Wall, Stone, Craft

by Walter Jon Williams

  Mary knew she’d heard the name before, and tried to recall it. But Bysshe said, “The general? Why would he be concerned?”

  There was cynical amusement in George’s voice. “Because he’s her highness’s former lover! I don’t imagine he’d like to see his fortune run away.”

  “Do you credit him with so base a motive?”

  George laughed. “In order to prevent Marie-Louise from joining Bonaparte, Prince Metternich ordered von Neipperg to leave his wife and to seduce her highness— and that one-eyed scoundrel was only too happy to comply. His reward was to be the co-rulership of Parma, of which her highness was to be Duchess.”

  “Are you certain of this?”

  “Metternich told me at his dinner table over a pipe of tobacco. And Neipperg boasted to me, sir!” A sigh, almost a snarl, came from George. “My heart wrung at his words, Mr. Shelley. For I had already met her highness and— ” Words failed him for a moment. “I determined to rescue her from Neipperg’s clutches, though all the Hungarian Grenadiers of the Empire stood in the way!”

  “That was most admirable, my lord,” Bysshe said quietly.

  Claire’s voice piped up. “Who is this Neipperg?”

  “Adam von Neipperg is a cavalry officer who defeated Murat,” Bysshe said. “That’s all I know of him.”

  *

  George’s voice was thoughtful. “He’s the best the Austrians have. Quite the beau sabreur, and a diplomat as well. He persuaded Crown Prince Bernadotte to switch sides before the battle of Leipzig. And yes, he defeated Murat on the field of Tolentino, a few weeks before Waterloo. Command of the Austrian army was another of Prince Metternich’s rewards for his... services.”

  Murat, Mary knew, was Napoleon’s great cavalry general. Neipperg, the best Austrian cavalryman, had defeated Murat, and now Britain’s greatest horseman had defeated Napoleon and Neipperg, one on the battlefield and both in bed.

  Such a competitive little company of cavaliers, she thought. Madame Fleury’s knitting needles clacked out a complicated pattern.

  “You think he’s going to come after you?” Bysshe asked.

  “I would,” simply. “And neither he nor I would care what the Swiss think about it. And he’ll find enough officers who will want to fight for the, ah, honor of their royal family. And he certainly has scouts or agents among the Swiss looking for me— surely one of them visited the commissaire of Montreux.”

  “I see.” Mary heard the sound of Bysshe rising from his seat. “I must see to Mary.”

  He stepped into the bedroom, sat on the edge of the bed, took her hand. Madame Fleury barely looked up from her knitting.

  “Are you better, Pecksie?”

  “Nothing has changed.” I’m still dying, she thought.

  Bysshe sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said, “to have exposed you to such danger. And now I don’t know what to do.”

  “And all for so little.”

  Bysshe was thoughtful. “Do you think liberty is so little? And Byron— the voice of monarchy and reaction— fighting for freedom! Think of it!”

  My life is bleeding away, Mary thought incredulously, and his child with it. There was poison in her voice when she answered.

  “This isn’t about the freedom of a woman, it’s about the freedom of one man to do what he wants.”

  Bysshe frowned at her.

  “He can’t love,” Mary insisted. “He felt no love for his wife, or for Claire.” Bysshe tried to hush her— her voice was probably perfectly audible in the kitchen. But it was pleasing for her not to give a damn.

  “It’s not love he feels for that poor woman in the cellar,” she said. “His passions are entirely concerned with himself— and now that he can’t exorcise them on the battlefield, he’s got to find other means.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “He’s a half-crazed whirlwind of destruction! Look what he did to Claire. And now he’s wrecked Ariel, and he may yet involve us all in a battle— with Austrian cavalry, forsooth! He’ll destroy us all if we let him.”

  “Perhaps it will not come to that.”

  George appeared in the door. He was wrapped in a blanket and carried a carbine, and if he was embarrassed by what he’d heard, he failed to display it. “With your permission, Mr. Shelley, I’m going to try to sink your boat. It sits on a rock just below our location, a pistol pointed at our head.”

  Bysshe looked at Mary. “Do as you wish.”

