Fleur-de-Lis

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Fleur-de-Lis Page 50

by Isolde Martyn


  "But it's true, Aunt Fleur." Quettehou took her arm and pulled her to face him. "You should have married me. I'd have looked after you. Tsk, tsk, an old criminal like Beugneux and him." He jerked his head towards Raoul. "Not a good judge of men, are you, ma belle? And your handsome dog there has not got much choice. Return to glory in Paris or die with his whore. Which would you choose?"

  "Of course he must choose France," replied Fleur with cosmetic briskness. "I'm sorry if I seduced him from the straight and narrow. But if you are right about Monsieur Beugneux..."

  "Of course I'm right. You're going to die anyway so why should I lie to you? I was behind the mob attacks but my uncle's death, no. If you ask me, my uncle got wise to his dear old friend, and when he realised his cher ami was using the café for the escapes, he threatened to denounce him. That's why Uncle Matthieu was murdered. And then you arrived, and your deputy started getting too close to the truth and it was his turn to be killed, except it went wrong, and the hired assassins got your brother instead. Such a shame, hein?"

  "Then why didn't Monsieur Beugneux kill me?" Fleur countered. The temptation to slap that insufferable face had to be suppressed; she was watching the two deputies.

  "Because you let him use the Chat Rouge. Very profitable business, smuggling people." Fleur's gaze snapped back to him in horror, remembering M. Beugneux's museum bedchamber. Quettehou was smiling with spidery delight at her confusion. "Ha, you don't know what to believe about any of us, do you? Even him. You're on your own. You always were."

  Yes, she was. The only person you can rely on is yourself.

  "A clever try, you bastard," she answered. "Matthieu Bosanquet condemned you to hell with his dying breath and so shall I."

  * * *

  Raoul wondered what that cul Quettehou was telling Fleur. Not that it mattered. The sea mist was coming up and his unpleasant colleague, with no inkling of the sea's whimsical habits, hadn't even noticed. No, Carrier was too busy lathering him with phrases like "past loyalty to the Republic" and "both committees think very highly of you". Like hell! Saint-Just would be dancing on the ceiling if he were to be topped in Caen, but Carrier suddenly had a painful grip on his arm and the warning the man was trying to deliver was getting through at last.

  "Listen, you young fool! Don't you want to go back to Paris a free man? The chit isn't worth it. You and I have better work to do, rounding up all the Girondin curs and hauling them back for trial. So let me do my job and get this over with."

  "I'm sorry," someone said and Raoul realised it was himself. "And listen, I don't give a damn what the blethering committees think, Carrier. I believe in justice. I'll die for it, if need be. There isn't a shred of evidence that says she's guilty of anything and you know it."

  "So I've wasted my breath." The gold epaulettes rose indifferently. "Let's dispense with the play-acting then. You're a damned idiot and you can die with her."

  Carrier whistled up the soldiers and Raoul found himself viciously shoved across the grass to join the others.

  "I'm sorry, ma mie", he called over his shoulder as they hauled him round to face his judge. "They didn't like the performance."

  "Well, my darling, there's audiences and audiences," Fleur answered, her eyes shining with love.

  Carrier was rigid with national duty but he looked like an undertaker.

  "By the power vested in me by the Convention and the people of France, I hereby find both of you guilty and sentence you to death."

  "What are you going to do? Shoot them?" Quettehou almost danced in his excitement.

  Kill Raoul?

  "No, you can't!" shrieked Fleur, launching herself at Carrier in fury, knocking him backwards onto the grass. The soldiers seized her flailing arms and dragged her off him but not before her nails had clawed a fence on either cheek. Carrier shrugged off assistance and struggled back onto his feet with a thundery countenance devoid of pity. Rubbing a hand down his ravaged face, the man was almost rabid.

  "We'll see if our fellow patriot starts to think with his mind instead of the little friend in his breeches. Shoot the girl!"

  "NO!" Raoul struggled against the cruel arms that held him as a soldier grabbed Fleur by her hair and forced her to her knees. "Find us a priest," he roared. "You can't deny us that."

  "To hear your lies?"

  "No, to marry us."

  Marry?

  Fleur ceased struggling and blinked up at him, her heart in her eyes. "You truly mean it?"

  "Marry? You want to marry her?" Carrier stared at Raoul as if his young colleague were demented.

