The Silver Blade (Bk. 2) Page 2

  Têtu, the dwarf, and Citizen Aulard, the theatre manager, worked together behind the scenes. It was their job these days to make sure that Yann and Didier had everything they needed to make each assignment a success, and recently, with the rumours of impending massacres once more circulating in Paris, their workload had doubled if not tripled.

  Their business, this time in Normandy, was to arrange the escape of the Duc de Bourcy and his family.

  It had been Têtu’s decision that Yann and Didier should not travel from Paris by coach or on horseback, for such things would be remembered and such memories could prove fatal. Instead he had insisted for their own safety that they take a boat up the Seine into the heartland of Normandy and go the rest of the way on foot.

  What Têtu hadn’t reckoned on was the weather. Originally they were only meant to be gone for five days, three of which had already passed and they were yet to arrive. The delay put their whole operation at risk, leaving poor Monsieur Aulard and the rest of the company to cover for the Harlequin’s absence.

  ‘Did you hear it? Did you?’ asked Didier, desperate not to be the only one to hear the low, menacing growl. ‘Wasn’t it you who told me that a wolf at the beginning of a journey is bad luck?’

  ‘No,’ said Yann. ‘Russian gypsies believe it is a good omen.’

  ‘I hope to God they’re right,’ said Didier.

  Lightning flashed, illuminating everything with looking-glass sharpness. They were in an abandoned graveyard, filled with silver birch trees which stood guardian over the crumbling tombstones and broken, wingless angels. In the middle were the skeletal remains of a church, its roof long gone, only three walls preventing it from total collapse.

  Yann moved towards it, quickly followed by Didier, both glad at last to have some protection, feeble as it was, from the spiteful wind which hissed and wheezed round the masonry.

  Looking into the bleakness of that devil-dark night, Yann heard no wolf howl, he heard nothing but his own gallow’s-bird thoughts.

  Why hasn’t Sido replied to my letter? Three weeks and not a word. Perhaps I misunderstood her. What did she write?

  Oh Yann, I long for thee.

  Come back to me.

  No, I didn’t misunderstand her. We have hidden nothing from each other. Nothing. Except I have never told her I’m a gypsy. I will when the time is right. Now I have told her what I should have told her ages ago, that I love her.

  In the dark of the forest, in the light of his imagination, he pictured Sido as they had stood alone in the garden two years before, the smell of sea and autumn in the air, that moment when he had kissed her and held her. Why hadn’t he had the courage to tell her then he loved her? Instead he had given her his precious talisman to wear, an amulet, the baro seroeske sharkuni, the shell of the shells. She had held it in her hands and brought it to her lips as he turned and walked away. She had whispered into it and he heard her words, soft as the waves kissing the sea shore. Even then he could have changed everything. Why hadn’t he? It was simple: he wanted to earn her love, to prove, despite his gypsy blood, he was worthy of her.

  That was when he started writing to her, frightened he might have lost her altogether. Soon their letters, dangerous as they were, became their lifeline, each more poignant, yet still skimming over what they longed to say.

  Why do I torment myself? I am a tightrope walker over the Valley of Death. If I lose my balance I am lost. Sido’s feet are on the ground, she owns all her tomorrows, has all her years to be arranged. A suitable husband, children. She lives in another country, her time is measured by another clock, her life has longitude and latitude, mine has only now. If I live to see the end of the Terror, I will be a fortunate man.

  He hit his hand hard against the side of the building. Didier looked at him.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes,’ mumbled Yann.

  I love her. What is wrong with that? Everything, and I know it. It will take more than a revolution before society smiles on a gypsy marrying a marquis’s daughter.

  ‘Can you hear it now?’ said Didier.

  Hell, why haven’t I been paying better attention? Didier is right. And a wolf at the beginning of a journey is not a good omen to French gypsies.

  ‘Yes,’ said Yann.

  Didier had started shivering. ‘I don’t like this place. It may sound daft, but my feet don’t feel as though they’re standing on solid ground.’

  Yann had the same feeling.

  ‘Is it man or beast?’ asked Didier, blowing into his mittened hands.

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  Didier looked about nervously.

  ‘That’s not like you,’ he whispered. ‘Can’t you see none of those threads of light thingumajigs you always see?’

  The threads of light, thought Yann. Why are there no threads of light? Even tables, chairs, have straight ones. Everything has threads of light . . . except the dead.

  ‘Shh!’ said Yann.

  A twig snapped.

  Didier stood stock-still, feeling the hairs prickle on the back of his neck. All around him was an endless, wet, smothering, velvety blackness.

  ‘It’s something evil, I feel it,’ he whispered to Yann.

  ‘It belongs to the darkness, not the light, that’s all I know.’

  They walked through the graveyard, Didier clinging to Yann’s coat, fearful of losing him. They passed the broken remains of a large dovecote and emerged in the formal gardens of a château. The rain turned to icy sleet as they made their way up the stone steps. On either side of the front door stood statues of roaring lions, their mouths open, water dripping off their chiselled teeth.

