The stairs were beside the wall of the command deck and the port stern, and a bulkhead screened it from the forward sections of the ship. There was, therefore, an open path to the rowboat. Patrick jumped into it, and in a moment they were rowing furiously toward the shore. The soldiers did not see them and it was not until the third watch went down that their escape was discovered.
Before them lay the harbor city of Bordeaux, then in its prime. Unlike Eden, it was not arranged according to any general plan, but had sprung up according to chance. The streets were narrow, and the buildings often only a few feet apart. The architecture was not trite, though it seemed so when compared to that of Eden. The buildings were mostly of brick or rough stone, and the poor houses of wood. The roofs were flat with an open space on top, forming a small porch. The wealth of a man added to the height of his house, and therefore to the position his upper deck took in proportion to the others: the upper, middle, and lower classes.
The streets were crowded with citizens, and even if they had been pursued they could have easily disappeared into the tumult. Patrick led them in the rowboat and onto shore. From the docks they had to pass through a long customs house; it was there that Leggitt took the lead. He passed the soldiers with a confident wave and the young officer on duty did not stop to question him.
“He is well-received, indeed,” Patrick whispered to de Garcia.
“Yes, but do not worry, for we are in France. Gylain has no power here and Leggitt is wise enough to choose where we will seek refuge.” Then, to Leggitt, he continued, “Where will you take us, friend?”
“To the home of an acquaintance. He is a man of power, who can supply us as we need; but he is not powerful enough to know of our situation.”
“He served Gylain with you?” Patrick asked.
“No, for he is Hibernian.”
Patrick’s face clouded over. “Indeed? A man of authority?”
“Somewhat, but all authority is under another. His position would mean little to an English peasant, as you claim to be.”
“Let us not feud,” de Garcia broke in, “Will peace leave us suspicious, where slavery left us amiable?”
“You are right,” Leggitt said, and his face was impermeable. “I do not suspect Patrick – how could a man of my background? But having been so long in a position of authority under Gylain, I have heard many things in connection with the name Patrick McConnell. To tell the truth, I had a great respect for your actions.” He paused, then continued with a sigh. “Your conscience led you to action, while mine led me to treason, to spying.”
Patrick sighed as well, “My conscience did not lead me, but my heart and my pride.”
“You both speak riddles in my ear,” de Garcia said, “For I have been imprisoned these last nine years, and when I last walked free Patrick was but a boy. Who are you?”
“No one,” he replied. “I have been a lover and a warrior, and now I am an exile.”
“Then you are not unlike me, for my youth was spent in passion as well.”
“And strength,” Leggitt answered. “You underestimate my memory, de Garcia, if you think I do not remember your martial greatness. I am a man of the sword, and I cannot but honor your skill with one.”
De Garcia sighed and looked to the sky. “It is my turn to be ashamed,” he said. “For skill with the sword is an unfortunate talent.”
With that, the three men fell silent, unable to escape their memories as easily as they had escaped their prison. Such is the way of life.
Chapter 50
The three escaped prisoners walked the crowded streets of Bordeaux: Leggitt on the right, de Garcia on the left, and Patrick in the middle. On either side the simple buildings crowded over the road, leaving little space for pedestrians. Still, the passers-by made room for the three men to pass, for they had the carriage of warriors.
“You should reconsider your disgust of women, Patrick,” said de Garcia. “They are fickle, perhaps, but that is their charm.”
“A charm for some,” replied the latter, “But can one love the dust, which is thrown about with every gust of wind?”
Leggitt smiled, “I feel the airs of a rejected man.”
“Rejected, betrayed – does it matter?”
“Not in time, and you are young,” de Garcia looked into the sky. “When I was young, I was the same.”
“As was I,” Leggitt said, “But for now, there is the house we seek.”
