by Joan Vincent
A whinny sounded in the distance.
“We must go.” He pulled her towards the horses. After helping her into the saddle, Martin vaulted into his and, spurring, led the way once more.
* * * *
After dusting off the backless chair in the deserted cottage, Elizabeth sat down. She was glad to have some time for reflection while Martin went to finish his arrangements for the rescue. So much had happened to her in so short a time. It was difficult to focus on her brother’s plight amidst her turmoil.
I am certain he shall be rescued, Elizabeth thought. Martin will not fail. She had no doubt in his ability; her confidence in him was complete.
If it could be done, it would be.
But what of yourself? she asked. What shall you do? Her response to Martin’s passionate embrace had evoked but a promise of what could be, she realized, and it seemed to lend credence to his words.
Why should you not surrender yourself to him? an inner voice prompted. Why not grab at this chance, experience the fullness of passion. Do you think Comte de Cavilon will ever thrill you as this man does?
“Cavilon,” Elizabeth murmured. He had said that ardour was tiresome. Indeed, in all his protestations of love, she had seen no hint of ungentlemanly passion.
And yet, she thought, there were moments when something lingered in his gaze, when I thought he would say... do... more. There had been tenderness in his gaze, in his gentle kisses that had not left her unmoved. Elizabeth had thought she hated him, had sworn she despised him, and yet...
Can he ever compare to Martin, ever move you as this man can? the voice returned.
But desire is not love, Elizabeth told herself. The words she had uttered so boldly to Martin no longer convinced. If I loved either, would these questions plague me? she asked.
You have promised to wed Cavilon, her conscience told her, entering the fray. Will you not keep your word? Could there not be affection between you in time?
But you don’t have time, Elizabeth reminded herself. And Martin was so much more a man.
* * * *
Riding from Saint-Brieuc, Martin’s excitement grew, as it always did when he was about to dare fate. His plans had been altered by what he had learned. It would not be two days hence, but this night.
Learning that new guards had arrived early this afternoon at the prison had changed everything. Even now the guards, old and new, were drinking deeply, using the arrival as an excuse to celebrate. Many would never reach their posts. Those who did were not likely to care what happened. Better to act this night than on the next, when thick heads would make them suspicious of any noise.
Martin was certain that his new plans would please Elizabeth. Now she must take part in the venture. Thoughts of her stirred a feeling deep within him. Had Cavilon lost?
Throwing back his head, a harsh laugh escaped him. “Have you become two men instead of one?” he questioned aloud. “Which are you?”
Do you even know anymore? Has the game gone on so long that you have forgotten what and who you truly are? What has happened? His troubled thoughts ran freely. In seeking identities that could never be connected, or even vaguely suspected as being one, have you gone too far? Why this preoccupation, this insistence that Elizabeth chooses between the two? Are you not one man? He shook his head.
Why does Cavilon tease her while Martin attacks? Why the anger? Answers eluded him.
He laughed softly. It mattered not, perhaps. Martin, it appeared, would triumph. His stomach knotted at the thought, and, unbidden, Rosamon sprang to mind. She had had a choice between him and a wealthy weakling and had chosen the latter.
Since that time he had never given away his heart. Martin had broken many. Through the years it had always seemed that women chose the stronger or the richer. How much easier it seemed for them to choose strength, especially if attached to wealth. How much greater must a woman’s love be to accept a man’s weaknesses and love him in spite of them.
Chapter Twenty-two
“Elizabeth,” Martin whispered as he stole into the cottage.
“Here,” she answered, rising.
He stepped towards the sound of her voice, and his hand met hers. Martin drew her to him and felt her reluctance. “I have news which shall please you. Your brother shall be free this night.”
“You are certain he still lives?” she asked. Excitement and fear mingled at his words. “Can it really be?”
