interest could Robespierre and Salvatore possibly have?
The two men are as diametrically opposed on every principle as it is possible to be. Salvatore is surely capable of buying anything he likes and putting his empire of arms traders to any dark work he would like done. He has military connections, friends in high places. It is unimaginable that a middling lawyer from Paris would have anything Salvatore wants. Yet somehow, Robespierre convinced Salvatore to commit murder.
How? Why?
Something snags in my mind, then slips away again.
I cannot connect the facts and, as usual, when faced with problems beyond my reckoning, I’m caught by a mad desire to be with Atherton. The only person who understands me properly. With whom I can discuss things rationally. I miss him, I realise. Dreadfully. When this last mission is over I shall give it all up and be a proper wife to him, I decide.
Something in Centime’s face changes, as if she knows what I’m thinking.
She shifts to look at me. ‘Has Salvatore underestimated Robespierre?’ she asks.
‘I don’t know,’ I answer truthfully. ‘Probably.’
Something is occurring to me. Why didn’t it strike me sooner that Robespierre’s ambitions would go far beyond a few assassinations? And there is trouble now in the city, isn’t there? The women revolt and petition the town hall. Are these things connected?
‘The end justifies the means,’ I say aloud, thinking of Robespierre’s aims and feeling distinctly uneasy.
Centime reaches across the makeshift bed and, to my extreme discomfort, lifts my corsetry, loaded with its compliment of concealed weaponry.
‘Heavy,’ she says, weighing it with a grin. ‘What have we here?’
She is examining the amber locket hanging around my neck now.
‘Don’t touch that!’ I snap, closing it in my fist. Her eyes follow me wonderingly.
‘Whatever can you be hiding?’ She rests her chin on her hand, not the least bit perturbed by my outburst. ‘I have guessed your identity now,’ she points out. ‘You may as well tell me everything.’
I relent slightly, not least because I don’t want her harming herself with equipment she doesn’t understand.
‘The locket has poison inside,’ I say.
Her eyes widen. ‘No! Not really. You would poison someone?’
‘If I had to,’ I reply. ‘But the poison is not for assassination. It is something passed out to spies who work in perilous circumstances. Pills to offer a quick death with no risk of telling secrets.’
It takes Centime a full second to realise what I mean. Her eyes widen, caught between horror and awe.
‘You are really the one they’re all looking for, aren’t you?’ she whispers, shaking her head in wonder and reaching out a hand in the same way one might pet a dangerous dog. She glances again at the locket. ‘Would you ever do it?’ she asks. ‘Poison yourself, I mean.’
‘If I thought I was likely to endanger others under torture,’ I say, ‘or was held under threat of terrible execution and could not escape. So no,’ I conclude. ‘Never. But my uncle wanted me to have it.’
Now Centime’s face creases in a strange expression of disbelief. Finally she laughs out loud.
‘Now I know you tease me,’ she decides, moving back on to the bed and smiling a little as she gazes into my eyes. ‘Tease me some more.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
THE DAWN SUN HAS NOW FULLY RISEN IN THE HAYLOFT.
There’s a noise from the ladder and I see Jemmy’s dark hair emerge, followed by the rest of his black-clad form.
‘I got the sacks as you asked …’ he begins, then pauses, taking in Centime’s state of undress, our proximity to one another on the straw bed. ‘Don’t let me interrupt,’ he says, shaking his head as he climbs fully to the upper level, then heads to the little makeshift balcony where the huge windmill cogs grind.
Pushing myself up, I follow him, motioning to Centime she should stay inside.
I find Jemmy stood picking at his nails while staring moodily out on to the city rooftops.
‘What is it?’ I demand. ‘You do not approve?’
He turns to look at me, seeming distracted. ‘To find you in bed with that girl?’ Jemmy shakes his head again. ‘I wouldn’t have imagined anything less of you, Attica. Did she tell you everything?’
I hesitate, trying to understand his mood. ‘Robespierre was given a key by Salvatore,’ I say, speaking fast and low. ‘It opens the gate to the Princes’ Court at Versailles.’
Jemmy absorbs this. ‘Does Centime know who you are now?’
‘Yes,’ I admit, surprised at his discerning it.
Jemmy turns on me, eyes flashing. ‘I knew it!’ he says furiously. ‘You’ve put us both in danger!’
