Lord Philip's Christmas

by Michele McGrath

  Grace looked at Antoine for an explanation of this cryptic remark but he shook his head slightly so she did not ask the question. It was only later that she realised that someone who has been guillotined loses his height when his head is chopped off.

  “Has anything happened to him?”

  “Roughed up a bit when he was arrested; nothing more yet. Dupré himself is going to make him sweat but he’s not in Paris, at the moment. Won’t be nice when he returns. What’s he to you, anyway?”

  “He’s a friend and he’s innocent.”

  “They all say that.”

  “This time it’s true. I have a proposal for you, Monsieur, but not here. Is there anywhere we can talk privately?”

  Herbin rose. “Come with me.”

  He took them to some rooms in a building a little way from the tavern. The place was even dirtier than the tavern but Grace hardly noticed. She sat there in a state of fright that she had never experienced before. Oh, why did I ever wish for an adventure? It was so wicked of me. If we manage to get out of this one, then I hope I never have another!

  “How much money do you want to help my friend escape?” Antoine asked.

  Herbin named an enormous sum.

  “I can’t pay a quarter of that,” Antoine replied and the two men started to haggle. Eventually a bargain was made and Herbin gave them his instructions. He would wait for them here while Antoine and Grace fetched the money, a parcel of women’s clothes and a cart. Grace was also instructed to change her ‘la-di-dah’ dress for a simpler one which would not be noticed or remembered. They returned to find Herbin waiting for them as he had promised.

  “Where’s my money?” was the first thing he asked as he stood in front of them with his hand held out.

  “Not on me,” Antoine replied. “It’s in a safe place. We’ll go and get it as soon as Louis is released.”

  “You’d better. I’m a bad man to diddle.”

  “I don’t intend to cross you. All I want is my friend. What do you need us to do?”

  “First of all, tie those clothes around the woman’s belly under her frock, so she looks as if she’s big with child. There’s a man next to your friend who’s going to lose his head in the morning. The doxy he lives with has permission to visit him before he croaks. If this woman cries her heart out, nobody will look at her closely and I can get you both into the cell. Once there, your friend puts on a dress and I escort two weeping women out instead of one. Think you can do it?” Herbin shot a look at Grace.

  “Give me a raw onion and I’ll guarantee to weep like a watering-can,” she promised.

  The next hour was extremely nerve wracking for all of them. Both Grace and Antoine were nervous and Herbin was impatient as if he wanted to get the affair over and his money paid as quickly as possible. Grace surprised herself with an unexpected ability to act. She waddled up to the entrance of the Police Ministry in the painful gait of a woman very near her time. She hung on Antoine’s arm, sniffing the fumes of the onion until the tears poured down her face into the dirty clout she had been given. Unfortunately, she could not see the faces of her audience but had to rely on Antoine. He guided her along corridors and down steps. She heard a few people ask where they were going and Herbin’s replies but no one stopped them. They climbed down several stairs until a revolting odour met her nostrils. She thrust the onion away from her nose. She no longer needed it. The acrid smell made her eyes water without any help. Then Herbin came to a sudden halt and she heard the creak of bolts being drawn and a door opening.

  “Inside, quickly,” he said.

  Chapter Seventeen

  When Philip came to his senses, he was lying on dirty straw in a room with little light and an evil stench. He had a throbbing headache and his right side ached. He pulled himself into a sitting position and gingerly touched the back of his head. His hands felt sticky. He could not remember when he had been hurt or how he had come to this strange place. His tongue was rough and he was desperately thirsty. He peered around and saw a flagon on the floor near the door. He crawled over to it on his hands and knees. The fluid it contained was gritty, but water had never tasted so sweet. He took a couple of gulps and poured some of it over the back of his head. It smarted and he grimaced at the sharp sting but, when he opened his eyes again, he could see more clearly. What little illumination there was trickled through the gaps between the door and its frame. There was no sign of a window. He tried the door and found, as he expected, that it would not open. It did not have a keyhole, so it must be fastened on the outside, probably by bolts. He felt dizzy after trying to open it, so he sat down again and tried to decide where he must be. A cell certainly, but where and who had put him there? Gradually his wits cleared. He was in a prison of some sort. The memory of his conversation with MacDonald came back to him. I thought he believed me, but obviously not. I know of no one else who has a reason for imprisoning me, now that Staunton is dead. Thinking hard and fighting his dizziness had made his head throb again. He lay down and drifted off, thinking that that he must find a way to defend himself, when his pain lessened.