  “I’ll give you privacy, then.” And pointedly closed the door.

  Mary heard his bootsteps march out, the outside door open and close. She put her hand on Bysshe’s arm. I am bleeding to death, she thought. “Promise me you will take no part in anything,” she said. “George will try to talk you into defending the princess— he knows you’re a good shot.”

  “But what of Marie-Louise? To be dragged back to Austria by force of arms— what a prospect! An outrage, inhuman and degrading.”

  I am bleeding to death, Mary thought. But she composed a civil reply. “Her condition saddens me. But she was born a pawn and has lived a pawn her entire life. However this turns out, she will be a pawn either of George or of Metternich, and we cannot change that. It is the evil of monarchy and tyranny that has made her so. We may be thankful we were not born among her class.”

  There were tears in Bysshe’s eyes. “Very well. If you think it best, I will not lift a hand in this.”

  Mary put her arms around him, held herself close to his warmth. She clenched trembling hands behind his back. Soon, she thought, I will lack the strength to do even this. And then I will die.

  There was a warm and spreading lake between her legs. She felt very drowsy as she held Bysshe, the effects of the brandy, and she closed her eyes and tried to rest. Bysshe stroked her cheek and hair.

  Mary, for a moment, dreamed.

  She dreamed of pursuit, a towering, shrouded figure stalking her over the lake— but the lake was frozen, and as Mary fled across the ice she found other people standing there, people to whom she ran for help only to discover them all dead, frozen in their places and covered with frost. Terrified, she ran among them, seeing to her further horror that she knew them all: her mother and namesake; and Mr. Godwin; and George, looking at her insolently with eyes of black ice; and lastly the figure of Harriet Shelley, a woman she had never met in life but who Mary knew at once. Harriet stood rooted to a patch of ice and held in her arms the frost-swathed figure of a child. And despite the rime that covered the tiny face, Mary knew at once, and with agonized despair, just whose child Harriet carried so triumphantly in her arms.

  She woke, terror pounding in her heart. There was a gunshot from outside. She felt Bysshe stiffen. Another shot. And then the sound of pounding feet.

  “They’re here, damn it!” George called. “And my shot missed!”

  *

  Gunfire and the sound of hammering swirled through Mary’s perceptions. Furniture was shifted, doors barricaded, weapons laid ready. The shutters had already been closed against the vaudaire, so no one had to risk himself securing the windows. Claire and Alba came into Mary’s room, the both of them screaming; and Mary, not giving a damn any longer, sent them both out. George put them in the cellar with the Austrian princess— Mary was amused that they seemed doomed to share quarters together. Bysshe, throughout, only sat on the bed and held Mary in his arms. He seemed calm, but his heart pounded against her ear. M. Fleury appeared, loading an old Charleville musket as he offhandedly explained that he had served in one of Louis XVI’s mercenary Swiss regiments. His wife put down her knitting needles, poured buckshot into the pockets of her apron, and went off with him to serve as his loader. Afterwards Mary wondered if that particular episode, that vision of the old man with his gun and powder horn, had been a dream— but no, Madame Fleury was gone, her pockets filled with lead.

  Eventually the noise died away. George came in with his Mantons stuffed in his belt, looking pleased with himself. “I think we stand well,” he said. “This place is fine as
a fort. At Waterloo we held Hougoumont and La Haye Sainte against worse— and Neipperg will have no artillery. The odds aren’t bad— I counted only eight of them.” He looked at Bysshe. “Unless you are willing to join us, Mr. Shelley, in defense of her highness’s liberty.”

  Bysshe sat up. “I wish no man’s blood on my hands.” Mary rejoiced at the firmness in his voice.

  “I will not argue against your conscience, but if you won’t fight, then perhaps you can load for me?”

  “What of Mary?” Bysshe asked.

  Indeed, Mary thought. What of me?

  “Can we arrange for her, and for Claire and Alba, to leave this house?”

  George shook his head. “They don’t dare risk letting you go— you’d just inform the Swiss authorities. I could negotiate a cease-fire to allow you to become their prisoners, but then you’d be living in the barn or the outdoors instead of more comfortably in here.” He looked down at Mary. “I do not think we should move your lady in any case. Here in the house it is safe enough.”