With his arm about her waist, Martin guided her out into the moonlit night. “I cannot say for a certainty that he lives, but his name is on the prison manifest. It is more a feeling, knowing it. I have survived many years through much danger with my instinct alone to preserve me. It does not lead me astray now,” he assured her.
“The Captain Paraton whom Cavilon spoke of is also listed. I was told to bring him out if I could. In truth, I may need his aid if your brother is as ill as he wrote. But,” he placed his hands on her shoulders, “I shall need your help also.”
“I will do anything,” she answered fervently.
“Anything?” he felt compelled to tease.
Something in his tone struck Elizabeth as oddly familiar and yet not of his usual mien.
Martin saw the question. He quickly pulled her to him and kissed her. “For luck,” he laughed, and dropped his hands and took hold of hers. “Come.” His love for the adventure sounded in his word, showed on his features.
“The Lord preserve us,” she murmured as he drew her towards the horses.
Oh, I do hope you have enough courage for both of us, she thought as Martin helped her mount. Riding through the darkness, Elizabeth fought the stomach-churning fear that threatened to overwhelm her.
Signalling for her to rein in beside him when the lights of Saint-Brieuc appeared before them, Martin drew a ragged cloak from behind his saddle. “Put this on,” he ordered. “We don’t want to have to explain that English complexion.
“Whatever happens, keep your eyes downcast. Don’t look directly at anyone, and stay close to me.” When she had the cloak securely fastened, he urged his mount forward.
A new wonder at his calmness struck Elizabeth as they rode through the streets of the city. He rode leisurely as if the place was well known to him, with no fear.
Surely this is too daring? she wondered as they passed other riders and moved around carriages and coach, which she could have touched had she wished. Her heart sank when Martin turned into a small inn’s courtyard.
“Ah, monsieur, you have returned.” A thin man with an apron across his flat stomach took hold of Martin’s reins as he dismounted.
“Oui. Do you have everything in readiness?” Martin asked, signalling Elizabeth to dismount.
“Then you are going ahead as planned?”
“Oui. Our brother still lives. God grant he will yet see our parents. But we shall not be able to halt until well out of the city, so we shall not return as I thought. They fear the disease will spread.” Martin spoke in tones of hushed confidence. “The cart?”
“Just as you wished, and the team is the best I could find on such short notice.” The innkeeper matched his tone. “But they are très cher in these times. Napoleon takes all our good horses for the army.”
“Let me see the pair. Wait here,” Martin instructed Elizabeth.
The innkeeper handed her the reins and led Martin into the stable wing of the courtyard. Several people came and went before the two emerged, leading an aged, swaybacked team pulling a rickety two-wheeled cart.
That both men looked very pleased amazed Elizabeth, who could see no use in the beasts or vehicle.
“Tie our horses to the cart,” Martin ordered her as he climbed onto the wooden plank that served as a seat. “Come along.” He motioned for her to join him when she had finished.
“What can you mean to do with these dispirited beasts? They could not go fast enough to evade a child, much less soldiers.”
“Français,” Martin spat. “Until we are out of the city you must speak
only French,” he continued, taking his own advice.
Elizabeth marvelled at his accent just as she had when he had spoken with the innkeeper. She had taken him to be an Englishman, but his French was that of a native.
There is so notch I don’t know about this man, she thought.
A short time later Elizabeth looked about the narrow alley they had entered. “Why do we stop here?” she asked. There was nothing in sight that she could see that would be of aid to them on this night.
Taking the reins Martin handed her, Elizabeth watched him untie their mounts and lead them through an open door into what she had thought to be a house. “Why did you do that? Where have you taken them?” she asked when he returned.
“Where they shall safely await us. The family owes me a favour. If we left the horses tied on the street, they would have been stolen before we had time to turn about. We shall reach the prison soon. Remember to do as I say.”
“Would it not help if I knew what was going to happen?”
“It is a very simple plan. We are going to collect our brother who has taken the pox,” Martin told her. “Do not speak with anyone... your accent would betray us.”
