An Unwilling Spy

by Janis Linford

  ‘Do you have any better ideas?’

  She didn’t but still — ‘Won’t the town gates be closed by now?’

  ‘Probably. But hopefully something else will turn up along the way.’

  His reassurance steadied her but the plan didn’t sound a good one. Yet they had no alternative. They couldn’t remain here.

  Finch led them over to the wall, oddly clutching his side. He had appeared whole and sound in the cell but she hadn’t examined him closely. The punch he’d received in the commandant’s office must have done some real damage.

  The wall stood over fifteen feet high. Solid, impregnable, it formed an imposing barrier designed to keep attacking armies out. But it also kept people trapped inside.

  They hurried as much as possible, deviating through laneways smelly with dog refuse and rubbish. At times they needed to skirt a building on the boundary and twice they had to double back to avoid guards on top of the wall.

  The low murmurs of men talking made them stop at a corner. Finch peeked around the corner then drew back with a hard frown. ‘Ten guards are patrolling the gates under Blancot’s command. Even with a distraction, we wouldn’t manage to get across that bridge. It would be instant death to try.’

  Instant death. Reminded of his lesson long ago, she shuddered. How much had happened in that time. And how much rode on what they did next.

  Finch tugged on his beard and scanned the layout of the bridge and the surrounding streets. ‘We’ll have to go over the wall.’

  ‘It’s too high. We’d never be able to climb it.’

  ‘We could if we used a ladder.’

  ‘We don’t have a ladder.’ Exasperation tinged her voice.

  ‘I think we do.’ He pointed down a street that ran at right-angles to the one they were in. A large cart leaned up against the outer wall, the shafts pointing towards the top. ‘We could climb that and jump into the water … or find a boat.’

  He would struggle to swim with his injury and they’d be lucky to get a boat. But they couldn’t hide in Bourbourg. With Blancot’s men searching every house they’d be found and the soldiers at the bridge wouldn’t leave their post for hours. ‘I guess the cart’s our only option.’

  Eugene looked uncertain about the idea and I couldn’t blame him. The shafts were a good four feet below the lip of the parapet. He’d need to really jump to reach the top.

  Finch removed his gunpowder horn from his bundle. ‘Eugene, you’d best take this and stash it in your wine bladder. It has to stay dry.’

  She gave Eugene the snuff box as well and once he’d put the bladder inside his saddle bag they quietly retraced their steps to the cart.

  The owner had positioned it to drain with the interior facing the wall. Murky water and river weed pooled on the cobblestones below. It must have been used to carry fish to the market. It certainly reeked even if the owner had washed it down.

  ‘You go first, Eugene,’ Finch said softly. ‘You’re the lightest and when you get to the top, stop and check what’s on the other side.’

  Eugene nodded bravely and slung his saddle bag across his body. She and Finch held onto the sides of the cart as Eugene clambered up. He shimmied up the shafts, then with an incredible goat-like leap, he scrambled up the rest of the wall and lay along the edge.

  ‘Oh, well done,’ she said quietly. ‘What do you see? Is there anyone on the other side of the river?’

  ‘It’s dark but I don’t think so.’

  ‘Eugene,’ said Finch, ‘move along a bit. Adeline’s coming up.’

  It was nice to hear her real name on Finch’s lips. It made her feel special in a way Sophie never had. ‘I should go last,’ she whispered to him. ‘You’re injured.’

  He shook his head, his expression unmoving. ‘All the more reason for you to go first. If they find us, I won’t be a burden for you.’

  Tears pricked the back of her eyes. ‘Someone told me a teardrop travels faster when it joins another drop. You could never be a burden to me.’

  A shadow of longing crossed his face. Only for a second and she might have been mistaken but she took that small indication of his regard and placed it deep within her heart. If things went well, she’d have time to mull it over later and consider what it meant.

  ‘Climb up slowly,’ he said as he held the side of the cart steady. ‘I don’t want you to fall.’