  Noises in the corridor woke him up. Footsteps came closer and stopped. A creaking and the door was pulled open letting in a light that made him screw up his eyes in protest. Someone’s foot hit his side but he bit back a groan. Better to let whoever it was think that he was still unconscious. A hand fumbled and pressed his neck. He heard the man grunt. Wood slammed against metal and everything went dark again. He sat up. His visitor had been trying to find out if he was alive, that was for sure. Since he was, they would be coming for him soon to question him, unless they simply left him alone in here to die of starvation. He shuddered at the thought. Very carefully he forced himself first to his knees and then to his feet. Another drink of water. He stumbled along the walls, pushing and probing the stones until he reached a corner which reeked even worse than the rest of the place. He gagged, unwilling to investigate further. Another round of the cell and a futile attempt to force the door open. Then, nerving himself and trying not to breathe, he made a careful search in the foetid area. Nothing. He wiped his hands on some of the straw, feeling sickened but at least now he knew. There was no way out. His only hope was for somebody to open the door and attack them. He settled down to wait.

  More noises. Shuffling sounds and a woman crying. He rose, his heart beating wildly, and stood to one side of the opening. Were they stopping? Yes! He braced himself as the bolts were withdrawn. A man entered and Philip threw himself forward catching him on the shoulder and sending him spinning into the cell. He did not stop to see the chaos he had created but lunged into the corridor. He managed two steps before hands caught him and a voice said,

  “Philip, it’s me, Grace.”

  His mind did not seem to be working. Grace? Surely not here, in this foul place? He twitched himself free again but others grasped him and forced him backwards into the cell.

  “Louis, do as we say. We’re here to rescue you and there’s very little time.”

  “Antoine?”

  “Yes. Don’t ask questions. Put these clothes on.” His jacket was dragged off, none too gently. Something was hauled over his head and his arms were wrestled into sleeves. The garment was tugged down while a cap was pulled onto his head. A cloak was thrown over his shoulders and the hood pulled up.

  “He’ll do,” a voice he did not recognise said. “Give him half the onion.”

  “Onion?”

  “To make you cry,” Grace said. “Trust me. Hold on and stoop down. Sob and wail as if your heart is breaking. Do it now!”

  He did trust her, so he obeyed. Then they were out into the corridor. Grace held one arm and Antoine the other. Someone with a lantern walked ahead.

  “Now cry!” Grace pinched him. “Sniff the onion.”

  His tears started to flow. Grace was sobbing beside him and giving out little moans. He tried to imitate the sounds she was making.

  “Hold the clout up to your face,” she whispered.

&n
bsp; They halted for a few moments while the man with the lantern talked to someone, then Grace urged him forward. Light fell over him and he buried himself deeper into the clout. Some steps, another door opening and they were out into the street. The clatter of hooves and the noise of wheels. He was pushed onto a cart and Antoine climbed in beside him. Philip’s legs tangled in the cloth around his ankles and he fell on the rough boards. He scrambled up hurriedly as a foot stepped on top of him. The cart jolted into motion. It turned several corners and stopped.

  “Where’s my money?” the man who had held the lantern asked.

  “Here, take it!” Antoine tossed something that clinked at him.

  “You louse! My wits must have gone begging. I should have searched you before I put my head under the blade!” The man fumbled with the string.

  “It’s all there; I haven’t cheated you. Get out now. You don’t want to be seen with us. Forget we ever met. If you tell what you know, I’ll make sure you meet the widow-maker before I do.”

