by C. S. Quinn
Riders on horseback, galloping much too fast up the hill. From this distance it’s hard to be certain, but they look to be in livery. The colours of Salvatore’s house.
How did they find us so quickly?
The coiling uncertainty in the pit of my stomach hits a sudden jarring reality.
The slave dock in Lisbon. Robespierre’s questioning Salvatore.
I close my eyes, unable to bear how wrong I had it all. Now it makes sense, I cannot believe I didn’t deduce it before.
I almost laugh out loud at my stupidity. All Robespierre needed to do was persuade Salvatore to commit a murder. But it was never about those abolitionist women. Their murders were only to bring Salvatore to the attention of the Pimpernel. I had never been able to understand why Robespierre would use Salvatore of all people, when there are a dozen other assassins with revolutionary zeal.
But of course, Salvatore goes everywhere with his courtesan.
Centime.
Somehow, Robespierre knew enough of me to understand I should never be able to resist bringing her to safety. The liaison with Salvatore, the murder, all of it was to bring her to my attention. And it worked perfectly.
Centime was bait. And I fell for her hook, line and sinker.
CHAPTER FORTY
ROBESPIERRE STEPS DOWN FROM THE CARRIAGE ON TO the suspiciously clean road.
‘You like it, eh, Max?’ asks Danton. ‘No shit, no rotting rubbish. They have it good in Versailles. This is the back way in,’ he adds. ‘No hoards of nobles to spy on us.’
‘Very clever,’ agrees Robespierre. ‘I didn’t know your geography of the palace was so adept.’ There is the slightest hint of criticism, Danton perceives.
‘Ah, well.’ Danton adjusts the waistcoat over his protruding belly. ‘Know your enemy.’ He waves a thick-fingered hand. ‘This way.’
He leads Robespierre to a gate, on which a single bored servant lounges. Danton pays him a stack of coins, which is pocketed with a nod of thanks. Without waiting to be asked, Danton strides past, on to a well-swept pathway between sapling trees.
‘These are young,’ says Robespierre, lifting the leaf of a tender sapling.
‘The Queen plants them,’ says Danton. ‘Wants to make this back part her own private kingdom.’
Robespierre lets the leaf drop with no reply, but something behind his round glasses suggests he is noting Danton’s knowledge.
‘This way,’ says the large lawyer, leading Robespierre through a tiny gate – the kind of rustic wooden thing one might find deep in the countryside.
Just for a moment, Robespierre thinks he is in a land of his own imagination. Something he has dreamed of countless times. A well-kept hamlet, with clean thatched cottages, and neatly tended vegetables. A smart little waterwheel turns in a babbling brook of sparkling water winding along the outskirts. There are no filthy beggars, no desperate mothers with scraps of babies wrapped at their bony chests. All is clean, tidy, wholesome.
Robespierre closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, tears cloud his vision. This is his pure society, his new France.
‘What place is this?’ he whispers to Danton, as they troop through the little village. ‘Is it part of the town of Versailles?’
Danton shakes his large head disparagingly.
‘This is the Queen’s hamlet, Max. A little toy-land for her to play at being a peasant.’
Robespierre has heard of the Queen’s hamlet, of course. Most Parisians have. The pamphlets run hot with the scorn of it – Marie Antoinette starving her citizens so she might build a strange little country idyll and play at being a farm girl. Most are convinced it is part of some depraved sexual fantasy of the Queen’s, since she comes here in private with only her favourites. But he never imagined it would look so … wonderful.
Now he knows the truth, however, he is forced to notice the hamlet is deserted. No people at all. Additionally, the vegetable garden grows lusher than ordinary irrigation can account for, and the bordering hills have been landscaped into picturesque undulations that are unnatural.
The tearing of the illusion awakens something in Robespierre, some latent fury he cannot quite explain. When a little perfumed sheep, with an artificially snowy fleece, ambles up to him and pushes its velvety nose into his hand, Robespierre aims a kick at it.
Danton laughs as Robespierre’s impeccably polished shoe misses.
