by C. S. Quinn
‘There are a lot of people above us,’ I say, as the ceiling shakes. ‘There may be time yet. The mob could have assumed the Queen’s apartments are to the front.’
‘They aren’t?’
I shake my head. ‘That is for the bourgeois. Royal bedchambers are public places.’
We turn a corner deeper into the palace and I make an involuntary cry, running to where a bloody set of skirts is huddled in a doorway.
It’s a woman, her dead face screwed up in fright, intestines lolling in her lap. She lies at the end of a long blood trail, as though having been pulled to the end of a ragged red road.
‘She is so young,’ I whisper, my mouth tugging down at the corners. ‘They butchered her.’
I gaze up at Jemmy, whose expression is similarly stricken, though he is trying not to look at the sad remains. ‘Why was she moved?’ I add, looking back to the blood trail.
‘The guards would have been frightened out of their wits,’ says Jemmy. ‘One of them slashed out at the mob at random, and likely moved the body in some attempt of decency.’ He sighs. ‘The people came for a fight, Attica. They got one.’ But he looks devastated, all the same.
I shake my head. ‘They came for bread. And have been misled and manipulated. These are simple women whose children are hungry.’
A bubble of dark hatred for Robespierre rises up. He must have known this would be a consequence of his plans. Innocent women slaughtered. More like he wanted it. Brutality fuels fear. Better be sure the mob are good and riled up.
Past the terrible remains is an emptier part. The dead girl has acted as a deterrent. Even the petty thieves and inebriated wanderers are unwilling to tread over bloody skirts and explore beyond. It is deserted.
Hope swells as we reach a set of broad double doors.
‘The way to the King’s stair,’ I say, taking in the scale and the decorations.
Jemmy reaches for the golden handle.
It suddenly occurs to me that the placement of the dead girl might not have been some act of decency. I never properly considered that Robespierre would not just unleash a mob into the palace and hope for the best. He is a planner in all things, leaving nothing to chance.
I manage to grab Jemmy’s hand just in time to stop him opening the door.
He turns to me, a questioning expression as I raise my hand to my lips.
Very slowly, I move to look at the crack between the doors. I breathe out, my worst fears confirmed.
‘Armed men,’ I whisper, backing away and pulling Jemmy with me.
The men are dressed in simple peasant clothes: the striped long trousers known disparagingly to the nobles as sans-culottes – workman-like breeches rather than knee-length silken breeches in decorated shades and trimmings.
‘I should have known better,’ I tell Jemmy as we retreat. ‘Robespierre hasn’t taken any chances. Unless we can get up that staircase there’s no way to get the Queen out. There are at least ten men. Prime position on that stair. Higher ground and the only way in from the front.’
I think back to the dead girl with her exposed guts. Her placement there would prevent the mob veering off towards the west side of the palace, away from the Queen.
‘Robespierre is ruthless,’ I spit, a wave of hopelessness washing over me. ‘We have no such advantage. He will do anything to accomplish his ends.’ I give Jemmy a small smile. ‘We are encumbered, my friend. He will slash and burn anyone who stands in his way.’
Jemmy looks thoughtful. ‘Ruthlessness can be useful, right enough. Most of us pirates would have one such on our crew. But ruthless men are not good leaders, Attica. They want all the glory for themselves. And battles are won by the crew, not the captain.’
‘All well and good,’ I say distractedly, ‘but we are low on crew members.’
‘Are we, so?’ Jemmy grins. ‘It seems to me we are in need of Lafayette.’
The horrible truth of this dawns.
‘Lafayette is Commander of the Royal Guard and will have men at his disposal,’ continues Jemmy. ‘Might even spare us a few if we ask nicely. Clear the stair for us.’
I am silent, knowing Jemmy is right, though the idea of asking Lafayette for help is unpleasant.
‘We don’t know where he is,’ I point out truculently.
‘He’ll be defending the King,’ says Jemmy unhesitatingly. ‘Doing his duty. We only need follow the troops.’
‘We’ll have entirely different strategies on how to get those sans-culottes off the stairwell,’ I protest. ‘He won’t listen to me.’
