I only know we are sailing deeper into the darkness.
* * *
With the help of the ebbing tide and an easterly current, we row out to sea headed along the coast. Half an hour later, Lord Harston spots the dark silhouette of a sloop of war anchored out in deep water. “There! Up ahead. See it? Two lanterns.”
Two tiny spots of light sway, one from the bow and one from the stern of a dark tall ship, and at the top of the mizzen mast a flag snaps in the breeze and catches the scant moonlight.
“Napoleon’s standard!” Prince George points. “That’s the sign. The Emperor’s ship.” He stands at his place in the boat and shouts. “Ahoy!” Prince George claps a fist to his chest. “At last, we shall meet. The two greatest enemies of our time.”
“Yes, Your Highness. Just so. A momentous occasion.” Lord Harston helps the Prince regain his seat as the rowboat lurches forward.
As if the night isn’t dark enough, the side of the tall ship obliterates what little moonlight we had. We are left with only the faint pinpricks of a few stars not blocked by clouds. Our gig thuds against the starboard side of the ship. Loops are smaller and more agile than galleons, but nevertheless, still impressive. And threatening. Leaning back, straining to see, I spot the dark shape of six canons protruding above our heads. A mooring line drops, we tie off, and a ladder unrolls down the side.
“Well, ladies, they don’t seem to be lowering a chair.” Lord Harston scratches at his side-whiskers. “Looks as if you will have to endure a steep climb if you wish to board.”
Lord Kinsworth answers for us. “I suspect they’re up to the task.” He smirks at Tess and winks at me. “It will be my pleasure to assist.”
“No doubt, it will.” Prince George starts to laugh, but his humor is cut short as he peers up through the darkness at the long ladder dangling over the side of the ship. He takes a deep breath and grabs hold of the conveyance. “Jolly good thing you gave us that tea, Miss Barrington. Jolly good.”
With a groan, he heaves himself onto the ladder. Lord Harston follows right beneath the Prince, making sure our Regent’s buckle shoes land squarely on each of the narrow oak slats. After much heaving and grunting the Prince disappears onto the deck. Next, Sera takes to the ladder and begins scaling it with ease. Tess nudges me from where she stands in the darkest shadows and places a finger to her lips. Silently, she makes her way to the stern of our rowboat and stretching up, she grabs hold of the mooring line. A second later, she is climbing up the thick rope with the skill of a seasoned sailor sneaking aboard ship.
“What in heaven’s name is she doing?” Kinsworth hisses in my ear.
“Shhh,” I warn, with a finger to my lips. “She is doing what Tess does best. And it would be better if she were not seen.”
“But—”
“Trust me.” I place my hand on his cheek. “And now, if you would be so kind as to help me up this dreadful ladder. It swings so violently, and I confess, I am not as brave as Sera and Tess.” I say this to distract him, although it is not a complete lie. I will never be as fearless as Tess, but this is a well-strung ladder, and surely any child can climb a ladder.
The words have the desired effect. Lord Kinsworth’s chest puffs out, and as I reach for the first rung, he places his arms around me. “You needn’t worry. I will be right here.”
And he is.
He shields me on the ladder, grasping the rope right beside my hands, and with every step I take, he steps up on the rung directly beneath mine. His warmth wraps around me so that even the ocean breeze does not touch me. Rowing is hard work, and his fragrance teases the salt air, masculine and spicy, reminding me of wild oranges. I like his scent. I love his breath on my neck. I climb slowly, so I can savor him being this close.
His mouth is beside my ear. It tickles when he speaks. “You’re doing very well, Maya.” I can tell by the languorous way he says this that he is not trying to hurry me. Not in the least. He presses closer. “Very well.”
We take the next two rungs in waltz-like tandem and, as I rise to the next slat, his lips brush against my neck. His feather-light touch hums through me, pirating away my strength.
My only desire is to turn around and kiss him, right here, right now. Never mind that we are dangling from a ladder in the middle of the English Channel on a ship that is quite probably going to be the place where I die.
Nearing my last moments on earth, it strikes as if by lightning, the realization that my life is not the sum of who loved me—but rather the sum of who I have loved.
