“Why should there be?” He was less certain of this than he sounded, but kept his reservations to himself.
“The Guards and the Department of Public Safety know about you. You’ve been to see her. There’s a record of your visit. If she’s gone, the Guards will want to question you.”
“Then she mustn’t be the only prisoner freed, so that she and I are not singled out,” said da San-Germain, casting back over all the possibilities that had occupied his thoughts while he struggled to overcome the pain of his wounds. “We must take as many of the prisoners as we can, and set them moving away from Lyon by as many roads as possible, so that the Guards will have to spend days trying to hunt them all down. Madelaine will stay with us—not here, but near enough—through the coming performance, but then she, and you and I and Roger, must be on the road away from here. We can’t risk her recapture; the troupe would suffer for it.”
“So!” Feo exclaimed.
“And if we disable the carriages with the prisoners outside the city walls, the officials are more likely to suppose the troupe had nothing to do with it.”
“But, Conte, they might think that you did.”
“Why would they suspect that? I am known to be recovering from stab wounds and am only just out of bed. I haven’t been asking for information about the prisoners except when and how I might present a plea on Madelaine’s behalf before the Revolutionary Court.” Da San-Germain wiped his hands free of the last bit of ointment. “The only schedule for the prisoners I know is the one given to the troupe yesterday, the one that coordinates our parade with their transfer. Anything they might be expecting me to do would have to be based on what the troupe knows, since I’ve had no other notification.” Da San-Germain patted the mule’s neck.
“Are you certain that the troupe will stand by you?” Feo asked. “Madame is already saying the troupe may decide to remain here when we leave.”
“I will be more certain once you and I have prepared for tonight. Since we must improvise, let us keep our plans to ourselves. Only Roger should know of them.” It was not an answer and he knew it; he could not admit the doubts that had been burgeoning in him since Enee was taken to jail; Photine had been busy trying to get him released, and would let nothing interfere with her mission, no matter who might be damaged by her efforts. “It’s inconvenient to be so pressed, but that’s out of our hands.” He stepped back from the mule, turning his attention to the jenny on the other side of the stall.
“Are you planning to use any of these horses for our delivering tonight?”
“No,” da San-Germain replied. “Their absence would be noticed.”
“But you can’t go out and buy a dozen horses in the next two hours and expect no one will see the—”
“The horses are taken care of already.”
“You’ve had a ruse in mind all along.”
“Not all along, perhaps, but I have developed one in my mind during the last two days. I hope it will suffice.” Da San-Germain tapped the stiff brush against the side of the stall to be rid of the flakes of mud on it. “One that may work more effectively at night, provided the new schedule for the transfer holds. Roger has already set it in motion.”
“What does that do for the parade?” Feo asked a short while later as he finished picking out the hooves of the red-spotted mare who shared the stall with the liver sorrel.
“I don’t know, and that troubles me.” Da San-Germain’s wounds were aching; he moved away from the jenny he had started brushing in order to stretch, easing his muscles. “The Department of Public Safety may postpone it, or they may want it as a distraction, as we’ve supposed from the start.”
“So what do we do?”
The question hovered like a mote in the air; da San-Germain took more than a minute to form his response. “You and I and Roger will have to take Madelaine tonight; if we can discover it, we’ll want to know which coach she’s in—they’re still planning to use coaches, aren’t they?—and what route they will take. The route is more important than the coach.”
“The three of us? Not the poet?”
“No,” said da San-Germain, picking up the shears to clip the mule’s mane. “He has other things on his mind.”
Feo did his best not to laugh. “Just as well; he talks too much for safety,” he said, and took the soft face-brush to use on the mare’s head. “Are you still going to bring your kinswoman to the troupe to conceal her?”
“No. I had thought it might be feasible, but clearly it’s not. It would be too dangerous for all of us.” After a brief silence, he looked over at Feo. “What time are they planning to start the move?”
“The Guard said they’d leave the old monastery around eleven. That would bring them into the city before two of the clock.”
“Then we’ll need to be gone from here by nine.” He flexed his hands and felt a sharpening ache in his shoulder. “What more have you learned?”
“Three reinforced coaches with three armed coachmen and postilions, twenty-two prisoners, and an escort of ten riders: three in front, three behind, and two between the coaches. The Guard thought they should have more.” Feo looked up from his grooming. “Three of us against ten riders and three postilions. Not very good odds.”
Da San-Germain was pleased to know the escort was minimal. “Better ten than fifteen riders and six postilions. I want you to go to the Guards’ headquarters. Do not be obvious. Have an excuse for your presence—perhaps say you have a nephew who wants to join and needs to know how to apply, or that you would like to find out the condition of the road between here and Nevers, or that you’re looking for a dependable harness-maker. Those are questions anyone might ask the Guards.”
Feo nodded with excitement. “I will do it. I will be back before nine tonight, if that will lend you enough time to complete your plans.”
“There is work to do yet, but we should be able to accomplish it handily. Roger has found the place where we can waylay the coaches, and will take us there.” He hoped he would not be worn down by pain before they had Madelaine safe. “I trust they will go on the Saone Road as far as the Saone River Gate.”