‘Steady there, Max. The injustice of the royals finally making a man of you, is it?’ He puts a comradely arm around his small companion. ‘Save your anger, my friend. It’s because of this place we have a little base here. The servants are friends, hmm?’
He approaches a small cottage and performs a complicated knock on the door. It is opened by a man dressed as a peasant farmer – the cleanest Robespierre has ever seen – in a long cream-coloured smock, buttercup-hued breeches and incongruously plump cheeks.
The farmer looks right and left ostentatiously, then signals they should enter.
‘All is well for you to stay awhile,’ he says. ‘It is just as you said. The Queen will not come today. Fears for her safety.’
He pauses as Danton and Robespierre enter the lowceilinged little dwelling. A cauldron bubbles prettily on a small fire, and it’s hard to know if this is a functional item or just for show. It feels a lot like wandering on to the stage set of a very impressive play.
The farmer makes another exaggerated glance around the room. ‘It is really happening then?’ he asks. ‘They are coming.’
Inside his coat, Robespierre can feel the gold key pressing against his heart.
‘We have news that they shall—’ begins Danton, but Robespierre interrupts him, to the larger lawyer’s obvious surprise.
‘They will come,’ says Robespierre. ‘Everything is in place. By tonight, the thing will be done.’
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
AT THE BASE OF THE MONTMARTRE HILL, ARMED MEN ON horseback have begun the ascent.
I watch from the windmill balcony, possibilities churning. I counted on Montmartre as an area safe from aristocrats. But I never factored Robespierre’s information network. Of course he has spies here. It is a hotbed for his faction.
I’m trying to stay calm, but the truth is Robespierre’s plan has worked perfectly. Our only chance of escape is to attempt a far more dangerous gate, when the guard is at its height. He has played it perfectly. I cannot help but admire the tactic, for all the peril we are now in.
As I stride back into the windmill, Centime and Jemmy pick up on my mood instantly.
‘What is it?’ asks Centime, rising to her feet.
‘A slight change of arrangements,’ I say. ‘The Montmartre gate is no longer possible.’
I catch Jemmy’s eye and he opens his mouth and shuts it again. As I pass him to collect up our clothing, I draw close enough to whisper.
‘Guards on the hill,’ I say. ‘Salvatore’s men. On their way here.’
Centime misses nothing, and the blood drains from her face.
‘He’s coming, isn’t he?’ she whispers. ‘You must leave me here. I can talk to him. Persuade him to let you go.’
I shake my head, the comprehensiveness of Robespierre’s plan weighing heavy. I’m remembering the plantation. How the strongest slaves would begin to identify with the owners, even justify their behaviours. Better that than accepting the cruelty they suffered was arbitrary and indiscriminate. Centime is thinking it would be easier to return to Salvatore than risk the unknown, I can see it in her eyes.
‘I will sail with you,’ I tell her. ‘We shall take the boat together to England. I’ll be sure you arrive safely.’
Confusion flickers on her face. ‘Arrive safely?’ Her voice is caught between disappointment and hope. ‘You won’t stay once we are landed?’
‘I cannot,’ I tell her. ‘I am to give up this life. After my wedding my husband and I have business abroad. But you mustn’t fear,’ I add. ‘I shall make sure you are safe and well looked to in England.’
Her face makes a very peculiar expression, like a knowing smile. ‘You will be married so soon?’ she suggests quietly.
I nod. ‘The day after tomorrow.’
She flinches. ‘So soon. But,’ she says piteously, ‘if it is an arranged marriage, are you not free to leave your husband to travel alone, like other fine ladies?’
‘Why would you think my marriage is by arrangement?’
‘Because you have the air of a condemned man, whenever ye speak of it.’ Jemmy’s voice breaks in.
I choose to ignore his remark. ‘We don’t have time to discuss my wedding,’ I tell Centime, reaching out my hand. ‘I gave you my word that I would get you to England and I don’t intend to break it.’
‘But you said the Montmartre gate is closed to us.’
‘There are other gates,’ I say, not looking at Jemmy. ‘We shall get you through one of those.’
Centime looks down at my outstretched fingers, then takes them, but her expression is of bleak despair.