  The man spat out an oath and leapt down from the cart. The reins were left dangling so Antoine hurriedly caught them, took his seat and drove off.

  “I’m not dreaming, am I?” Philip asked, taking Grace’s hand and squeezing it.

  “No, you’re not dreaming,” she replied, stroking his cheek. “Are you hurt?”

  “A lump on my head, that’s all. I’ve had worse.” A little while later he asked, “Where are we going?”

  “To my friend’s place where you stayed before,” Antoine replied. “Victor should be there already. We had to find him, because neither of us had enough money to pay that scélérat what he demanded. Victor’s been going around all the prisons and had only just returned to Marco’s. We were lucky he did or you’d still be in that cell. Be quiet now, keep your head down while I drive.”

  Philip was only too happy to do so, for Grace cradled him in her arms for the rest of the journey. Victor was indeed waiting for them and so was Marco. Both of them embraced Philip and then complained bitterly about the stench. After they had eaten and drunk some wine, Antoine bound up Philip’s head and inspected his arm.

  “You’ll live. You have a hard skull, mon ami,” he told him.

  “Is he fit to travel?” Grace asked anxiously.

  “Better he travels with a headache than be caught. He won’t take any harm.”

  “I’m going to come with you,” Victor said. “I don’t want to stay in Paris and if I go home, I might bring trouble down on my parents. After this little escapade of yours, I’ll have to hide myself for a while at least.”

  “What about you, Antoine?”

  “I never go anywhere near the Ministry of Police and I live on the other side of the city. Herbin is a stranger to me and I doubt I’ll see him again. If I take care, I should be safe enough and I don’t want to leave my studies unless I have to.”

  “Marco?”

  “I, too, intend to stay. The authorities will find out that I employed you, sans doute, but they may not realise we’re such close friends. I can discuss your mastery of the art of fencing until they beg me to stop and then I’ll send them after you in entirely the wrong direction.”

  “Don’t get into trouble protecting me.”

  “I won’t. I’m an ignorant fellow from Italy. Why should I care about politics? Swordsmanship is my trade, nothing else. As you know, I have also made certain friends who are high in government circles, whichever faction rules in France. That’s how I’ve survived and prospered all these years.”

  Philip nodded. “I’m sorry to be leaving you, mon ami. I’ll miss you.”

  “And I you, but if times change, we’ll arrive on your doorstep one day. Giulia tells me she’d like to see London.”

  “Come soon,” Philip smiled. “I shall keep you to that promise.”

  “We’d better leave in the morning and travel to the north,” Victor said, to relieve the emotion of the moment. “Valenciennes first and into the Low Countries, then a boat from Dunkerque or Ostend to England. Three or four days at best. Italy’s too far and Spain’s still in turmoil after all the fighting last year. I don’t want to go east and involve the family any more than they are already. We must get you over a border as soon as possible. If we’re stopped and arrested, I doubt they’d bother with a trial. A quick bullet’s more likely, and God help Grace if they do. The army’s moving north and there’re lots of people following them as usual. With luck the guards won’t notice us in all that crowd.”

  Eventually Marco and Antoine left the three travellers to sleep for what remained of the night. Philip embraced them both and then he held out his hand to Antoine.

  “Thank you, Antoine. I owe my life to you and Grace. Perhaps one day I can repay you.”

  Noises. The babble of voices and the carriage drew to an abrupt halt. Victor pulled down the window and stuck his head out.

  “What’s happening?”

  Grace’s fingers tightened on his. “We’re at the Porte de la Chapelle. Keep your head down now.”

  Philip tugged his hood over his face. He was still dressed in women’s clothes although these once belonged to Grace and were both more elegant and cleaner than the rags he had worn before. A long black cloak covered the fact that the fastenings in the back of his dress bulged alarmingly. Grace put her arms around him and pulled his head onto her shoulder. Philip wished he could enjoy the nearness of her, but he could not help thinking If they are looking for me, they will stop us here. He could feel Grace’s tenseness even as she stroked his cheek.

  “What’s wrong with that woman?” someone asked.