My arms and legs will not move. I cannot take another step, not until I tell Ben the truth. I refuse to die without confessing what is in my heart.
“No matter what happens tonight . . .” I pause, waiting until I feel his cheek near mine. “I want you to know I love you, Ben. I know you think we are just pretending, but heaven help me, I love you.”
“I know, Maya. I know.” His music bursts out from where he has been hiding it, deep violoncellos and playful oboes, vibrant, and full-ranged. Sounds I have grown to cherish, his sounds. They fill the air around us, so rich and full that the song swells and echoes even into the sea. He leans in and kisses the top of my shoulder. “I have always known.”
Waves of love flow through me. My soul awakens more than it has ever done before. It is as if I hear whales singing in the ocean beneath us, though they might be hundreds of miles away, and thousands of schools of fishes humming—countless creatures. Life, so much life surrounding us, filling the air and the water and the land. And all of their voices seem to harmonize with his, with Ben, with us.
All I can do is nod.
It is enough.
I climb to my fate.
Duet with Fate
“Only a little farther,” Sera calls down to us as we climb, but the wind carries away her words and makes it sound as if she is on a distant hill.
The ladder swings out every time a wave rocks the ship, and it feels as if we are suspended midair until the sea tips us back and we bang into the side. It is equally unsettling to climb past the cannons which reek of gunpowder and gun oil. A few rungs more and, even though we cannot see much in this darkness, the musty smell of oakum mixed with pitch tells me we are nearing the deck. I reach the last slat and see Sera’s silhouette above us. Clambering up to the small opening in the gunwale, I grope for a handhold. Fortunately, salt and wind have etched the oak planks, and the hard-grained ridges make it easy to grip. I pull myself up, and Sera reaches out to steady me.
With my feet firmly planted on the deck, and Kinsworth right behind me, I strain to identify the others congregating near the forecastle. In this dim light, it is impossible to distinguish who might be standing in the group. All one can readily see are a few lanterns. Their orange glow outlines the silhouettes of those gathered and sends inky shadows flickering eerily across the deck. As we stride toward them, an unnerving snippet of laughter drifts on the breeze.
Merriment of any sort seems out of place on this ship shrouded in secrets. The sound bounces awkwardly through the murky dark and the mainmast creaks in answer. I glance up. Naked of its sails, with its rigging tossing in the wind, the masts span upward like a boney spiders’ web stretching to capture the stars.
“Ah, here they are!” Prince George’s bulky figure is unmistakable as he opens their shadowed circle to greet us. “Your Imperial Majesty, may I present to you Lord Kinsworth, the Viscount of Langlie, and on his left is . . .” Prince George goes on to introduce Sera and me, but my ears are buzzing, and his syllables blur into an incomprehensible jumble. I cannot believe my eyes.
Emperor Napoleon stands before us.
Here.
The world suddenly feels as if it has flipped upside down. I did not expect Napoleon to be here. Not really. Upon first hearing, I worried this trip might be a ruse. Tess’s dream confirmed my suspicions. I did expect several other people; Lady Daneska, certainly. I even expected I might come face to face with the hooded specter of death. But not Napoleo
n. Not the Emperor of France and most of Europe. Not the general who outwitted the armies of the civilized world and now sits on thrones in Paris, Vienna, and Prague.
Sera and I immediately drop into formal curtsies. Deep curtsies and, I am so overcome with disbelief, I can scarcely rise when the Emperor signals.
“Enchanté, mesdemoiselles.” His accent is not purely French and bears a hoarse quality, as though he has nursed a cough for too long or shouted too many orders. Despite this inadequacy, I can tell immediately Napoleon Bonaparte knows how to tailor his voice to influence others. His tone, although direct and precise and not particularly pleasing or remarkable, carries an earnest quality that draws in the listener.
He knows I know.
And I find that even more disquieting.
Intelligence radiates from this man. Physically, he is only of average height, stocky but solidly built, and yet the gigantic force of his thoughts spin around us in a low threatening whirr. It is the sound a longsword makes when cutting through the air.
