Then voices echoed from below him, up the latrine shaft.
“He is a boy.”
“He is no younger than your king. Do not underestimate him.”
Christopher’s stomach dropped into his shoes. They were speaking in English, a language they must have thought would protect them from eavesdroppers, and talking about David. Worse, Christopher knew the second speaker because he would know that flat midwestern twang anywhere. George was meeting someone in a latrine in the palace of the French king.
That wasn’t suspicious at all.
Christopher hadn’t seen George in months. Though George spoke excellent French, he also spoke Italian, so he was supposed to be in Venice, trying to convince the Venetians to look to England, rather than France, as a primary trading partner. He certainly wasn’t supposed to be inside the palace of the French king. David hadn’t included him in this operation, though Christopher hadn’t considered that David might have a reason not to, until now.
“We have things well in hand,” George’s companion said.
George snorted, not sounding convinced. Christopher could picture him standing with his arms folded across his chest and looking down his nose at whoever he was talking to. George had no patience for fools, and he was incredibly sure of himself. He would not like his concerns dismissed. “How do you like the weapons I gave you?”
“We like them very much, monsieur. We appreciate your contributions, and the king thanks you for your loyalty.” Whoever was speaking switched briefly back to French.
George continued in English. “I didn’t do it out of the goodness of my heart, Flote. Do not mistake me or my intentions. I am not loyal to your king, as Nogaret well knows. I want my payment.”
“And you will get it. In time.”
“Tonight.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Tonight.”
Christopher couldn’t hear Flote sigh, but his tone implied he’d done so. “In the morning, we will move David and his family out of the city. Arthur will be separated as a hostage to your king’s good behavior. David will understand and accept the precedence. Then we will give the child to you.”
There was silence on George’s part. Christopher felt like throwing up.
Then George said, “He is not my king either, but that is acceptable. Tomorrow, then.”
The two men must have been standing right over the toilet initially, because, once they moved away, Christopher could hear nothing more than murmurs. Then those died away too. Christopher waited a long while, shaking in fear and rage, his fists clenching and unclenching, before finally deciding he had to move. If he didn’t, nobody would know what was happening, and then Arthur’s abduction would be partially on him.
He got a grip on his emotions, realizing as he unclenched his hands for the final time that he’d been squeezing them so hard he’d made sharp indents in his palms. Then he poked his nose out of the corridor and headed for the stairwell—down this time instead of up.
He hastened down one floor as quickly as he could without pounding down the steps. Every curve of the stairwell was a heart-thumping experience, since he feared at any moment that either Flote or George would be coming up it. They would have no reason to do so, perhaps, but he didn’t know where their rooms lay, or if they’d decided the latrine wasn’t a safe place to talk after all and wanted to reconvene on the battlement.
He’d just stepped into the corridor that would take him to the way out of the palace entirely, his eyes still transitioning from the darkness of the stairwell to the bright light coming from the torch that lit the hall, when he looked to his left and saw, a dozen yards away, a man walking towards him at a rapid clip. For a second, the man passed under another torch, and it illuminated his face. Christopher instantly turned the other way and, trying not to look like he was running, walked twenty rapid paces, turned down a second passage, found a door he could open, and went through it.
He pressed his back against the door, holding the latch and praying that George hadn’t recognized him—though the more he thought about it, the more he was sure he must have, even if he’d seen Christopher for a single second. It wasn’t as if Christopher was wearing a big, floppy hat.
Footsteps echoed in the passage outside, and it was only as he held his breath for the inevitable knock that Christopher awoke to the fact that he wasn’t alone in the room. The window was open, letting in the ambient light from outside, and it revealed a young woman sitting up in bed, her nightcap askew. At first glance, her expression was one of astonishment, which then transformed a moment later into fear.
Christopher put out both hands in an appeasing gesture and whispered in French. “I won’t hurt you! Please don’t be scared.”
Though, of course, how could she not be frightened by a strange man walking into her bedroom and shutting the door behind him? She bent her knees to her chest protectively, clutching her arms around them, and pulled the covers up to her neck. “Qui êtes-vous?” Who are you?
“Christophe.” He advanced towards the foot of the bed, his finger to his lips, desperate for her to speak quietly. “Please,” he said in French. “Don’t give me away.”
Her eyes widened, and he realized that by coming closer, he had scared her even more, and he saw how he could be perceived as threatening. He took several quick steps back, glancing around the room as he did so. A six-foot-tall wardrobe lay against the wall the door was on, and he put himself on the far side of it. At the very least, he was hidden from the immediate view of someone opening the door, and that would have to do until he could think of a better plan for getting away.
The open window remained an option, though it was narrow and they should be at least eight feet above the ground here. Like the latrine, this room was on the side of the building that had been built into the curtain wall and overlooked the Seine, part of Philippe’s building program that was transforming his castle into a palace. These rooms were in a newer section on the southern side of the Île de la Cité. David and his family had been taken to the upper floor of the newly renovated northern wing on the opposite side of the palace.
