'What started it?'
'Cartwright's boy. Thought someone was taking his girl.'
'Were they?'
Burroughs shrugged. 'Like as not, my Lady. I reckon he came here wanting trouble. You want me to tear his head off?' He asked it eagerly.
Campion smiled and shook her head. Lazen's huge head coachman seemed too final a solution for a boy wounded by Cupid's arrow. 'I think they're calming down, Simon.'
'Falling down, I think,' Lord Culloden said. Two bodies were flat on the floor, blood on their faces.
It did seem as if the fight was ending in drunken exhaustion. The older men, who had tried to break it up, began to pull away, brushing their hands and laughing at the bloodied boys who staggered and reeled and swung their fists hopelessly in thin air. Campion smiled. 'I think it's time for a minuet.'
Then George Cartwright, the son of the man who farmed the slopes of Two Gallows Hill, drew a knife that was hidden within his coat and slashed at the man closest to him. Mercifully, he missed. He was screaming now, all control gone, the spittle showing at his mouth as he spread his anger about the room.
'Christ!' Simon Burroughs ran forward, shouting in a huge voice, but another man, closer, jumped at the boy. George Cartwright, his eyes mad with jealous passion, turned and sliced at his attacker. The boy was a hugely muscled seventeen year old who spent his days on heavy farm work. The man shouted and staggered back with blood showing on a cut hand.
The youth was screaming his challenge like a banshee and the knife, a twelve inch flensing blade, made a glittering space about him which none dared invade. Simon Burroughs, frowning, slowed to a prudent walk.
Campion looked at Culloden. 'My Lord?' She did not want an unarmed man to approach the boy. 'I think your sword is needed.'
Lord Culloden did not move. He seemed appalled by the sudden violence.
'My Lord!'
The boy saw Burroughs coming, turned, and suddenly ran towards the two girls who had encouraged the fight. He was blind with anger, maddened with jealousy, tormented by those who had mocked his muscled simplicity.
'My Lord!' Campion pushed Lord Culloden towards the floor.
There were screams from the women. The knife slashed at a man who tried to trip the boy, the blade whirled in a savage arc that cleared people from his path, and the two girls shrieked in terror as he ran at them. Simon Burroughs could not reach him, the knife went up, Campion flinched.
And the knife stopped.
A hand held the boy's wrist.
The boy shouted at the man who held him, pulled away with all the strength of his plough-hardened body, but the Gypsy did not move an inch. He seemed, to Campion, to have come from nowhere, to have stepped from the shadows in silence, and now he stood, quite still, gripping the wrist of the boy's knife hand.
His hand tightened. The Gypsy, though taller, looked almost frail beside the great barrel chest and thick arms of the youth, yet, with chilling confidence, he waved Simon Burroughs back.
It was the boy who suddenly looked alarmed. The pain in his wrist seared at him, increased, and he swung his left fist at the Gypsy who simply swayed out of the way and squeezed harder.
The knife dropped.
The Gypsy let go of the boy's wrist, slapped him lightly on the face with his left hand, and, as the boy turned to face that challenge, hit him in the belly with his right hand.
The boy folded with a grunt, was caught by the black-dressed man who lifted him onto a shoulder and walked over the floor as though his burden weighed nothing.
Someone cheered. 'Well done, froggie!' The cheer was taken up, spread, turned to clapping, and Campion laughed aloud.
'My Lady?'
She looked left and saw the boy's father. 'Mr Cartwright?'
The poor man was terrified. His hands were clasped and shaking, his head bobbing. 'I apologize, my Lady. I'll hit the daylights out that young bugger, so help me God!'
Someone opened the door for the Gypsy, he paused, then tossed the Cartwright boy out into the gravel. Campion smiled. 'Mr Cartwright, you will stay and enjoy yourself.' She turned to the table, nodded to a servant, and held out her hand. The servant, not quite sure what she wanted, gave her the first thing that came to hand, a glass of wine. She presented it to Cartwright as a public symbol that Lazen held no grudge for him. The liquid shook as he took it. 'Thank you, your Ladyship.'