His chin lifts, and he addresses me with curiosity. “We have been told you possess a most pleasing voice, Miss Barrington. Le rossignol. The nightingale, yes?”
He reminds me of my cage.
His trapped songbird.
I nod.
He smiles at me. And though the gesture appears gracious, it is without humor. “A pity we do not have the time, nor the acoustics aboard this vessel to hear you sing.” His eyes, though gray and deep-set, are keen and penetrating. He fixes them on me with a sense of knowing, as if he thinks we share a secret. And, I suppose, in a way, we do.
Perhaps several secrets.
After all, Lady Daneska stands on the other side of him, wearing a smug expression. She minces nearer to the Emperor as if he is a close personal friend. Gray shadows play ghoulishly across her features, and with her dark velvet cape and hood, she might serve quite admirably as a surrogate for the angel of death.
Prince George claps his palms together. “Yes, yes, Miss Barrington’s singing is an incomparable delight. Perhaps, after our discussions, we might have time for one of her songs.”
Napoleon glances toward the eastern horizon. “Sadly, I must forego that pleasure. I do not think it wise for my ship to be found in English waters once the sun comes up.”
Prince George emits a half chuckle. “No. Daresay, that might create a bit of a sticky situation.”
“Shall we?” Napoleon gestures toward the forecastle. “The captain has provided a small table for our convenience.”
Prince George waddles toward an oil lamp flickering atop a small mahogany table, leading all of us deeper into the shadows of the upper deck. “Don’t see what more can be said that hasn’t already been settled in our letters.”
“C'est exactement.” Emperor Napoleon slows his bold stride to walk beside the Prince. “To that end, I took the liberty of drawing up an accord—a treaty, no? Between us—leaders of the two greatest empires in the world.” He indicates a small stack of parchment sitting beside an oil lantern on the table. “I’m sure Lord Harston, Lord Kinsworth, and Lady Daneska are willing to serve as our witnesses.”
“Witnesses?” I hear a swarm of panic buzz through Prince George. He balks beside the table and does not even reach out to pick up the sheaf of papers. “What? You expect me to read all that? Here? In this light?”
Daneska frowns at me and bobs her chin in their direction as if she expects me to do something to calm Prince George and make him sign a binding accord, one he has not even read.
He is mumbling something, but I can barely hear him above his crashing uncertainty. “We will have Lord Harston gather the papers and take them back to the palace. We can read them in the morning under better light.”
“Non.” Napoleon sniffs, trumpeting his displeasure. “That would necessitate my sailing into British waters once again. An unnecessary risk. We have come this far, why do you hesitate?”
“Excusez-moi, s'il vous plaît, Votre Majesté Impériale.” Lady Daneska chooses a sugary-sweet tone to address Napoleon first and then Prince George. “Your Highness, if I may be so bold as to offer a possible solution?”
They turn to her, annoyance thrumming loudly in both men.
“Why not have the lovely Miss Barrington read it aloud for you? This will accomplish your objectives, yes? And you will also have the pleasure of hearing her lovely voice at the same time.”
Prince George runs his finger around his cravat to loosen it. “Aye. That might do. What say you, Miss Barrington, will you do us the honor? Your eyes are young and t’would be a great deal more pleasant to hear you read than old Harston here. Ha-ha,” he laughs nervously.
One cannot refuse a royal request. “Certainly, Sire. It would be my pleasure.”
Napoleon and Prince George seat themselves in two wooden chairs across from the table. I turn up the oil lamp to full capacity and lift the parchment. The handwriting is beautifully scribed and the capitals ornately decorated, bearing all the earmarks of an official international accord.
Taking a breath, I begin reading. As soon as I get past the named entities and the description of the articles therein, every sentence tightens the sour knot my stomach.