He pointed to a large mansion that stood at the intersection between three roads, about a mile from the harbor. The harbor itself was segregated from the rest of the city by a row of buildings, the walls of which served as fences or barriers. These surrounded the entire harbor, pushing outward until culminating in the customs house: the only thoroughfare between the harbor and the upper city, as it was called. From the customs house one main road led to the upper city. It split when it reached the outskirts of the palace district, and the mansion rested right in this branch, and thereby overlooked all who came and went from Bordeaux via the ocean. It was for this reason that Leggitt’s friend – an agent of the Hibernian King – kept a place in Bordeaux. During the season that the king spent there, the man could spy without discomfort.
The mansion was surrounded on all sides by a garden, and beyond that by two rows of houses. Its second floor tapered as it grew taller until it became a single tower. Because of the taper, it was not a perpendicular fall from the tower, but a forty-five degree incline. At this time in history, Atilta had been trading with Japan and the Far East for many years. There had been a certain degree of influence on the architecture of Europe, therefore, and this mansion was modeled after a pagoda. Its roof was made of a slippery tile from inland China, its edge bent sharply upward at the edges to prevent water from flowing over the side. They were, in effect, ramps the water could not cross.
A figure could be seen looking out of the tower. Only Patrick was able to see it. He stumbled and came to a stop in the center of the lane, until de Garcia turned to him with a questioning look. Then he mumbled something incoherent and ran up to the others. Yet his face remained dazed, as if he had been struck over the head with surprise.
In a moment, they reached the house. Leggitt led them through the dense garden – cultivated to separate the mansion from the lane – and up a flight of stairs to a doorway that stood ten feet from the ground. He knocked three times and the door was opened by a servant.
“Yes, monsieur?” he said, and his graying eyebrows rose slightly.
“I am searching for the Chevalier de Braunign, de Casanova.”
Upon hearing his comrade speak, Patrick’s face lost what little color it had. He stepped back faintly, hiding behind de Garcia.
“This is his residence,” the servant said, “But he is not in Bordeaux at the moment.”
“Yes, he is,” answered Leggitt. His eyes flashed with impatience.
“No, sir, he is not. I must remind you that I am his butler, not yourself.”
A voice from the inner hallway interrupted him. “Brovil, what is the matter?”
A moment later another man appeared in the doorway and the servant stepped aside. A column blocked de Garcia’s face from the newcomer’s eyes; Patrick was hidden behind de Garcia.
“Leggitt,” he said, “I did not know you were in France. Gylain is indeed busy, if he has both you and Nicholas Montague here.” He paused. “The King of Hibernia knows nothing of your missions, however, and I was surprised when Montague did not stop to debrief me.”
“His mission was too urgent. I was sent for that purpose, de Casanova,” he gave the man a close look, and it was returned with double intensity.
After a pause, the man replied, “Very well, come in.” He disappeared into the house and beckoned them to follow him, though in his haste he did look at either de Garcia or Patrick.
Leggitt and de Garcia entered behind de Casanova, but Patrick hesitated for a moment on the threshold. He looked at the tower and whispered to himself, “I will ha
ve my revenge!”
The inside of the mansion was as imposing as the outside, and it was entirely isolated from the bustle of the city beyond its walls. The door opened into a spacious hall, floored with finely-polished mahogany boards and walled with a white plaster; a table stood in the center of the room, with two large volumes and a quill pen upon it. Besides this, the room was elegantly bare. The hall was rounded, reaching its apex in the center of the room some fifteen feet from the ground. The walls came down in a sharp, parabolic angle, extending inward three feet from the ground to create a shelf that wrapped around the interior. It was only broken by three round corridors, each with a doorway inside, some ten feet down. Only the first was open and a glass room could be seen through it, overlooking the garden.
De Casanova led them directly through the open passage without turning to see the two men who walked behind Leggitt. He was a tall man and carried himself with authority. His hair was short and uncombed, but kept in the perfect position by some unknown force. His face was long and narrow: an appearance enhanced by his beard, which was, in fact, no beard at all. Rather, the area of his face around his mouth and chin was carefully shaven, while a beard of sorts grew from the bottom of his ears to his cheeks. This rendered his appearance two-fold: from a straight angle, the side-beard or side-burns made his face seem altogether narrow, and his nose the same; from the side, however, his face seemed wide, and his nose long. These two faces were only connected by his pine-tree eyes, sharp and of the darkest green.