She raised her voice. The room was silent. 'Your son, on the other hand, Mr Cartwright, you will send to me on Wednesday. Tell him he will have to apologize, and tell him it will not be a pleasant conversation.'
The farmer nodded. 'Yes, my Lady' It was rumoured that the Lady Campion Lazender had a rare temper when she wished to show it. He looked at the wine that trembled in his hand. He wondered if he was supposed to drink it.
Campion smiled. 'Now, if you will excuse me, Mr Cartwright, I have to thank our Frenchman.'
She stepped down from the dais and walked across the floor in silence.
The whole room watched her.
She looked superb. The light of a thousand candles touched the pale, pale gold of her twisted, piled hair, flashed from the pearls, the gold, the sapphires, from her large, blue eyes, from the high cheekbones and the full lips. She looked fit to rule an empire, while inside, seeing his face, she felt like a kitten.
Why the Gypsy did this to her, she did not know, yet seeing those oddly bright eyes, so pale in the dark face, and the savage, handsome features, made her heart jump and the blood tingle in her veins.
She stopped. She smiled. She spoke in French. 'We owe you our thanks, Gitan?' She deliberately made his name a question.
He shrugged. He smiled, making his face so suddenly brilliant. He ignored the interrogatory that she had inflected on his name. 'A small thing, my Lady, not worth a remark.' He bowed to her gracefully and then, straightening, his vivid eyes caught hers again.
'Two seconds later and there would have been a badly wounded girl.' She smiled. 'I think we owe you something.' At least, she thought, by playing the great lady, she hid the turmoil he put within her.
Gitan smiled again. 'Then may I have the temerity to name my reward?'
For a moment she thought he was going to ask to dance with her and she feared that all this room would see her excitement and guess her shameful secret. She bent her head graciously. 'Please.'
Somehow, without offence, he managed to make his smile personal, as if they were conspirators. 'I merely ask your Ladyship's permission to visit the long room to see the portrait again.'
She blushed, she knew she blushed. For a desperate, terrible second the thought slipped across her mind that he had seen the naked nymph hidden in the Lely portrait, but she knew that was impossible. Then, with certainty, she knew he was complimenting her, giving her a message that was as forbidden for him to give as she to receive. Yet how could such a simple request, such a modest request, be denied? She nodded. 'Of course. I'll tell Carline. Tomorrow?'
'Tonight, my Lady.' He spoke humbly. 'I leave in the morning.'
'Christmas Day?'
'Alas, yes.'
'Then tonight.' She turned away, sure that the whole room, even if they did not understand the foreign tongue, would still have seen her confusion. Yet no one looked at her oddly, no shocked mouths whispered behind hands, no murmur of rumour sounded in the hall. She waved to Simon Stepper for his musicians to begin playing. Slowly the noise of conversation, of laughter and of dancing began again.
'An odd looking fellow!' Lord Culloden said.
'He's French,' she said, as if it explained everything.
'Oh!' he said, as if it did. 'I thought a sword would be over-egging the pudding, my Lady.'
She was tempted to say that he could have stopped the boy's madness without drawing his sword, as the Gypsy had done, but she smiled instead. 'I'm sure you're right, my Lord.'
He touched the tips of his blond moustache. 'I think this is meant to be a minuet. Shall we?'
She danced with the man whom she had encouraged to ap
proach her father for her hand in marriage and she knew, as she felt his hand on her arm, that the Gypsy's request had been more than a compliment. It had been an invitation.
She told herself she would ignore it. She danced. She dazzled the room, she turned, she whirled, she danced. It was Christmas.
—«»—«»—«»—
The Castle's guests who were staying for the season had mostly retired by two o'clock. A few, like Sir George, were staying the course with those townspeople and servants who still danced to the single violinist who had survived the frumenty. Campion herself, kissed on the fingers by Lord Culloden, went to her bedroom a few minutes past the hour.
Her maid was excited. 'It's such a good ball, my Lady.'
Campion smiled. 'Go back to it, Edna. I'll undress myself.'
'I wouldn't hear of it, my Lady! And that Frenchie?' Edna giggled. 'They're ever so handsome, aren't they?'
