The Silver Blade (Bk. 2)

by Sally Gardner

  ‘Is he a young man?’

  ‘Who?’ said Mr Tull.

  ‘Your master.’

  ‘No, he claims to be as old as Charlemagne.’

  ‘Is he the Silver Blade?’

  Mr Tull was beginning to feel too tired to be bothered with any more questions. He yawned and said, ‘Let’s talk about something different. Have you a sweetheart?’

  ‘Lots,’ said Anselm quickly. ‘No, really, Mr Tull, I am interested in what you have to say, honest I am.’

  ‘Sure you are. I’m just going to close my eyes. You should do the same,’ Mr Tull muttered. His French was never good at the best of times.

  ‘Who is your master? What’s his name?’ asked Anselm.

  Mr Tull’s lids closed over his eyes and his head lolled forward as a drunken sleep began to overtake him.

  Anselm, desperate now to know, asked again.

  ‘Your master, what name did you say?’

  Gently, Mr Tull began to snore.

  Anselm was having none of it. He shook him and asked the question again.

  More asleep than awake, Mr Tull said, ‘My master is the devil.’

  Chapter Four

  If you were an owl that evening, swooping over the wind-tossed trees, you would see with your round wise eyes the château of the Duc de Bourcy and the surrounding woods spread out beneath you. And there, where the trees are thickest, you might catch the glimmer of a light bouncing from one bare branch to another. And if, from curiosity, you were to fly closer still, you would not be surprised to see Mr Tull driving his hired cart and horse, with the butcher sitting hunched beside him while Anselm, feet dangling, sat at the back. They were making their way unobserved, or so they hoped, towards the château.

  The success of these robberies lay in Mr Tull’s ability to plan for all emergencies. In this alone he was neat and methodical. The cart carried blankets, a saddle, some rope, pistols, an axe and his house-breaking tools wrapped in a leather pouch. Never did he undertake a job without an accurate layout of the château he was going to raid. This one had proved easy. A servant who had once been in the Duke’s employment had furnished him with detailed plans.

  Mr Tull and his two accomplices saw the work they did as a necessity, not so much breaking the law, more supporting the Revolution. After all, Citizen Loup and his son were thought of as heroes in their community. If tonight they were to stumble upon anyone who was pig-headed enough to stand in their way, they would kill him without a moment’s regret.

  The three were soaked through and none of them was in a particularly good humour, each for very different reasons. Mr Tull had drunk more than he should have and his head was throbbing badly. Anselm was fed up at having to leave the innkeeper’s daughter, who had so willingly given of her kisses. As for the butcher, the pain in his chest was even worse.

  ‘You got everything you need?’ asked Mr Tull as the cart came to a halt. ‘The clocks, remember the clocks. Tall ones, small ones as long as they’re ornate. And don’t forget the paintings, of course.’

  ‘Shut up, you fat gutted dog,’ said the butcher. ‘We’ve been over this more times than I care to say. What, you don’t trust me? Think yourself better than me, do you?

  Think I wouldn’t recognise the hen painter?’

  ‘No, no. And the painter’s name is Poussin,’ said Mr Tull.

  ‘I don’t care what the scum was called. Be careful how you talk to me, citizen. Remember, rosbif, we’re all equal.’

  ‘And I’m an Englishman.’

  ‘You’ll be a dead one if you don’t shut that potato trap of yours.’

  Mr Tull felt rattled. Never had the butcher been quite as touchy as he was tonight. The horse snorted and stamped its hooves.

  ‘Keep that animal quiet, rosbif, if that’s not too taxing a job for you.’

  The butcher pulled up the collar of his coat and stuck his favourite pig-killing knife into his belt, muttering to himself as he walked towards the château.

  ‘All this wealth in the hands of the stinking rich, who’ve done nothing for it but feed off the carcasses of the poor.’

  Anselm laughed.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ said the butcher, turning on him.

  ‘Nothing, nothing, pa. I just agree with you, that’s all.’

  The butcher’s rage was more with himself than anyone else. The pain in his chest was worse than ever. He waited outside by the window, keeping a lookout, while Anselm went round to the main door.

  Locks had never been a problem. Anselm enjoyed breaking them and had found ways to make even the strongest yield. With the use of a few good tools he managed to open the ornate carved door. Once inside, he stood in the hall, listening to see if anyone was awake. Calmly he lit his lantern and stared at the plans.

  The large double doors at the end of the hall creaked loudly as he slipped through them. For a moment he wasn’t sure he was in the right room. Lifting up his lantern he could see quite clearly that it was empty. There was not a clock, not a painting or a stick of furniture to be seen.

  Outside, the butcher was impatient to get started. Seeing a light through a crack in the shutters, he tapped on them.

  ‘Hurry up, what are you waiting for? I’m half frozen out here.’

  Anselm forced the window open. The butcher, unlike his son, was not light on his feet and the din he made heaving his ample frame over the windowsill was the noise that gave them away.

