As he speaks, the cruel sharp lines and the full sails of the Redoubte come into view at the mouth of the estuary, silvered by the moon. Behind it, as yet concealed by the headlands, a line of ships stretches out.
“Should we ready our cannon, just in case?” Montenot asks. Fort James is a bare half mile away and the big twenty-four-pounders of Fort Charles would smash it like a fist.
“They will not fire,” Thibault says. “And I have no wish to see the fort damaged. It will be mine soon enough and I would rather not damage my own property.”
On the other side of the estuary, the longboat reaches the shore and the two British soldiers run for the safety of the stone walls.
“And if they do fire?” Montenot asks.
“Then, as I have said, I will feed them to my girls,” Thibault says. “But they will not fire.”
A few moments later the Redoubte reaches Fort Charles, already furling its sails as it heads for the point. The captain salutes up at Thibault, who returns the gesture and watches with interest, but without concern, as the ship approaches the guns of Fort James.
There is only silence from the dark walls on the far side of the estuary.
The remaining ships of the French fleet now approach the shore. Ship after ship passes the fort, each lowering its sails as it turns past the point and moves on to the docks beyond.
Thibault turns to Montenot and permits himself a smile.
“Our first prize in the island kingdom. I want the ships unloaded as quickly as possible. We must make haste for Cork.”
WENZEL PARK
Willem stands anxiously at the gates to the estate, under the lamps that adorn the huge pillars on either side. The first light of morning is just coloring the sky to the east. The earl’s man, Ethan Arbuckle, stands with him. He holds a lantern in one hand and a leather tool case in the other.
Willem hears the carriage before he sees it. It is traveling quickly, from the sound, but not overly so, which would not be safe in the dark, in the mist, on a road of loose stone.
Eventually the curtains of fog peel back and the carriage emerges through them, as if arriving onstage.
Big Joe is driving, his face covered with blood. Frost sits next to him. The carriage slows as it pulls between the gates, then Arbuckle and Willem close the great metal gates behind it.
Willem runs to the side of the carriage and is horrified to find it still locked.
“She is still caged?” he asks.
“I am sorry, Willem,” Frost says, stepping down from the carriage, feeling his way. “I did not know how she would react to her freedom. I did not want to lose her again in the streets of London.”
“So you made her endure the cage even longer,” Willem says.
“We did not have the key, Major, nor time to waste,” Big Joe says. He climbs down also.
Willem calms himself. His nerves are tense, more than he had realized. “Of course. I was not thinking.”
Arbuckle has already set to work with the metal saw on the padlock that fastens the cage. The rasp of the fine teeth on the steel of the lock makes a high-pitched grinding sound.
Willem climbs up onto the driver’s seat and opens the narrow slot into the cage. “Héloïse,” he says softly. “It is Willem.”
A low animal growl comes from within.
“You are safe now,” Willem says. “You will never go back to that terrible place.”
Silence.
Willem waits for a moment, then steps down. He reaches for Frost’s hand and shakes it, then shakes Big Joe’s hand also. “Thank you, gentlemen,” he says. “I am greatly in your debt.”
“It was worth it just to see the look on that old doctor’s face,” Big Joe says with a laugh.
Willem laughs with him, then says, “You still have blood on your face. Best clean it before Héloïse sees you. She has been distressed enough.”
Big Joe wipes some of the blood off his face with a finger, and licks it.
“And nice-tasting blood it is,” he says with a grin. “But it is blood of the tomato, not of a man.”
“Did you pay the city folk?” Willem asks.
“They all got their coppers,” Frost says.
“And Harry?”
“Will be safely back in the barracks by now. Jack will have seen to that,” Frost says.
“It was a well-crafted illusion,” Big Joe says, wiping his face with a rag.
“A sight to be seen, Willem,” Frost says, reminding Willem, whether he intends to or not, of the young lieutenant’s affliction.
“What the eye does not see, the mind imagines,” Willem says. “And the mind sees with a clarity that the eye can never hope to achieve. The illusion was only ever in Monro’s mind.”
“I wonder what will happen to him when he tells people of dinosaurs roaming the streets of London,” Big Joe says.
“They will think him delusional,” Willem says.
“Perhaps he will end up admitted to his own institution,” Frost says.
“We can but hope,” Willem says with a laugh.
There is a crack from the direction of the carriage and the padlock falls free. Arbuckle starts to slide the bolt on the cage, but Willem stops him with a hand on his arm.
“I would ask you all to step well back,” he says. “Your presence may make her nervous.”
The grins and excitement of the night’s events fade rapidly as Willem opens the door to the cage. It is dark inside and there is no sound or movement. He gestures for the lantern and, when it is handed to him, eases it forward between the bars.
Héloïse is huddled in a corner, her arms entrapped by the same thick straitjacket that she wore on the spinning chair. Her head is turned away from him and her short hair is matted with blood. The side of her face is badly bruised. Willem suspects that their actions that day had earned her a beating.
“Héloïse, it is Willem,” he says. “You are safe now.” The words sound thick, heavy, and inadequate. His eyes run freely as he stretches out a hand toward her. Still she does not move.
