'The Earl and Countess of Fleet. They're distant relatives.'
'I'm sure they were glad to be rid of it. My God!' This last was occasioned by a vast, gloomy painting that showed St George and the dragon. A half naked maiden, chained to a rock, strained forward for the benefit of the spectator, revealing huge white breasts, a snack denied to the dragon by St George's bloodied lance.
Campion laughed. 'Lord Paunceley.'
'My God! You are honoured. He probably found it in some forgotten room of his house. She's not nearly nude enough for him and he'd much prefer it if the dragon was nibbling at her. What are you going to do with it? Hang it in the stables?'
'And frighten the horses?'
'True.' Uncle Achilles laughed. 'Does he still write to your father?'
'Every month. Do you ever see him?'
Achilles shrugged. 'I'm admitted to the presence every few weeks to offer my humble opinion on some poor émigré.' He smiled. 'I suppose you'll have to thank Lord Paunceley for that monstrosity, but then he is a monster.'
'Truly?'
'A monster! A most ugly monster. But very clever.' Uncle Achilles lifted a Wedgwood cup, part of a great set of jasperware. 'You're getting a rather good painting from the town.'
'I'm not supposed to know that.'
'Well you do now.' He put the cup down with a grimace that suggested English china was not worth a Frenchman's perusal. 'They're painting Lazen for you, The man's rather good. I gave him a few suggestions about technique.' Uncle Achilles smiled at her. 'You're happy, then?'
'Resigned to it, uncle.'
'That's the spirit. Like a lamb to the slaughter, dear. What are you going to wear?'
'White silk, Brussels lace, orange pinners and the Lazen jewels.'
He pretended to think about it, then nodded. 'It will do. I shall find something to match, something that won't put you entirely in the shade.'
She smiled. Uncle Achilles would give her away. Her father had promised to be in the old church for the ceremony, but he was sicker than ever and sometimes Campion thought that it was pure strength of will that kept him alive just to see her married.
Uncle Achilles stood back and stared at the profusion of gifts. 'At least marriage looks profitable.'
'Doesn't it?'
'And Toby will be here?'
She smiled. 'That's the best news.'
'The best?' He raised his eyebrows. 'My dear niece, I thought the best news was that you will be united in matrimony with a fine, upstanding Lord?'
She smiled, took his arm, and walked with him through to the oval drawing room, and then to the great chamber. 'People keep telling me that I mustn't look for magic'
'They do? How insufferable of them!'
'Well, you told me!'
'I did? I must have been in an avuncular mood that day.' He stopped, smiled and looked into her eyes. 'If you had the choice now, my dear Campion, to marry or not to marry, what would you say?'
She looked back at him. She paused, she shrugged, she smiled shyly. 'I think I'd say "no".'
'Truly?' His fine, intelligent face was serious. 'Truly? You want me to stop it?'
'Oh, uncle!' She took his arm again and went with him down the great, curving stairs which led to the ballroom. 'Am I very silly in wanting some magic?'
'Are you looking for it?'
She smiled. 'I suppose so.'
'Then you won't find it. I do remember telling you that.' They walked out of the ballroom, through the wide folding doors and beneath the Gibbons carvings to the front hall. The great doors that were usually left shut had been folded back and measurements were being taken for carpets that would be laid on the pedimented front steps. It was from here that the guests would watch the fireworks launched from the lake's far bank.
They stopped on the top step. Uncle Achilles drew his cane along the square base of one of the pillars. 'Do you remember my father?'
'The Mad Duke?'
'He always wanted magic, and that's why he built that stupid shrine.' Achilles's voice, talking about his father, was tight with displeasure. 'All the candles to go out at once! The doors opening to show him in his chamber, the secret tunnel, the hidden chambers for the musicians. The secret funnels for turning water into wine!' He shook his head. 'I learned one thing from him, my dear, that there is no magic. I used to think that place so special! Standing in the darkness, knowing I was alone and the drawbridge was pulled up, and then there was my father!' Achilles flicked his fingers open from his thumb. 'Pouf! I was astounded! He had worked a miracle! He was God! Then I discovered it was all done by simple, simple machines, and a tunnel under the moat! So simple as to be laughable!'