  Quettehou was Satan at his shoulder. "It's just a ruse."

  "Yes, marry," retorted Raoul, enjoying the shock in their faces. "If I can't save her life, at least I can give her the only gift she ever asked of me—if you'll damn well find us a priest."

  "Oh, I can't give you a priest but I'll give you marriage." Carrier had at last realised the fog that was coming towards them. "Marriage à la Revolution. Strip your clothes off, Madame Bride, and be quick about it." He relished the sudden terror in Fleur's eyes.

  "But that's not—" Raoul jerked back as Carrier slammed the back of a hand across his face.

  "We'll have the clothes off this noble patriot as well. Why not help him, lads?"

  "Yes," Quettehou joined in. "Pretty him up a bit."

  "Curse you, Carrier!" Raoul roared as the soldiers flung him down, grabbed his boots off and started dragging at his breeches and shirt. They might have kicked him to a pulp except that Fleur hastily began pulling off her shirt. The distraction was instant.

  "You'll keep, Deputy," bawled someone and the pack turned scenting better sport. Even the fisherman was rowing in closer.

  "Oh my love," muttered Raoul, scrambling to his feet horrified at her selflessness. Oh, Fleur, no!

  Mesmer could not have given a better performance. Fleur's audience was drooling as she unpinned the towel and slowly unwound it from her breasts. But it was worth her modesty to stop the violence. She tried to forget the soldiers, instead her eyes sought Raoul's, beseeching his understanding.

  Gratitude shone in his face. He understood what she was doing to distract them. Oh, how could she have ever doubted him, even for a moment? Of all the men in the entire world. And the contrary smile, light upon his mouth, was for her.

  Naked as a Roman wrestler, he stood proudly, undiminished by their attempt to shame him. Dark hair wreathed his brow and the wonderful golden eyes, which had magnetised the Convention and stolen her soul, were gazing only at her. Warmed by the love radiating towards her like sunlight, Fleur knew the courage to continue.

  Seductively, she unfastened the right boot, then the left. Shoes would have been more feminine but it was amazing what the flutter of eyelashes with a languorous look could do. Slowly, she untied her garter and peeled down her left stocking. If the fog closed in, then maybe they had a chance. Now the other—

  "Hurry up!" snarled Quettehou, guessing her ploy.

  "Your last chance, deVillaret." Carrier, hands clasped behind his back, sneered, clearly despising the soldiers' weakness, and turned to torment his other prisoner. "A worthy career, a prosperous future ruined, and all for this little bitch. I've a good mind to give her to the—" His voice faltered. Even he was staring now, moistening miserly lips.

  "I've a last request," demanded Fleur, making sure her voice carried. She tried to stand with dignity—Botticelli goddesses did not shiver—playing on the awe that was so briefly her advantage.

  "Raoul, you told me they have a custom in Berri that on the wedding day..."

  Raoul nodded, words beyond him—artist and lover tormented by seeing her beauty displayed to these philistines. If only the fog would veil her. Maybe he could grab one of the muskets... Distract them. Give her a chance to run. They'd shoot blind in the fog. Oh Supreme Being, are you listening? "On the wedding day," she was saying, "the bridegroom comes to the bride's house and fits shoes on her feet. Let him do that, Carrier, and let me die with them on." Of c
ourse! Her boots!

  "How very pathetic," shrugged Carrier. "Well, get on with it."

  Within the hedge of muskets, Raoul picked up her discarded boots, trying to remember which heel the blade was in. The right, of course.

  "Is human dignity so unvalued in our new world?" he asked as though it was the Convention he was addressing. "I pity you, Carrier, if power means more to you than compassion."

  He came to stand before Fleur, and then he knelt with the grace of Paris before Helen of Troy and slid each boot adroitly onto her bare feet. He bent over her foot and, as he kissed it, twisted the boot's heel. "As you love France, citizens," he exclaimed, turning his head to address the soldiers while he palmed the blade, "stand back and give us a few moments to say adieu." It was Fleur who crouched to secure the lacing.

  "Be quick about it!" snarled Carrier. "Watch 'em. We don't want to lose them in the fog."

  The soldiers stepped back, forming a broad semicircle, then weapons ready.

  Raoul's arms enfolded Fleur and he cradled her head to his breast.

  "You have it?" she whispered.

