"Believe me, I didn't know what Charlotte was going to do."
How could she not?
Fleur felt the limbs beneath her hands go rigid. He disentangled himself, easing up onto the opposite seat, his expression tribunal.
"You surely don't think I helped her, Raoul?" She saw his shoulders flex, an answer that was like an earthquake to her composure.
"Stop the coach!" she said, struggling to extricate herself from the nest of rope that had lain beneath her since the city.
A firm hand held her down. "Are you mad?" His voice was controlled. "Give yourself up and we shall both be sharing a tumbril with your dearest Charlotte."
The cold words thrust in like a rapier. The reality that she had tried to hide from stared at her from unforgiving eyes. They were going to guillotine Charlotte. There was no mistake nor forgiveness. Marat, the coarse, beloved, stinking mouthpiece of the people, had been stabbed by gentle Charlotte.
"Raoul, listen, you can claim I stayed hidden until just now or, better, yes, we can wait until we reach an inn and I can make a run for it. You can let them shoot me down." She waited, her breath snared, for his verdict.
His hand released her. "No, I can't."
Now she saw that his pistol lay beside him on the seat within swift reach. His gaze intercepted hers and held it.
"Later," he said disarmingly and she had no understanding of his meaning.
His watch dial, manoeuvred into the horizontal stretch of light, slid back within his pocket. "We'll be reaching another pass control in half an hour." Reaching into the satchel that lay upon the seat, he drew out a small travel cushion and passed it to her. It was followed by a book. "This should secure you some air without being obtrusive."
"Thank you," she whispered gratefully and rearranged her harsh bedding quietly, fearing the noise of the rope across the chassis, and wishing now she had endured her thirst. It was he who lowered the seat gently down upon the literary wedge like a tender undertaker.
And the hours passed, a nightmare of bruising and hooves, her protector's shift of boots and checking of watch, a blessing and an annoyance. Ciel! They should be making this journey as a married couple and not as fugitives.
Across from her, Raoul had reached the decision that if Fleur could survive so far, then she might safely make the rest of the journey. But there were the necessities to be seen to if the lady was to evade detection. Inspired, he crouched again and eased up his own seat, then with great triumph extricated a chamber-pot. The base was crudely daubed with a likeness of Marie-Antoinette but Raoul laid it back in its storage place with a grin, certain that, given a few minutes of privacy, Fleur's royalist principles would definitely not endure. As for his own, he thought grimly, God help him.
Chapter 25
With constant changes of horses and very little sleep save for a few hours at the inn in Lisieux, Raoul's escort were bow-legged, sharp-tempered and exhausted by the time they prompted a noisy welcome from the dogs of the Place Saint-Sauveur in Caen. To safeguard Fleur, the deputy had manipulated the journey so that they would rumble into the city at dusk, and as his weary soldiers tumbled from their saddles in the Place Fonette, the bells of the Abbaye aux Hommes across the way were booming ten. Raoul, who had scarce disembarked from the coach during the entire journey, stepped stiffly down and took a deep breath of the western wind. The evening air was fragrant with the soft smell of haymaking from the prairies beyond the city. His outriders had already ridden ahead to commandeer beds for the escort at the barracks in the old Trinité girls' school, but as he had arranged with Fleur, he made the excuse that he needed to offload his papers at the Palais de Justice, and meantime hustled his disgruntled entourage into the closest inn and set payment on the counter. By the time he returned to the square, his stowaway, who knew the weft and warp of these streets and alleys better than him, had vanished into the darkness.
By morning he had decided his private agenda: to discover the treacherous fisherman who had agreed to smuggle Charlotte Corday across the Channel and arrange for him to carry Fleur. As for his public activities: wearing the formidable expression of a representative of the Committee of Public Safety, he held an informative breakfast with the embarrassed President of the Department of Calvados before marching down from the barracks with a detachment of heavy-footed soldiers in his wake to terrify Caen. His intention was to make a search of all the houses from where the river butted the Church of Saint-Pierre down to the Porte Millet, and particularly around the Rue Saint-Jean.