  Yann had been standing by an upstairs window. He saw a light flicker in the trees, then disappear. ‘Come here, Didier,’ Yann said. ‘What do you see?’ Didier stared into the darkness. ‘Nothing. But I don’t have a good feeling about this business. Never have had, not since I first heard that creature howl.’

  ‘Shh!’ said Yann. ‘Did you hear that?’

  ‘What?’ said Didier. ‘This place makes more noises than a creaking galleon. Which one of the many in particular caught your attention?’

  They both stood stock-still, listening.

  Now Didier heard it as well. ‘Maybe it’s a servant who couldn’t sleep, just—’

  He stopped. This time the sound was unmistakable. A window had been forced open and the noise was coming from downstairs. Yann moved quickly towards the door.

  Didier went over to his knapsack and brought out his pistol. ‘I tell you this much: I’ll be mighty pleased to see dawn.’

  ‘So will I,’ replied Yann, opening the door. ‘You stay here, I’ll go and see what’s going on.’

  The butcher took the lantern and looked round the room.

  ‘Where’re the clocks, then?’

  ‘That’s what I wondered,’ said Anselm. ‘Do you think we’re too late and the Bluecoats have been already?’

  ‘No,’ said the butcher. ‘Mark my words, the tyrant of oppression has taken his furniture upstairs. I’ll go and investigate, and you go back and get that thick-skulled rascal Tull here now. We’re going to need all hands on deck.’ Anselm climbed out of the window and had started to make his way towards the cart when he heard a muffled shout. Turning, he saw the room ablaze with light, more light than ever one lantern could make. Silently he moved closer, pistol in hand, the trigger pulled back. Peering round the side of the window he saw a young man standing by the door. Anselm quickly pressed himself against the cold brick wall before daring to take another look. He had a strange feeling that he had seen this person before. He didn’t stand a chance against his pa, whoever he was.

  The young man was unarmed and the butcher charged towards him, wielding his pig-killing knife, ready to split his head open like a watermelon. Anselm felt a thrill of delight at his father’s power and the inevitability of it all.

  Then something happened, something that Anselm couldn’t fathom, that went against all logic. For a start, the young man didn’t move. He didn’t duck or dive as the butcher came for him. Far from it. He had a smile on his face and his hands raised before him like a conjuror. In that instant the butcher’s knife was snatched from his grasp and,
instead of landing with an enormous clang on the floor, it hung suspended in midair.

  Anselm felt something he had hardly ever experienced. Fear. It crippled him and fascinated him. He watched in awe as his father’s feet left the ground, lifted up as if by some invisible threads.

  And then the memory, diamond bright, came to him: on the parapet of the Pont Neuf on the first day of the September Massacre he had seen this very same young man, in a sky-blue coat. Like an avenging angel he had unleashed an invisible force causing knives and axes to fly from their owners’ hands; a man had been lifted high in the air and thrown into the mob. In the mayhem of that moment he had childishly believed in the impossible, before the grimness of the bloody day crushed all such infantile thoughts. Now, witnessing this magic close up, he knew he would give his soul to possess such power.

  Never had Anselm been so aware of his own mortality as he was in those few seconds before his father’s diseased and swollen heart burst. The butcher’s lifeless body was left hanging, a worthless lump of meat.

  Didier, pistol drawn, rushed down the stairs the minute he heard the commotion, followed by the Duke. They entered the chamber ready to do battle and froze when they saw the butcher, his head lolling and his eyes glassy with fright. Blood trickled down his chin and dripped on to the polished parquet floor.

  ‘He’s dead,’ said Didier, looking up at him.

  ‘All I did was suspend him,’ said Yann.

  ‘He must have had a heart attack,’ said Didier, closing the window and pulling to the shutters.

  The Duke stared at Yann as if seeing him for the first time. He bowed deeply. ‘I hope you will accept my sincere apologies for my rudeness to you earlier. I would never have imagined that one so young could wield such power. I see now that Cordell did indeed send me his best man.’

  Anselm, wet and trembling, crept away until he reached the nearest copse. The wind blew and the rain fell. Shadows loomed and Anselm’s heart was in his mouth. Too terrified to move, he pushed his nails deep into the bark of a tree trunk.

  A howl pierced the night as a crack of light broke through and the hope of a new day could be seen. Anselm, frightened out of his wits, stood rigid as he saw on the ground the shadow of a mighty hound, black as coal, liquid as molten iron, before it vanished among the trees, chasing the tail of darkness. With rain and sweat rolling down his face and in a blind funk of panic, he finally saw the light on the cart.

  Mr Tull was feeling very uneasy waiting there. He took a swig from his flask to steady his nerves. What the hell was keeping them?

  ‘My pa’s dead,’ said Anselm.

  Mr Tull nearly jumped out of his skin. ‘I didn’t see you coming. What did you say?’

  ‘My pa’s dead.’

  ‘Think you can make a fool of me, you double-crossing rogues?’ He jumped down, grabbed Anselm by his muffler, and pushed him against the cart. ‘You think I buy your meddlesome mischief?’

  Anselm gasped for air. Mr Tull had a strong grip.