  “But what if there’s a battle? My God— there’s already been shooting!”

  “No one was hurt, you’ll note— though if I’d had a Baker or a jager rifle instead of my puisny little carbine, I daresay I’d have dropped one of them. No— what will happen now is that they’ll either try an assault, which will take a while to organize, because they’re all scattered out watching the house, and which will cost them dearly in the end... or they’ll wait. They don’t know how many people we have in here, and they’ll be cautious on that account. We’re inside, with plenty of food and fuel and ammunition, and they’re in the outdoors facing unseasonably cold weather. And the longer they wait, the more likely it will be that our local Swiss yeomen will discover them, and then... ” He gave a low laugh. “Austrian soldiers have never fared well in Switzerland, not since the days of William Tell. Our Austrian friends will be arrested and imprisoned.”

  “But the surgeon? Will they not let the surgeon pass?”

  “I can’t say.”

  Bysshe stared. “My God! Can’t you speak to them?”

  “I will ask if you like. But I don’t know what a surgeon can do that we cannot.”

  Bysshe looked desperate. “There must be something that will stop the bleeding!”

  Yes, Mary thought. Death. Harriet has won.

  George gazed down at Mary with thoughtful eyes. “A Scotch midwife would sit her in a tub of icewater.”

  Bysshe stiffened like a dog on point. “Is there ice? Is there an ice cellar?” He rushed out of the room. Mary could hear him stammering out frantic questions in French, then Fleury’s offhand reply. When Bysshe came back he looked stricken. “There is an icehouse, but it’s out behind the barn.”

  “And in enemy hands.” George sighed. “Well, I will ask if they will permit Madame Fleury to bring ice into the house, and pass the surgeon through when he comes.”

  George left the room and commenced a shouted conversation in French with someone outside. Mary winced at the volume of George’s voice. The voice outside spoke French with a harsh accent.

  No, she understood. They would not permit ice or a surgeon to enter a house.

  “They suspect a plot, I suppose,” George reported. He stood wearily in the doorway. “Or they think one of my men is wounded.”

  “They want to make you watch someone die,” Mary said. “And hope it will make you surrender.”

  George looked at her. “Yes, you comprehend their intent,” he said. “That is precisely what they want.”

  Bysshe looked horrified.

  George’s look turned intent. “And what does Mistress Mary want?”

  Mary closed her eyes. “Mistress Mary wants to live, and to hell with you all.”

  George laughed, a low and misanthropic chuckle. “Very well. Live you shall— and I believe I know the way.”

  He returned to the other room, and Mary heard his raised voice again. He was asking, in French, what the intruders wanted, and in passing comparing their actions to Napoleon’s abduction of the Due d’Enghien, justly abhorred by all nations.

  “A telling hit,” Mary said. “Good old George.” She wrapped her two small pale hands around one of Bysshe’s big ones.

  The same voice answered, demanding that Her Highness the Duchess of Parma be surrendered. George returned that her highness was here of her own free will, and that she commanded that they withdraw to their own borders and trouble her no more.

  The emissary said his party was acting for the honor of Austria and the House of Habsburg. George announced that he felt free to doubt that their shameful actions were in any way honorable, and he was prepared to prove it, corps-a-corps, if Feldmarschall-leutnant von Neipperg was willing to oblige him.

  “My God!” Bysshe said. “He’s calling the blackguard out!”

  Mary could only laugh. A duel, fought for an Austrian princess and Mary’s bleeding womb.

  The other asked for time to consider. George gave it.

  “This neatly solves our dilemma, don’t it?” he said after he returned. “If I beat Neipperg, the rest of those German puppies won’t have direction— they’d be on the road back to Austria. Her royal highness and I will be able to make our way to a friendly country. No magistrates, no awkward questions, and a long head start.” He smiled. “And all the ice in the world for Mistress Mary.”

  “And if you lose?” Bysshe asked.

