by C. S. Quinn
‘No need,’ he says, adjusting himself. ‘I might as well get a little rest while I wait for a brother to release us.’
CHAPTER FIFTY
SEVERAL HOURS LATER I HAVE ALMOST WORKED FREE A single large stone and rest back on my heels, dusty and pleased with my progress.
‘Another three like this and we’ll have a large enough gap to crawl through,’ I tell the slumbering Jemmy, who wakes with a grunting sort of start.
‘I told you, Attica,’ he says, yanking and sliding his boots to the ground, ‘you’re wasting your time.’
‘It’s been hours,’ I point out, ‘and not so much as a tap on the door.’
‘We’re only a few miles from port, at a customs gate,’ replies Jemmy easily. ‘We walk amongst you. You’ll see.’
I turn back to the stones, ignoring the blisters on my hands, and begin chiselling another block.
‘Wait.’ Jemmy holds up a ringed hand.
‘What?’ I glare at him in annoyance. ‘Is it the ghost of the pirate who will rescue us speaking in a language only you can hear?’
As if in reply, the crucifix string wound around the bars moves.
Jemmy and I look at one another.
‘You see?’ Jemmy springs upright, bouncing on his hands, and smoothing down his black coat.
In answer I draw my blade.
‘I don’t have a good feeling about this,’ I tell Jemmy. ‘Would a pirate be carrying a lantern? Only wealthy men can afford—’
The bolts slowly slide back. Jemmy’s hand falls to his sword hilt. As the wide door creaks open, a strong smell of alcohol fumes rolls into the room.
Jemmy breaks into a grin.
‘My old mate,’ he says, slapping the shoulder of a reeling drunk man, standing in the doorway. ‘You answered the code, true enough. The lady here will recompense you for your troubles.’
‘What does he want?’ I hiss to Jemmy, eyeing the drunken sailor, who is now openly leering in what he approximates to be my direction.
‘Money,’ says Jemmy. ‘That’s the other part of pirate lore. Whoever frees you earns ten gold pieces in ready coin.’ He makes a deliberate show of patting his empty pockets. ‘As I’m a little embarrassed for the amount, I shall have to loan it from you. Temporarily, of course.’ He grins.
Rolling my eyes, I draw out my purse from its secret hiding place within my skirts, and slowly count ten pieces of gold into the drunken man’s hand.
‘Thank you.’ He bows.
‘Have a care with that lantern,’ warns Jemmy. ‘If you’re caught with it, they’ll string you up.’
‘Hadn’t you heard?’ The man grins. ‘There’s no law at all in the city. The women have gone to Versailles, a great marchin’ pack of ’em. Twenty thousand, so they say. While the cat’s away, eh?’ He winks and staggers off, the lantern light petering out into the dark.
‘He’ll have lost that money before the night is out,’ I say, watching him go. ‘Whoever he stole that lantern from will catch up with him.’
‘True enough,’ says Jemmy. ‘But lore is lore.’
‘Does it count with someone else’s money?’ I ask archly.
‘Honour amongst thieves.’ Jemmy grins. ‘Open to wider interpretation than the regular kind. Do you think it’s true about the women marching on Versailles? Twenty thousand?’
I try to imagine a group of women that large. ‘An exaggeration, surely?’
‘Makes you think, though, doesn’t it?’ says Jemmy. ‘Did someone put them up to it?’
‘Robespierre is planning something,’ I consider. ‘But surely even he—’
Jemmy puts out a sudden arm and pulls me back into the shadows. I turn in shock, but he raises a finger to his lips and slowly drags me out of sight.
Just as Salvatore’s dark figure appears like a spectre.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
SALVATORE STANDS MOTIONLESS OUTSIDE THE OPEN DOOR to the lock-up, taking in the empty blackness inside.
He is so still I could almost convince myself he is a dark statue. Then he moves sharply, fury evident in the tight stride, and makes for the compound where the smuggled goods are held.
‘Centime,’ I whisper, looking at Jemmy. ‘He’ll find her.’
Jemmy shakes his head. ‘He can’t possibly know where she is hiding.’
‘He knew to come here, to look in the lock-up,’ I say. ‘If Robespierre deduced we were here, what else does he know?’
