The slaves seemed to be spent, their shoulders slumped and faces relaxed into an expression of contentment. Whatever this was had to be coming to an end, and it was time for Max to make himself scarce. He returned the way he had come, pondering what he had seen. Of course, it had been Voodoo, and the chicken had been a blood sacrifice. What it was meant to achieve, he had no idea, but he was certain that Johansson’s illness wasn’t random. Had they cursed him in some way, or was there a simpler explanation for his gastric attacks, which according to John happened about once a month?
Max returned to the hut undetected, lowered himself to his pallet, and closed his eyes. Suddenly, he felt a poignant wave of envy toward the slaves. They were in captivity, at the mercy of their masters, and without any control over their lives, but at least they had each other. They had the sense of belonging and family, as well as their religion for comfort. Max had felt a sense of belonging when he’d been at school, but he’d never had a close family or any connection to the religion he’d been brought up in. He’d gone through the motions, just like his parents, showing his face at St. Nicolas’s Church on holidays, and for funerals and weddings. He’d never felt the slightest connection to God or the teachings of the Bible, and now he was completely alone, a man without anything to tether him to this world save his desire to stay alive.
Max wiped away a bitter tear as it slid down his stubbly cheek. He longed to go back to feeling numb, but he couldn’t find a way to return to that mindless state of being. He was feeling so much yearning, loneliness, hopelessness, and regret, but most of all, he felt a desire for revenge against the only person he could think to blame — Hugo Bloody Everly.
March 1686
Paris, France
Chapter 16
The summons to see the Marquis de Chartres came two weeks later, after Hugo had nearly given up on the idea of getting close enough to the man to present his case. Hugo had gone fishing when he’d written to de Chartres, but caught nothing, or so he thought. He would have requested an audience with the king, but would without question be denied. Louis XIV was a man who was careful of his reputation and fond of compliments and adulation. He was a fine statesman, and a monarch who would never knowingly put himself in a situation that might be misinterpreted by others. To meet with a man who’d been accused of plotting against a fellow Catholic monarch would be seen as an act of betrayal, and Louis would find it wise to distance himself from anything that might tarnish his glowing image.
Marquis de Chartres, however, was not as high-handed as his master. He was Louis’s spy-master, and at times, judge, jury, and executioner. He met with members of the lowest orders of society, and believed that he couldn’t carry out his job properly without getting his hands not only dirty, but absolutely filthy. He was a man who despised the phony patina of respectability and believed that people, women included, would be truer to themselves if they embraced their baser urges more openly and stopped suppressing that which came naturally, such as greed, lust, and ruthless ambition.
Few people knew of de Chartres’s true purpose since he operated in the shadows, appearing the idle and consummate courtier in public, but Hugo had been privy to his true occupation through his own association with the Duke of Monmouth who feared de Chartres’s influence on Louis XIV, and therefore, France’s possible involvement should Monmouth’s rebellion succeed and oust a Catholic monarch. Monmouth was long dead, but his concerns about de Chartres were fresh in Hugo’s mind since he needed to use what he knew of the man to further his own cause.
The note from de Chartres was delivered by a young man who wasn’t wearing any kind of livery or insignia. He looked like a pickpocket, not the representative of a man who ran countless spies in every country of Europe and beyond, or perhaps he looked precisely just as the representative of such a man should. He was inconspicuous, easily lost in a crowd, and completely forgettable; in other words, the perfect choice of messenger. Hugo was to accompany the man to an unspecified location the following day. He was to come alone and unarmed.
The man came to collect Hugo close to five p.m., patted him down to make sure he wasn’t carrying any concealed weapons, and wordlessly led him in the general direction of Louvre Palace. Hugo expected to meet with de Chartres at the palace, but his messenger made several turns and continued walking for a good half-hour before leading Hugo into a street he’d never visited before. The houses here weren’t as grand as those closer to the palace, and the general atmosphere was one of genteel shabbiness. Grubby children played in the street, and harried women rushed past in an effort to get home in time to cook their family’s supper. They passed several taverns which were doing a brisk business, catering to men who were on their way home from work and stopped off at their local establishment to have a drink before going home for the night.