I cannot keep the mounting distress out of my voice. This contract will make Britain part of a Grand European Empire. Napoleon, of course, reigns supreme, as Emperor over this Grand Empire. Prince George, as King of England, must agree to be the Emperor’s loyal representative. As such, his first act will be to dissolve Parliament in favor of a duchy system, similar to the ones Napoleon set up in Germany and Austria. English lords who agree to this organization will be rewarded with duchies commensurate with their current holdings, and all of these dukedoms will answer to Prince George. But ultimately both the lords of Britain and her King must serve as obedient subjects to His Imperial Majesty, Napoleon Bonaparte, Emperor of the Le Grand Empire.
His servants.
Puppets.
I look up from reading, fearing that even in this poor light they might notice my brown skin draining to white.
This agreement has gone too far. Prince George is frowning, and rightly so. At least he is wavering. I must push him into resistance. I close off all sound for a moment, searching for the right voice that will sway him.
Ah! There it is. I allow fear to quiver across my tongue. Fear is a palpable force, even a slight tremor of it makes the stomach wobble and curl into itself. May the sound nip his childish soul and awaken him to his foolishness.
Barely above a whisper, each syllable quaking in breathless trepidation, I warn, “You will be returning England to a feudal system. Britain will be subjugated to France.”
Prince George, like a frightened child, sinks in his chair.
Napoleon, a guard dog alert to sudden danger, straightens in his. “Non! Not so,” he barks. “Have you not heard of the Napoleonic Code? La Code civil des François. It is lauded everywhere in the world.”
Prince George mumbles a reply, “Of course.”
“Oui! Then you know.” Napoleon bolts up from his chair, vibrating with indignation. Incensed that any of us should question his equanimity. “Le Code is the fairest set of laws in the known world!” He takes a general’s stance, bearing down on Prince George who still cowers in his chair. Napoleon does not shout. Instead, he uses a low threatening tone that compels all of us to lean in and listen closely. “This code is welcomed all across Europe. It demands only these two things: justice and peace. Is this not exactly what you wish for your country? Ask your cousins in Hapsburg how they fare under its tenets.”
Napoleon claps his hand on Prince George’s shoulder. “Consider what we can accomplish together, my friend. Eventually, we shall even bring those rebellious colonists of yours in North America to see the light.” The Emperor lets go and paces in a tight path in front of the table. “This code will bring peace to the world—an end of war. Do you not understand? By uniting with me, we will be free to move into the modern age, develop industry, sc
ience. Increase wealth. These are the benefits of peace. And you, Prince George, soon to be King George, you and I, we will stand at the helm—premier leaders of the world.”
He believes what he is saying. Idealistically, it is a pretty dream. Except it is a dream laced with veiled threats. The reality of his ideals will rot into tyranny. It will strangle England, and ultimately the world.
I must speak.
This time, I reach out with a rousing voice, lifting him up, inciting him to strength. “Your Royal Highness, if you sign this, England will no longer be free.” Prince George looks up at me, and I detect an inkling of strength stirring within him. “Under these dictums, you will not be free either. Your Highness will go from being sovereign of the greatest nation in the world, to merely being Emperor Napoleon’s royal subject.” I pause briefly, waiting for the reality to fully awaken in him. “His servant.”
“His puppet,” Lord Kinsworth says, and steps forward, respect for me, glistening in his eyes. He knows our bold speaking will probably cost us our lives, yet he strides forward to stand loyally beside Prince George. “It is beneath you, Sir.”
Lord Harston, too, comes forward to guard Prince George on the other side. “We are your loyal subjects. Yours alone.”
In the ensuing silence, Napoleon whirs with rage, a longsword preparing to strike, and I hear others moving in the darkness of the ship. Rustling like rats, men skittering in the shadows of the deck.
But there is another who crawls through the darkness, and his pulse makes my blood quiver with dread. I feel his malignant power filling the air, drawing nearer and nearer, a silent poisonous fog.
Napoleon wheels on me, anger blasting away all other sounds. “Miss Barrington, do you dare set yourself against me? I thought you understood the price.”
Price.
How crafty his words are—tricky. A sly two-edged sword. Consider the price of defying him, death. But the Emperor also reminds me of the promised reward—the price he would pay me for betraying my friends and my father’s country—a chance to return as a ruler in my own land.
Harbor for the Nightingale Page 23