I draw out my knife.
‘Don’t,’ says Jemmy. ‘A man like Salvatore doesn’t come alone.’ He points to the middle distance and I see he’s right. Human shapes lurk in the shadows. Salvatore has brought armed men to cover him.
Reluctantly, I put away my blade. We both move silently towards the large open-sided barn, in which all the confiscated customs goods are housed before the King’s men come to take their monthly cut. It’s a basic structure consisting of a large thatched roof suspended at intervals on long wooden staves.
‘Salvatore knew what time to arrive,’ observes Jemmy, eyeing the unmanned open door. ‘There’s a few minutes while the customs men change posts. Robespierre must have a great deal of information at his fingertips.’
We creep carefully to the open side of the compound, where sacks and trunks are laid out by the hundred beneath the rudimentary roof.
‘We might be lucky,’ Jemmy adds in a whisper. ‘There are a hundred or more sacks in that compound. Salvatore cannot search them all before the guard returns. Not unless Centime gives herself up.’
‘Why should she do a thing like that?’
As if in answer, Salvatore cups his hands over his mouth and shouts into the dark.
‘Centime!’ he bellows. ‘If you are here you must reveal yourself. Whatever this Pimpernel has promised you, it is a lie. He cannot keep you safe. You know it.’
He waits. There is a long silence. ‘You think this Pimpernel can save you?’ demands Salvatore. ‘He is English, Centime, and only cares for what England wants. He will abandon you, and what will you do, all alone?’
I close my eyes, willing Centime to keep still and silent.
‘At midnight there is no way out of France.’ Salvatore hesitates for effect. ‘Every port and border will be closed.’
Jemmy and I exchange shocked glances. Is Salvatore telling the truth? I wonder if he has been privy to Robespierre’s plan and what it could mean.
‘You wonder if I tell you true?’ suggests Salvatore, in the same loud voice. ‘The little lawyer is making plans. I gave him a key to the Princes’ Court. At midnight, a mob will swarm the palace. A rule of law will be declared and your Pimpernel will be powerless to help you.’
Again he waits and listens. ‘All the foreigners in France will be hunted and imprisoned,’ continues Salvatore. ‘He has sold you lies, Centime. In a few hours, no one leaves the country. It is too late for you.’
Jemmy and I exchange silent glances. It makes no sense. Even if Robespierre could engineer the borders to be closed, how would that further his revolutionary cause?
‘It is lies,’ I whisper to Jemmy. ‘It must be. Salvatore only tries to frighten her.’ But I can’t deny there is something very convincing about the way he tells it.
‘The women go to Versailles,’ Jemmy whispers back, a worried tone to his voice. ‘That much is true. An army by now, the old pirate said. Could this be part of Robespierre’s plan?’
Possibilities are whirling in my mind now. If it is women, not men, who attack the palace, they will not demand political change or votes. Parisian mothers do not care for such things.
‘They will come for bread,’ I say, thinking aloud. ‘How can that benefit Robespierre?’
Then the other possibility dawns. Of all the people in France, it is the women who most hate Marie Antoinette. They loathe her, as the greedy spendthrift who takes food from their children’s mouths to buy shoes and ribbons. Several thoughts come together in my mind.
It was the Queen who was responsible for Salvatore’s family imprisoning
him in the Bastille. Salvatore and Robespierre are political opposites in almost every regard. But in their dislike of Marie Antoinette, they are united.
Salvatore may be an aristocrat, patriotic to his King and country. But he hates the Austrian-born monarch. And the key he gave Robespierre is for the Princes’ Court.
That quadrant leads directly to the Queen’s staircase.
‘Robespierre’s plan,’ I tell Jemmy. ‘I might know it. If I’m right, we need to get to Versailles before midnight. If we don’t a lot of innocent people will die.’
Jemmy sighs theatrically. ‘You’ll need to stop speaking in riddles, there, Attica.’
I turn to him, my eyes blazing. ‘He’s going to kill the Queen.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
ASMALL TROOP OF WOMEN ARE BEING LED INTO THE PALACE by a frightened-looking servant. They follow behind, open-mouthed, agog, eyeing the sumptuous table with a mix of awe and suspicion, as if the sculpted platters might be an illusion – a trick of paint and plaster.