The messenger didn’t bother to make any small talk or learn anything that might be helpful to his master as he led Hugo to a small tavern in an alley that branched off the wider street they’d been following for some time. The tavern was small and cozy, a welcoming glow from the fire and numerous candles lighting the taproom, which was already filled with patrons who were drinking and talking loudly. A few men smelled of the river and held their tankards in calloused hands, giving away their occupation as ferrymen or fishermen. A few others were covered in fine dust, likely masons or builders. There was not a gentleman in sight, and no courtier would be found here unless he wished to have his pocket picked or his throat slit, after he drunkenly made his exit into the night and found himself in a neighborhood filled with pickpockets and thieves.
Appetizing smells drifted from the back, the aroma of roasted duck prevalent among the smell of vegetables, freshly baked bread, and something sweet that reminded Hugo of the smell of stewed black currant. The messenger motioned him toward the staircase, but didn’t follow as Hugo ascended the dimly lit steps. A door to a private room was slightly ajar, so Hugo poked his head in to make sure he was in the right place. The Marquis de Chartres sat at a table, a flagon of wine before him and a merry fire burning in the grate. The windows were shuttered against the slowly settling dusk of the March evening, and a leather-bound book lay open but seemingly forgotten next to the wine.
“Ah, do come in, Monsieur Everly,” de Chartres invited, purposely not using Hugo’s title. He was making a point, which wasn’t lost on Hugo. “Please, join me in some wine. This is my favorite vintage; a Pinot Noir from a vintner in Burgundy. The man is an absolute imbecile, but his wine is beyond compare, so I forgive him his idiocy.”
Hugo accepted a cup of wine and took a sip. The wine was good, but nothing special. Perhaps de Chartres was testing him. Hugo gave a nod of appreciation and set down his cup. He’d met de Chartres once many years ago at the Court of Charles II, but time had taken its toll. The man had to be in his fifties now, but he looked more like a man who was at least a decade older. His shoulders were stooped, and his skin waxy above the unrelieved black of his suit. His graying beard was pointy and sparse, his eyebrows bushy above shifty dark eyes, which probably missed nothing. He was much thinner than the last time they’d met, almost cadaverous, but Hugo was certain that de Chartres was one of those men who wouldn’t die until he decided to do so. Death had nothing on men like him.
“Thank you for seeing me,” he said by way of opening. The rest was really up to de Chartres.
“I must admit that I was intrigued by your letter. You implied much, but divulged little,” de Chartres said. His eyes never left Hugo’s face, which was to be expected. He was searching for any sign of weakness he might exploit, but Hugo was giving nothing away, not yet, not until the time was right.
“I’m well aware of the folly of setting incriminating information on paper,” Hugo replied smoothly. He wasn’t in the best situation, but hopefully did not belong to the same category as the imbecile winemaker.
“Of course, you would be, or we’d know more about your activities. How may I be of service to you, and why do you assume I�
�d be willing to render assistance?” de Chartres asked as he took a small sip of wine.
Straight to the point, as expected. Hugo had no choice but to tell de Chartres the truth, or a version of the truth he’d edited in his mind to gain the man’s interest, but not allow too deep of a glimpse inside his soul. Hugo spoke of his faith, his commitment to His Majesty James II, and the unexpected arrest of Max Everly, which led to his present difficulty. Marquis de Chartres had to understand exactly where Hugo stood, and why.
The older man nodded as he listened, but didn’t interrupt until Hugo finished his narrative. Hugo had made the opening move; now it was time for de Chartres to make his.
“I understand what you desire from me, monsieur, but I’m not certain that I comprehend what it is you’re willing to offer in return. I’m sure you’re intelligent enough to understand that anything that happens here will be a business transaction, not an act of kindness or a granting of a favor. I have no reason to help you whatsoever.”
