What’s more insane than time travel?
They could kill you, you know.
And worse. Madame Croûte had tortured Henri. “It doesn’t matter,” she whispered to herself, as much as to Frankie. I’ll hate myself if I don’t take this chance. And you of any know what that does to one.
At least I’m a good swimmer?
Françoise smiled. Frankie had just given in. She could feel Frankie’s conflict, her doubt. But there were always doubts. One just had to absorb the doubt and … and do what had to be done anyway.
The carriage changed horses at Poissy for the last time. It was near dawn by the time she reached Paris, just twenty-four hours since she’d seen Henri fall under the swords at the quay. Croûte could not have sent him to the guillotine the same day. She’d want to toy with him. Françoise held to that. Her clothes were almost dry from her swim in the Seine, but her money was gone. That meant she had only one thing to barter for her entry to the Conciergerie. It was that thought that gave her the idea for how to get Henri out.
Lunatic plan.
“How appropriate for us.”
Don’t count me in on this one, baby doll. You’ll get made vampire somehow, and then …
“Then you don’t cease to exist. That’s good, isn’t it?” Silence. Maybe. Maybe not.
Françoise leaned out the window and asked the driver to let her out by the Quai de l’Horloge at the far end of the Pont Neuf just next to the Conciergerie.
She made her way straight to the gatehouse. No one would expect visitors at this ungodly hour. She was wearing one of Fanchon’s creations—a befrogged day dress in blue and black that she knew made her eyes even bluer. It might be the worse for wear, but no one could mistake its line, the drape of the fabric, the costly braid, or the expensive brooch that looked like a military medal. It would do. A huge iron grate had been lowered in the stone archway in front of the gatehouse. She leaned up against it. “Alors,” she called. “Is there a man inside?”
A sleepy head poked out of the guardhouse. Thank the Lord, it was the guard whom she had first bribed. He looked around for the source of the call. “Ici,” she called. “I am here.”
He frowned in recognition. “You again?”
“But yes. With the same purpose.”
The young man shook his head. “Not this time, sweetling. Croûte’s got your … whatever he is … locked up tight, at least until she sends him down to get his hair cut.”
Françoise gasped. “He is going to the guillotine? Today?”
“Can’t say I’m sorry about that. So no more visits. Regardless of the price.”
Don’t believe him. They all want what you’re going to offer. He’ll take you up on it, even if he doesn’t intend to deliver his part of the bargain.
Françoise grabbed for what courage she could. “I’m afraid I don’t have any money.”
Bat your eyelashes, honey. They love that.
Françoise hated herself. She blinked several times. “Is there nothing I can trade for a visit?”
The young man stared at her. Then he cleared his throat and wandered over to the iron grating. “It does get lonely guarding the scum of the earth for the people of France. I … I could use a little company.”
“Surely a hero such as yourself does not lack for company.” Françoise laughed.
He leaned against the iron strapping from the other side. His voice was husky. “Well, as you say. But with a demanding job like this, a little comfort is always welcome.”
They’re all alike, aren’t they?
No. They’re not. Just some. Be grateful for that. “Well, I could give you … company.”
The young guard grinned slowly. He fished out the keys that hung on a ring on his wide leather belt and opened a side door. Françoise smiled at him. The sun was rising. The courtyard of the prison beyond was still in shadow, but it would be filled with sunlight soon. She had to get Henri out before full light. The guard pulled her into his arms. His breath smelled of cheap wine, the kind made with alcohol and red dye, not grapes.
“Oh, monsieur,” she protested, turning her head away. “The light—there will be no privacy here.” She turned and took him by the hand, pulling him through the door and along the stone corridor. The open cells were quiet at this early hour. She glanced over the guard’s shoulder. Someone must be awake. She saw a shadow shift inside the cell and another. She reached up and put her hands around the guard’s neck. He took her invitation and bent to kiss her hungrily. His wet mouth covered hers. She let his tongue pry open her lips and search her mouth. One hand cupped her bottom through her skirts. She pressed her breasts against him and swabbed his tongue with hers.
