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 harbor on the French coast. A ship like the Lily could make any man rich, even a rebel of the Vendée.
“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, smelled 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’ harbor. 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 Vendée. 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 skillful 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 toward 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 damn 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 toward 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 toward the safety of the empty ocean.
Toby was betrayed and still in France. He
rode eastward, far from the sound of the sea, and in his thoughts were Lucille and revenge. He rode, the revenant, toward the dawn.
12
L ord 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?”
“As I’ll ever be.” She smiled.
The Earl had wanted to see them before the ball began, to look at them in their finery, to imagine how they would look when they descended the great staircase. He had smiled at them, wished them well, but his humor had been driven away by the pain. “Go, children. Enjoy the evening.” He had waved them to the door. Campion had held back and kissed him. “Thank you for all this.”
He tried to smile. He reached out to touch her hand. “I suppose your brother hasn’t come?”
“No, father.”
He sighed. He could scarce move his head. His red rimmed eyes rolled away from her as he coughed. Dr. Fenner was mixing laudanum and brandy. The Earl waited eagerly for the drink. “Go, my love. Go.”
The Castle was filled with guests. A host of relatives had come for Lord Culloden, and with them had arrived a dozen young cavalry officers, loud mouthed and braying, who had churned up the south terrace lawn with a horse race the day before. Aunt Lucretia had come, sniffing into odd corners of the Castle as though planning what she would do if her son, Sir Julius, inherited them. The dowager Duchess d’Auxigny, Achilles’ mother, had descended in billows of black silk and white powder, wishing to know why the flag on the Castle staff was not at half mast for her elder son. She brought an expensive mercury thermometer to test the heat of the water in her washing bowl, declaring that water too chill would prematurely age her already wrinkled face. The Duchess, with her drove of maids and servants, was given the Garden House, making the rest of the Castle even more crowded.
And on this night, the celebration before the wedding, there were the local gentry, officers from Dorchester, the mayor of Lazen, and the rector, the Reverend Horne Mounter, who fussed at the castle entrance in anticipation of the Bishop’s arrival.
Campion, as she waited at the top of the stairs, was dressed in colored Pekings, the silk brilliant, the colors seeming to shimmer as she moved. She wore silk gloves that reached to her elbows. Her hair, piled high and held by a comb of gold, was crowned by ostrich feathers. About her neck were the four jewels of Lazen, the chains now of differing lengths so that the seals seemed to make a bar of jewelled gold at her breasts. She had decided, for a reason that seemed whimsical but good to her, that the seals should be seen. They had been locked up too long, these symbols of Lazen’s pride. She put her arm into Lord Culloden’s and thought how much her father wanted her to enjoy this night. For his sake, she decided, she would.
Culloden smiled down at her. “Forward? The full charge?”
“Shouldn’t we wait for the music?”
“I rather think it waits for us.”
“Oh!” She laughed. “I’d have stood here all night!”
Lord Culloden’s spurs and sword-sling jingled as he stepped forward. The two of them went from the shadows of the upper hallway into the chandelier-lit brilliance of the ballroom.
Septimus Gheeraerts de Serckmaester, who was in truth called Ernest Gudgeon, but who had found his musical services more in demand when he assumed a continental name, rapped with his hand on the lid of the pianoforte. The orchestra had rehearsed for two days and now, resplendent in wigs and livery, the musicians bent to their instruments and played a triumphant processional that had been commissioned for this occasion.
Applause rippled through the ballroom, it swelled, and Campion, dazzling on the stairway, smiled shyly.
Lord Culloden wondered if this would be the last time that the great house would ever see such a ball. Within months this place would be stripped, its treasures sold, and the money used to bring down an even greater edifice, Britain itself. Yet Lord Culloden had no great desire to see Britain humbled, or Reason, whatever that was, triumph. His membership of the Illuminati, like his membership of the Fallen Ones, was merely an extension of his partnership with Valentine Larke.
It was not, it could never be, an equal partnership. Larke was inestimably more powerful because Larke was inestimably more rich. And now, on top of all his riches, Larke possessed the confession of murder which would ensure that Lord Culloden would surrender all this magnificence when the day of Lucifer came.