“Nor should you, but you are a man whose currency is information, and I have information which might come as a surprise to someone even as well informed as yourself,” Hugo countered, inwardly taking a deep breath. Once he shared what he knew with de Chartres, there’d be no going back.
“Do go on,” de Chartres replied. “Despite your reasons and oaths to the contrary, you committed treason against your sovereign; a transgression that will not be easily overlooked by a Catholic king, and a cousin of the man you plotted against. I would need to present something quite extraordinary to His Majesty for him to consider inviting you to his Court.”
“I have it on good authority that James II will not sit on the throne of England for much longer. Once he has a son, which he will, a Catholic succession will be assured. The Protestant bishops will invite William, the Prince of Orange, to depose James and take the throne, restoring a Protestant monarchy once and for all.”
Hugo paused for a moment to see whether he had de Chartres’s undivided attention. The older man was regarding him with those shrewd eyes, no doubt testing Hugo’s theory for flaws. Of course, Hugo could hardly tell him that James would have a son in two years and that William would take the throne in November of 1688, but it was within the realm of possibility, so couldn’t be discounted. De Chartres had taken the bait.
“Now, considering the bitter hatred William of Orange bears toward your sovereign,” Hugo continued, “who invaded his homeland only three years ago and murdered countless Protestants, I would think that any foothold Luis could find in the Court of William would be worth seizing.”
“And what, in your estimation, will happen to James?” de Chartres asked, his face impassive.
“James II will eventually flee to France and seek assistance from your king, who will grant it. He will not, however, assist James in any attempt to recapture the throne. Once James is deposed, the face of European politics will change once again, and Louis XIV will no longer have a fellow Catholic on the throne of England, a development which will have important consequences for France.”
De Chartres listened carefully, then gave Hugo a wolfish smile. “Sir, unless you are a warlock and can see into the future, your charming little fable is nothing more than conjecture. It’s utterly worthless.”
“Is it?” Hugo replied, undaunted. “I have no doubt that your spies in England are keeping you well abreast of the undercurrents and discontent of the Protestant population. Is my little fable really so far-fetched? You might dispute the validity of my information, but there will be a son, and what will follow is not so difficult to imagine.”
“How do you know this?” de Chartres asked carefully.
“I know a woman who has the Sight. She’s proved herself to be infallible.”
“And who is this woman, monsieur?” de Chartres asked, his eyes lighting up with an unholy fire.
“Alas, I cannot reveal her identity,” Hugo replied, meeting the Marquis’s gaze head on.
“Because you fear that I will have the Church examine her for signs of witchcraft?”
“Exactly so,” Hugo said. “She’s a gifted Seer who has not made a covenant with the Devil. She’s a pious Christian who keeps her great gift a secret for fear of persecution.”
“Hmm, it would seem that your great Seer might have warned you of the outcome of Monmouth’s rebellion,” Chartres said, his eyes twinkling with humor.
“She had. She told me exactly what would happen and when, which is precisely how I was able to avoid capture and execution. I’m the only known associate of the Duke of Monmouth who hasn’t been arrested,” Hugo countered.
“There are some who’d disagree. Lord Hugo Everly has been sent down to the West Indies as an indentured servant, or so I hear,” de Chartres taunted him. “I wonder how long he’ll last before being sent back to England in a pine box. Or perhaps they’ll just bury him with all the other dead slaves, leaving him exiled from his homeland for all eternity.”
“If you truly believed that to be the case I wouldn’t be sitting here,” Hugo replied. “You know full well that I am the real Hugo Everly and not the man who’s serving an unjust sentence for a crime he didn’t commit.”
“Yes, you are correct; I remember you, although you were hardly more than a boy when we first met,” the marquis mused. “I will share something with you if I may. I would dismiss your predictions as the ravings of a madman, but I have heard corresponding reports coming out of England. Of course, my sources are not trying to dazzle me with the visions of a Seer, but the unrest you speak of is real, so it’s not too difficult to imagine that what you are predicting might actually take place. However, your information is not enough to buy you recognition from His Majesty,” de Chartres said carefully, watching Hugo like a cat about to devour the canary it had been toying with. Hugo wasn’t surprised; he’d been expecting this, and had made his decision long before he wrote the letter. The information about the Glorious Revolution was just a juicy tidbit, nothing more. It wouldn’t get him what he wanted, but what de Chartres was about to ask of him would.
