Brothers in Arms (Jack Steel 3)

by Iain Gale

  ‘Let me see. Let me through. Get out of my way.’

  As Steel watched a horse broke into the clearing – a huge black hunter of perhaps fifteen hands, sweating and snorting in the morning air. The green-clad figures parted and bowed in deference. Its rider pulled up before the gory, cacophonous spectacle, and looked upon the scene with an expression which to Steel’s mind seemed to marry disgust with pleasure in equal measure. What made such a reaction all the more surprising and unnerving was that the newcomer was a woman.

  She was of small stature, with almost the figure of an adolescent girl, and she was breathtakingly beautiful, with an aquiline nose and Cupid’s bow lips. Her most remarkable feature, though, was her eyes, which were of a deep emerald green. Seeing the squealing, half-dead dog and the bleeding boar, she let out a gasp not of horror but of delight. ‘Oh how splendid nature can be when at her very cruellest.’

  The dog, still impaled upon the tusk, was squealing now in a madness of agony. The senior huntsman approached the woman: ‘My lady. Might we –’

  She brushed him away with her hand. ‘Not now, François. Can’t you see I’m watching?’

  ‘But Your Ladyship, the laws of nature and all humanity dictate that we must dispatch the beast, put it out of its misery. The boar too –’

  ‘Silence, man! I dictate what happens in my forest. Not nature, and most certainly not humanity. Don’t you dare challenge me. Next time I’ll have you horse-whipped.’

  The man was silent.

  It was then that for the first time she noticed Steel. ‘Who’s this? You there. Who are you, man? And what the devil are you doing on my land? Master Marin, who is this man?’

  The huntsman answered, ‘I do not know his name, milady, but he saved the life of young Hébert.’

  Steel bowed and attempted to look as officer-like as his filthy state would allow. ‘Captain Johnson, milady, of the Irish Brigade, in the service of King Louis. I travel on the King’s business, milady.’

  She frowned and looked at him long and hard. Steel felt the sharp green eyes searching deep into his soul, boring into his mind. He could feel, too, the sweat coursing down his back. It was as if she was deciding what to do with him, just as she might with any poacher or indeed quarry found in her forest.

  At length she spoke again, with a smile. ‘Well, Captain, if you are on the King’s business then you had better be about it. Your uniform vouches for your story. What regiment are you?’

  Steel, surprised at her interest, replied, ‘Clare’s, ma’am.’

  ‘Oh yes, poor Lord Clare. You knew him?’

  ‘Indeed, ma’am. A fine man. A damn shame that he should die in that way. Killed in cold blood – by a heathen.’

  She nodded. ‘I believe now that you are who you say you are, Captain. But you’d best be on your way. Thank you for saving my servant. Good men are so hard to come by these days.’

  Steel was not certain as to whether he had been correct in detecting the slightly salacious edge to her last comment, but her look of parting told him that he had not been wrong.

  As she turned and rode away to rejoin the gentlemen, Steel moved across to the head huntsman. ‘Where are we? And who the devil was that?’

  The man looked astonished and lowered his voice. ‘Why, this is the forest of Pontarmé, Captain. Biggest wild boar forest in the whole of northern France. And that was its owner. You really do not know who she is, sir? That was Her Grace the Marquise de Puy Fort Eguille. She is mistress of these lands and a good deal more.’

  Yes, thought Steel, as the man went at last to dispatch the wounded hound, I’ll warrant she does have a good deal more to offer. He wondered again why she had shown such an interest in his regiment, but put it down to some aristocratic connection. Seldom, though, had he seen such a display of sheer, sensual blood-lust in a woman.

  His horse, though panicked, had not bolted and it did not take long for Steel to get on the road. He had thought that a grateful hunting party might have provided him with a little breakfast at least, but had been disappointed and faced the prospect of little food before he reached Paris.

  At Senlis he crossed another river and shortly afterwards the road again opened up before him. Getting into his stride he urged the mare along and she cantered on the earth track leaving clouds of dust in her wake. Indeed so great was the dust that by the time he reached the village of Le Bourget early in the afternoon Steel’s red coat had taken on a distinctly pinkish hue. Warily the horse climbed the slope beyond the village and Steel found himself in a small hamlet, Montmartre, where a modest church crowned the hill in the midst of a village that clung to the slopes, the pantiled houses patch-worked with vines. The sight brought on a thirst, and he was looking for an inn when he caught sight of the view away to the south.

  Standing at the top of the rise and looking down into a lush valley, Steel saw the city of Paris spread before him in a jumble of spires and towers and shimmering rooftops, with smoke curling up from its countless chimneys. The snake of the river Seine curled through the centre supporting on an island the towering spires of the cathedral. He saw bridges cutting across the water, the huge mass of a palace surrounded by green gardens and the domes and bell-towers of a score of churches. It was a moment he had never pictured, that he should be looking down on the capital of France, the epicentre of the civilization against which he had spent his life at war. He did not hate the French as a race. He knew them to be capable of great things in art, music and letters. But on a field of battle there was nothing to do but hate the man who was trying to kill you. He wondered whether he might ever come to befriend a Frenchman and what his contact Charpentier might be like. But such musings distracted him from his purpose, so Steel began to make his way down into the valley. It occurred to him as he went that he was riding directly into the heart of danger. His journey might soon be at an end, but his mission had not yet begun.