  Yann looked back the way they’d come. It was then he heard her voice, caught on the wind’s breath.

  ‘Run. The devil’s own is on your trail.’

  He knew that voice, a ghost calling to him on a soulless night.

  At that moment he saw it on the gravel drive - a liquid black shape of a great dog or wolfhound. It stayed watching him before moving into the shadow of the gardens. Balthazar, thought Yann, Kalliovski’s dog. But that was impossible for he, like his master, was dead, killed by the mob on the Pont Neuf.

  He shuddered as he remembered what Têtu had told him. That was the day the devil had gone walking, searching for one irredeemable soul to blow his fiery life into. There could be no man more deserving of the devil’s attention than Count Kalliovski. If he was alive then no one was safe.

  Sido was not safe.

  Chapter Two

  The Duc de Bourcy was a tall, thin man whose face had been etched grey by worry and fever. He was standing in a chamber of elegant proportions that was awash with furniture, as if a great tide had rushed through, gathering all in its wake. Sofas, chairs, tables, cabinets, screens and writing desks stood forlornly, and scattered in-between them was a collection of clocks, ticking loudly, hoping to keep time from running out, for the hour was fast approaching when all this would be swept away. The Duke hoped - no, his fervent prayer was - that he and his family would be saved before the National Guard arrived to arrest him.

  He’d been waiting over a week for Cordell’s man to turn up, but no one had come, and every day the situation seemed more hopeless. Like a drowning man he held fast to the belief that Charles Cordell would not abandon him, that he would, as promised, send his very best man.

  His beloved château, unlike those of many of his acquaintance, had so far been spared the ravages of the Revolution. Not that attempts hadn’t been made. The worst had happened shortly after the storming of the Bastille.

  On a summer’s day the villagers, fired with revolutionary zeal, and armed with pitchforks, swords, old kitchen knives and axes, had marched up the long, slow, steep hill ready to storm the château. The Duke, on being told they were coming to destroy his property, had instructed that his cellars be emptied and wine, cheese and bread left in baskets outside the gates.

  When the villagers arrived hot and thirsty after their long, slow, st
eep march, they were delighted to see that their needs had been so well catered for. Having eaten and drunk their fill, they began to forget why they had come in the first place. One of the tenant farmers even started praising the Duke. As the sun went down, they drank the last of the wine and rolled back down to the village, singing songs as if they had spent the day at a country fête.

  After that the Duke had believed himself safe. It seemed a cruel twist of fate to find that a letter he had written to a friend abroad had been intercepted and found its way into Robespierre’s hands. A warrant for his arrest was issued and he’d wasted no time in asking for urgent help from his banker and good friend Charles Cordell.

  Now, pacing back and forth, his movements were constricted by the clutter of furniture. He looked up relieved when Didier and Yann entered the room, and went to greet Didier.

  ‘Monsieur, I cannot tell you how pleased I am to see you. There is no time to be lost.’

  Didier said politely but firmly, ‘This is the gentleman you are after.’

  The Duke turned to look at Yann and an expression of incredulity spread over his face.

  ‘You?’ he said, making it sound like an accusation. ‘You! Mon dieu, Lord above preserve us! Has Cordell lost his mind, sending me a young lad?’

  ‘My age shouldn’t concern—’

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ interrupted the Duke. ‘I have wasted precious time waiting for - what? For you two?’ His hands were shaking. He stopped in mid-stride and by the light of the fire they could see that he was not a well man.

  ‘Have you brought the papers?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then we must leave without delay.’ He moved to ring a bell.

  Yann reached it before him.

  ‘No.’

  ‘What the—?’ The Duke turned on him. ‘I have given an order!’

  ‘No,’ repeated Yann calmly, ‘you are not in a position to give me orders. You will do what you are told; otherwise I will not be taking any of you. Do you understand me?’

  ‘I don’t want your help! I didn’t pay Cordell all that money to be insulted. Oh, mon dieu, mon dieu!’ He stopped, throwing his hands up in despair. ‘Time is of the essence. Give me the papers, sir.’

  Yann stayed where he was.

  ‘You are dismissed. I shall not require your assistance.’

  ‘It’s tempting,’ said Didier, ‘very tempting indeed.’

  ‘I will not be spoken to like this,’ said the Duke, sweat glimmering on his forehead. ‘You will respect what I say, do you hear me?’

  Yann laughed. ‘Do you think the Bluecoats will respect you when they come to arrest you? That they will bow three times and call you by your full title? No, you’ll be treated worse than a farm animal. Without our help, I can promise you, you will not make it to England.’

  ‘Are you threatening me?’

  ‘No,’ said Yann.

  ‘Cordell gave me his word that he would send only his best man to help us, a gentleman. You, sir, are no gentleman.’ The Duke stopped, overcome by a fit of coughing.