Jealousy stabbed at Campion. She was shocked by it, ashamed by it. She took Edna by the shoulders, turned her, and pushed her towards the door. 'Go back. Enjoy yourself. Maybe you'll find your Frenchman!'
She waited till the girl had gone, till the corridor was quiet, and then she locked the bedroom- door. She crossed to the far side and unlocked the door that led to the gallery.
Her heart pounded as though she faced death.
She should not do this. This was wrong. This was more wrong than anything she could imagine, yet nothing would stop her. It seemed she did this thing with a volition that was not her own.
The door swung open.
She walked into the Long Gallery. She was doing the single most exciting and dangerous thing of her life. She went to the gallery because she thought that in the Gypsy's polite request had been more than a desire to see the Lely portrait. There had been a statement that he would be there and she could meet him. Now, by some impulse of seething delight, and against all common sense, she went into the gallery.
A single candle burned at the western end, its flame unwavering in the still air, its light showing nothing.
Nothing but the furniture, the glass of the windows, the great painting on the wall. He was not there.
She felt a surge of relief. It had been three hours since she had told Carline to let the Gypsy up here, ordering a candelabra to be given him. He had come here and he had gone, leaving a single candle to light his way out. He had gone.
She stood in the light that came from her bedroom and she stared at the single candle in the Long Gallery. It was cold here, the fires dead since the afternoon. She felt the relief that he had gone. She felt the sadness that he had gone. She was astonished at the mingling of her feelings. The shame that on this night a lord had virtually asked for her hand, she had accepted, and then she had hoped for a clandestine meeting with a servant. Mixed with that was a terrible disappointment that the Gypsy was not waiting in the light of the single flame that burned so still at the gallery's western end. She turned back to her room.
She walked slowly into her bedroom. She closed the door, leaving only the single candle in the Long Gallery. There was the sound of her key turning in the lock, then silence.
A man who breaks horses must know patience. He must know when to bridle a colt, and when to do nothing. The Gypsy, in the darkness of the gallery's eastern end, watched her and thought she was the most lovely woman he had seen, more desirable than loneliness could dream of, more beautiful than danger itself. For a second he was tempted to call out, to walk towards her, but he stayed silent. There was a time and there was a season, but the time and season for the Lady Campion were not now.
Gitan had waited at the dark end of the gallery for a message. He would have waited all night. The message had been given. She had come. She would come again.
On silent feet he went downstairs. He walked through the frost bright night to the stables, to the room he used when he was in Lazen. He slept on the floor, covered with a cloak and blanket, and beside him, pale in the night, was a naked sword. By Christmas Day's cold dawn he was gone.
Chapter 7
It was a miserable Christmas in Paris, a cold and hungry Christmas, its only solace the good news from the war against the Prussians and Austrians. The armies of France had repelled the northern invaders and were poised to take the war to the enemy lands. Indeed, to all lands, for the French government had decreed that they would help any and all countries to throw off the chains of superstition and monarchy. The grim jest in Paris was that France merely wished to send its hunger and poverty abroad.
The new year brought cold rains. The people of Paris hunched into the foul weather and dreamed of a time when shops were filled with warm, fragrant bread. Yet on one January day there was joy in the city, a great celebration that let the citizens forget their cold and hunger.
It was a Sunday. It rained.
It was a bitter, sleety rain that slanted in needle slashes through the thick smoke that lay in a tattered layer above the rooftops of Paris. Everything seemed grimy. Everything seemed touched by the greasy, dirty slime of winter. The Seine was like the River Styx. The bodies of dogs and dead cats floated in the grey, pocked water to the far off sea.
The great days of the summer seemed long ago, the days when the people had stormed the Tuileries and ransacked the great rooms and hunted the King's guard to squalid deaths in the sun drenched courtyards. Today the palace was still empty, its windows still being repaired, its plaster ceilings still chipped by the bullets of summer.
The winter crowd that trudged past the palace gave it scarcely a glance. They had a greater attraction waiting to the west, waiting in the wide square that had been triumphantly renamed the Place de la Revolution.
Toby Lazender, Lord Werlatton, went with them.