Excitement grew as they jostled through the streets. Fear tightened a band about Elizabeth’s heart. She saw the prison loom before them.
“Arrêtez!” One of the guards barred their way at the entrance.
Smoke from the oil-soaked torches standing about the arched entry made Elizabeth to choke and cough as a breeze wafted it across the cart.
A second guard swaggered up to the cart. “What is your business?”
Martin handed a crumpled piece of paper to him. “We be told by the priest in our village that this says we must come and take our brother home. That he has taken the pox,” he whined, bobbing a bow. “Jacques here be sick also.”
“You may enter.” The guard motioned the one before the cart to move aside after the briefest of glances at the paper.
“Where be he found?” Martin asked as the two men returned to the jugs of wine by the wall.
“You’ll find someone who can tell you where he is in the right side of the quadrangle. Don’t bother stopping when you leave,” he snarled and raised a bottle to his lips.
“Oui.” Martin bobbed another hasty bow and flicked the reins. Halting the cart in the far right corner of the quadrangle, he jumped down and tied the team, then motioned for Elizabeth to follow.
All about the open courtyard in the inner colonnade, parties of off-duty guards and their women drank and danced. Some sprawled in drunken sleep, others sat gambling and drinking. Picking their way through these, Martin led Elizabeth to an office where a guard sat with his head upon the desk, loudly snoring.
“Stay here,” Martin whispered. “Let me know if anyone comes.” Stealing to the desk, he rifled through the papers on it and then through the drawers. He smiled when he found a listing of prisoners. Halfway through the second page he found young Jeffries’ name. Noting the section of the prison he was in, Martin returned the papers to the drawer.
“Let’s go.” He brushed past Elizabeth.
She ran after him, following as he wended through corridors and finally down a series of stairs to ever deeper levels. Smokey torches provided the only light in the damp, stench-ridden corridors. Elizabeth shivered at the moans and groans filled the air.
“Arrêtez!” The guard’s voice froze her in her steps. Daring to peer around Martin’s back, she saw an iron gate and the two men stood before it.
“We be told to fetch the body of a man called Jeffries,” Martin told them. He twisted his hands twisting nervously as he bowed. “They said to give ye this.” He fumbled in his coat and withdrew a glass bottle, holding it forth with a shaking hand.
“When was ye told there was a body?” one of the guard’s demanded, grabbing the bottle.
“‘Twas early in the morn, but we had many bodies to take up. The pox be bad again.” Martin shrugged worriedly.
“Go ahead. Next time come when word is sent. The guard at the end of the corridor to the right’ll know where the body be. These English aren’t proving very hardy,” he laughed.
Martin shuffled forward with Elizabeth doing likewise. She kept her eyes fast on the foul, straw-strewn stones.
Repeating the same tale, Martin gave another bottle to the next guard, and waited while he thumbed through a grimy, smeared sheaf of papers. The man grunted and picked up the huge ring of keys on his desk. “Ye be in luck I ken read,” he told them. “Else ye’d ‘ave to search through all the cells till ye found ‘im.” Halting before a door, he unlocked it and pushed it open. “Ye go ‘n find ‘im.”
They ducked through the doorway and waited for their eyes to adjust to the darkness. Elizabeth gagged, confronted by the stench and the horror of the dank, dark open cell. Rats scurried away from them as they walked forward. All about them prisoners sprawled in their own wastes. Rotting and putrid flesh mingled with the other odours.
Martin gripped Elizabeth’s arm as she swayed. “Steady.” He drew her forward, took the smoking torch from the centre column, and worked through the prone forms that had once been proud soldiers and sailors.
Elizabeth shrank from the sight and smell. “He cannot be here.”
“We won’t know if you don’t look,” Martin’s cold voice stiffened her.
Clenching her fists, she followed his steps. “Morton,” she called out softly. “Morton Jeffries.”
A wiry figure rose from the shadows. “Who are you?” the bearded scarecrow questioned.