‘That he won’t,’ agrees Jemmy. ‘But he’ll listen to me.’ He takes my shoulder. ‘Come on, Attica,’ he says, ‘you’ve already decided to help a foreign queen against the wishes of your countryfolk. Why not help the English army’s worst enemy to boot?’
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
WE FIND LAFAYETTE EASILY ENOUGH, JUST AS JEMMY SAID we would. He is positioning a body of men in an outer courtyard, issuing instructions and mounting a plan of defence with his pitiful guard.
‘His Majesty is safe in the Guards’ Room,’ he tells them. ‘The people only want the Queen.’
Lafayette is dishevelled and dazed looking, as though he has only recently woken up. Nevertheless, much as I hate to admit it, he is an impressive sight, calm against the mayhem of being on the losing side.
He isn’t pleased to see us, shouldering through the ranks of his neatly lined troops.
‘What the devil are you doing here?’ he demands of Jemmy, blinking as if he might have dreamed us. ‘Get your lady out of the palace. There’s women roaming around who’d tear her limb from limb.’
Jemmy tilts his head in my direction. ‘Attica here thinks there’s more to this than meets the eye. A plot to assassinate the Queen.’
Lafayette frowns. ‘Why should an Englishwoman care for our Queen?’
‘I have no love for your Queen but,’ I sigh, ‘she is a pawn in all this. Women usually are. If she dies, there will be a great terror, a lynching of foreigners. Many of my countrymen will die.’ I hesitate. ‘Many of yours, too.’
Lafayette’s gaze flicks between Jemmy and me. He looks even more weary. ‘You always did have a blind spot for troublesome women,’ he says to Jemmy. ‘The people who have broken into the palace,’ he tells me, ‘they are gutter poissards, armed with knives and blind hatred of the aristocracy. There is no plot here,’ he looks at me pointedly, ‘just a lot of women who don’t know their place.’
I’m so offended I am momentarily stunned. In answer, I reach into my pocket and unfurl the silken handkerchief given me by Lord Pole, with its spy-map of Versailles Palace.
‘There are armed sans-culottes defending the King’s small staircase in the east wing,’ I tell him sharply, pointing. ‘The mob took the Queen’s stair, on the west side. Did you once think that those two groups could not be in entirely different places by chance?’
He hesitates, looking confused.
‘You did not,’ I confirm, without waiting for a reply. ‘And as a military man you should have. I would have hoped, that even with French battle strategies, you would be aware of a fortified defence strategy,’ I add haughtily.
‘There are men at the King’s stair?’ asks Lafayette finally, and I can see his mind working, closing off possibilities to get Marie Antoinette out safely. ‘We were to go to the Queen’s apartment next,’ he admits. ‘Though God knows, we haven’t enough men …’ His voice drifts off. ‘The Queen doesn’t understand the seriousness of the situation,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘She has no notion of the danger she is in. Knowing Marie Antoinette she will insist on being fully dressed before she will even consider leaving her chamber, and by the time she realises the mob is at her door it will be too late.’
‘Why didn’t you secure the palace when the mob first broke through?’ I’m rather enjoying the failure of the smug general, though I know I shouldn’t.
‘I … I fell asleep,’ he admits, flushing.
I feel a littl
e sorry for him. He looks devastated and confused. I have to admit it is out of character for Lafayette. He is famed for sticking fast to his post while others sink from exhaustion.
‘There is a passage,’ I tell him, ‘connecting the Queen’s apartment to the King’s on the first floor.’
‘There is a way in through the Hall of Mirrors,’ says Lafayette. ‘Her Majesty would never deign to use it,’ he adds wearily. ‘It was something of the last King’s and she thinks it a vulgar practice. And it is treason to set foot there without Her Majesty’s permission.’
‘It is not treason for me,’ I say. ‘With your help, I can get inside the passage entrance and bring the Queen to safety.’
‘Mademoiselle, I admire your bravery,’ he says. ‘Those women are thirsty for blood. They will not spare you, even though you are a woman. Worse, they might mistake you for a companion of the Queen. Have you ever fired a pistol?’