Gack. Frankie gagged.
Françoise kissed him as though she were kissing Henri. Which she was, in a way. She let her weight fall against him. He stepped back. Not far enough. She pulled her fichu from her neckline. The dress hardly covered her nipples now.
“Merde, but you want it from me, don’t you, little bird?”
She nodded even as she pulled him down to kiss him yet again.
“Right here?” he asked, gasping.
“Right now,” she murmured into his mouth.
He fumbled with the buttons on his breeches. She rubbed the hard rod beneath the flap even as she kissed him frantically. His erection sprang free.
Are you going to do this?
If I must. She lifted her skirts above her hips. “Brace yourself. You mustn’t drop me.”
He grinned and stepped back, dragging her with him. Still not far enough. There was nothing for it. All depended on the next moment. She pushed the guard with all her strength. He stumbled back against the bars.
An arm snaked out of the cell and wrapped around the guard’s throat. His head jerked back against the bars. His eyes widened in shock. A hand gripped the wrist of the arm across his throat. He opened his mouth to yell for help and Françoise pushed a fistful of her fichu into it. He grabbed her shoulder, his fingers digging into her flesh. Other hands now reached through the bars, pulling at his arms, pinning his legs to the bars. He struggled, but he didn’t let her go. His face turned red, then pale, then red again. Revulsion shuddered inside her. Inside the cell there was no sound.
The guard’s grip on her shoulder relaxed as he slumped, held upright only by the disembodied arms from inside the cell. The one brawny arm across his throat was pulled even tighter by the hand at its wrist.
“Don’t kill him,” she whispered, rubbing her shoulder. “We have what we want.”
The hands withdrew and the guard slumped to the ground. Françoise knelt quickly and fumbled at his belt for the key ring. The clink of keys seemed to echo against the stone. She looked quickly up and down the corridor. Other hands had appeared on the bars of other cells, waiting. But no guards.
Can’t you be quieter?
She froze as she heard voices. They weren’t in the corridor though. Maybe the courtyard. She put her finger to her lips so the prisoners could see it and tiptoed around the unconscious body of the guard to the archway that now cast light into the corridor about twenty feet away. Peering around the edge of the wall, she saw a phalanx of guards moving off toward the main gate. They were carrying something inside the square, but she couldn’t see what it was. The tramp of boots faded. She heard the main portcullis being raised. There wasn’t much time.
It took several tries before she found the right key.
The huge lock snicked loudly and cracked open. It was the work of a moment to take it from the metal clasp.
She opened the door.
The shadows inside moved forward. A man with brawny arms inside his soiled shirt stepped out into the corridor.
“I need a diversion,” she said.
The man grinned. “Pas de problème.”
Françoise put the key ring in his outstretched hand. Then she watched as he went down the line of cells, opening doors. He tossed the keys to others and gestured three or four men into a huddle. Cells open
ed down the line. Françoise grabbed the hand of a middle-aged woman who looked like she had her wits about her.
“Collect the young and the weak and keep them quiet.” The woman met her gaze. They both knew that people would be killed today. The woman nodded and gestured to two others.
At the end of the long corridor, a torch showed a figure taking the keys downstairs to a lower level. One of the leaders grabbed the sword from the unconscious guard and half a dozen prisoners went down to the guardhouse.
Françoise waited. The place had to be in chaos before she could make her move.
It didn’t take long. A guard somewhere raised a shout. Others came running. The six prisoners came back from the guardhouse with swords and even a pistol or two they tossed to the able-bodied. The corridor had filled with gaunt men, dirty men, but men who knew that their lives and maybe the lives of loved ones depended on this one desperate chance. They surged out into the courtyard, armed or not.