  “My sister has just lost her son from the flux,” Grace replied. “I’m taking her to her home.”

  “Get her away from me!”

  A gabble of talk ensued and then with a jerk the carriage rumbled on, leaving the pavé for the dirt road. They travelled for some leagues, made a sharp turn and stopped.

  “This is as far as I go,” the driver said. He climbed down from the coach and began to turn the horses.

  “Where is the halt for the stagecoach?” Victor asked.

  “Over there,” the man pointed with his thumb. “You can buy tickets at the inn.”

  Victor helped Grace and Philip to descend and then pulled three valises from the box.

  “Don’t say anything,” he hissed to Philip. “Follow Grace.”

  Grace picked up one of the valises and took his arm. Together they went out of the courtyard and walked along a winding pathway.

  “This’ll do,” Grace said. “Take these, Philip, and put them on behind those bushes. Stuff the dress into the valise but wear the cloak. I don’t think anyone saw us closely and from a distance a figure in a cloak can either be a man or a woman.”

  Still shaken from his sudden release and the journey, Philip did not ask any questions. After a short time, he emerged in the slightly shabby livery of a footman. He found that Grace had also made some changes. Gone was the rusty bonnet and shawl. She looked what she was, a gentlewoman of straightened means.

  “Good,” she said when she saw him. “Until we cross the border, you are Ned Baker, my manservant. How clever of you to include servants in the passport you sent to me. When we get to the inn, rub soot in your hair to disguise it. Sandy hair is unusual enough to be noticed. Pull up your hood and shiver as if you are ill, so no one will come close to you.”

  “If I do, nobody will want me there at all.”

  “Don’t worry. Victor brought enough money to overcome anyone’s scruples.”

  “I must owe him a fortune, as well as my life.”

  “You do, my lord.”

  “Isn’t it fortunate that my estate is rich? That is, if I am ever able to claim it.”

  “You will. After all, you promised to make me your countess and I shall hold you to your word,” she laughed. “Act ill now. We’re here.”

  The landlord looked at him askance as they came into the taproom.

  “What’s wrong with your man?” he as
ked.

  “A cold in his chest, that’s all. A hot toddy, if you please, and a night’s rest and he’ll be all right in the morning.”

  “Well, keep him away from me. I don’t want to catch anything from him. I’ve a business to run.”

  “If you show me his chamber, I’ll take him there.”

  “I was going to put him in with some others but if he’s ill, he can have the room under the eaves. Come with me.”

  It was a cubbyhole with no window and festooned with spider’s webs. A straw mattress and some empty sacks lay in one corner. Grace sent for a pitcher of hot water and the toddy. The landlord brought it, not without much grumbling. As soon as he was gone, Grace examined Philip’s wound, bathed it and wrapped it in some linen torn from her petticoat. Then she made him lie down and covered him with the sacks.

  “If you can sleep, you’ll feel better,” she said.

  He caught her hand and held her. “There’s other things to do than sleep, when we are alone together like this.”

  “Now I know you will soon be well. Ask me again when you don’t have a cracked head and have not escaped from gaol.”

  She kissed him on the cheek, rose and hurried away. Philip was surprised that he felt sleepy but neither the closeness of the room nor the scrabble of tiny feet in the thatch could keep his eyes from closing. It was not until Victor shook him that he awoke with a start. Sunlight shining through small holes in the roof gave him enough light to see his strange surroundings.

  “Where are we?” he asked.

  “At an inn off the road to Valenciennes. The stage leaves here in a few hours. Get up. You’ve enough time to break your fast and make yourself into a respectable servant. The way you look now, I wouldn’t hire you!”

  Philip scrambled to his feet and caught his cousin by the arm.

  “Victor, I haven’t told you how deeply grateful to you I am. I will try to pay my debts as soon as I can.”

  “You would have done the same for me.”

  “I would, but whether I would have been so successful is uncertain.”

  “You must thank Grace, for much of the planning was hers. I envy you, Louis. She’s an admirable female, far too good for you.”