The girl looked at him, frowning, and then looked towards the door as finally George—it had to be George—knocked on it.
The other three doors along the corridor had been locked, which was why Christopher hadn’t gone through any of them, but George could open this one right now if he chose. Christopher certainly hadn’t locked the door behind him, since he didn’t have the key. He guessed the girl had forgotten to do it before she went to bed.
Christopher clasped his hands as if he were praying and shook them slightly towards the girl, mouthing s’il vous plait again.
Her chin was wrinkled up, but she had a determined set to her shoulders as she threw back the covers, walked to the door, and opened it.
“Oh.” The voice was unmistakably George’s, and his oh was as American as Christopher’s okay had been to John Jr. in the courtyard earlier. “Excuse me, perhaps I have the wrong room. I am looking for a young man who passed by here a moment ago.”
This was all said in French, of course. “I can’t help you, monsieur. You are the first to knock on my door this evening, and my father would not want me speaking to a strange man.”
“Pardon me.” There was a pause, indicating George was peering towards the bed, looking to see if Christopher was in it, or he could have bowed, though Christopher couldn’t see that either.
Regardless, the young woman shut the door a moment later and moved to stand in front of Christopher, her hands on her hips. “What is this about?”
Christopher’s response was to bend over, his hands on his knees. “Merci, mademoiselle. You may have saved my life.”
Chapter Thirteen
Day One
Bronwen
When nobody replied right away to Philippe’s comment, or his sudden appearance, he put his heels together bowed slightly at the waist, and added, “Bonsoir.”
“Hey,” David said.
/> They had been prepared for many things in this complicated plan of David’s to save France’s Jewish community, the Templars, Aquitaine, and maybe the world, but none of those plans had included the King of France himself emerging from within a secret passage in the wall inside their prison suite. Everybody else was staying remarkably calm, so Bronwen was too. But inside, hysterical laughter bubbled.
They’d actually known about the hidden corridors in the French palace—not because they’d been told about them by their spies but because of their knowledge of history. They’d planned to use them too, which was a large part of the reason they’d acquiesced so meekly to being incarcerated. It was convenient of Philippe to have saved them the trouble of having to find an entrance themselves.
Bronwen herself had a lot of pretty angry things to say to the King of France. The last couple of hours hadn’t exactly been a barrel of laughs, and she’d had to work very hard to keep her daughter, Catrin, who was perception incarnate, from turning into a hysterical mess. She was only six—seven in November—but many six-year-olds were a great deal smarter than adults gave them credit for. Although Bronwen and Ieuan had explained before the trip, as unemotionally and matter-of-factly as they could, what might happen, once it actually had happened, Catrin had developed a pinched look that told her mother she was worried.
But right now, with Philippe standing before them, potentially unbeknownst to his own advisers, wasn’t the time to chastise him for upsetting her daughter.
David stood a pace or two away, just studying the French king with an impassive expression and giving nothing away. David so rarely lost his temper it took Bronwen a moment to realize he was actually furious and trying not to let it show. She had a flashback to one of the few times she was allowed to watch television growing up: while babysitting at a neighbor’s house, she’d spent an evening watching reruns of The Incredible Hulk. The line had been Don’t make me angry. You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.
Maybe Philippe could sense it too, because he spread his hands wide and said, “I came as soon as I thought it was safe.” For once, the French king had the grace to look sheepish instead of haughty.
Then Lili smiled in that disarming way she had and said, “Come in, Philippe. Would you like some wine?”
“Yes!” Philippe sprang forward to take Lili’s hand and kiss the back of it.
Looking bemused now, which was far better than turning into a giant green monster, David himself strolled over to the table and poured wine into a goblet.
Philippe took a long gulp and then made a face. “I apologize for the quality. I prefer to drink wine from Templar wineries, but now that Brittany is at court, he insists we drink his.” He shuddered. “The worst of it will strip rust off iron.”
None of them replied to this digression, at which point, finally, Philippe, looking rueful, gave a bow that was far deeper than he’d probably ever bowed to anyone—if he ever had—and said, “I’m here to free you, and I apologize for the way you were treated in the hall. Nogaret, Flote, Mornay—” he shook his head, seemingly at a loss for words. Then he cleared his throat. “Suffice to say, they do not speak for me.”
It was a startling admission for any king, but especially for this one. Until coming to Earth Two, Bronwen had not understood, despite doing a deep dive into regency romances as a late teen, the way the upper classes separated themselves from those perceived to be lower than they. It wasn’t just that they were richer or better educated. They were better. A servant wasn’t a servant because of circumstance but because she deserved to be so. It was the job of those in the upper classes to take care of those beneath them—but only to a point. For someone not of noble birth to take a seat amongst lords and ladies in a drawing room, for example, was shocking, if not angering.
King Philippe believed himself not only to be of that upper class, but the noble of nobles, and his role in the universe to be sacred. He was the epitome of the divine right of kings, chosen by God to rule France (and as much other territory as he could take) and his representative on earth.