Slowly I pull out my knife. I see his eyes grow large as the curved black blade emerges. ‘I am not an assured shot with a pistol,’ I say, ‘but find this serves me better.’
‘Sacré bleu.’ He leans forward. ‘A Mangbetu. There are stories in the Americas of a knife such as this. Legends. Where did you get this?’
‘A family heirloom.’
For a moment he appears to be scouring what he has heard of my chequered family history.
‘Part of my mother’s dowry,’ I fill in. ‘The other slaves worked together, passing it around, keeping it safe for her.’
He relaxes at the mention of a dowry. ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘I suppose savages might make dowries of such things. Well,’ he passes a hand through his hair, ‘I suppose you could point it forward and wave it around if someone comes at you.’
With effort, I make no reply.
‘There is another problem,’ continues Lafayette. ‘How do you propose getting in, if the stairways are blocked as you say?’
I swallow my pride. ‘I had hoped you might help me there.’
There’s a long pause. Lafayette rubs his chin thoughtfully.
‘Two staircases to His Majesty’s apartments,’ he says finally, ‘a grand one and a smaller back stair. If I sent men to the larger, it would draw away any troops defending that part. Give you time to get up without being seen. It would be a risk to the King if the mob turns,’ he adds. ‘I have precious few men as it is.’
‘How long do you imagine the Queen has until the mob breaks down her door?’ I ask.
‘Her Majesty’s apartment is defended by a guards’ room, then an antechamber where Her Majesty dines.’ Lafayette reels off his mental map without hesitation. ‘We must anticipate they are already inside the guards’ room. In which case, they must storm the antechamber, then get through the two thick doors beyond that. You should have time enough to get to the Hall of Mirrors,’ he concedes.
‘I can find it.’
Lafayette sighs, then appears to come to a decision.
‘I shall clear your path,’ he says. ‘Put what guard I have to securing the King’s apartments. If you succeed, bring Her Majesty to the Grand Chamber. I can defend the King and Queen there well enough for a time.’
His face clouds. ‘Even if you are successful, Mademoiselle Morgan, it would take a miracle to change the mood of the crowd. C’est la vie, I am ready to die at the feet of my King.’
‘How very French.’
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
LAFAYETTE’S MEN ARE POSITIONED AT THE GRAND STAIR, and Jemmy with them.
I ready myself for the back stair, and the troops follow their orders perfectly. They aim a volley of gunfire at the double doors separating the main staircase from the rest of the palace. Within moments there are shouts from the other side as the sans-culottes collect themselves for attack.
As I wait in hiding near the smaller staircase, I see men in striped breeches run past me shouting, ready to defend their brothers. After a moment the way is clear, though it cannot be long before the men realise their guard formation is broken and race to fill the breach.
I hurry up the wooden stair, broad despite it’s being the smaller of the two, and emerge on a long corridor at the top.
Lafayette has given me directions as to how to find the famous Hall of Mirrors and locate a secret door there.
In contrast to the thick crowds in the east wing, the emptiness is eerie, as though the mob had a natural aversion to the palace’s most important diplomatic areas. The usual battalion of cleaning maids, chimney sweeps, floor polishers and wick trimmers have fled. I run through chamber after chamber, flock-lined walls in deep hues. All around the empty corridors, though, is an unnatural booming sound. Drumbeats and chants, as though the great body of people are mobilising to something more organised.
As I near the heart of Versailles, there is evidence of a recent stampede. Guards lie dead, their bodies plundered for weapons. But the famous Hall of Mirrors is deserted.
For a moment, I barely recognise the wide corridor, robbed of its usual dancingly reflected courtiers, who crush in daily, hoping for the ear of the King.
I came here once, as a girl, with my father. I remember crowds so thick you could barely see the fine furnishing and gilded decorations. I put a hand on the cold glass, remembering how my father bent low to whisper to me in the throng of people.
Kings once built castles to show their power, Attica. Now they make wonders, to have us think them gods. Be not fooled.