  Nor did she want to. It would be a calling card for the soldiers and certain death for them all. She hitched up her skirt and tested her weight on the nearest wheel. The cart settled but with Finch holding firm, it stayed in position. Using her arms, she grabbed the edge of the frame then hauled her body up until she stood on the edge of the cart. Not allowing herself to glance down, she clambered up the shafts then threw her body towards the top of the wall. The edge of the parapet cut across her waist and with her feet scrabbling up the stone, she inched up the wall and slumped next to Eugene, her fingers grazed and sore.

  Far below, the river lapped at the stone walls. To her left stood the bridge, lit by flaming tapers and manned by Blancot’s guards. From the maps she’d studied in Peregrine’s library she knew the market gardens and fields on the opposite embankment petered out into the plains leading to the coast. On her right the river forked into two. The main body of water flowed around the fortified town but a second, smaller channel led away from Bourbourg. The channel should empty into the sea and if they could find a boat they might escape yet.

  She glanced across at Eugene and found his eyes upon her. ‘We’re going to have to jump and swim to the other side,’ she whispered. ‘Do you think you can do it?’

  He looked into the inky water. ‘It’s a long way down.’

  His voice wavered and she reached across the gap to grab his hand. ‘It looks worse than it is and I’ll be right next to you.’

  Eugene nodded, trust implicit in his gaze. If only his parents could see him now. They’d be so proud of him.

  She squeezed his hand then looked back down at Finch. He’d only just climbed the wheel spokes. Come on. If he didn’t hurry up they’d be —

  Voices sounded at the other end of the street and the pulse jumped in her throat. Before she could warn Finch, he started crawling up the cart. He grabbed the shafts and the cart wobbled violently under his weight. For a heartbeat she thought it would topple, alerting the guards. Finch braced his feet and the cart steadied, then he pushed on, clambering to the top. He held his side, panting hard.

  ‘They’ll be here soon,’ he wheezed.

  A glow penetrated the gloom at the other end of the street and a shot rang out. A cry split the air. An inmate found and they could be next. There was no time to waste. They’d have to trust to intuition and their night vision.

  ‘All right, stay close,’ she said urgently. ‘Don’t cry out as you jump and when you surface move your arms in little circles. I will find you both.’

  They nodded, their faces grim.

  Please don’t let them drown. Not after all this. Not when I’ve come to care for them both.

  Silently they all stood and in a low breath she said, ‘Ready? One, two, three …’

  As they hit the water, an icy coldness slammed into her. She sank below the surface, the water ballooning out her skirt and filling her boots. She kicked out with her legs and Finch’s fingers found the back of her bodice and hung on. She pulled him upwards and when they broke the surface, Eugene bobbed in the water, not three feet away. His small hand reached out and clung to her shoulder.

  ‘Kick your feet,’ she gasped at them both, barely keeping her head above water, ‘and move your arms. The water will carry us along.’

  She kicked out strongly and swam at an angle across the current, making for a clump of reeds on the opposite bank. Finch kicked too, and as his powerful muscles helped push them into the center of the river, voices from the patrolling guards carried clearly over the water.

  ‘Did you hear something?’ one asked.

  ‘Only your ruddy belch.�
�

  ‘Nah, I heard a splash.’

  ‘Can’t see nothin’. Must be ducks.’

  ‘Didn’t sound like ducks.’ The first guard raised his musket and fired.

  The shot landed three feet away, hitting the water with a sizzling spit. A flock of ducks, incensed at the noise, rose from the reeds with loud squawks and wheeled away over the bridge.

  ‘Dammit man. I said it were bloody ducks.’

  Under cover of the squawks, they all stroked hard for the other side and pulled in amongst the reeds. Crouching low they slunk out of the river. Both Eugene and Finch were shaking but then Eugene gave a grunt and slid on his belly down the embankment about ten yards away. What was he doing?

  They hurried after him and found him clinging to a dinghy.

  ‘Well spotted,’ she whispered, elation pouring through her. With his ashen skin and haggard features, Finch would have struggled if they’d had to navigate the fields on foot.

  ‘See, useful,’ Eugene said pointing at his chest.

  The laugh caught in her throat as a grating noise came from the bridge.