The morning was hazy and breathless. Smoke from the town's chimneys writhed lazily, the welcome odour competing with the stink of the river mud as Raoul and his company crossed the bridge and disturbed the market.
The town gendarmes met him, all salutes, with an obsequiousness calculated to disguise their bile at this taste of authority from central government. Raoul dutifully rattled his officialdom and let them escort him to the hub of their search, but behind his haughty plumes he was worrying whether his brave, resourceful Fleur was safe.
Two dwellings, No 148, the house of the assassin's aunt, Mme de Bretteville, and the former intendant's house in the nearby Rue des Carmes, where the fugitive Girondins had been staying, had already been sealed up by the local authorities with guards on all the entrances. He hoped Fleur had managed to find refuge at her old teacher's house near the place Sainte-Sauveur at the other end of the city. As for the Girondins, the poor wretches must be shaking in their buckled shoes now that one of their worshippers had martyred Marat. If they were hiding out in someone's cellar, he hoped they kept their heads down.
While his soldiers walloped the doors and forced their way in to inspect each trembling family, the local patriots thought it prudent to demonstrate their loyalty. Over a hundred were parading down the Rue Saint-Jean carrying a bust of Marat like a holy icon as Raoul made his own examination of Charlotte's house. He had perused some of the papers that had already been confiscated and it was clear the murderess and Citizeness Corday of Caen were the same woman. Dear God, he hoped Fleur was safely off the streets. She had said she would find him but... he had so little time. Once Carrier arrived...
He climbed a winding stone staircase and progressed painstakingly through the house. Christ, where was the aunt, Mme de Bretteville, hiding? With family? The girl's brothers were émigrés but Charlotte's father and hunchbacked sister had been brought in for questioning from Argenton, a town to the south, and the farm where they lived had been thoroughly tooth-combed. Raoul doubted the old lady could have gone that far. In fact, he doubted that she had left the city. The neighbour at the back, Major Lacouture, who had pleaded for the Abbé Gombault's life, was an obvious suspect.
"Nothing, eh, citizen?" Wearing his cockade and scarlet cap, the carpenter Lunel who occupied the ground floor looked the perfect patriot. Sawdust speckled his front and a planed curl clung to a shirtsleeve. He straightened from filling a bucket at the pump. "Bad business. Who'd have guessed? Corday gave my little boy some crayons before she left."
"These things happen, unfortunately," replied Raoul with deceptive amiability, eyeing the open door that led to the workshop. "If you're innocent, then you've nothing to worry about."
"I've already answered a score of questions," muttered Lunel. From beyond the low arch that led into the courtyard, the crowd glimpsed movement and began chanting. "See, it's not just my reputation what bothers me, it's m' livelihood. Listen to 'em. They were threatening to torch the place yesterday morning. Do us a favour, Deputy, and double the guard, eh?"
Raoul nodded and, without the courtesy of asking, stuck his head through the door into the joinery. Several rooms led off.
Mme Lunel with a thumb-sucking child on her hip was hard on his heels. "You're welcome to look, but military's been through a half-dozen times already."
"Of course. Don't let me keep you from your work. I'll see myself through."
The woman shrugged and retreated but there was something beyond words that made Raoul susp
icious. The workroom was cluttered. He checked behind the propped joists and planks for a cellar door that might have been missed. The kitchen lay off the workroom but between the two was an alcove curtaining-off the Lunels' bed. The latter was a stout old Norman creation, the cupboard type, with hinged wooden doors that might be fastened for privacy. A box of books lay beside the wooden bed-steps.
"Deputy?" One of his officers stuck his head through the doorway. "You still want us to be looking for pigeon coops as well?"
"Didn't I say so?" Raoul answered sternly, dismissing him. He lifted out a copy of Rousseau's La Nouvelle Heloise but it was the Molière that caught his eyes. His finger stroked across the name of Marie-Anne Charlotte Corday and then he quietly drew the alcove curtain, closing off the workroom, and tried the bed doors. A tasselled nightcap and sweaty nightshirt wreathed one pillow and a discarded chemise half nested beneath the other.