‘This way,’ I say. ‘You first down the ladder. There is a back way out, and we have time.’
She obeys with the wordless acquiescence of someone used to being told what to do. When she is out of earshot, Jemmy turns back to me, lowering his voice.
‘Attica, are you mad? How exactly do you plan to get her through? Those customs guards are out for blood.’
‘Robespierre has been using Centime as bait,’ I tell him. ‘He’s used his information network to track us here.’
A complicated array of expressions plays over Jemmy’s face, starting in horror and ending with hopelessness.
‘All this time I was trying to understand why Robespierre wanted to murder an English abolitionist,’ I explain. ‘It never occurred to me that my attention was being drawn to Salvatore. Somehow, Robespierre knew I would try to rescue Centime.’
I’m struck with an awful uneasy feeling. Robespierre seems to know me. I swallow it down.
‘If Robespierre went to all that trouble,’ I decide, ‘he must be planning something. Something he fears the Pimpernel could disrupt.’
Jemmy and I are silent, considering options.
‘If that’s true,’ he says finally, ‘then Robespierre knows you will attempt to pass a gate. You said yourself he has been infiltrating them. You’re doing exactly what he wants you to do.’
‘Not quite,’ I reply. ‘He wants me to be caught at the gate. We’re going to clear it.’
‘They’ll spot that girl a mile away, Attica. They check every box and sack.’
‘What choice do we have?’ I realise my voice has risen and consciously lower it to a hiss. ‘Robespierre has told Salvatore just enough to put Centime in terrible danger. If he gets hold of her now, he’ll torture her for information about the Pimpernel.’
‘Then Robespierre has played it very well,’ says Jemmy grimly. ‘If Salvatore gets hold of Centime, she will not withstand torture. She will give you up. You shall have to go home and be married.’
‘That is not my main concern.’
Jemmy’s expression suggests he doesn’t believe me.
‘Maybe part of it,’ I admit. ‘But mostly I cannot let Centime fall into Salvatore’s hands.’
‘Be careful, Attica; you do not risk all to win at any cost.’
‘How can you say that?’
‘Just a look you get whenever Robespierre is mentioned.’
I ignore him, pushing past and descending the ladder.
At the base I find Centime has been cornered by the brothel-keeper, who is jabbing an accusing finger at her with narrowed eyes.
She swings around to confront me as Jemmy drops easily to the ground beside me, his soft leather boots deadening the sound of impact.
‘Some fine lies you’ve been telling us,’ says the brothel-keeper bitterly, pointing at Centime. ‘That girl is whore to a noble. A bad one.’ She narrows her eyes. ‘A traitor to the people of France, that’s what she is.’
‘Who brought you the information?’ I say, keeping my voice calm.
‘I don’t see as it’s—’ the woman begins.
I move in swiftly, and before she realises what has happened she’s pinned to the wall with a knife at her throat.
‘It matters to me,’ I say evenly. ‘I paid for your hospitality, madame. I’d be obliged to you.’
She glances down at the knife.
‘Messenger,’ she says.
‘A sans-culotte?’ I suggest. ‘Striped breeches, tricolour cockade?’
She nods, setting her mouth.
‘He knew we were here?’
She shakes her head. ‘Only said he’d been given a duty by the cause to inform all us peasants of the traitor.’ She nods towards Centime. ‘And to be on the lookout.’
‘He offered a reward?’
‘Two francs.’ She swallows. I release her, glancing at Jemmy.
‘Robespierre,’ I tell him grimly. ‘He’s sending out his people, trying to trap us with Centime.’ I turn back to Madame. ‘I am, as ever, obliged to you,’ I say, pushing another few gold coins into her hand. Her eyes glitter. ‘We shan’t let this small unpleasantness come between us. As you know, my payment is always a great deal more than two francs.’ She nods, not taking her eyes from the money. ‘When the guards come, please tell them you never saw us.’
Grabbing Centime’s hand, I make for the back door, with Jemmy fast on our heels.
‘Think she’ll keep her part of the bargain?’ asks Jemmy.