“Once you return to England and present yourself at the Court of the new Protestant monarch, you will be welcomed as a hero, a man who’d risked his life to put a Protestant back on the throne, but I’m sure you know that already. You will be in an enviable position, milord, a position which might even make it possible for you to be invited to sit on the Privy Council, an invitation I’m sure you’d happily accept. Were you an agent of France, you would be a most valuable commodity to His Majesty; an asset he would be willing to support and entertain at Court.”
“You want me to be your spy,” Hugo stated unnecessarily, still astounded by the harsh sound of the word despite knowing exactly what would be offered when he came to see de Chartres.
“Of course, as you well knew when you wrote to me. Do you accept, Lord Everly?” he asked, pronouncing the title with emphasis.
“I think an agent of the French Crown might need monetary compensation to finance his entrance into society in a manner befitting a nobleman,” Hugo countered. He was going to lose this chess game, but he wanted to make sure he took down as many pieces as he could before surrendering his king. It wasn’t about who won or lost, it was how you played the game, and ultimately, Hugo had no intention of pledging his loyalty to Louis of France. His acquiescence was nothing more than a misdirection, but one de Chartres couldn’t be aware of until the right time.
“I believe a stipend could be arranged to promote your smooth entrance into His Majesty’s orbit.”
“A generous stipend,” Hugo replied, taking a sip of his wine and leaning back in his chair.
“Generous enough to quiet any misgivings you might have about redirecting your allegiance to someone who will actually appreciate it.”
Hugo rose to his feet and bowed to the Marquis de Chartres, eager to take his leave.
“You will be hearing from me shortly, milord,” de Chartres said in parting as he poured himself more wine. “Au revoir.�
��
Hugo let himself out of the room and descended the stairs. The dining room was nearly full, patrons enjoying the roast duck and the wine that flowed freely as conversation buzzed all around him. The noise and the overpowering smell of unwashed bodies and overcooked duck made Hugo long for the cool air of the spring evening. He pushed his way through the throng and left the tavern, walking toward the Siene where he strolled along the riverbank, oblivious to the stiff breeze that blew off the water and the breathtaking palette of color that was the sky at sunset. He needed time to think before he returned home.
The meeting had gone much as he planned, with de Chartres pledging to Hugo what he needed now in exchange for what Louis would need later, but although Hugo knew the truth of his own intentions, he felt a hollowness deep inside, filling the space where his honor once resided. He might remain true to himself, but there would be those who’d see him as a traitor once again, and try to exploit his vulnerable position when he returned home. He had a few years to plan his strategy, but there would come a time when he’d be walking a fine line between patriotism and treason, and this time, Neve would not be able to save him from destruction since she would have no prior knowledge. What he’d initiated hadn’t happened yet, so there would be no warning and no escape.
March 1686
Barbados, West Indies
Chapter 17
Erik Johansson seemed to recover from his bout of indisposition after a few days, but Max was now less inclined to ridicule John’s assertion that the Negro slaves had done something to get him out of the way at the full moon. Perhaps they weren’t as downtrodden and helpless as Max first took them to be. He had to admit that he had a new respect for the people who lived in such close proximity to him. He’d just dismissed them as being victims of circumstance, but was glad to see that they had a few tricks up their sleeve. However, Max had grown wary of Dido. Before, he’d just thought of her as a beautiful woman who’d been dealt a terrible hand by fate, but now he wasn’t so sure. Seeing her as she had been at the ceremony by the fire, he wondered what exactly she’d been up to, and if her channeling of whatever spirit she claimed to was in any way helpful to her situation. She certainly held a position of respect among the other slaves, as did the priest who’d offered the blood sacrifice.
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