  The city had no walls, testimony again to the beauty of Marlborough’s plan and to Louis’s vainglorious folly at considering his capital to be naturally impregnable without such a defence. The white-coated guardsman on the north gate gave Steel a desultory nod and took his dress at face value before waving him into the city. Steel did his best to recall Hawkins’s instructions. From the gate he was to proceed east as far as the rue Réamur and then take a line southeast. He left his horse at an inn with a stables in the rue du Temple of which he had been told by Hawkins. More than likely it would not, he had been assured, be needed for his escape. His fear of being discovered quite conquered by the sort of thirst that could only be born out of battle or days in the saddle, he ordered a beer. It came, brought with a smile by a buxom serving girl. The beer was golden yellow and topped with a head of white froth, and as he wiped the foam from his stubble and swallowed deliciously, Steel supposed that he did not look out of place among the low life that appeared to constitute his fellow patrons. Nervously using his Irish persona in a crowded room in which anyone might have been a fellow ‘countryman’, he had given the landlord enough money to keep the horse for a week, although he wondered whether he would ever see it again.

  Steel suspected, and Hawkins had confirmed, that it was best not to ride into a city such as this. It drew the wrong kind of attention and made you look as if you were not one of the natives, and that, Hawkins had told him, was vital. He knew that he must above all things look at ease. He knew the city would be tense after Marlborough’s victory and the army’s forays into northern France, and any foreign military gentleman in a red coat, albeit Irish, who looked lost or uneasy might arouse suspicion. The last thing that Steel wanted before he rendezvoused with his guide was an encounter with the town guard, however ineffectual they might be. He knew from past experience that such unexpected meetings generally became more troublesome than they might have seemed.

  Leaving the inn, he made his way through the north of the city on foot, sticking to the wider streets and being careful not to look passers-by in the eye. These, he thought, were
very different Frenchmen from those of the villages. There was something about them, a swagger and a confidence that let you know they were inhabitants of the place that boasted to be the greatest city on earth. It occurred to Steel that there might be no better way of blending in than to adopt a similar swaggering gait, and so it was that he made his way south along the rue du Temple into the Marais. In a short time he found himself at the river, the cathedral to his right, and thought for a moment how similar it was to London and the Thames, with its water-borne traffic and endless, frantic spectacle. He crossed the bridge to the island as he had been directed and found the quai de Bourbon without difficulty and the house at number 29 with its two imposing seven-foot-high painted and carved wooden doors. The Hôtel de Boisgelou had been built some seventy years earlier in the first flush of development of Louis’s reign and had clearly seen better times before the majority of the nobility had followed the King out to Versailles. Above the doorway a plaque stood empty of the coat of arms it had optimistically been intended for. Nevertheless the overall effect was still imposing. Steel knocked at the door and waited.

  The door was opened by a serving girl of about seventeen, a pretty lass, thought Steel, who, had he not been faithful to Henrietta, might have instantly engaged his affections. She blushed at the appearance of the handsome officer, his rugged, masculine beauty only accentuated by stubble and the filth of his journey, and, realizing his rank, made an attempt at a curtsey.

  Steel again tried his French. ‘Captain Johnson, to see your master, Monsieur de St Colombe.’

  Simpson had adopted the false name on taking up residence in Paris three years previously, and it had served him well. Steel was unsure which if any members of his household knew his true identity. The girl nodded and smiled sweetly but seemed unsure of what to do next. Before she could do anything, however, she was swept aside by a tall, thin man with a pock-marked face of sallow complexion and a sombre expression. He was dressed in a sober, dark grey coat and breeches, and the look he gave Steel could only be construed as deeply suspicious.

  He spoke, in a voice as lugubrious as his appearance. ‘Oui?’

  Again, Steel explained who he was. The man nodded and stood aside to admit him, before closing the door behind them. He beckoned Steel to follow, and as the maid hurried away below stairs they climbed a dark, narrow wooden staircase to the first-floor landing. The butler, for such was what Steel concluded he must be, knocked on the door facing them and was rewarded by a voice from within. Opening the door he ushered Steel in and announced him: ‘Le Capitain Johnson, monsieur.’

  Inside the room, before one of two leaded windows, stood a man. The light was growing dimmer by the moment and the man lit a candle at the mantelpiece. He was smaller in stature than either Steel or the servant and he had his back to them.

  When he turned Steel could see that he was smiling. ‘Captain Johnson. How delightful to see you again. Welcome to Paris.’

  The man turned to the servant. ‘Merci, Gabriel. Ça c’est bon.’

  The butler nodded respectfully, turned sharply, darted Steel an unctuous smile and left, closing the door behind him.

  The man spoke in a hushed tone and nodded slowly. ‘My dear captain, I am at your service, but here as elsewhere in this city it is best to address me as St Colombe.’