“You cannot be Morton,” Elizabeth gasped, looking at the tattered form with the large, deeply sunken eyes.
“No, I am Captain James Paraton. Jeffries is back here.” He motioned behind him.
Stepping in that direction, Martin waved the torch until he located the emaciated figure lying on a heap of befouled straw.
“Morton,” Elizabeth said softly, easing past Martin. “Morton Jeffries?”
The man nodded weakly.
“Oh, God,” she moaned, laying a hand on his feverish forehead.
“I’ve done what I could for him,” Captain Paraton told Martin. “Who are you? Why have you come?”
“Never mind who we are.” Martin handed the torch to him. Kneeling beside Morton, he drew a slim case from his coat. With swift motions he opened the jars within it and expertly applied their contents to Morton’s hands, chest, and face.
Elizabeth stared at him. “What are you doing?”
“He has the pox, remember? We must make him look it.” Finished, he closed the jars, put them in the case, and returned it to his jacket. “Are you strong enough to help carry him?” he asked the captain.
“Yes.”
“Is there another officer here? Get him,” Martin commanded.
Paraton returned quickly with another a man. “This is Captain Herrick. He’s only been here three months.”
“Listen closely, Captain. I am taking Jeffries and Paraton with me. Wait for a half hour, then all who are able can make a try for freedom. Agree to this or I’ll see the door is locked when we go.”
“Why shouldn’t we all go now?”
“Because then none of us would have a chance. The alarm would be raised before we reached the air. The way I suggest means that some of you will make it. They think we are removing a dead man and are not suspicious. There are only two guards on the gate at the corridor. I will take care of them. Most of the others are drunk.
“Let us get away. Jeffries has no chance if we have to fight our way out,” Martin said persuasively.
“A half hour and no more,” Herrick agreed. “But how am I to know when it is past?”
“Here is a timepiece.” Martin placed it in his hand. “Good fortune be yours.”
“And to all of you,” Herrick returned, shaking his hand.
Motioning for Elizabeth and Paraton to carry Morton, Martin went to the door and pounded on it. “Let us out,” he called.
“We’ve found
him,” he told the guard when the door opened. Stepping out, he sprang at the man, his arm about his throat. Martin slammed the guard’s head against the stone wall and let him fall to the floor. “Lay him down,” he whispered, closing the door when the others were out. “Help me.”
Paraton and Martin stripped the clothes from the unconscious figure. “Put them on,” he instructed the captain as he tied the guard’s hands and feet.
Waiting until this was done, he ordered, “Go straight down the centre of the corridor. I’ll follow right behind you.” He picked up the man’s short sword.
Elizabeth could hear her heart pounding in her ears as they approached the security gate. One of the guards turned the key and opened it. She walked forward and kept going even when she heard one exclaim, “What’s this?” The clang of sword against sword echoed in the corridor.
“Let’s stop,” Paraton told her. “I must help him.”
Glancing back, Elizabeth saw Martin fighting fiercely with the two men. She took in the awful smile that covered his features. Why, he enjoys this, she realized, shocked.
One guard fell, cut down by the sword; the other backed away, fear gripping him. It was no match and he also fell.
A dreamlike state descended over Elizabeth as Martin rushed forward, the bloodied sword in his hand. “Hurry,” he urged.
Somehow they made their way back to the cart. Everything seemed unreal as Martin had Paraton lay in the cart. They laid Morton atop him. Then she was on the plank beside him and they were driving through the gate, then moving through the city.
Once outside it, they substituted the worn-out nags for sound horses, setting the former free. By dawn they had returned to the abandoned cottage.
After hiding the cart and horses, Martin returned to the cottage and came to the pallet where Morton lay. “How does he fare?” he asked Elizabeth.
“He is very weak, nearly starved to death. Captain Paraton was right about his having a putrid infection of the lungs.”
Morton groaned and went into a fit of coughing.