‘Perhaps not,’ I concede. ‘But if Robespierre knows we have Centime, our only hope is to move fast.’
‘Where to?’ asks Jemmy.
‘The marketplace for a few more provisions,’ I say. ‘Salt to fill those sacks you got us. A suitably ragged-looking donkey. Then we go straight for Porte Saint-Martin.’
‘That gate is in a revolutionary district,’ says Centime. ‘They hate the nobles there. I’ll be torn to pieces.’
‘It’s a foolish choice,’ agrees Jemmy. ‘Of all the gates, Saint-Martin is the best guarded. All goods to the north pass that way.’
‘The most dangerous, the best guarded,’ I agree. ‘Robespierre will never suspect it.’
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
THE WOMEN FIND LAFAYETTE TRYING TO CONVINCE HIS large body of troops not to desert. It soon becomes apparent to everyone that the Marquis has two options: lead his own troops and the rapidly growing crowd of Parisian women, or face the wrath of the mob.
Wearily, he mounts his horse and heads the procession. The fish-selling women are drunk with joy, heady with the knowledge of their own power. Men have joined the throng now. Half of Paris has come out to watch.
‘Join us!’ the market women shout. Several do. A silk-clad woman shakes her head with a smile. ‘It is not my business,’ she says, ‘but I wish you good fortune!’
Ovette wades into the crowd and grabs hold of the well-dressed woman.
‘It is all our business,’ she says, ‘to help our fellow citizens.’ And she drags the surprised lady into the scrum of marchers. The crowd of women promptly crowd around the reluctant recruit, preventing her escape. Her eyes flit helplessly around the rough-faced women and settle on resignation.
Ovette has started a movement. Tired and determined, the women take their duties to heart. They are an army now, with a real leader. As the great swathe of people storms the road to Versailles, anyone in their way is press-ganged into service.
Greta, exuberant to the cause, drags a bourgeois lady in a velvet frock into their midst.
‘We’ll none of us stand by,’ says Greta menacingly, clapping her hands together, ‘whilst mothers and children starve. This is all of our fight.’
The well-fed lady, in a pair of hand-made gloves, doesn’t look like she quite agrees. But one glance at Greta’s glowering face is enough to convince her to take part. A kitchen knife is thrust in her hand and she waves it uncertainly in the air.
‘That’s right!’ cries Greta. ‘Long live the women who sell fi
sh!’
A cheer goes up.
Greta falls into stride beside Ovette.
‘I never liked you,’ says Greta conversationally, ‘but you’re not so bad really, are you?’
Ovette manages a smile. The women have slowed. The march is a trudge, but a trudge with inevitability to it.
‘It’s a long way to Versailles,’ says Ovette, looking at the muddy ground.
Greta nods. ‘Why did you take a market stand?’ she asks suddenly.
Ovette hesitates. She has not told a soul from the shame of it.
‘My son,’ she admits. ‘He stole some fine linens from a shop. I spent all my money on a lawyer, but they put him to death anyway.’
‘Your son’s family were starving?’ suggests Greta with sympathy.
‘That’s what he told the court,’ says Ovette evenly. ‘But no. He had an idea of bettering himself. Setting up a street cart and growing a business from it.’
Greta nods sagely. ‘The starving children story never does work in the courts, does it?’ she observes. ‘You wonder why they keep telling it.’
Ovette nods sadly. ‘Is it true what you said before?’ she asks. ‘That you would die for your fellow market traders?’
‘Might have been the drink talking,’ admits Greta. ‘But I suppose we’ll see, shan’t we?’ She eyes the long road ahead.
At the front of the growing parade, the Marquis de Lafayette looks back to see he is now leading an army of thousands. It swells with every street they pass. The air is filled with pitchforks and knives, spears and pikes: whatever sharp and threatening things the women can lay their hands on. Their mood is infectious.
He looks back to the road, wondering how the King will take this arrival of dreadful-looking women and their hangers-on. It occurs to him, in his black mood, that this might be the very thing to convince His Majesty to sign the Rights of Man after all.
Nursing this happy hope, Lafayette clicks his heels, spurring his horse on a little faster.