He climbs into the cage with her and touches her shoulder. She shudders and pulls farther away.
“Héloïse, it is Willem,” he says again. She must know him, he thinks. Whatever she has been through, she must recognize his voice, and know who he is, and what he once did for her. Can she have retreated so far inside herself that there is no way back?
He reaches for the buckles on the straitjacket and she does not pull away. One arm comes free, then another. The garment falls to the floor. Still she will not face him.
“Héloïse,” he tries again.
Abruptly she launches herself at him, hissing like a wildcat. He stumbles backward. One foot catches on the edge of the doorway and now he is falling, landing on his back on the mercifully soft grass that adjoins the cobblestone driveway. He is winded and struggles for breath. She has fallen with him, straddling him, fingers clenched into claws, jagged fingernails ready to strike.
“Stay back!” Willem warns hoarsely as Arbuckle moves to pull her off him.
He lies still, making no effort to defend himself, breathing heavily from the fall and from what he is feeling.
“Héloïse, I’m sorry,” he says.
Without warning the claws disappear. Her arms snake, lightning fast, around his neck. She pulls her face down to his and the next thing he feels are lips, soft and moist on his own. He has time to notice their warmth, and the heat of her body, cradling his, then she is gone in a blur of movement, disappearing into the forest.
The others approach and Willem wipes away tears before they become visible in the lamplight.
“Should we search for her?” Arbuckle asks. “The woods are unsafe at night. There are dragonrats in the undergrowth and pregnant adders near the pond. The stags too. They grow more aggressive as the rutting season approaches.”
“The place she is safest is in the woods at night,” Willem says.
“What would you have me do?” Arbuckle asks, looking at th
e trees where Héloïse disappeared.
“Please do nothing,” Willem says. “Leave the girl entirely alone, and instruct all your servants and groundsmen to do the same. Leave some food in a place where she will find it, but do not be concerned if she does not eat it. She can forage for herself.”
“Willem, we should get back to the barracks,” Frost says. “Before too many questions are asked.”
Willem nods. “Mr. Arbuckle, please thank the earl for us. I will return tomorrow and wait for Héloïse to emerge from the forest, although I fear that may take some time.”
“Your horses are ready,” Arbuckle says. “And this terrible carriage will disappear into one of our stables.” He smiles. “It will make a fine hay cart with a few alterations.”
“Will she be all right?” Frost asks, staring at the dark trees. He does not mean in the forest.
“I pray that she will,” Willem says.
He can still taste her on his lips and he thinks that the taste of a woman is not altogether unpleasant. That and the strange sensations in his belly make him wonder if there is more to their connection than that which is seen. Perhaps fate has bound their paths together from that day, when they were both so young and he saved her life.
He wonders if perhaps this half-crazed wild girl is the one he is destined to spend his life with.
His next thought is of Cosette.
THE ROAD TO CORK
The bodies of two British soldiers lie beside the road. One is facedown in a ditch in a jumble of contorted limbs, the other lies on his back, his eyes closed as if sleeping. They were messengers, sent by Fort James to warn the garrison at Cork Harbour. When they were intercepted by French troops, their warning died with them. Their fast horses are now in the service of the French Army.
The first of the artillery rumbles past the two bodies. A team of six horses pulling a gleaming twelve-pounder cannon, followed by three caissons of ammunition. These are followed by another cannon, and another, a seemingly endless train of men, horses, and weaponry.
The artillery is preceded by the cuirassiers, descendants of the medieval knights. The tallest, strongest men, on the tallest, strongest horses, resplendent in their shining armor, heavily armed with carbine, pistol, and saber.
Following the artillery, at a distance so as not to spook the horses, are battlesaurs—beasts such as have never been seen in Ireland before. Nearly twenty feet tall, lumbering along on two giant rear legs, with jaws full of jagged teeth that could swallow a man whole, controlled by riders using a contraption of cords and wires.
As dawn breaks, the teams of horses stop on high ground above the harbor. The invaders pull the cannon around to face the British ships anchored below them and unlimber, making ready to fire. Linstocks are lit, gunpowder is rammed. Cannonballs are loaded.
Sailors on the ships of the British fleet below them awake to screams from Fort Camden, which overlooks the harbor, and a short time later are shocked at the sight of a French flag flying over its walls.
Scouts from the ships retreat under volleys of musketfire.
Suddenly the HMS Bulwark, anchored in the middle of the harbor, near the small second British fort on Spike Island, begins to unfurl its sails. A captain brave or foolish enough to make a run for the safety of the open sea.
* * *
Thibault smiles. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the heavy stone parapets of Fort Camden.
“Your gunners know what to do,” he says, watching the British vessel’s desperate dash for freedom.
Already the corporals in charge of the gun crews on the heights above the harbor are traversing and aligning their cannon. On a signal from the fort, the guns speak in unison.
Most of the cannonballs miss, but a few cut through the rigging and sails of the Bulwark. The French corporals are adjusting their aim, the spongemen are swabbing out the barrels, and the bombardiers are reloading the guns.