She smiled sadly. 'So there is no magic?'
He walked with her down the steps. 'Oh, there's magic. The spread of stars? A daffodil? Even your face.' He smiled at her, then shrugged. 'If you don't marry him, there'll be scandal. You'll make him unhappy, even your father unhappy. The lawyers will be like pigs in a sloppy trough. None of that matters. It's totally unimportant. If you can look at me and promise me that you know this is wrong, that this will condemn you to unhappiness, to a life of dislike and envy and hatefulness then, I promise you, I will stop it.'
She stared at him. She felt the temptation. She said nothing.
'Think! Better now than on the day. It's so embarrassing when everyone is in church.'
She smiled. 'I suppose it's just nervousness. Are all brides nervous?'
'All brides are nervous and all brides are beautiful. I suppose you're terrified of the nasty business that follows marriage, yes?' She shrugged, but said nothing. Her uncle laughed. 'I can't blame you. It always seemed to me to be a business suitable only for peasants. It's cheap, they find it pleasurable, and the necessary equipment is widely available. I never did quite see it as an aristocratic pursuit. It lacks an element of civilization. It also produces children, but you probably want children, yes?'
'Yes.'
'You poor thing.' He smiled. 'Do you think Lewis is a bad man?'
She shook her head. 'No.'
He touched her cheek with his finger and looked lovingly at her. 'Are you in love with someone else?'
'No, uncle!' She laughed and turned away from him.
Achilles' voice was soft behind' her. He stirred the gravel with his cane. 'You think I know nothing of life, child?'
'More than anyone I know.'
Her uncle's voice was still soft. He spoke almost casually, as if he talked of the weather or what they might eat for luncheon. 'He's French, so of course he's good looking. He's more than that. He's splendid! I grant you that, splendid as a great horse can be splendid, or an eagle can be splendid. It's just nature, child, blooming a great blossom on a crude bush.'
She turned to him. She was truly aghast, astonished that he knew. She shook her head, unable to say anything. He laughed and held up the hand which bore his bishop's ring.
'No one knows! You've been so discreet, my dear niece, but you forget that I was with you when you first saw him.' He took her elbow and walked a few paces towards the lake. 'And I watched you on the night of Christmas Eve. He was brave where Lewis held back. You think I didn't notice? That I didn't watch you with him? You desire that tall, mysterious gypsy, don't you?'
She could not admit to it. She said nothing. She felt tears of shame pricking at her eyes.
'You want him,' Achilles said, 'and that is entirely natural. But you can't have him.'
'I know.' She said it so softly that she wondered if he even heard.
He dropped his cane and put his hands on her shoulders. 'You are a lady, dear niece. You come from a great family. You have the blood of kings in you. If this world has a future, then it needs that blood. You do not mingle it with dross.'
'I know.'
He smiled. 'Don't be ashamed. No one knows except me, and that's because I watch like a hawk. I wasn't even sure till just now and I couldn't resist finding out.' He said it mischievously, making her laugh. He patted her shoulders. '
You must marry good blood, child. You can have him as a lover, but he must not father bastards on you.'
'Uncle!'
He laughed. 'Is he the problem?'
'I don't know.' She smiled sheepishly.
'Has anything happened?'
'Of course not!'
'Forgive me for asking, my dear.' He stooped and picked up his gold topped cane. 'So, do you want me to stop this marriage?'
She turned away from him and stared at the sunlight which glinted on the roof of the sunken barge. She thought of the Gypsy, of the lone, still candle in the gallery, of the sudden touch of his warm hand in the dance. She felt an odd relief that Achilles knew, that he had understood, that he had told her that the shameful feelings were natural.
'Well?'
She looked back to him. She thought of the scandal if the marriage did not take place. She thought of her father. 'No, uncle. I don't want you to stop it.' She spoke decisively, and she saw relief show on his thin face. He leaned forward and kissed her cheek.
'Well done, O most favourite niece of mine.'
She smiled. 'You didn't want to stop it, did you?'