“I did not expect you, Leggitt,” he said, still walking before them with his back to de Garcia and Patrick.
De Garcia walked cautiously, keeping his eyes about him and fingering the dagger he had taken from the armory. Patrick boiled. His face grew more heated with every step as he stared upwards – as if his sharp eyes could pierce the ceiling and see into the tower above.
“It is of no matter, for we will only stay a moment. I am to join Nicholas immediately, but as we left in such haste, we must ask for your support.”
“In gold?”
“Indeed – we must be supplied.”
“Of course; but tell me, when did Nicholas return? I had not heard.”
“It was only days ago.”
Yet, as Leggitt spoke, de Casanova turned as he reached the table and found himself face to face with de Garcia. “De Garcia!” he cried, stepping back against the glass wall and drawing the longsword from his belt.
The untrimmed Spaniard stepped forward, dagger in hand. “So it is – surrender or be slain.”
“He is mine,” Patrick cried from behind de Garcia, and he thrust him aside and onto the floor in his passion. “The Hound of Hibernia is my own prey, de Garcia!”
“Foolish youth!” de Casanova laughed. He raised his wrist and dashed forward at Patrick with his sword extended.
Patrick rolled to the side, standing again only as de Casanova charged past him. There was a suit of armor beside him, standing in the rounded corner. With hardly a glance, Patrick’s hand shot down and disarmed the statue, taking the sword for himself.
“Where is she?” and he jumped forward, putting himself before de Casanova, who had returned from his overzealous charge. “I will have her; as surely as I will have your throat.”
Patrick lunged forward at the stately de Casanova and gave him a sharp downward blow. But the other caught it firmly on his own blade and discarded Patrick’s sword with a quick turn of the wrist. Leggitt and de Garcia stood to the side, unable to help for the moment for lack of swords, though they searched around them for blades for their own use. De Casanova smiled slyly and laughed at Patrick, hoping to anger him to rashness before his friends could deliver him.
“Miserable youth!” he said. “She left you of her own accord.”
“If so, then you have but to let her answer for herself.”
“She does not deserve the pain which your sight will cause her. She has memories.”
“As do I.”
Their parrying stopped and they stood still for a moment, staring at each other: with contempt for the other and passion for the mysterious woman. Then de Casanova came forward and knocked Patrick’s blade to the left. The youth laughed and returned the blow with double force, his feet shuffling forward and his hand resting loosely at his side. He burst forward with a series of successive blows, and with each one de Casanova was forced back until he came against the windowed wall.
“Now will you bring out Lydia, you jailer of the innocent?” asked the heated Englishman.
“No,” and de Casanova returned Patrick’s advance blow for blow until they reached the opposing wall and it was Patrick who found himself caught.
“Now,” continued de Casanova, “Will you withdraw your accusations against my honor?”
“That is not possible, as you have no honor,” Patrick cried, parrying his opponent’s blow.
De Casanova had barely recovered when Patrick struck him again. Yet this time de Casanova dodged by jumping to the left and kicking a chair toward Patrick. The latter stumbled and only raised his sword again in time to stop de Casanova’s fierce blow to his head.
Until this point, Leggitt and de Garcia were only spectators, unable to assist their friend due to a lack of arms. As he searched for something to use as a weapon, Leggitt happened to glance out the window into the garden, which was bounded by the streets of Bordeaux on two sides and a row of houses on the third. He saw a party of soldiers coming up the street, hurrying to the house of de Casanova. Leggitt grabbed de Garcia’s arm and nodded toward the soldiers.
“Am I blind, or is that Vladimir?” he asked.
De Garcia looked for a second, then he fell back and cried out, “It is – he comes to report to de Casanova.”
“The rouse is played,” Leggitt said.