Never in their lives have these honest fighters seen such ornamental food in such great quantity.
The National Assembly could hardly refuse them. King Louis greets them in his own apartment. The women’s soaking shoes flap wetly on the glossy parquet floor. Several glance longingly at the bed – an impossibly high draped box of embroidered silk, fenced off by a chunky balustrade of carved golden posts.
Lafayette takes up the rear, hanging back to distance himself from the women who are not his troops, yet with an expression to suggest he is not unsympathetic to their cause.
The King stands to face the women, liveried in a suit of plush blue velvet and frothy white linens. His apartment, designed to inspire awe, makes him look small, kindly even, since he is making a concerted effort to smile at the women.
‘Your Majesty,’ says a delegate of the Assembly, ‘these women have come from Paris. They forced themselves into the National Assembly Hall and demanded—’
‘We want bread, Your Majesty,’ interrupts Ovette, shivering in her wet clothes and encouraged by the King’s diminutive appearance. ‘Children starve.’
King Louis clears his throat and frowns. He raises his eyes to the women.
‘Then you must have bread,’ he says. ‘I shall arrange ten wagonloads to accompany you back to Paris.’ He turns slightly on his heel, hands behind his back. ‘Will there be anything else?’
Ovette can only shake her head.
‘Then I thank you for making the long journey to alert me to this grave problem.’ As an afterthought, Louis walks towards the women. Several take an involuntary step back. He takes the hand of the nearest women, and kisses it. A collective gasp goes through the group as Louis walks along the line, raising female hands, brushing his lips on them. One of the women faints dead away.
The mood is cordial, convivial almost. No one dares criticise His Majesty, and the King himself seems rather to be enjoying his celebrity. Everything seems to be well. The women are led out, smiling with their victory.
As they vacate, Lafayette moves closer to the dazed-looking King.
‘There are still a great many of them out there,’ he says. ‘Not all will be pacified with bread.’
The King tilts his head, waiting for Lafayette to continue.
‘The Rights of Man,’ says Lafayette meaningfully. ‘It would send a very strong statement indeed, if you were to sign it now.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
JEMMY AND I WATCH WITH EVERY MUSCLE TENSED AS Salvatore stalks the compound of confiscated goods, kicking out at sacks in his fury. He paces between the bags and boxes, but to my mounting relief, looks to be giving up.
‘So Robespierre intends to kill the Queen,’ whispers Jemmy, his eyes still glued to Salvatore. ‘Surely that is a good thing for England?’
‘I have no love for Marie Antoinette,’ I say, not missing the sardonic quality to his tone. ‘But if she dies, there will be a bloodbath, and Robespierre could easily rise to power.’ I catch Jemmy’s eye. ‘English subjects will be slaughtered too,’ I add defensively. ‘It is not that I have forgotten my loyalties. Parisians are crazed with fear of foreign attack at the best of times. If the Queen dies, rule of law is declared on the borders. Foreigners will be lynched.’
Jemmy’s mouth twists. ‘I can’t pretend to understand this game between you and Robespierre, but I do know a little about winning at all costs. True, there’s a pack of women marching on Versailles. But they are weak with hunger and only want bread. They don’t have the strength of purpose to attack the royals.’
‘He has seen an opportunity,’ I tell Jemmy. ‘If those women can be riled up to murder, they may just accelerate the whole revolution beyond Robespierre’s wildest dreams. And you shouldn’t underestimate women with starving children,’ I say. ‘With the right encouragement, those hungry women would gladly run a sword through Marie Antoinette’s guts. That is why Robespierre was able to recruit Salvatore. He might be a royalist, but he loathes Marie Antoinette. She’s the cause of his imprisonment. I’ll wager the key Salvatore gave to Robespierre was to help him get those women to the Queen.’
Salvatore is backing away from the goods now, retreating to the outskirts of the large covered area.
Jemmy is still shaking his head. ‘Attica, you cannot simply tell a pack of women to murder their Queen, and they run off to do it.’