'No. I just wanted to see if you wanted me to stop it.' He laughed at her, pleased with himself. 'Do you think we can go inside now? The sun is so bad for my complexion.'
She took his arm and went back into the Castle that was being prepared for the ceremony and celebration of her marriage.
—«»—«»—«»—
The Lily of Rye, a fine schooner, was a smuggling ship. No exciseman could touch her, she was too fast and too well sailed. Yet Captain Nathaniel Skeat's disdain of the Excise cutters and the Royal Navy did not stem from his ship's speed, but rather from the piece of paper in his cabin that bore the seal of His Britannic Majesty and guaranteed that the Lily of Rye was hired to the British government for services unspecified.
Those services, in addition to providing the brandy and wine that would find its way to Lord Paunceley's table, consisted of taking British agents to deserted parts of the French coast. Sometimes the same men would appear a month or so later to be picked up, but too often Captain Skeat never saw his passengers again.
The French navy or privateers could be troublesome, but the French did not have a single ship that could outsail the Lily, and on his frequent rendezvous with French smugglers Captain Skeat was told which enemy ships were ready for sea and where they would patrol. Then English gold would pay for French brandy and the Lily, her sails looming in the darkness, would bend for home.
Captain Skeat expected no troubles on his present task. He was riding off the northern Biscay coast, waiting for midnight, and he had Geraint Owen's assurance that the shore here was in the hands of the rebels. He still took no chances. The ship carried no lights except for the shielded lantern over the compass. His sails, like many a smuggler's sails, were dark as night. The hull was painted black.
A longboat was in falls at the ship's stern, its crew ready to row ashore. Captain Skeat had no intention of risking the tall, lovely Lily even in a safe harbour on the French coast. A ship like the Lily could make any man rich, even a rebel of the Vendee.
'D'ye see anything?'
'Nothing.'
'Wait.'
The wind sighed in the rigging, waves slapped at the hull, the timbers creaked. The Lily waited. If, Skeat reflected. Lord Werlatton did not come within the next two hours, then the Lily would have to return the following night. He stared at the dark hint of land, smelt the resin of the pines on this coast, and waited.
Ashore, in the deep darkness beneath a stand of pines that grew on a sandhill behind Saint Gilles, Toby Lazender also waited.
He lay on his belly. The trunk of a pine was sticky to his right. He had not moved in an hour, not even when an owl stooped close to him, claws reaching, to snatch a wriggling lizard to its airy death.
Toby stared at Saint Gilles. He saw the houses as dark blobs against the lighter strip of sand, beyond which the waves fretted ragged white. He could smell the salt.
Once, he was not sure, he thought he saw the dark shape of a ship to sea, and he had thought of the signal he would have to give from the small, stone jetty that served as Saint Gilles's harbour. Beneath his right hand, the oil of its lock pungent in his nostrils, was a musket. On his back, in a knapsack, was a lantern and a tinder box, both wrapped in cloth so that, when he moved, they made no noise.
There was a price on his head, a price sufficient to keep a French family alive for two years. He was Le Revenant, the leader of one of the rebel bands that harried the French government troops in the small, tight fields and woods of the Vendee. A score of his men were a half mile behind him, waiting for a signal that would tell them to come forward and collect the barrels of fine, English powder that the Lily's longboat would bring to France.
Nothing moved in Saint Gilles, nothing except the endless rill of surf.
He could not smell fire, and he suspected the villagers had gone. The fishermen of Saint Gilles, even on a warm night, rarely let their fires go out; fires that simmered the inevitable great pots of fish soup and kept the pitch warm for the boats and the nets. The village seemed deserted.
He waited another twenty minutes, still nothing moved and then, silent as a ghost, a revenant, he moved down the sandhill into a gully which led to the beach.
The surf was louder here.
He stopped at the dunes behind the beach and watched again.
A great wooden frame reared up on the foreshore and something moved there. He stared at it, seeing at last that it was hung with nets which stirred in the small wind. He moved again, going closer to Saint Gilles, closer to the small jetty from which he should embark for England and Campion's marriage.