I catch my own reflection, and hesitate, taking in the round-eyed girl in the glass. I hadn’t quite realised how English I look, dressed in London fashion, with Atherton’s patriotic cockade pinned to my dress.
Slowly, I wrap my fingers around the circle of ribbons, and tear it free. The black cockade flutters to the ground. As the dark fabric splays on the parquet, I sense another movement, deep in the darker spaces ahead. A familiar voice rings out from the crepuscular gloom.
‘Mademoiselle Morgan.’ The nasal tone strikes at some powerful fear, deep within me. I spin, knife in my hand in an instant.
There he is, Robespierre, pale as a spectre. He trains a small pistol in my direction.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
FOR A HALF-MOMENT, ROBESPIERRE AND I FACE ONE ANOTHER.
On instinct I throw my knife, aiming to disarm and knock the gun from his hand. Instead, the butt of my Mangbetu blade strikes glass, sending a long crack splintering out.
A mirror. Robespierre is only a reflection.
He appears again. This time further away, towards the back of the long hall.
‘You needn’t trouble yourself, Mademoiselle Morgan,’ he says. ‘I have spent a good deal of time in this hall, these past weeks. Since the fall of the Bastille, His Majesty has deigned to allow commoners to witness his exalted parade of wealth.’ He pauses, allowing himself a smile. ‘The King doesn’t actually speak with us, of course.’
He vanishes and reappears in the middle distance.
‘To amuse myself I devised a little system, deducing where I could be seen and not seen if I used the reflections against themselves. No one pays much attention to a strange little lawyer.’ He tilts his head slightly. ‘I should imagine you have the opposite problem,’ he decides, absorbing my height. ‘You are quite striking. Not really the best choice for a spy.’
His smile widens at my expression.
‘Ah, you think I could not deduce it, Mademoiselle Morgan? I know enough about you now to be wary. The Pimpernel does not choose defenceless companions. You are part of his league, are you not? I know he does not work alone.’
I bite my lip, wondering if he is baiting me to reveal my identity. Certainly he seems to be watching my face very closely, but in the reflection his glasses glitter strangely, hiding his pale eyes almost completely.
‘You certainly seem very at home in the shadows,’ I observe. ‘Do you not seek any glory for your carefully set plans?’
Robespierre turns on his heel and begins to walk, disappearing and reappearing in the line of mirrors. I watch
closely, looking for some kind of pattern that could reveal his whereabouts, but I can’t for the life of me work out how he has managed to use the mirrors in this way.
‘Glory is for men like Lafayette,’ he says. ‘He loses as many battles as he wins, and yet the people love him. I fear I should never enjoy such popularity. For I only like to win.’ He allows himself a small smile. ‘Yet brave Lafayette is strangely sleeping, leaving his King and Queen undefended. Most unlike him.’ Robespierre clicks his tongue in admonishment. ‘The long ride tired him out.’
In the corridor of glass, I still can’t work out where Robespierre is in the flesh.
‘Lafayette has woken up,’ I reply. ‘I suspect he has a stronger constitution than you counted on.’
Annoyance dances on his features. ‘No matter. It is too late. Marie Antoinette cannot survive this night.’
‘If she does, it will be you who saved her, monsieur,’ I tell him. ‘For you have told me how to get into her bedchamber.’
The first flicker of unease plays across his features, as though he is the victim of a joke he doesn’t yet understand.
‘Your strategy betrays you,’ I tell him. ‘I am certain you planned to be far away by now, removed from any possible blame. But then you remembered a weak point. Something you couldn’t entirely dismiss. A rumour about a passageway. And you could not help but guard the place most vulnerable to attack.’
He blinks fast and takes a few steps back.
‘You knew where to come, but not which mirror to protect,’ I tell him. ‘People raised in such homes know to look for where the run of skirting board does not match.’
My eye drops to the gold-painted carvings decorating the bottom part of the long hall. The workmanship is exquisite, with every join seamed so as to be invisible. Except for at the base of one large mirror.
I take a step towards it. Robespierre raises the pistol.
‘This is not your fight, mademoiselle,’ he says. ‘Go home.’