  ‘No, no, honest, I tell you he . . . Pa was . . . it was like he was hanging on an invisible rope! I ain’t making it up, honest I ain’t, and I tried to get here sooner, but I think there’s a wolf out there.’

  At the word ‘wolf’, Mr Tull let go. Anselm pulled the muffler from round his neck so that he might breathe better and seeing Mr Tull untying the horse from the cart cried, ‘Wait! Don’t leave me all alone, please!’

  Mr Tull, now stone-cold sober, put the saddle on the horse, grateful that he had had the foresight to bring it with him.

  ‘What’re you doing?’ said Anselm. ‘We can’t leave my pa like that.’

  Mr Tull, ghost white, said, ‘You sure it was a wolf?’

  ‘Yes . . . no . . . I don’t know. It was a shadow . . . but my pa is inside there, dead.’

  ‘A shadow,’ Mr Tull repeated to himself as he mounted.

  ‘Please, Mr Tull, what are you doing?’

  ‘What does it look like? Getting out of here while I still can. If you value your life I advise you to do the same.’

  ‘But what about—’

  Mr Tull wasn’t listening. He had already started off at a gallop.

  The storm was dying, the sky striped ruby red. Anselm, his nerves torn to shreds, walked, baffled, towards the breaking day.

  Chapter Five

  From the colour of dawn next morning one might have suspected the gods of fighting a gargantuan battle, wounding the sun itself, for the sky ran blood red, saturating the earth in scarlet. In this raw new day, Didier carried the body of the butcher like a slab of meat on his massive shoulders.

  They buried the butcher under the rotten floorboards in the derelict dovecote, among white discarded feathers and dried-up bird droppings. Only the wind heard them, only the crows saw the butcher’s final resting place.

  ‘May the Lord have mercy on him,’ said the Duke.

  ‘And may the worms be spared the blackguard’s foul flesh,’ added Didier, brushing the mud from his coat.

  Yann said nothing. He knew there were no words to save the butcher, for he could see, standing among the pink of the beech trees, the ghosts of his many victims. Like the dawn itself, each was stained blood red. They stood watching, waiting, ready to greet their murderer. Yann doubted the butcher would find peace eternal beyond the grave.

  The household was already awake by the time they got back, muddy and wet. The fires had been lit and hot chocolate, bread and butter waited for them on the table.

  Yann took no notice of these niceties. He didn’t even take off his coat. Instead, he asked for three of the Duke’s fastest horses to be made ready, so they could leave without delay.

  ‘Surely you will eat something?’ asked the Duchess.

  ‘There is no time,’ said Yann. ‘We should have left over an hour ago. If we fail to make the tide, the boatman won’t wait for us and all hope of escape will be lost.’

  The Duchess understood the need for urgency. She embraced her husband, both gathering courage, as their sons were brought down the stairs by their nurse, Marie.

  The Duke stepped forward and without a word led the little boys towards the front door. At that moment, Louis, realising something was wrong, broke free. He hadn’t said goodbye to his mama. He ran to her, sobbing. Hugo too, anchored himself to his mother’s waist.

  ‘I want to stay, Papa, please let me stay,’ said Hugo. ‘I will look after Maman.’

  The Duchess, her eyes filled with tears, did her best to reassure the boys that all was well. Still they clung to her, knowing it wasn’t.

  Didier shrugged his shoulders and looked at Yann as if to say, ‘Now what?’

  Yann knelt in front of little Louis and turned the small tear-streaked face to his.

  ‘You know you must be quiet,’ he said gently. Louis nodded and, fixated by those deep dark eyes, stopped his crying. A sleepy calmness overcame him.

  ‘You know you must be brave,’ continued Yann.

  Louis nodded and put his thumb in his mouth, letting go of the folds of his mother’s pale-blue, watered-silk dress, his small handprint like a treasure shadowed there. He leaned his head on Yann’s shoulder. Yann lifted him and handed him to Didier.

  Then he knelt again and, cradling Hugo’s face in his hand, stopped his crying. Didier carried them both out of the hall and down the stone steps to the waiting horses.

  The Duchess watched, tears running down her face. She handed Yann a long thin rag of patchwork.

  ‘Louis is fond of it,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

  Yann went down the steps two at a time, mounted his horse, took hold of the reins, and checked that all was as it should be. Didier had Hugo in front of him, just as the Duke had little Louis.

  They set off at a gallop. Only at the gates did the Duke glance back at the château and say, ‘How did it come to this?’

  Last night’s storm had brought down branches, filling the roads with debris, so for safety’s sake they went by untrodden paths beside furrowed fields a
nd stagnant streams, through empty forests, the horses’ hooves sounding like a drumbeat as they galloped over the moor where the sky was vaster than the land.

  Yann stood in his stirrups and breathed in, feeling at one with his horse, relishing life.

  I have seen too much of death. I have seen too many good men defeated at the guillotine. And what has been gained by such senseless waste? If the tree of liberty grows out of bloodshed what rotten fruit will it bear?