  "Yes." His smile against her hair was bittersweet. "One small blade against a dozen muskets. I am sorry, my darling. I thought to see you safe to the boat not bring these murderers."

  "But you would not have come with me to England?"

  "Fleur." A lifetime was in the sigh. "I love you more than anything on earth."

  But not more than France.

  No time to regret; no time for speeches.

  "Oh, my love, hold me tight!" she whispered, but ungentle hands gripped her forearms, turning her away from the soldiers' stares.

  "Listen to me, Fleur. There could be a way out. Tell them you are carrying my child. They're not allowed to execute you if you're pregnant."

  And leave him to die alone at Carrier's hands?

  "Carrier's offered me my life. A few weeks and I can have you free. Who knows..."

  "Oh, Raoul, can you believe a man like him?" She stared into his eyes, willing him to see sense. "My love, I'm an aristocrat, a friend of Marat's killer. Besides, how long could I deceive them? The moment they realise it's a ruse, they'll haul me to the scaffold. I want you to disown me. I beg you, return to Paris."

  "No! I'll not fight on for men like these, nor for the France that they want."

  "Raoul—" He kissed her and then stepped back, holding her hand. "Here is my cause." He carried her fingers to his lips, then together they slowly turned, hand in hand, to face their executioners. "For the love of God," he cried, "let us get this over with! What in hell—"

  Gunfire ripped across the water towards the boat. Carrier was shouting.

  Pierre Birrot, ordered in under threat of firing, moved the oars with the rhythm of a weary galley slave and was careful to display bland ignorance until he was hauled out to stand with a pistol against his chest while one of the soldiers dragged his boat up.

  "Tie our newly married traitors together!" Carrier ordered the soldiers."Yes, she can keep her bloody boots on. Stick them both in the boat and row out into midchannel, brain them and throw them in.

  "And we'll take this fellow," he drove his fist into the fisherman's gut and laughed as Birrot staggered back, doubled in pain, "back for the guillotine in Caen."

  The mist was all around them now One of the military, improvising, tugged free the leather tie that bound his own queue and with difficulty tied Fleur's wrists to Raoul's so they were face to face.

  "Drowning is so less messy than the guillotine," Quettehou whispered with a leer, his fingers lasciviously stroking down Fleur's neck. "But I should have much preferred to see your head in a basket." She shuddered, her skin goosefleshed beneath that hideous touch.

  Don't be afraid, Raoul's expression told her. The loving kindness in his eyes warmed her shivering soul and she never took her gaze from his as rough hands shoved them down the ragged bank towards the boat.

  "Wait, you cannot execute a pregnant woman!" Fleur exclaimed, whirling round to face the soldiers over Raoul's shoulder; hidden from view, she strained her bound wrists meaningfully. The men closest to them hesitated, looking to Carrier, and in that moment, with the mist closing in about them, Raoul drew the tiny blade through the leather.

  "Pah!" scoffed Quettehou."Don't listen to the lying cow!"

  "Listen?" echoed Carrier with a sinister laugh."I heard nothing so—Merde!" He roared in warning as sinister shapes sprang from the spiky grass behind them like demons from hell.

  "Down!" Raoul shoved Fleur to her knees on the mud.

  "No!" she protested, trying to grab him back from scrambling up to the monstrous shadowplay. The soldiers had one shot each and they would shoot to kill.

  Crouching alone beneath the jut of bank, she mouthed a frantic prayer. A man screamed, as shots, too close, smashed into living flesh. She smelled the powder, heard the ugly smack of wood, the crack of bone, the shouting and then the battle came to her.

  A soldier's body hurtled backwards over her head, thudding down onto the mud. Skewing round, Fleur glimpsed the musket in the dead man's hand. She scurried sideways but as she seized the weapon she heard the splash of boots landing behind her.

  "Raoul?"

  Merciful Christ! She had barely time to adjust her grip as Quettehou brought the butt of a musket down on her like a woodchopper's axe. Her weapon took the brunt but he came at her again and again, each vicious blow driving further her into the river.

  "A moi! A moi!" she screamed but the fighting had moved away from the shore and she faced her greatest enemy alone. The butt slammed into her shoulder; she fell back into the water, unable to shield herself against the final blow and, then, incredulous, saw Quettehou's lips slowly open in astonishment as a cudgel crashed down upon his skull. Gasping in horror, she scrambled aside as her enemy, his face a hideous grimace, toppled to his knees and fell head forwards, lifeless, into the water.

