Clash of Empires

by Brian Falkner

She makes her way silently back to the small cave she has found. The shelter is not even big enough to be called a cave, really. Just a jutting overhang of rock on a small tributary of the stream.

  There she skins the rabbit with a sharp stone and strips off the flesh, pounding it with a heavy rock to soften it before eating it, raw, with burdock root. She rounds off her meal with a handful of blackberries.

  She discards the carcass of the rabbit and places the rest of the meat back into the skin, wrapping it tightly and tying it with string-like reeds before placing it on the bed of the streamlet, secured by heavy rocks, where the water will keep it fresh. It may even attract some river fish, and she has a sharpened twig ready if it does.

  Hunting, gathering, and fishing: these are second nature to her. She does not have to think, to decide. She just knows. It is just as well, because her thinking has not been clear for many days. Vague memories of the spinning and beatings have been fogged by black clouds across her mind. It is as if she is hiding in a deep cave and the world is somewhere at the mouth of it. But she does not want to go out there. There is only terror and pain. Here, in her cave, it is safe.

  Yet still something draws her toward that light, and as the sun starts to go down she finds herself walking on one of the paths that humans have cut through the forest. Humans. She fears them. Animals, even the dangerous ones, can be trusted. Some can be trusted to attack you, others to run from you. But they are predictable. Humans are not. She does not understand them and she fears what she cannot understand.

  She stops at the edge of the forest and stares toward the big house, where the humans live.

  She is both drawn to it and terrified of it.

  Eventually the force that draws her forward overcomes that which holds her back and she starts to walk, scurrying silently from shrub to shrub, seeking what shelter she can as she slowly makes her way toward the house.

  THE MESSENGER

  The day is clear and warm. The sunshine falls softly onto Cosette’s skin as she makes her way to the rock pool.

  For a week they have been confined to their cells, toileting only in the pail, unable to bathe. Food has been the most basic.

  Finally, after six days of confinement, Cosette, and only Cosette, has been allowed outside.

  She is especially careful. She waits in the trees outside the gate for a long time to see if anyone will follow her. Nobody does. Even after that she stays silent in the forest, listening for any noises that would indicate someone hiding in the trees.

  Only when she is certain she is alone does she make her way up to the bathing pool. She washes quickly, and washes her dress also, putting it back on cold and wet, before sitting on a rock in the sunshine and waiting to see if François will arrive.

  She is about to leave, not wanting the guards to think she has run off, when she hears a quiet cough and turns to see François standing on the other side of the stream.

  “I am pleased to see you,” he says.

  “And I you,” she says with a small dip of her head.

  “And surprised,” he says. “They have kept you locked away for many days.”

  “Because of Belette,” she says.

  He nods his understanding.

  “Do you know how to contact Willem?” she asks.

  “I do not,” he says. “I have seen nothing of him since the escape.”

  “A shame,” she says.

  “If I knew how to contact him, I would,” François says. “I am sorry.”

  “There must be some way to find him,” Cosette says.

  François shakes his head. “There was a lady and a man who I think was her son. They helped us when we got to Antwerp. Perhaps they know something.”

  “Can you talk to them?” Cosette asks.

  “I do not know their names,” François says. “Nor where they live.”

  “If I told you their names, could you find them?” Cosette asks.

  “Perhaps.” François shrugs.

  “You must tell no one,” she says.

  “Do you not trust me?” François asks.

  Cosette smiles. “I know you would not aid the French, but even if captured, and tortured, you must keep this a secret.”

  “If captured by the French, I would say nothing,” François promises.

  Cosette hesitates a little longer, then says, “I should not tell you this. I am going against the advice of Willem’s parents.”

  “Then do not,” François says. “You should not break their trust.”

  “I must,” Cosette says. “The woman’s name is Sofie Thielemans.”

  “Do you know her address?” François asks.

  “I only know her name,” Cosette says, without any idea what she has just done.

  CHANGE OF PLANS

  “You told them what?” Willem cries.

  “Do you not want to rescue your mother and your beloved?” Frost asks.

  “She is not my be…” Willem trails off, gritting his teeth. “You propose to send just four of us against an army. Perhaps you should have discussed this with me first!”

  “The plan is different now,” Frost says. “We no longer go in with great force, hoping to overwhelm the defenders. Instead we will use subtlety and quiet. We will sneak past the guards, extract Cosette and your mother, and blow up the entrance as we retreat. The French will not be able to follow us.”

  “And if we encounter dinosaurs?”

  “Then you will deal with them.”

  Willem opens his mouth to retort but shuts it without speaking.

  He sits in the small library, in an armchair that is far too big for him. He has been living in the earl’s luxurious estate for four days, ever since what Frost calls the Night of the London Dinosaur. Frost thought it best to have him out of the way in case Monro came looking for him.

  Frost has just returned from Whitehall, traveling separately from the earl, who stayed to attend another meeting.

  The manor house, the largest building on the estate, seems a palace. The bedroom Willem has been given is just one of many on the second floor, yet it is larger than his entire house at Gaillemarde. There are maids to make his bed, draw his blinds, and empty his chamber pot. Every meal is a feast, prepared by a team of people in the kitchen. It is a world beyond anything he could have imagined.

  But even that thought gives him pause. His own family was wealthy once. His father, Maarten, a magician, a darling of the courts of Europe, particularly Napoléon’s. But that was when he was just a baby.

  Had they lived in a house like this, with servants and butlers, and cooks to prepare their meals?

  He thinks of his mother scrubbing in the kitchen bakery at their cottage in Gaillemarde, and he wonders what it must have been like to descend from comfort and luxury to a life of constant work and hardship. All because of the wrath of the French emperor, once he felt Willem’s father had betrayed him. The more Willem pictures his mother, up to her elbows in flour, soot from the oven blackening her forehead and lips, the more he misses her, the more he hates Napoléon Bonaparte, the more the waiting becomes unbearable. If facing the dinosaurs is the price he must pay, then he will do it.