“And we must vanish,” and de Garcia leapt forward into the battle, grabbing the shield from the suit of armor and bashing de Casanova against the glass wall. He crashed through and was knocked unconscious by the fall. While the noise of the crash did not attract the attention of Vladimir and his soldiers, they still came toward the house at a double march.
“Come, follow me,” shouted Patrick as he rushed out of the room. The others followed.
They passed through the round corridor and into the entry hall again, where the butler was just coming in as well, from the left passage. Patrick grabbed him by the collar and demanded, “Where is she?”
The butler was too overcome by surprise to answer, or else too witty to be taken easily. Either way he did not answer and Patrick, in his haste, knocked him upside the head with the broad side of his purloined sword. He fell in a swoon and the zealous Englishman leapt over his body, running down the corridor from which the butler had come. It went ten feet before it ended into three doorways, one in front and one to either side. Patrick first went forward, but the door led only to a dressing chamber beyond. So he took the leftward door, behind which was a steep stairway leading to the second floor. Patrick was halfway up the stairs before Leggitt was upon them at all, and only de Garcia delayed to bar the door, which he did with a plank from the stairway. As he did, the soldiers outside could be heard knocking at the door.
“Hurry,” de Garcia yelled forward, “They are here!”
Those words – however intended – could not give Patrick any greater haste, for by this time he was at the top of the stairs and furiously kicking the door down. The second floor was a single room, beginning as an open chamber and quickly tapering into a narrow spire. There were three vertical divisions of the room, each open to those below by a circular hole in the center. Through these holes the trap door that led to the tower could be seen. That was the highest room of the tower, and was entirely closed off from the lower divisions.
Patrick paused for a moment to wait for his companions, then the three men climbed the ladder that connected the divisions or sub-floors. After a moment they were underneath the trap door. Patrick – full of ardor – pushed a table underneath it, then
jumped up and began to push, for it was locked from the inside.
“This door will not be opened,” said a sweet, feminine voice from above, “Not to you or your filthy master, the king.”
“Lydia!” Patrick cried “It is I!”
“Patrick! Have you burned your way through France as well?”
“I would burn my way through Hades, my love. But open, for there are soldiers below.”
Lydia did not hesitate and the trap door was soon removed, opening the passage to the attic. As it was pulled aside, a fair head came down through the opening, searching for Patrick. He was found; she smiled. Lydia was beauty, a true Hibernian divinity. Her hair was the red of a closed eye looking to the sun, and it fell past her shoulders with a slight curl. Her eyes were mismatched – one of hazel and the other azure of a dark blue. Her skin was light, almost pale, and her nose was slightly pinched at the end. Her lips projected from her face, but even with their shape were rather small. They were held with a graceful poise.
“Royalty cannot defeat love,” she smiled, her hazel eye looking at Patrick. She turned her head, then, and her blue eye came to face him. “Yet without love, royalty is but tyranny.” She laughed and disappeared into the tower.
Patrick leapt up behind her, but turned when he was in and faced his companions. “Come up, it is our way of escape.” They came, and when they were in, Patrick continued. “Close the door and seal it,” and they obeyed without question.
“Now,” he went on when they were done, “Do as I do.” He turned to the window and looked out upon the buildings below them. “I think I know how to escape!”
Chapter 51
“I know how to escape,” Patrick said. He stood at the window facing the harbor and the houses which bordered the narrow garden. As he spoke, he pulled a wooden panel from the wall, three feet long and two across. It was made of chestnut wood, tempered with alcohol to make it tender and bendable – for the wind charged in from the harbor and the tower was designed to give way without breaking. “Do as I do,” Patrick said.
Lydia turned to him with her blue eye; and while the hazel eye had looked upon him with tenderness, the blue was laced with scorn. “Does the child have an idea?” she asked with a sneer, “Does the poor, innocent child have an idea ? Do not delay on my account, young one!” and her blue eye burned, though her hazel eye remained placid.
The Forgotten King Page 30