‘Robespierre is highly vocal on the subject of female emancipation. Women line up outside his office to make him gifts. If I am correct,’ I add, ‘and Robespierre’s plan works, it would be as when you strike the head from a chicken and the body runs around madly. Austria will likely attack in revenge for their slaughtered daughter, and even if she doesn’t the French people will be crazed with paranoia. It is as Salvatore says. Louis will invoke a rule of law. All ports and borders will be closed. And God help any foreigners trapped in the country.’
‘Why should Robespierre want that?’ demands Jemmy, keeping his voice low, as Salvatore begins a slow circuit of the sacks and crates.
‘In such a state of terror, a driven man such as he could easily rise to the top,’ I whisper.
‘Sounds like someone is a little obsessed with his movements,’ mutters Jemmy pointedly.
I take a breath. ‘He has been clever,’ I tell Jemmy. ‘Robespierre has been making speeches in the marketplaces for months. He knows the women cannot read. The propaganda and pamphlets are lost on them. His influence is absolute.’
I have an image of Robespierre, his little body standing erect, as he spins alluring words to the half-starved women workers. Conjuring images of plenty in Versailles. Bread and corn sat ready to be taken.
‘They are angry,’ I hiss, glancing nervously in Salvatore’s direction. He is far enough away now that our voices won’t carry, but I’d rather not take the chance. ‘Everyone thinks the Queen is to blame. There is hardly any guard at Versailles. If those women get inside the palace …’ I rub my temples. ‘We have a few hours to warn the Queen and be sure she vacates Versailles,’ I say. ‘Or Robespierre could gain power.’
‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ says Jemmy. ‘Your wedding is tomorrow. If you go off to Versailles and miss this tide, you will never make it to the altar. Or is that what you wanted all along?’
I shake my head, unwilling to admit I’ve cut things far closer than I ever intended. After waiting so long for Atherton, I can’t bear the thought of jeopardising our wedding day.
‘I can … get a message,’ I decide.
I can’t let Robespierre win.
‘Not in time to stop Atherton waiting like a fool at the church,’ says Jemmy. ‘I do not think even your mild-mannered spy-master could forgive such a humiliation.’
He paints a terrible picture, and my face twists with the pain of it. I realise I’ve been taking Atherton’s kindness for granted. I picture my mild-mannered husband-to-be, his even features perplexed, hurt even. Of course he’d wait for me. Wouldn’t he? I’m gripped with a fierce need t
o be back where he is, but I cannot leave France to Robespierre’s machinations.
‘There is still time,’ I whisper. ‘I could get a message using the Sealed Knot network.’
Salvatore is padding back nearer to where we’re hidden now. I ball my fists.
‘That a usual use of government resources, is it?’ says Jemmy. ‘Telling someone you’ll be leaving them at the altar?’
He’s right, of course. I can’t use a highly privileged spy system for that purpose. Men risk their lives to get messages through.
Jemmy’s expression softens. He shakes his head and speaks quietly. ‘You must choose, Attica: England or France.’
Atherton or Robespierre. It’s a strange thought and I dismiss it.
There’s a long pause. I look back to Salvatore, who has completed his tour of the peripheries. He turns as if to leave, his coat swirling, then suddenly cups his hands to his mouth.
‘You are nothing without me, Centime,’ he shouts into the midst of smuggled goods. ‘I took you from the gutters. You may have let this Pimpernel convince you of your fine sentiments and heart, but I know you better.’
I locate the patched salt sack with Centime inside. I feel as if I can see her in there, face screwed up in fear, not daring to breathe.
Hold on, Centime, I beg her silently, don’t give up.
‘Does he seduce you with kind words, Centime?’ continues Salvatore. ‘You know you would wither and die under such treatment. You have been raised to cruelty and cannot exist without a master. I know you. Have I not told you, we are two sides of the same coin? You cannot escape who you are.’
‘Salvatore speaks like a madman,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘Centime is hardly likely to hand herself over to the promise of ill treatment.’ But to my surprise, when I glance over to Jemmy, he looks stricken.
‘For some women,’ he says, ‘it’s all they know.’ Something about his face tells me he knows, or has known, someone in that category very well. I’m distracted by a searing pity for him, remembering stories of his drunken mother. I return my attention to Centime’s sack. Very faintly, it begins to shake.