Shouts, screams of pain. As soldiers fell, their weapons changed hands. Prisoners dropped and bled. Guards appeared from everywhere, but the prisoners must have found other keys on other rings, because prisoners began to surge out from every archway.
Françoise shoved through the tide like a fish struggling upstream. She knew her way to Henri’s cell. Down the stairwell, and down another, as though she were descending into hell.
Better hope he’s in good enough shape to walk out. You’ll never be able to carry him.
“Be quiet.”
But when she got to the cell, panting, the door was open and the shackles were empty.
Had he escaped with the others? Was he in some other cell? She looked around wildly. But no other cells were near. She stumbled back up the corridor and started to climb stairs.
When she got to the place where the prison break had started, the cells were all empty. The melee still echoed in the courtyard. The young guard was groaning as he tried to sit.
She knelt beside him. “Where is he?”
He looked dazed and rubbed his throat where a livid bruise was beginning to form.
“Where is he?” she shouted, shaking his shoulders.
Don’t be stupid. Let him answer.
“The devil?” he choked. “They executed him this morning.”
Twenty-Two
Nausea threatened to overwhelm Françoise.
You couldn’t have stopped it.
Françoise pushed herself up. She couldn’t give in to Frankie now. “You’re still here. That means he’s still alive. It’s not too late.” She picked up her skirts to run.
She wasn’t alone. Prisoners streamed out the gates of the Conciergerie into the Quai de l’Horloge, past the great clock tower and over the Pont Neuf. Escaped prisoners and a few blue-coated soldiers were joined by the hoi polloi racing onto the bridge to see what was happening. Confusion reigned. Some escapees commandeered boats tied to the quays and were setting off downriver. Fights had broken out, it seemed indiscriminately.
Françoise pushed her way single-mindedly toward the Quai des Tuileries, past the grand palace without a king. This was the shortest way to the Place de Revolution. If she were going to find Henri alive, it would be along this route. It seemed the entire city had gone mad in the early morning light. It was only that which gave Françoise hope.
The sunlight will burn him. Françoise could feel Frankie shudder.
She swallowed her own fear and shoved her way through the gathering crowds.
The mob didn’t seem to care who was fighting whom, or for what purpose. Whatever they thought was happening, it looked like an excuse for looting. She saw people running hugging whole hams or baskets of fruit to their chests like babies. This was the result when all society began to collapse and people were desperate.
A group of mounted soldiers pushed their horses into the crowd gathered at the garden in front of the palace. She hoped they wouldn’t restore order too soon.
A familiar face under a red queue of hair jogged past her, going in the opposite direction. “Jean,” she shouted. Could it be? He turned. It was Jean.
“Mademoiselle Suchet,” he cried, breaking into a run. “Are you well?”
“I thought you left the city.” She wanted to hug him.
He shook his head. “I stayed with my brothers hoping the search would die down.”
How many siblings does this guy have?
“They’re taking Henri to the guillotine.”
His expression grew grim. He pulled her around and began marching her away. “I saw him in the tumbrel.”
Françoise felt the blood drain from her face. “Did they execute him?”
“Not yet. But when they do it will be a mercy. You can’t save him.”
She pulled out of his grasp. “Listen to what I tell you,” she hissed at him. “You will go to Madame Vercheroux. You will beg, borrow, or steal her carriage, and you will bring it to … to … the churchyard at St. Sulpice. Do you understand?” St. Sulpice was abandoned since the churches had been nationalized.
He looked dumbfounded.
“Do you understand?” she shouted as people streamed around them.
He nodded, shaken.
“Then go.” She pushed him in the direction of the Faubourg and began to run.
The Place de Revolution opened up in front of her. People streamed across it. A crowd was bunched around the raised platform with the huge contraption in the northeast corner of the park near the Jardin des Tuileries. The giant frame stuck into the morning air. The blade was up, ready to descend, its gleaming edge a threat. Françoise could feel Frankie’s revulsion. That was her Companion shuddering at the threat of the death it tried to avert at all costs. An executioner and several soldiers surveyed the crowds pouring into the square with puzzled expressions. Françoise only glanced at the platform; for there, plunging and snorting in fear, was a horse harnessed to a cart. A tumbrel.