"Madame de Bretteville," he said softly, leaning forward, speaking at the curtain which inexplicably shortened the width of the bed frame. "You are old and I doubt you knew a thing about your niece's intentions. Speak with me and I shall let you go free." Was it imagination or did he hear the old woman's breathing? "Madame de Bretteville, I know you are there." The slight rustle of petticoat had betrayed her even before something cold and cylindrical pressed shakily against his forehead.
"Don't think that I haven't her courage. Jacobin!" Save for her crouching with a rosary clutched in one hand and a cocked pistol in the other, the old lady could have passed muster in a salon: the mourning gown with the same stitching as Fleur's, the silver hair tightly restricted at the nape, the black lappets draping iron-rod shoulders; but behind the spectacles, her eyes were round with terror. Oh God, he didn't need his brains blown out by a frightened seventy-year-old.
"Kill me," he warned in a fierce whisper, easing back slowly, "and my men will haul you to the tribunal and guillotine you with your neighbours watching or—" he lowered his voice further, "we can make a bargain."
The shaking hand lifted the muzzle to her temple. "This is quicker."
"Deputy!" It was the persistent officer again. Oh, bon Dieu, don't let them blunder in here now!
With a finger on his lips, Raoul pushed the panel quickly back up. "Moment!" he bawled. "Have you searched the church yet! Saint-Jean's over the street?" Then he lowered his voice. "Please, madame," he whispered, his cheek against the wood, "your life for a name, the name of the fisherman who was to take your niece to England."
"So you can guillotine him, you bastards."
"No, it's for the woman I love. Fleur, madame. She's here in hiding. I need to get her out of France. This fisherman, if you know his name, help me!" He gestured for compassion, suppressing the urge to drag the wretched soul out and violently shake the name from her. The answer was a despairing sob. Had she no sense of urgency?
"Please, madame." The pistol dropped to half-mast.
"But I don't know his name, citizen. I can't think. Ah... try the white cottage near the gypsies' summer camping ground. Yes, try there."
"At Ouistreham, madame?" Not her fault but it was hard to staunch his irritation.
"I think... yes... the river mouth."
"Thank you, madame. As far as I'm concerned, you have your life. But this isn't over yet. I'd keep your pistol cocked."
Lunel was waiting in the yard with a face that could sour milk, his gaze flicking to a cudgel beneath the centre bench.
With an indifferent expression Raoul resettled his beaver hat. "Be glad I found nothing," he tossed back over an epaulette, and watched the life flood back into the carpenter's cheeks. "I've just one further question. Do you know anyone who keeps pigeons?"
* * *
He spent the next hour interrogating some of the local Carabots, known Girondin sympathisers, who were being held in the castle keep, and then shared luncheon over boned calves' feet in cider and comme il faut tripe with officials of the department in the governor's lodge within the bailey. It was while they were enjoying their coffee that a soldier brought him a message.
"Something interesting?" asked the treasurer.
"Possibly." Raoul shrugged, dabbed his lips dry with his napkin and tossed it onto the table. "A lead, perhaps. Excuse me."
On the steps to the bailey was the boy who was not a boy. With a feather stuck beneath her cockade and a Tree of Liberty badge on her jacket revers, Fleur was blatantly sauntering up and down right under the garrison's very nose. She picked up a stone and skimmed it idly as though bored by the wait. She was damn well supposed to be outside the walls, not tempting fate like a promiscuous doxy. Resisting drawing his features into a thundery expression, he strode down to meet her. Wisely, she didn't snatch off her cap to him but at least tugged a forelock.
"Are you mad, coming here?"
"Absolutely," grinned Fleur, thumbs in her belt. "The view's worth it." Her eyes shone with such engaging delight that his heart missed a beat. "Don't look so stuffy. You are becoming dreadfully prosaic, you know."
"Thank God one of us is," he glowered, trying to keep the love from his voice; even with a streak of dirt on her right cheek she looked adorable. Turning his back to the barracks, he folded his arms. "How the hell did you get past the sentries?"
"I told them you liked boys," she smirked and nearly got smacked for it. "No," she giggled, "mention a message for the 'important deputy from Paris' and they almost scatter rose petals. You look like a cannon about to explode, or is that too much sun?"