The cannon on the ships do not respond. They do not have the elevation to fire up at the hills.
The second cannon volley is more accurate and a deadly hail of iron balls smashes into the Bulwark. Twice more the cannon sound, then they fall silent at another signal from Thibault.
There is no need to waste any more shot. The crushed wreckage of what is left of the ship is already slipping beneath the surface.
“Raise the parley flag,” Thibault says to an aide. “We will accept nothing less than their unconditional surrender. That includes the fort on Spike Island. And send a messenger to Napoléon. Tell him that England is ripe for the plucking.”
He turns to Montenot. “Ready the saurs. As soon as the British ships strike their flags we will ride for Ballincollig. Let the battlesaurs lead the way.”
“Lead the way, General?” Montenot asks. “You don’t wish to hold them in reserve?”
Thibault shook his head. “When the cavalry at Ballincollig see my fine young ladies, they will melt away into the hills. The battle will be avoided. And if not, then my girls will have a fine feast of horse.”
CONFINEMENT
Cosette waits as the guard’s footsteps draw close by the door to their cell, then gradually recede. Since shortly after her return, the whole encampment has been in an uproar about the disappearance of Sergeant Belette. She and Marie Verheyen have been confined to their cell, a guard posted outside day and night. This is the first time they have been left unattended.
She had come under suspicion herself; however, nobody in the French camp seemed able to believe that a young, slender girl could have had anything to do with the demise of a tough old boot like Belette. She has dared say nothing that might reach the ears of the guard, although she has indicated with gestures to Marie that she has news.
When she hears the door at the end of the corridor open and shut, and the click of the lock, she moves quickly over to the square hole in the stone wall, the airhole that connects their cell to the one adjacent. Marie moves to stand next to her.
“I saw François yesterday at the rock pool,” Cosette says.
Marie gasps.
“The son of the priest?” The voice of Maarten Verheyen, Willem’s father, sounds hollow through the narrow airhole that leads to the other cell.
“Yes, him,” Cosette says.
“So he escaped Gaillemarde?” Maarten asks.
“He did, and saved a number of the children of the village,” Cosette says.
“God bless him,” Marie says.
“Where has he been for all these months?” Maarten asks.
“I do not know, monsieur,” Cosette says.
“Was he responsible for Belette?” Maarten asks.
“He was,” Cosette says. “Belette attacked me at the pool. François saved me.”
“Saved you how?” Marie asks.
“We shall see Belette no more,” Cosette says. “But there are more important things to discuss before the guard returns.”
“Did François bring news?”
“No news, but perhaps hope,” Cosette says. She makes her own voice small, to conceal the excitement she feels.
“What did he say?” Marie asks.
“He confirms that Willem is alive,” Cosette says.
Marie gasps and places a hand on the wall for support. “God is merciful,” she whispers.
“I told you this was so,” Maarten says from the other side of the wall. “Why would they keep asking you about him if he was dead?”
Marie seems not to hear him. “François is certain?”
Cosette looks around sharply at a noise from outside, but it is nothing but the breeze. “He says Willem, Héloïse, and some British soldiers escaped through passages, caves, underneath the forest, that the emperor’s men do not know about,” Cosette says. “Then Willem used some kind of illusion to vanish from under the emperor’s nose.”
Maarten snorts with laughter.
“The boy is his father’s son,” Marie says, with clear affection for them both.
“The boy is now a man,” Ma
arten says. “And one to be proud of.”
“It is true,” Marie says.
“These passages,” Maarten says. “Could we not also use them to escape? Can François help us?”
“Even he does not know the ways through the caves,” Cosette says.
“We must let Willem know where we are,” Maarten says.
“You must not involve our son in our plight,” Marie says. “He is safe somewhere. Let him stay that way.”
“Safe?” Maarten asks. “How can he be safe? The emperor’s men hunt for him everywhere. They will not stop until they find him because they fear what he knows.”
“He has sense,” Marie says. “He was trying to reach England. He will stay there and be safe.”
“He will not,” Cosette says quietly.
She is conscious of Marie turning slowly to look at her.
“He will hunt for us,” Cosette says. “For you, and for me. He has fire, your son. He will not stop searching.”
“And England will not be a safe place for him,” Maarten says. “The guards talk every day of the invasion. Soon England will be just another of Napoléon’s conquests. Then where will Willem hide? We must get word to him. We must let him know where we are.”
“But how?” Cosette asks.
“François,” Marie says.
“He does not know where Willem is,” Cosette says.
A cockroach crawls slowly along the small air passage between the two cells.
“Sofie Thielemans knows where Willem is, or at least how to reach him,” Marie says. “I gave Willem her name when last I saw him in Gaillemarde.”
“That was wise. But we cannot involve her in this again,” Maarten says. “It is too dangerous.”
“You fear for your old teacher, yet are prepared to risk the life of our son!” Marie says, and she weeps silently.
The cockroach emerges from the hole and begins to climb the wall. It crawls across Marie’s hand, but she does not seem to notice. The wind stirs again in the corridor outside the cells. Cosette examines the sound for any hint of the guard returning.
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