If his sister had seen him she would not have known whether to laugh or to cry. He had not shaved for a week. He wore, on his unruly, uncut red curls, a redder cap, the cap of Liberty. He wore ragged trousers, as much a sign of revolutionary fervour as the red cap itself. A man in breeches was suspected of elitist sympathies.
On his feet he wore wooden sabots, too big for him and stuffed with straw. He had a torn coat, tight belted with string, covered with a crude cloak of dirty sacking. In the Palais Royale he had caught sight of his reflection in a cutler's window and he had laughed at the astonishment his appearance would have caused in Lazen.
He sometimes thought of his sister's pleading words. Campion had said, with truth that he was ready to admit but not to follow, that his duty now, as Lazen's heir, was to ensure the succession. He should, he knew, be in England. He should be choosing one of the innumerable girls who would want nothing more than to be the next Countess of Lazen.
He had never wanted to be the heir. The death of his elder brother had thrust the responsibility unwillingly on Toby's shoulders at a time when he was already enmeshed in Lord Paunceley's secret world. He was reluctant to leave that world and the death of Lucille had determined him not to leave it.
If Lucille had lived, he thought, he would have taken her to Lazen and been satisfied. No one knew how she had touched his life, how her very presence had given him happiness, how her death had left him with a bleak and awful anger.
Lord Paunceley, that most clever and least principled of men, had seen the anger and been glad to use it for his own ends.
Lord Paunceley had sent Toby to the Vendee, an area of French countryside to the south of Brittany, and there Toby's job was to determine what hope its people had of successfully rebelling against the new FrenchRepublic. The Vendeans wanted their King on the throne, they wanted their church restored, and they wanted nothing to do with Republicanism and its shibboleths of equality and liberty. Yet on this January Sunday in 1793, this historic, wet Sunday, Toby had left the Vendee to be in Paris.
He had stayed the night with twenty others in a room of a small lodging house in the Rue des Mauvais Garcons. He gave his name there as Pierre Cheval, astonishing the landlord by writing it himself in clumsy, block letters in the book. Peasant
s from the country were not supposed to be able to read or write. He had eaten a meal that cost him six sous, then gone out into the cold, sleety streets of Paris. He had gone to a drinking club called Laval's. At first, being a stranger with a country accent, he had not been welcomed, but when he said that his Mend Gitan had sent him he was taken into the drunken company of the main table.
Now, as he approached the Place de la Revolution, he saw the girl he had met the night before. Terese. She was a black haired, bright eyed girl who, at Gitan's name, had pushed next to Toby and questioned him about the Gypsy's whereabouts.
Her voice, as she saw Toby in the street, was eager. 'Did you find him?'
'Not yet.' He had lied to her. He had told her he was in Paris to meet the Gypsy.
She fell into step beside him. 'He is coming?'
'He promised.' Toby grinned at her. 'Won't I do?'
She pouted, but took his arm nevertheless. 'He is coming?' she insisted.
He nodded. 'He said he'd meet me here. If not today, tomorrow. Either me or Jean Brissot.'
Toby had gone to Laval's to find the fat Brissot who had boasted that Lucille de Fauquemberghe's skin was like milk. The man had not been in the tavern. Terese, sure that he would be in the Place de la Revolution, had promised to meet Toby and point Brissot out to him.
Now, as they walked westward in the great crowd, she looked up at the tall, red-headed man. 'Why do you want to meet Jean?'
'I told you. Business.'
'What business?'
Toby shrugged. 'Gitan's business.'
The answer satisfied her. The Gypsy, it seemed, could do no wrong. The mere mention of his name made her smile. She stopped to let a legless beggar swing past on muscular arms. 'I hate Brissot. He's a pig with hands.'
'Hands?'
'Hands everywhere. It's Terese this and Terese that and his hands are up you and down you and round you, squeezing and mauling. He's a pig!'
A pig, Toby thought, who had raped his Lucille. He smiled at the girl beside him. 'You just find him for me.'
'And you keep his bloody hands off me.'
She seemed happy enough to be with Toby. She enjoyed playing the city girl who showed the country boy the sights of Paris, none of which was more impressive than the great machine erected in the centre of the Place de la Revolution.
A Crowning Mercy 02 Fallen Angels Page 11