"Will you be serious," he growled, resisting the urge to kiss her to sobriety."Look, I've found Madame de Bretteville. She's safe at the moment. No, don't cross yourself! I'll walk you back to the gatehouse."
"God be praised. I'm sure she's innoc—"
"What's more important," interrupted Raoul, acknowledging the salutes as two soldiers passed them, "is that she's given me the directions to the fisherman at Ouistreham."
For a moment incomprehension narrowed Fleur's eyes. "I see," she said slowly as his meaning sank in. "Are you coming with me?"
"To England? No!" His heart ached at the disappointment in her eyes. "I'm no traitor."
"Of course," she murmured, staring at the stony ground and scattering of puddles before she raised her chin stoically. "A patriot to the bone, hmm?"
"Yes," he said firmly, "except for handing over the woman I love."
"Thank God for that exception," she replied dryly, swinging her gaze towards the spires of the Abbaye aux Hommes as if she feared her soul would be laid bare if she so much as looked at him. "So what's to be done?"
"I'll arrange the passage if I can drum up an excuse to meet the fisherman today." His hands twitched behind his back. "I daresay it will be in order to loose my hunting dogs further afield. Don't stay around the Place Saint-Sauveur. We'll have to do a search there as well. You've got the pass I gave you, so what about somewhere safe outside the town? Where can I find you if I need to?"
She sucked her cheeks in as though hesitant in trusting him. "I'll go to the Enchanted Isle."
"And I'm going to heaven. Would you care to elaborate?"
"It's an island in the Orne," she explained, jerking her head towards the south-west. "You take the Falaise road past the hippodrome, but before you reach the rise to the next village, you turn right down the track to the river. There's a quarry. I've hidden there before and I've enough food," she patted her satchel, "to last me a couple of days. Besides, my friends the gypsies may be there. They often are at this time of year. Do I make my own way to the estuary?"
"In two days' time? Can you? If not, somehow I'll get you there," he promised, "but if you don't hear from me within two days, make your way to the cottage—the white cottage, madame said, behind the gypsies' summer camp at the river mouth."
"I know it," she exclaimed confidently. "That's Pierre Birrot's place." Her smile lightened his soul. "Was your luncheon inebriating? You look as though you need a lie-down."
"So do you," he muttered, "preferably with m
y hand making firm contact with your delightful derriere. Don't take any more risks. Are you sure you can get out of the town without trouble?"
"Want to kiss me goodbye? They'll absolutely love it." With a pout contrived to look masculine—perhaps it was the wider stretch of those desirable lips—she held out a palm.
"I'm not kissing that," he said to annoy. "It's far too grubby."
"Payment, stupid." She watched him fumble in his breeches pocket with an extremely mischievous look that conveyed a great deal more. He dropped a couple of livres into her hand. "Do that to me again and I'll—"
"What?"
"Go absolutely crazed."
Aware they had an audience, Raoul half turned to go, making his expression deliberately surly, then swung round once more, sketching her face into his memory. "My darling, whatever happens, know that I love you and will love you beyond time itself."
But not as much as your principles, Fleur protested silently and then instantly regretted such accursed thoughts as Raoul discreetly drew off his signet ring and pretended to put his hand in his pocket again as though she had asked for more money. "I want you to sell this when you reach England." He slapped it into her hand theatrically.
It had been a different ring she wanted, plain and golden. Oh, this would be a hemlock exile. Already, parting from Raoul was like denying life itself. Hunching her shoulders, she kicked sullenly at a stone as though the deputy was berating her. "How I envy fickle France your constancy." But, meeting his troubled eyes, she forced a grin and said swiftly, "No, say nothing back. There's two corporals coming down the path. It's my last role. The patriot widow! France needs you, Raoul, you were lent to me for a little while and for that I shall ever be thankful. Adieu, you are the truest and best of men." Then with a mocking salute and a whoop, she headed towards the gatehouse at a full run.
Raoul nodded indifferently at the passing soldiers like a distracted official with much on his mind, and then he followed the path across the drawbridge. Mounting the great battlements, he stood overlooking the city and let his tears at last blind him.
Fleur-de-Lis Page 48