  Behind him, Raoul, his face iron and implacable, faced her. She could only stare up at him as though he was an apparition. For an instant he seemed hewn of stone, and then she saw the rigid lines leave his face and the humanity seep back into his eyes.

  Between them, Quettehou in his scarlet finery lay in the quiet lapping of the water, a rosette of blood spreading from his brow. Wavelets were washing indifferently through the thin strands of hair as though he was no more than any piece of loosened seagrass.

  Silence surrounded them. Somewhere a gull mewed. The encompassing fog was no longer bruised with noise; men's voices, speaking in normal tones, reached her. Not French but Romany, she realised dully. The gypsies!

  "Fleur? Fleur!"

  Raoul's beloved voice restored time to its normal pace, and she let out her breath as he splashed into the water and drew her lovingly up into his embrace. The euphoric realisation that they were still alive burst over her and she began to cry with shock, wild, racking sobs that she could not stop. With his arm around her waist, Raoul helped her back up onto firmer ground. Her face was against his naked breast, her shoulders shaking.

  Someone had found her clothes and, sitting her down amongst the grasses, Raoul crouched, dressing her as though she was a little girl again. She sensed rather than heard the words of endearment as he held her tight, and the tears finally dried to salt upon her cheeks.

  "Mademoiselle?" Paco, the gypsy leader, striding up behind them, indifferently flung Raoul's clothes to him; his concern was all for her. Fleur climbed to her feet and gratefully embraced him, aware now of his fellow Romanies moving like ghosts through the mist, turning over the soldiers who lay unmoving in the grass.

  Pierre Birrot loomed up beyond them. "We've found the other deputy. He is still alive."

  "Show me!" Shivering now the fight was over, Raoul, half-dressed, dragged on his shirt and flung his jacket about his shoulders as they crossed the marsh to where a man lay spread-eagled, his face in the rye-grass.

  "Shall we kill the bastard?" the Romany leader's son asked, toeing Carrier, his knife ready.
>
  "No." Stooping to retrieve his rapier, Raoul wearily shook his head. "No, citizens, strip him and carry him to the road, then, in God's name, move camp! Shift your families out of Calvados as fast as you can."

  "Shift him yourself," Paco retorted, edging his son aside. "Equality, pah!" He spat at the ground contemptuously.

  "As you please," retorted Raoul, flinching at their loathing of his authority. Fleur crept beneath his arm in a show of unity, sliding her arms about his chill waist before she spoke to them in their language, thanking them again and begging them to follow his advice and flee from Normandy.

  There was a soft rumble of reply. The Roma chief lifted his jaw at Raoul.

  "It doesn't matter to us who rules your country, Frenchman." We shall still be outcasts, his dark eyes told them. "We did this to help our friend, the mademoiselle." Then, with a salute to Fleur, he left and the others followed, bearing their wounded comrades.

  "We should go, citizen. The tide—" Birrot warned, edgily peering about them. "The soldiers who ran away may return."

  "Moment!" Raoul swiftly knelt, methodically tying Carrier's wrists and ankles using his stock and one of his stockings. The other he bound about the deputy's mouth. "Thank God for the sea mist," he muttered and, rising, set a hand beneath Fleur's elbow. "Eh bien, let's go."

  And pray God the boat was still there, thought Fleur. Running blindly behind Birrot towards the sound of the river, her heart was in her mouth but no blue uniforms surged out of the greyness to threaten them.

  With a thanks-be under his breath, Birrot sprang aboard and took the oars. Raoul swung Fleur into the boat and then, as she settled in the prow, she realised he had not climbed aboard, that he was standing, his mind like Janus, his heart...? Did he believe himself a traitor to his beloved France?

  "Come on, citizen. Make haste if we are to join my larger boat! Cast off!"

  Oh merciful Christ, surely he was not going back to Paris?

  "Please," she said, trying to keep her voice even as she realised the tempestuous struggle raging in Raoul's soul. She did not dare to breathe now, knowing that this moment might indeed be farewell and she might never see him alive again. And then she heard it, the tiny beat of wings. A pair of sandpipers dipped briefly into sight and were gone. But the words were there now, the certain hope and love that might draw him into her arms.

 

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