“I reckon that’s their plan. The other roads would require at least an hour more to traverse, and none of the Guards wants to be outside the city at night.” Feo took flint-and-steel from his waistcoat pocket and went to light the lantern hanging from a nail on the nearest pillar.
Da San-Germain stopped him. “Leave it dark. The grooms will have finished their supper and we should be gone from here before they return.”
“Why? Don’t you want them to be able to say we were here?”
“They know that; they saw us come out to tend to the horses while they were crossing the stable-yard from the stage,” said da San-Germain. “Let them assume what they will.”
“If you insist,” said Feo, returning the flint-and-steel to his pocket. “We’ve finished the grooming. The ostlers will see that.”
“Then let’s return to the inn. The troupe should have completed their meeting and will be sitting down to supper shortly.” He stretched again, wincing a little at the pain this caused. “If you’ll tell them I’ve gone up to bed, I would be grateful.”
“Should I tell them I’ll be at the Guards’ tavern?” Feo ventured.
“If that seems sensible, yes; otherwise tell them nothing.” Da San-Germain let himself out of the mules’ stall, and shot the brace, taking care to set the latch so that the mules could not reach it; he picked up his cane and started toward the door.
Feo came out of the horses’ stall, and shoved the brace into position, flipping the latch to hold it in place. “I’ll be back a little before nine. Where should I meet you?” He fell in beside da San-Germain.
“Roger and I will be at the side-gate, the one facing the alley. We’ll have to go on foot to the old Saone Road Gate, and we don’t want to be noticed, or stopped. I’ll bring a cloak for you, one that none of the troupe has seen.”
“But if they don’t see u
s go, why—?”
“Because if our descriptions are given, our garments mustn’t be familiar; that would excite more suspicions than if the stopping of the coaches appears to be the work of mercenaries,” said da San-Germain, and held the stable-door open for Feo. “It would have been easier had we been able to keep to the plan with the troupe.”
Feo scowled. “The actors agreed to the risks at the beginning.”
“When we believed that the farthest we would have to go was Avignon. We have mountains to cross and bad weather coming. Circumstances have changed.”
“They knew that was a possibility, and they consented,” Feo said, stamping one foot for emphasis. “They must be ready to keep to our purpose.”
“Not if they aren’t reliable, or if it puts them in greater danger than they already are.” Da San-Germain worked to swing his leg without any sign of discomfort.
“You’re walking better,” Feo observed as they set the brace on the door and went across the stable-yard.
“Not well enough to be rid of this cane,” da San-Germain said, his face set in lines of dissatisfaction.
A scullion was busy scrubbing a large pot outside the kitchen door; he looked up as da San-Germain and Feo went past him and through the servants’ door.
“Will he be a problem?” Feo asked, cocking his head in the direction of the scullion.
“I doubt it,” said da San-Germain, steadying himself for the climb up the narrow, steep stairs. “Learn what you can and be ready to go at nine.”
“I will,” said Feo, remaining at the foot of the stairs. “Rest well, Ragoczy.”
“Thank you; it is my intention.” He offered Feo a hint of a bow, then continued up to his room as quickly as his aching hip would allow, where he found that Roger had laid out garments for their night escapade, with an English four-caped driving-cloak atop the garments, concealing them from curious eyes. The Russian tunic and wide pantaloons made interesting lumps under the cloak, but could not easily be recognized by the odd shapes they presented. Smiling, da San-Germain saw the small table by the window set with a plate, a knife, and a fork; Roger would return shortly with his supper. Sighing, da San-Germain removed his paddock boots and lay down on the thin mattress spread out on one of his chests; this one contained not clothes, but his native earth. He settled himself, his arms at his sides, his legs together, letting the annealing presence of his native earth work to restore him while he sank into the stupor that was his version of sleep.
The room was dark when he awoke, with only a single candle to relieve the gloom. He sat up slowly, feeling renewed strength in his body, though the wounds still hurt.
“It is eight of the clock, my master,” said Roger in Byzantine Greek from the far side of the room.
“Time to be up. We have just under an hour,” da San-Germain said in the same language as he got down from the chest, then turned to roll up the mattress, securing it with two lengths of rope when he was done.
“I’ll put that away for you,” said Roger, coming to take it from him.
“Then take what I’m wearing, would you? The shirt is in need of washing, don’t you think?” da San-Germain asked as he unfastened the buttons of his coat and let it drop to the floor. “The coat wants brushing.”
“As well as the unmentionables and the waistcoat,” Roger agreed, picking up the coat and holding out his hand for the rest of the clothes.
Before he put on the Russian apparel, da San-Germain checked his nine bandages, and found them to be securely in place. “When we come back tonight, I’d like to bathe. It will be very late, and that may cause difficulties.”
Roger understood his meaning. “Some of the servants will know of it, and that could be reported if there are questions asked here.”
“Can you arrange now for a bath to be brought up at dawn?” da San-Germain asked. “You can say that is so my wounds can be properly cleaned and treated, which is near the truth.” He pulled the cincture at the waist, then slipped two franciscas into place at the small of his back; the little throwing-knives lay comfortably there.