  The door of the antechamber opened and the Duchess came in with her two children. She was still a young woman, elegant in bearing and solemn in appearance. Once, no doubt, she possessed beauty; the remnants of it remained in her steady grey eyes. Cool in her troubled face, they shone with an iron will.

  Both the children had the same solemn expression as their mother. The younger, Louis, had just turned five. He had a mop of blond curls and large brown eyes, while his brother, Hugo, looked like a miniature version of the Duke.

  ‘I beg you, Raoul, calm yourself. This is going to make you ill again,’ said the Duchess, leading her husband to a sofa. Defeated, he sat next to his wife. She took his hand gently in hers. Hugo sat beside his mother while Louis leaned back on his papa’s legs, sucking his thumb.

  To break the awkward silence, Didier said, ‘If you don’t mind me saying, there’s a lot of furniture in this room.’

  ‘There are looters who steal treasures and have them smuggled to England, so we have taken the precaution of keeping our valuables up here with us,’ replied the Duchess.

  ‘We’ve been informed that the Bluecoats are in on it. There’s a certain Sergeant Berigot who runs the operation with the help of an Englishman. Anyway, what does any of it matter? It’s too late. We’ll never escape, not now,’ said the Duke miserably.

  ‘Please, young man,’ said the Duchess, turning towards Yann, ‘don’t be offended or think us ungracious. My husband has been very ill. So many terrible things have happened. Friends of ours have been arrested, their homes destroyed. Some have been executed.’

  ‘I can assure you that Monsieur Cordell knew what he was doing when he sent us. We will leave in the morning once the storm has subsided. I advise you, sir, get some rest. You are all going to need it.’

  ‘I think I should inform you that I shall not be travelling with you,’ said the Duchess.

  ‘That’s madness!’ said Didier. ‘Monsieur Cordell told us the whole family would be leaving.’

  ‘I know that’s what we said,’ replied the Duke. ‘But after a great deal of anguish we have made a decision. My wife is going to stay here and divorce me. It’s the only way we have of saving the estate.’

  Yann stood dumbfounded. Didier was right to call this madness.

  ‘There’s a loophole in the law,’ the Duke went on. ‘If she divorces me on the grounds of my being an émigré, all my property goes to her and we hope, when this is over, we can be reunited.’

  ‘Maman, please come,’ said Louis, throwing his arms round his mother’s neck. ‘I don’t want to leave you alone.’

  ‘My darling,’ said his mother, ‘we are doing this so that one day we can all be together again.’

  The Duke interrupted. ‘I’m damned if I’ll let this land be given to the Convention to be wasted and squandered. It has been in our family for generations.’

  ‘Still, it’s lunatic—’

  ‘Quiet, Didier,’ said Yann, seeing tears roll down the faces of the little boys. ‘Perhaps the children should go to bed.’

  The Duchess rang a bell. It was answered by a maid whose wooden clogs sounded loudly on the parquet floor.

  Louis and Hugo clung to their mother. Yann knelt beside them and from behind Louis’s ear he conjured a spinning top.

  Louis’s eyes lit up. ‘Do it again!’

  ‘Now, watch carefully and you might learn something, ’ said Yann. And from behind Hugo’s ear he brought out a wooden soldier.

  ‘More, more!’ shouted Louis and Hugo, clapping their hands.

  ‘In the morning,’ said Yann softly.

  The Duchess kissed the two boys. ‘Be good and go to bed.’

  After they had gone, the Duke stood up unsteadily. He looked like a bowed willow, bent by the strong winds of troubled times.

  ‘My wife,’ he said, taking the Duchess’s hand and kissing it, ‘is determined to stay here, and all I will add to that is “God bless her”. We will leave in the morning with you, sir. I see that we have no choice but to put our trust in you. Until then, adieu.’

  He left the room, leaning on his wife’s arm.

  Didier stood, bewildered, while the clocks started to strike the half hour.

  ‘She can’t possibly mean it,’ he said, finally, as the last chime died. ‘Lord knows why I should care one way or the other. What angers me is that we risked everything to get here, to be insulted, and now we’ll be late getting back, leaving Têtu and Citizen Aulard in a predicament, for the sake of a couple of numbskulls, with whom I have no sympathy. For that matter, I’ve no sympathy with any aristocrat foolish enough to put more store in property than people.’

  ‘Be careful, Didier, it’s not that simple. The word “aristocrat” has been redefined; it includes merchants, bankers, tradesmen, clerks, lawyers. I tell you this much: soon the sans-culottes will have you arrested for addressing someone as “monsieur”.’

  ‘For a slip of the tongue?’
said Didier.

  ‘You think not? Use the word “monsieur” in public and I assure you that you’ll be arrested for hankering after the old regime. “Citizen” is after all the most honourable of titles; the definition of a virtuous man.’

  ‘Look, it’s simple. This is a battle between the haves and the have-nots.’

  Yann laughed. ‘I think it’s much more complicated than that, and the green-eyed monster plays a larger part in this drama than you give him credit for.’