  Finch’s head jerked up above the reeds. ‘Quick. In the boat. They’ve opened the gates. Blancot must be sending out a search party.’

  Her stomach dived. For a moment she’d honestly thought they’d stood a chance. They scrambled into the dinghy and she lifted the oars that lay at the bottom.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Finch said in a terse whisper. ‘I’ll row.’

  ‘I’ve been doing this for years and besides, you’re injured.’

  Without waiting for his response, she stuck the oars in the locks and pushed the boat forward, hugging the edge of the reeds.

  Her shoulders and strong arms responded as if she’d never been away from rowing. She powered the craft swiftly downstream, the reeds sheltering them from sight. Once past the stone walls of the moated town, she took the channel, using the moon’s reflection on the ripples to guide her along the center where the current ran strongly.

  ‘I didn’t know you were such a good rower,’ Finch said after a time.

  ‘I used to do this nearly every day back home,’ she panted. ‘But never in fear of my life.’

  Later, when her arms and shoulders were screaming in pain, they came to another river junction. The new river was broader and deeper than the channel and flowed swiftly west, disappearing around a bend in the dark.

  Finch moved over and gently took the oars from her hands. ‘You’ve done enough.’

  ‘But you’re injured. I must —’

  ‘Adeline,’ he said softly. ‘Have a rest. A good spy knows when to rely on their partner and you’re too tired to keep up our speed.’

  Too exhausted to argue further, she slid to the stern and held Eugene who snuggled into her for warmth. Finch took up the oars and steered the boat into the middle of the river.

  On and on he rowed, his face grimly determined. His powerful shoulders sent the dinghy scooting along and she might have thought he didn’t suffer. But every now and again he doubled over, his knuckles white on the oars. How she ached to see him in pain but he wouldn’t thank her for her pity.

  When they encountered a stretch of tall bulrushes, he slowed markedly.

  ‘Time for me to take over again,’ she said, ‘and don’t bother arguing about it. I’m a lot fresher now.’

  ‘Are you always this bossy?’ he huffed.

  Eugene giggled then clapped a hand over his mouth.

  ‘Only with spies, escaping at night in a dinghy,’ she said with a smile.

  ‘Well that’s all right then.’ His eyes danced but he took the seat in the stern with a grunt of pain. ‘We can’t be far from Gravelines.’

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ she said, eyeing him with concern. She gathered the oars and started to row past the bulrushes. For all her assurance about being rested, her shoulders weren’t nearly as good as she’d made out. A low burn returned with vengeance but Finch’s pinched face and drooped head showed his exhaustion, and she couldn’t let him continue.

  The quiet slap of the oars didn’t hide the sudden sound of galloping horses. There were several and they were coming fast, parallel to the river on her left. Blancot’s men? Her heart skittered and she flicked a look at Finch.

  ‘Pull into the rushes,’ he said urgently.

  She shot the boat across to the right bank. The reeds slapped against her face as they closed around the boat, hiding it from sight. Finch held onto a nearby bulrush to stop the boat moving and Eugene snuggled into him, fear evident in his eyes.

  They stayed silent, listening to the hooves beating closer … closer. Soon the riders were abreast of them.

  ‘The men on the wall swear they saw a boat going down the channel,’ one of the riders cried.

  ‘Then the bitch must be making for Gravelines. It’s the nearest point to England.’

  The hair on the back of her neck shot up and she locked eyes with Finch. Laroche? She should have hit him harder.

  A wild laugh that she knew well, cracked in the night. ‘There are only low, sandy fields between here and Gravelines,’ said Tessier. ‘They’ll be easy to find.’

  Laroche laughed but it ended with a snarl. ‘When we do, I’ll make sure little Sophie bends to my will like a dog.’

  The jingle of the horses’ harnesses faded as the riders moved on. Her hands convulsed on the oars and she gulped in great lungful’s of air. Finch reached for her and squeezed her arm. Even in the dark she could feel his tension.

  ‘Gravelines isn’t an option now,’ he whispered. ‘We must make for Oye-Plage instead.’

  ‘You know it, this Oye-Plage?’

  ‘It’s a coastal area to the south, full of marshlands. It will be easy to hide there.’