I hold up my hands, placating. ‘All is well,’ I say. ‘As soon as she is put safely on the boat, there is no more risk.’
‘And until then? You want me to ferry around Salvatore’s courtesan when there’s a price on her head?’
‘Can you think of an alternative?’ I demand.
For a moment the other possibility hovers above us. The choice of sensible men like Lord Pole, men who live to fight another day. The world where we leave Centime to her fate, because her death will ensure our safety just as certainly as her escape, but with less risk to Jemmy and me.
Jemmy hesitates. Then sticks both hands into the pockets of his coat. ‘Why don’t you just be honest, at least with yourself?’
‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’
Jemmy glances at me, frowning. Then he heaves a huge sigh.
‘It is your wedding on Monday.’
‘Yes. I will return with Centime on the ship tomorrow,’ I say, assuming he thinks I do not leave sufficient time. ‘Be married the next day.’
‘For a love-struck bride, you are leaving things a little close, don’t you think?’
‘No. I think it rather efficient. The wedding will be a simple affair in the family chapel.’ I am wondering if he still expects me to engage in some lengthy dressing or trousseau ritual.
‘That isn’t what I meant.’ Jemmy rakes his hands through his dark hair. ‘You have discovered that Robespierre is working with Salvatore. Your mission is complete. Then you appoint yourself the vital task of getting information from Centime. So now you have it. Robespierre has obtained a key to the Princes’ Court at Versailles. Salvatore’s business with him is done. Go home. Be married.’
‘I must get Centime to safety. It is important I see the thing done personally.’
Jemmy only shakes his head. ‘You do not want to finish this mission, Attica. It is clear to me, if not to you.’
‘How useful to have you on hand to tell me what I feel and think,’ I reply drily.
He scuffs his foot on the dusty floor, sending a little straw fluttering out of the hayloft and to the ground below.
‘For all your talk of patriotism, I think the injustice of the mission sticks in your throat. Not to mention,’ he continues, ‘with your mission complete, you must return and be an English wife.’
‘I will return and be married in any case,’ I tell him crossly. ‘How can you doubt it?’
‘Just a feeling,’ he says maddeningly, adding, ‘You wouldn’t have accepted the assignment if you truly had no reservations.’
‘I accepted the mission before Atherton proposed.’
‘Oh, so he actually proposed, now? Because from what you told me it sounded like more of a business arrangement.’
I shrug. �
�I am not a person for grand declarations of love. Atherton knows that.’
‘Are you not? In my experience, woman say they do not want grand declarations of love, then make you live to regret it for ever when you give them a tin ring and a yard of ale in the dockside tavern.’
‘You’re confusing me with one of your mad harlots.’
‘All I mean to say is in your heart you want to stay an adventurer,’ says Jemmy. He inclines his head towards the hayloft. ‘That girl in there proves it. You delay by dragging her over the border.’
‘Why should I endanger her life unnecessarily?’ I am tight-lipped with indignation.
‘It’s your own life you’re seeking to save. But Attica, if you do not wish to wed there are better ways of doing so than using this poor girl. Not to mention,’ he lowers his voice and glances in the direction of Centime’s room, ‘has it occurred to you, she might be working with Robespierre?’
‘Now you are ridiculous.’ I sigh, remembering Centime’s fragility. ‘I know something of this girl, Jemmy; you misjudge her. She deserves our help.’
Jemmy looks unconvinced. ‘She is lovely to look at, and I’ve no doubt her trade gives her certain skills. Let us see if she is willing to give up Salvatore’s plan,’ he says, a cynical set to his features. ‘But if you ask me, Attica, you’re just another gull to her. When she realises you can’t offer her all she wants, she won’t take it well.’
‘And what does she want?’
‘I warned you already. A girl like that always looks for a protector. Which isn’t you. Unless you’re planning on throwing over the love of your life for our little Centime now?’
‘If I didn’t know you better, Jemmy Avery, I’d think you jealous.’
Jemmy walks away, muttering something I don’t quite hear. But it might have been: ‘If I didn’t know myself better, so would I.’
As Jemmy returns to the windmill interior I stay looking out, thinking through his words. It isn’t true, of course. I need to stay because the mission is not completed. I am turning over how best to achieve this when I see a cloud of dust at the base of the hill. For a few moments I can’t quite discern what it is. A large wagon, perhaps, or a spilled bag of flour. Then I put the shapes together.