“It would be better if I went down when the cook begins his day, so I can say you didn’t sleep well,” said Roger as he watched da San-Germain tie the dark-red pantaloons’ drawstring before he donned the black tunic with the standing collar and embroidered cuffs. “The boots are in the armoire.”
“Excellent.” Low light did not interfere with his sight; da San-Germain gave Roger a quick scrutiny. “Dull-gray. A good color for going about at night.”
“So I thought,” said Roger. He wore a workman’s smock over old-fashioned trews; he was shod with Polish shearling boots.
“Do you have somewhere in the chest a cloak that would do for Feo? Everyone in the troupe can describe his coachman’s cloak.”
“There’s a Bohemian sleeved cape that should fit him; you know the one? It’s dull-green,” said Roger after a brief reflection.
“And hats?”
“I’ll put on the Polish hat once we’re beyond the walls; I’ll have yours as well: the Russian one with the ermine crown. I can find something for Feo.”
“The horses are ready?”
“They will be; the posting inn has been informed of our coming: I attended to that during the afternoon,” said Roger, dismissing the gesture of thanks da San-Germain offered with a turn of his hand. “It should take half an hour to reach the posting inn. The old road is narrow, but lightly traveled, and those both suit our purpose.”
“Very good.” He found the boots, with leggings rolled up in them; sitting on the edge of the bed, he pulled them on. “Is the troupe up?”
“They’re in the rear parlor.”
“Still discussing whether to remain here or not?” da San-Germain inquired, his fine brows raised incredulously.
“No. Heurer has written some new lines that Photine is eager to try out.” He tossed da San-Germain his cloak.
“More changes for the performance, I suppose?”
“No; this is something new, for Collot d’Herbois.”
“Ah,” said da San-Germain. “Then the troupe is planning to remain here.” He realized his hold on them was over and that he could not depend upon them any longer.
“Heurer is, and so long as Enee is in jail, Photine is as well; I don’t know about the rest.”
“Those who have reservations may want to follow us back to Padova,” said da San-Germain, and returned to more pressing matters. “We can go out the kitchen door. The scullions should be at their supper.”
“The cook is in the taproom, cutting slabs off the roasted pig, so we’re not likely to be noticed.” Roger nodded.
“Or so we trust,” said da San-Germain, a faint, mordant smile curving his lips.
“How long will it take you to get down the stairs?”
This was a crucial problem, and da San-Germain weighed his reply carefully. “If I don’t use the cane, perhaps three minutes: with the cane, two.”
“Then we should start down in ten minutes.”
“I concur,” said da San-Germain.
“What of Feo?” Roger asked a few minutes later.
“He’ll be at the side-gate. Is it open, do you know?”
Roger patted his pocket. “I have the key, and I oiled the hinges while you were asleep, after I’d been to the posting inn.”
“Provident as always,” da San-Germain said. “Is there anything else you have anticipated that I have not?”
“I have sacking to wrap our boots if we need to be silent,” said Roger, his faded-blue eyes revealing little of the satisfaction he felt. “And I have lengths of cord, to tie up the Guards.”
“My apologies, old friend,” said da San-Germain. “I have been inexcusably lax. You have thought of everything.”
“As you would have done, had you not been injured. I will neaten the room,” he declared, and went to gather up the bones from the rabbit that had served as his supper and piled them neatly on the tray that the serving girl had brought up
while da San-Germain had been resting. He said nothing more until da San-Germain glanced at the clock on the mantel.
“Time to be gone,” he said, getting to his feet and setting his cane aside.
Roger picked up a small bag that bulged. “You will bring your English cloak?”
“Certainly.” He took it from the end of the bed and hung it over his arm. “I assume you have the pistols in there?”
“Yes; they’re charged and ready. There’s also a duck’s-foot. It’s old-fashioned but it serves its purpose. The six barrels are all ready.”
“Very good,” da San-Germain approved as they went out into the hall; he looked in both directions and was glad that he saw no one. “Let us go down.” He began to ease himself down the stairs. “Remember to speak with a German accent when we stop the coaches. The Guards will take note of it when they make their report.”
“Of course,” said Roger. “What of Feo?”
“His accent is enough as it is,” da San-Germain said, and went down another step.
There was a good deal of noise from the taproom that covered the sound of their descent. As they reached the lower hall, Roger went ahead of da San-Germain, making a swift surveillance of the kitchen, then, satisfied that the room was empty, motioning to da San-Germain to follow. They went through the kitchen rapidly, without incident, and into the kitchen-yard, where they kept to the shadows to avoid attracting any attention while they took stock of their situation. The stable-yard appeared to be vast as the Piazza San Pietro in Roma, and as exposed; they stopped again to determine how best to cross it.
“There’re two ostlers by the main gate,” da San-Germain whispered. “We’ll have to go along the wall. It will take a little longer, but it will be safe.”
Roger peered into the darkness, and was able to make out the two ostlers who kept their post by the main gate, smoking their pipes and engaging in a desultory conversation. “Should we put on our cloaks?”
“I think so,” said da San-Germain, and pulled his around his shoulders; the deep-brown wool served to conceal him where he stood in the shadows.
Commedia della Morte Page 35