  ‘Do smugglers land at the beaches?’

  ‘From time to time. I know of crews who have used the protection of the marsh to carry goods inland.’

  That sounded promising but — ‘How often do the crews come?’

  She sensed Finch’s shrug in the gloom. ‘I don’t know.’

  Her throat went dry. They could be waiting days or weeks for a smuggling boat back to England — and in all that time, Laroche would be hunting them down.

  Chapter Eighteen

  They ditched the dinghy and cut across mudflats and wet grasslands. They walked for hours, dodging roads and isolated cottages amongst the fields towards Oye-Plage. Their damp clothes chilled them and by morning they were huddled in a marshy wood next to the sea, utterly exhausted.

  Finch glanced at Eugene’s ashen face then ran his eyes over her damp dress and bedraggled hair. ‘You both need to get warm and dry, and we all need food. I think we should take a room at the inn we just passed.’

  ‘That’s hardly safe,’ she muttered. The inn stood hard-up to the road and since it seemed to be the only building for miles, everyone would stop there.

  ‘Laroche doesn’t know which direction we’ve gone and we can’t remain in the wood. In these clothes and with no food, how long do you think we’d last?’

  He had a good point and warm clothes and a decent meal would be lovely. ‘Do we have enough money?’

  Finch nodded. ‘We should have enough for a couple of weeks. After that, we’ll have to rethink.’

  She bit her bottom lip. Two weeks? Hopefully a smuggling boat arrived before then. She didn’t want to think about venturing into another town to sell timber again.

  They retraced their steps to the inn. It was a white-washed brick building with two attic windows that faced the sea and the prevailing winds. In the side garden stood a chicken coop and a gnarled pear tree and towards the rear, there were vegetable beds full of spinach and peas. Finch knocked on the door. It was opened by a woman with a rosy birth mark on her cheek and vegetable stains on her hands.

  ‘Good morning,’ Finch said politely. ‘We’re looking for a room. Do you have any vacancies?’

  The woman’s bird-like eyes flickered over their damp clothes and she hes
itated. ‘I do have an upstairs room that you could use. Would you be wanting meals?’

  ‘If you could manage it,’ Finch continued, trying to ease the woman’s uncertainty, ‘and we can pay well.’

  Her eyes still held suspicion. ‘Where’s your luggage?’

  ‘We don’t have any,’ Finch said with a shrug. ‘We’ve come far, escaping the army, and my wife and son are tired.’

  ‘I’ve heard of the army’s doings. Dreadful tales.’ She hesitated for a moment then opened the door wide. ‘You’d better come in. I’m Madame Dubois and I’ll see that you have water for washing. I can also loan you some clothes whilst your own dry.’

  ‘That would be lovely,’ Finch said on a tired smile. ‘We’re Charles and Sophie … Bernard and this is our son Eugene.’

  Madame Dubois nodded a welcome and they stepped inside. The inn had a tap room to the left and a parlor with a sitting area to the right. Stairs ran off a passage at the rear and Madame Dubois showed them up, into the left-hand attic room. It contained a double bed, a wardrobe, one chair and a small picture of a saint. The white-robed figure gazed at them sternly from under a bright halo, his hands clasped together in prayer.

  ‘Monsieur Bernard, there’s a mattress in the next room you can use for the boy. Give me half an hour to boil some water then after your wash, come down for breakfast.’

  After the woman left, Adeline walked across to the window and looked out. They had a fine view over the tops of the trees to the beach and clear vision down the road. With luck they would be away from here before Laroche could track them down. ‘So we are the Bernard’s now?’

  ‘I thought it wise to change our name,’ Finch said quietly. He came up behind her and scanned the road. ‘It would be best to stay back from the window. The fewer people who know we’re here the better.’

  Eugene sat on the floor and opened his saddle bag. ‘I hope these things didn’t get wet.’

  He pulled out the bladder, unplugged it and pulled out the sketchbook, the snuffbox and the gunpowder horn. They were surprisingly dry.

  ‘Who would have thought?’ Finch said in admiration, taking back the powder horn.