So there was some regret in Lord Culloden on this evening of music, applause, and display; on this evening when he walked with such loveliness beside him. He had embarked on this marriage for the Fallen Ones, the expenses of the courtship had been paid by Larke, yet Culloden regretted what he must give up. In marrying Lady Campion Lazender he gained riches and honor beyond his most extravagant desires. He could see that fact written on some of the faces above the applauding hands. The faces smiled, but he sensed the bitterness within, the jealousy, because an unknown lord had taken the most eligible heiress in the country. Lord Culloden sometimes thought that he deserved this marriage. It was he who had play-acted so skillfully, dissembled so politely, who had watched his tongue and guarded his behavior and steered her gently toward their engagement. Yet Lazen could not be his, he knew it, its bride must be sacrificed, and he consoled himself that, on Larke’s coat-tails, he would rise above the lordship of Lazen’s “Little Kingdom” to the pinnacle of Reason’s empire.
His white-powdered head high, his face stiff with pride, he led her with a delicately poised hand into the center of the floor and waited for Septimus Gheeraerts de Serckmaester to slide the music into the first minuet.
They did the tiny steps, the glides, the hand movements and the salutations with exquisite grace. The applause continued. Slowly other dancers came to the floor, but always leaving space for the handsome couple in the center. Only after this dance would the ball become general.
They danced the quadrille, the pavane, the polonaise, while softly the dusk descended outside, making the brilliance of the ballroom more startling yet, a brilliance that was reflected from jewels and gold, from crystal and silver. This was Lazen at its most splendid, the men in velvet, silk and satin, their white gloves making intricate, pleasing patterns as they gestured together in the courtesies of the dance. The women were dazzling in sapphires, diamonds, emeralds and rubies. It was a splendor better seen than smelled. At the edges of the room, where the over-dressed, warm people crowded together, where satin, silk and gossip rustled close, there was a distasteful odor of bodies and stale powder that no perfume could quite overcome.
Campion danced with Sir George, with the Earl of Fleet, with a Captain of the Blues who seemed to blush throughout his minuet, and with Uncle Achilles. Achilles, who danced with wonderful grace, shrugged at her as they passed in the minuet. “So no Toby?”
“No.”
“A pity.”
“I know.”
He bowed to her, she curtseyed. He stepped toward her, away, and he smiled over his shoulder. “I see the Bishop has arrived. I suppose you’ll have to kiss his ring.”
“We don’t kiss rings in the Church of England, uncle.”
“How very boring of you. I used to put a speck of mustard on mine when a particularly tedious person came to see me.”
She laughed, and the watching guests thought how beautiful and happy she looked, the very image of a bride in her loveliness and innocence. To see her was to smile. There was jealousy too, from those women who hated a rival and from the men who could not hope to possess her, yet those who knew her wished only that the happiness they saw would be hers forever. She was lovely. The Bishop, as she approached him, applauded her loveliness. “Dear Lady Campion! You look clipped and brushed!”
Sh
e laughed. She liked the Bishop. He inquired about the prospects of the harvest, remarked that there was a damned fine pike in the river at the foot of his garden, apologized for his wife’s absence, “She’s got the vapors again,” and invited Lady Campion to a day’s coursing. “How are the partridges, my dear lady?”
“Promising, Wirrell tells me.”
“Good shooting, eh? Perhaps you’ll let me go over the ground come October?”
“My pleasure, my Lord.”
“Splendid!” The Bishop turned to his chaplain. “You’d better keep me a week free of bloody confirmations, Jenkins. My God!” He raised his hands in mock amazement. “This must be the lucky man! You’ve snaffled the likeliest filly in the county, my Lord.”
Campion introduced Lord Culloden who clicked his heels and nodded formally. “My Lord.”
The Bishop smiled. “You’ll let me thump around the floor with your lovely bride, my Lord?”
Culloden touched his moustache. “Of course.”
The thump had to be delayed. As a minuet ended to applause, the folding doors of the ballroom were pushed fully back and Carline’s voice announced that the fireworks would be ignited at the pleasure and convenience of the assembled company.
The Bishop took Campion’s arm. “If I stand by you, my dear, I’ll get a good view.” He raised an affable hand to Sir George Perrott, bellowed a greeting to Lady Courthrop, and turned back to the beautiful girl on his arm. “How did your hounds run this year?”
“Fast.”
“That’s what I heard.” He sounded gloomy. “I never got down once. I was riding with a fat pack in Somerset. Couldn’t catch a pregnant duck. Why I can’t find a diocese with a decent hunt close to the palace I don’t know. There’s that idiot McDonnell in Leicestershire, all prayers and psalms. A waste of a good See.” He shook his head gloomily then turned to his right. “Ah! Mounter! I suppose I’d better relinquish the bride for the dubious pleasure of your company. Your lady wife is here, I see. Wonderful, wonderful! Jenkins? There must be some brandy in this bloody place. Look, man!”
The Fallen Angels Page 20