  “It ain’t to be thought of. I’m a master of the sabre, I practice with Pásmány almost daily, and whatever Neipperg’s other virtues I doubt he can compare with me in the art of the sword. The only question,” he turned thoughtful, “is whether we can trust his offer. If there’s treachery—

  “Or if he insists on pistols!” Mary found she couldn’t resist pointing this out. “You didn’t precisely cover yourself with glory the last time I saw you shoot.”

  George only seemed amused. “Neipperg only has one eye— I doubt he’s much of a shot, either. My second would have to insist on a sabre fight,” and here he smiled, “pour l’honneur de la cavalerie.”

  Somehow Mary found this satisfying. “Go fight, George. I know you love your legend more than you ever loved that Austrian girl— and this will make a nice end to it.”

  George only chuckled again, while Bysshe looked shocked.

  “Truthful Mistress Mary,” George said. “Never without your sting.”

  “I see no point in politeness from this position.”

  “You would have made a good soldier, Mrs. Shelley.”

  Longing fell upon Mary. “I would have made a better mother,” she said, and felt tears sting her eyes.

  “God, Maie!” Bysshe cried. “What I would not give!” He bent over her and began to weep.

  It was, Mary considered, about time, and then reflected that death had made her satirical.

  George watched for a long moment, then withdrew. Mary could hear his boots pacing back and forth in the kitchen, and then a different, younger voice called from outside.

  The Feldmarschall-leutnant had agreed to the encounter. He, the new voice, was prepared to present himself as von Neipperg’s second.

  “A soldier all right,” George commented. “Civilian clothes, but he’s got that sprig of greenery that Austrian troops wear in their hats.”

  His voice lifted. “That’s far enough, laddie!” He switched to French and said that his second would be out shortly. Then his bootsteps returned to Mary’s rooms and put a hand on Bysshe’s shoulder.

  “Mr. Shelley,” he said, “I regret this intrusion, but I must ask— will you do me the honor of standing my second in this affaire?”

  “Bysshe!” Mary cried. “Of course not!”

  Bysshe blinked tear-dazzled eyes but managed to speak clearly enough. “I’m totally opposed to the practice. It’s vicious and wasteful and utterly without moral foundation. It reeks of death and the dark ages and ruling-class affectation.”

  George’s voice was gentle. “There are no other gentleme
n here,” he said. “Pásmány is a servant, and I can’t see sending our worthy M. Fleury out to negotiate with those little noblemen. And— ” He looked at Mary. “Your lady must have her ice and her surgeon.”

  Bysshe looked stricken. “I know nothing of how to manage these encounters,” he said. “I would not do well by you. If you were to fall as a result of my bungling, I should never forgive myself.”

  “I will tell you what to say, and if he doesn’t agree, then bring negotiations to a close.”

  “Bysshe,” Mary reminded, “you said you would have nothing to do with this.”

  Bysshe wiped tears from his eyes and looked thoughtful.

  “Don’t you see this is theater?” Mary demanded. “George is adding this scene to his legend— he doesn’t give a damn for anyone here!”

  George only seemed amused. “You are far from death, madam, I think, to show such spirit,” he said. “Come, Mr. Shelley! Despite what Mary thinks, a fight with Neipperg is the only way we can escape without risking the ladies.”

  “No,” Mary said.

  Bysshe looked thoroughly unhappy. “Very well,” he said. “For Mary’s sake, I’ll do as you ask, provided I do no violence myself. But I should say that I resent being placed in this... extraordinary position in the first place.”

  Mary settled for glaring at Bysshe.

  More negotiations were conducted through the window, and then Bysshe, after receiving a thorough briefing, straightened and brushed his jacket, brushed his knees, put on his hat, and said goodbye to Mary. He was very pale under his freckles.

  “Don’t forget to point out,” George said, “that if von Neipperg attempts treachery, he will be instantly shot dead by my men firing from this house.”

  “Quite.”

  He left Mary in her bed. George went with him, to pull away the furniture barricade at the front door.

  Mary realized she wasn’t about to lie in bed while Bysshe was outside risking his neck. She threw off the covers and went to the window. Unbarred the shutter, pushed it open slightly.