He found the first sentry ten minutes later. It was a boy, scarce sixteen, who had fallen fast asleep in a bowl of the dunes. Toby saw him because of the shimmer of light on the lad's bayonet. The position of the sentry told him where the French troops would have their cordon and he crouched, unmoving in black shadow, and at last saw a second man take off a hat and scratch his head.
They were silent. He knew they expected him. Not one had lit a pipe, which proved that their discipline was good. They had waited in silence and if he had not half expected them, and if he had not moved with such silent caution, their skilful positions might well have been sufficient to surprise him.
He went back the way he had come.
He stopped where a hedgerow came to the dunes and there, hidden by the earth bank on which the thick hedge grew, he discarded the useless knapsack with its lantern that would make no signal now to the dark sea. He pulled back the flint of the musket, put it to his shoulder, and aimed it in the general direction of the village. At this range the ball had no hope of accuracy.
He fired.
The flash of powder in the pan momentarily dazzled his open right eye, while the burning grains stung his cheek. His shot whistled over the dunes and smacked into the hanging nets, startling the French sentries and provoking them into a panicked, ragged volley.
Toby climbed the hill towards the pines, knowing his men would bring his horse forward. He stopped once to see if the French would send patrols out, hoping they would so that his band could cut one off and chop it down, but the troops stayed in the village. He could hear them shouting, he could see the lanterns unmasked and hear the officers yelling for order, and then he turned away to his waiting men and his saddled horse. He had been betrayed.
In the village the Colonel, who had come with his men to Saint Gilles after dusk in a convoy of fishing boats, swore foully. 'Who fired?'
Everyone had fired, yet the sentries swore that they had been fired on first, that, indeed, a whole army of rebels had blazed at them from the sand dunes and the Colonel, who had been an army butcher before the revolution had opened up the ladder of promotion, kicked some of the younger men, swore once more, and went back to the fishing hovels from which, as his men landed, the inhabitants had precipitately fled. God damn and God da
mn and God damn! He wondered if the Le Revenant would try again tomorrow.
If, he thought, there were to be any tomorrows left for him. His orders had come from Paris, signed by Citizen Marchenoir himself, orders that were astonishingly specific. They named the dates, they named the place, and they named the time when Le Revenant would come to this rendezvous.
The Colonel had failed. He had been pointed towards an enemy of France and, as his orders said, all he had to do was wait for the Englishman to walk into his arms. The ambush had failed. It was unlikely that the Englishman would come on the morrow.
Such failure, the Colonel knew, led to that last sneeze into the bloodstained basket. He shouted for one of his officers who could read and write, shouted for a lantern, demanded wine. The officer, a subtle Captain called Tours, sat quietly opposite the Colonel. 'Sir?'
'You will concoct a story, Tours.'
'A story?'
'Why Le Revenant did not come. We are told he's ill. We're told…' the Colonel's invention ran out. 'Write something, you fool.' The Colonel poured himself wine. He decided he hated Paris and its secret men and its power and its ability to make him shiver with fear on this warm coast. God damn Le Revenant, God damn Paris, God damn everything. He drank.
And at sea, where the Lily jerked against the waves, the crew saw the sparks of the musket flames and heard, a few seconds later, the rattle of shots come over the water.
Captain Skeat clapped his hands. 'Wear her round!'
The jibs were tightened and the beautiful ship creaked as the wind pushed her, as the bows swung to the open sea, and then the staysail caught the breeze, the Lily dipped, and suddenly all the great spread of canvas was driving the lean, black ship away from the enemy shore towards the safety of the empty ocean.
Toby was betrayed and still in France. He rode eastwards, far from the sound of the sea, and in his thoughts were Lucille and revenge. He rode, the revenant, towards the dawn.
Chapter 12
Lord Culloden was no longer a Major in the Blues. He claimed he had sold the privilege for close to four thousand pounds, yet he still wore the gorgeous uniform. Seeing him at the stairhead, waiting for her, Campion even wondered if his uniform was new. He had lost none of his new weight, yet his neck no longer bulged at the embroidered stock, and the tunic was not stretched at its buttons. He bowed as she approached. 'Ready, my dear?'
A Crowning Mercy 02 Fallen Angels Page 19