Françoise was already running. There was no driver. A man was trying to steady the horse with a hand on its harness, but he didn’t look like he knew what he was doing. It was … it was Robespierre. He must be there to personally see that Henri was executed. His revolting mistress must be here somewhere. Françoise looked around. The bitch herself was over near the guillotine. The crowd of gawkers began to disperse to join in the free-for-all. Françoise couldn’t see anything in the back of the cart. No, wait. There was a post just behind the driver’s seat and … and something was chained to it.
Don’t think about it.
Françoise and Frankie knew what they would do. Robespierre be damned.
Françoise hurried up to the cart. She didn’t look in the back, but climbed up into the driver’s seat and picked up the reins. The little lawyer was still trying to prevent the horse from bolting and taking Madame Guillotine’s prey out of striking range.
“I don’t know how to drive a cart,” she muttered as she struggled with the reins.
I do.
“Stand away,” she ordered Robespierre. “I’ve got him.”
But he looked up and saw who it was. “You can’t save him.” He wrenched the horse’s bridle down and to the right. The horse squealed, but all four feet were on the ground.
“You there,” Robespierre yelled. “Help me get this tumbrel to the guillotine.”
Two other men diverted from their course and started for the cart.
It’s now or never, girlfriend.
“The horse will bolt.”
So what?
She shook the reins over the horse’s back. “Yahhh,” she yelled. The horse neighed in fright and pulled the harness from Robespierre’s hands as he jerked away. Robespierre lost his footing and fell under the plunging hooves as the horse took off at a gallop. The cartwheels bumped over an inert object. The cart careened away. Françoise’s heart leaped into her mouth.
Fast is fine. People will get out of our way. Just gather up the reins a bit.
The crowds did move too. The horse steadied as it felt someone in control. S
he headed back to the Pont Neuf. It was the closest bridge. The cart clattered across the nine stone arches, past the fighting crowds around the Conciergerie, and headed up into the winding streets on the Left Bank as fast as they could go.
The tumbrel clattered behind the horse’s pounding hooves. St. Germain-des-Prés was closer than St. Sulpice, but it had a prison attached to the abbey, and that meant soldiers. She hauled the horse to the right. In the distance she saw the mismatched towers of St. Sulpice. She turned into the churchyard and pulled around to the porch doors. Only when she had climbed down did she allow herself to look in the back of the tumbrel.
It was worse than she imagined. Henri was naked, his flesh swollen and suppurating. He was bloodied from dozens of sword wounds. But the fact that he bled meant he lived. His wrists were locked to the post by heavy manacles. He seemed insensible. That was just as well.
Don’t you dare start crying, Françoise. Just get him out of the sun.
Françoise turned to the church. The altar cloth. She could cover him.
No time. Just open the doors and drive the cart inside.
A horse and cart inside a church? Sacrilege? She didn’t need Frankie to chastise her for even asking the question. She pulled on the great, carved doors, hoping they hadn’t been locked. But they were open as they had always been. She propped them wide with two stones. Then she dragged on the harness and the horse, tired now from his exertions, walked calmly inside.
The nave was cool even in July. The perfect hiding place. “Mother Mary and Jesus, forgive me if this is a sin,” she murmured, crossing herself as she knelt. Even from the far end of the long nave she could see there was no altar cloth, no golden candlesticks, no chalices. The church had been stripped. But the light from the stained-glass windows still painted the dim interior with vibrant color. The church was still alive. And so was Henri. She whirled to the doors and kicked the stones away. They swung shut. The horse stamped, the sound ringing down the nave.
“I don’t suppose you know how to pick a lock?” she asked Frankie.
Why would a vampire need to know how to pick locks?
Time for Eternity Page 29