  Steel took in his surroundings. The room, like most in such private dwellings, smelled of the mutton fat used in tallow candles mixed with the scent of the dried lavender which lay around the skirting, ready to be swept daily across the boards. It was a modest house, less impressive inside than its entrance would suggest, and was furnished with just the degree of shabby opulence that one might expect from the type of educated, droll, slightly down-at-heel gentleman that Simpson pretended to be.

  ‘You must be tired after your journey. How long have you been in the saddle?’

  ‘Five days, if you count the coach before.’

  Simpson looked him up and down and sniffed. ‘Long enough for anyone. Now. For appearance’s sake to further your subterfuge, we are old friends and must clearly behave as such. It will be a pleasure to become closer acquainted with you, I’m sure.’ He smiled. ‘Oh, I do not expect a performance as we might see at Drury Lane, Captain, merely a little play-acting of the commonest sort. You know the thing. Brotherly affection. You may embrace me from time to time. A peck on the cheek as we do here in France would not go amiss. Appear to enjoy my company, even if you do not. Smile when you see me. Be courteous, affable and polite.’

  Steel shook his head. ‘Please, sir. I would appreciate it if you would not seek to teach me good manners. You may trust me to act accordingly.’

  ‘My dear captain, I merely seek to persuade you to lose the look and manner of the battlefield and the barracks as quickly, I hope, as you will soon lose their smell. Gabriel will draw you a bath. Please feel free to use as much of the pomade as you will.’

  Steel sighed and gritted his teeth at the insult.

  Simpson, seeing his annoyance, went on. ‘My apologies, Captain. I was merely attempting to ease you into my world. But I can see that you are already part of it. You will not be dismayed then if I tell you that this evening we are to attend a soirée – indeed, one of the events of the season, what is left of it with the King at Versailles and the Allies at our door. I am afraid that I have business to which I must attend. I shall meet you there. Gabriel has the address and will furnish you with directions. Be sure to take a carriage.’

  Steel’s patience was being sorely tried. Such details seemed trivial, and he was full of questions. ‘Yes, of course. But can I not know how I meet Major Charpentier? What about the Invalides?’

  ‘All in good time, Captain. You are to meet the major tomorrow at the hospital. I have no precise time, but he has assured me he will be waiting for you. You won’t have trouble finding it, believe me, although it is beyond the city proper, surrounded by fields. I’ll hire a boy to show you.’ He walked to the door and, taking his leave, made one final, waspish comment. ‘And my dear chap, if it’s not too much to ask, do make sure that you’re presentable. For a start you had better not wear those boots. They’ve a tear in them. You’ll find some stockings and shoes in my closet. Do try to take some care with your appearance. You really don’t know whom we might encounter.’

  SIX

  The evening was growing dark now. Outside the noise from the street had diminished, and with a heavy heart Steel realized that the time had come to leave the house. He took one last look in Simpson’s looking glass. He had spent a time going through Simpson’s wardrobe before he had found it: a gold brocade coat with a matching waistcoat and rich red velvet breeches. He had been forced too to abandon his comfortable bullet-torn jackboots in favour of stockings and buckled shoes. The waistcoat he wore unbuttoned to show off a fine Holland shirt. Most uncomfortable, though, was the full-length wig, which Simpson had told him was de rigueur in society. It was a ‘Duvillier’, his host had told him with pride, named after the famous French perruquier, and not only was it long, falling about his shoulders, but tall, rising above the crown of his head by some four inches. Made from real hair, it originated from a dozen of the city’s female paupers and prostitutes for whom it had bought another day free of starvation and a night away from the attention of love-hungry clients. Steel had tucked his own hair beneath its flowing locks and set it as straight as he could, but, weighing all of fifty ounces, it sat uneasily on a head unused to wearing such aberrations. The ensemble was topped off with a low-crowned black tricorn, festooned with gold lace.

  Gazing at himself in the looking glass of Simpson’s bedchamber Steel had laughed out loud. He looked, he surmised, quite the part: something of a cross between a Covent Garden Molly and a player. He was a veritable beau, a fop – the sort so well caricatured by the late Mr Farquhar in his last play. Steel had seen it with Henrietta while in London and chuckled now as he recalled the lines. His reflection now portrayed him as one of the sort who in London would have been gr
eeted in the street with cries of ‘French dog’, which in this case, thought Steel, was very apt. He wondered why, apart from his presumed prediliction for prettily dressed young men, Simpson had instructed him to go to such trouble and who it was, besides their hostess, they might be meeting. Nervous of venturing into the street in his new persona, he felt for his sword hilt and despaired. He had tried to wear the long Italian broadsword that he carried into battle but it had looked ridiculous with his new garb, and leaving it carefully in Simpson’s garde-robe he had chosen a small day sword with a thin rapier-like blade and a steel diamond hilt adorned with a long trailing sword knot of lilac and gold. This weapon had doubtless never been drawn in anger, and Steel guessed it would break as soon as it was used. Finally he had selected a cane with an amber-crowned head and a black ribbon, and made his way gingerly down the staircase to the hall.