And still, here Philippe was, alone, without advisers or servants, apologizing to the King of England, whose nobility might not be in question anymore, but who definitely saw nothing wrong with chatting with a servant in the kitchen.
Philippe wet his lips. “How is it you appear entirely unsurprised to see me? I thought I was fooling everyone.”
“We were quite surprised to see you appearing out of our wall,” Bronwen said, “but from the start we considered the idea that your public and private actions might not align.”
“You really have David to thank for that,” Lili said. “Most of us weren’t predisposed to give you the benefit of the doubt.”
Philippe looked around at the companions’ faces, a genuinely bewildered expression on his own.
At which point, David took pity on him and answered with as close to the truth as was safe to say, “When you summoned me to do homage for Aquitaine, I thought it a very real possibility that you would keep my lands once I surrendered them.”
Philippe’s brow remained furrowed. “How could you possibly know I might do that? Truly, such an action is without precedent. No ruler would ever trust me again, which I myself told my advisers.”
“Once that possibility was on the table,” Ieuan said, without explaining how they’d known, “we began to think about all of the reasons you might do exactly that.”
“At which point, Dafydd suggested you might be acting under duress,” Lili added.
Philippe shook his head. “You can’t even imagine what it’s like to be so beholden to your own advisers that you are no longer your own man, can you?”
Bronwen knew David couldn’t, though he was still affecting a sympathetic expression. Even when he was fourteen years old, he’d had choices. Sometimes he’d been backed into a corner, and certainly his own advisers had betrayed him more than once, but he’d never been held hostage in his own castle. It was unthinkable.
Bronwen thought back to that initial meeting of all their friends, family, and companions—in short, everyone close to the throne David knew he could trust. It had been the day after John Balliol had taken his own life in his cell from a poison vial his wife had smuggled into the Tower of London.
Balliol would have been given a trial, but he’d known what faced him: more humiliation, a guilty verdict, and death.
That day, David had been on fire with ideas, the most outrageous of which cooler heads had talked him out of. But they’d immediately seen the merit in heading off future threats to his throne, including thwarting the designs of the French crown on Aquitaine. Steps to infiltrate Philippe’s palace were implemented immediately. Others of them, including David, had spent months in Aquitaine, getting to know the people there, commissioning troops, and rallying allies to his cause.
The MI-5 contingent, with others like Christopher and his friends roped in, had gone to serious work as a unit for the first time, recruiting spies, agents, and officers to Y Ddraig Goch.
For example, the court guardsman who’d taken Bronwen’s elbow when they’d been escorted from the great hall was the son of a Norman trooper whose family’s lands had been confiscated by King Philippe. The maid who’d been scrubbing the floor just a little way down from their room had lost both her parents to the Aragonese Crusade. Others, particularly those of a religious minority, not just Jews, had accepted David’s overtures out of fervent necessity.
And then there were the Templars, who’d joined David’s cause out of real concern for the excesses of the French court—and David’s warning, whispered to Grand Master Molay and nobody else, of what their future might hold. Molay had believed him, in part because of who David was, and in part because of what had been happening in Paris between the Templars and the French court already. For example, up until this spring, the king’s treasury had been held at the Paris Temple, but it had been recently moved to the Louvre. In Templar circles, the sudden loss of stature was seen as a real t
hreat to their continued wealth, power, and service in France.
In retrospect, perhaps the decision to move it had not been made by King Philippe.
All of a sudden, Bronwen was feeling remarkably more cheerful. They still had a plan. And, even if King Philippe didn’t know it, they had other ways out of the castle besides the one he was offering.
“Surely you have people in court you can trust?” David said.
“The captain of my guard died of the same fever that took the lives of my daughters. I was in mourning, so I left the appointment of his successor to Nogaret. In fact, I left far too much to him and to others. Now I am isolated in my own court.”
“I wouldn’t have said stealing Aquitaine and imprisoning us was the way to gain our trust,” Bronwen said, more than a little wryly.
Philippe continued to look at and speak directly to David. Every line of his body told of his sincerity. “At first, leaving so much to my advisers’ wisdom seemed to benefit everyone, but they have spent money beyond what we have, making decisions I don’t agree with that will affect the course of France’s future. Consequently, the debts have mounted, as I assume you know, and grow worse every day.” He snorted. “I shouldn’t be so restricted.”
He was still arrogant, Bronwen could give him that.
“What role does Aquitaine play in all this?” David asked.
“The addition of Aquitaine to my kingdom would eliminate my debt entirely. Everyone wants it.” He paused. “They believe I want it too, and this was done with my full cooperation. I have been very careful not to give them any thought that I am not completely in their thrall.”
David let out a breath. “You are afraid for your personal safety?”
“Not as long as I do what they want. Occasionally, I question what they tell me, just to keep them believing I am myself and have no thought to rebel. Then I allow myself to be persuaded. They think I am stupid.” He puffed out his lips and made a very French poof to indicate his disgust. “I allow myself to be treated like a child.”
Unbroken in Time Page 8