  That does not stop the fear that he will be found wanting.

  But the dinosaurs he saw in the caves were chained, and no threat. If their little team is careful enough, then he will not have to face a saur.

  “So be it,” Willem says quietly.

  The sound of carriage wheels on the cobblestones of the drive draws his ear and he stands, as does Frost. He guides Frost to the front entrance, arriving just as the earl’s carriage pulls up outside.

  “Idiots!” is the earl’s greeting, booming out of the carriage as the door is opened by a footman.

  “Your Grace?” Frost asks.

  “Not you, Lieutenant, you were brilliant. And the way you induced Liverpool to think of the second team was quite masterful.”

  The earl, unsteady on the step with his large belly, is helped down from the carriage by the
footman. Arbuckle follows. The earl makes no move to enter the house, so Willem guides Frost down the steps to him.

  “The idiots I refer to are Liverpool and Congreve,” the earl says. “Walk with me, and I will tell you the events of the meeting after you left.”

  “Walk?” Willem asks.

  “Walk,” the earl says. “It is good for the constitution and clears and calms the mind.”

  Willem wonders why he will need a clear and calm mind but does not ask.

  The earl accepts a cane from one of the footmen, and using it as a support, leads them away from the house toward the garden, down a path lined with crushed seashells. Arbuckle walks ahead, scanning the bushes around them with a practiced eye. Jack seems very impressed by the earl’s aide. Willem thinks that is good. He trusts Jack’s judgment of character.

  They pass through hedges, flower beds, and ponds, one with a fountain in the shape of a swan. They reach the forest and the earl follows a clearly defined cobblestone path between two dense hedgerows to an impenetrable wall of entangled creepers. The path splits here, left and right.

  “My favorite part of my estate,” the earl says, leading them to the left. “A good place for thinking.”

  Willem waits politely, but impatiently, for him to continue.

  “We have a mad king, and now I suspect an even madder prime minister,” the earl says.

  Willem glances around at the others. Frost nods grimly. Jack, who is walking behind Frost, guiding him with an occasional touch on the arm, is visibly shocked. It is treason to talk this way of the prime minister, let alone the king, even if it is true.

  “What is the problem, my lord?” Willem asks.

  The earl calls out to Arbuckle, who has drifted farther ahead. “Slow down, man, it is not a race.”

  “The old hipposaurus waddles at a slow rate,” Arbuckle says, but he stops and waits for the others to catch up.

  “Such insolence,” the earl says, but he is smiling. He gestures to Jack, who walks right behind Frost, ready to aid him should he step off the path. “See this young man following his master like a faithful dog,” the earl says.

  “You accuse me of faithlessnes.” Arbuckle laughs.

  “You? Faithful? You are a wild dog who roams as he pleases and pisses on treeses,” the earl says.

  Arbuckle laughs. It is clear that there is mutual respect and liking between them.

  The earl turns to look at Willem. “There is to be an attack on the French forces in Ireland,” he says. “Uxbridge will cross the Irish Sea and take command of the regiment at Clonmel.”

  “Have the Irish Regiment been taught how to fight saurs?” Willem asks.

  “They have not!” the earl says. “That imbecile Congreve has convinced Liverpool to use his rockets! I told Liverpool they are not ready, and are more likely to do harm to our own men than to kill the battlesaurs, but Congreve has Liverpool blinded with his fiery rocket trails! Wellington has seen the demonstration, he knows the truth, yet he supports the idea!”

  “Perhaps Wellington is not the fool you think,” Frost says.

  “He is a greater fool than you know!” the earl says.

  “Consider this,” Frost says. “If the rockets work, and the French force in Ireland is defeated, then Liverpool and Wellington will be praised for their daring leadership. If they don’t work, then they will be regarded as wise and cautious commanders for retaining most of our trained saur-killers here, in readiness for the invasion.”

  The earl stops walking and regards him appraisingly. A gust of wind brings a spattering of raindrops and all faces turn to the sky. More raindrops follow and a hum from the forest is the sound of heavier rain on the leaves and branches of the trees.

  “We will return to the house,” the earl declares, and promptly leads the way.

  “When do the Earl of Uxbridge and the rocketeers cross to Ireland?” Frost asks.

  “In just two days,” the earl says. “They plan to march on Cork within the week. Why do you ask?”

  “It seems to me that Napoléon must be expecting this attack and will have planned for it,” Frost says. “If the attack fails, and I think it will, then I fear this will precipitate Napoléon’s main invasion of this country.”

  “In other words, your own mission now takes on added urgency,” the earl says. “If you, with Liverpool’s letter, cannot persuade Blücher to attack Napoléon at Calais, then I fear we will see the Grande Armée marching on London within a few weeks.”

  “Then we must leave immediately for Antwerp,” Frost says.

  “We cannot,” Willem says. “Sofie and Lars do not expect us until Sunday night. Without their assistance we will never evade the French and Dutch lookouts along the Oosterschelde.”

  “Has there been any sign of the girl?” the earl asks.

  “No,” Willem says.

  “A problem,” the earl says. “And we have another problem. You still need a leader for your mission.”

  “I will lead it myself,” Willem says.

  “You may wear the uniform of a major, but that does not make you one,” the earl says. “Wellington will not allow a civilian to lead a team of soldiers into battle.”

  “If I may, Your Grace,” Arbuckle says.

  “Arbuckle?” the earl asks.

  “I would regard it as an honor if you were to release me for the duration of this mission,” Arbuckle says. “As you know, I have traveled the old smugglers’ routes in and out of the continent on many occasions. If anyone can get them to the Sonian undetected, I can.”

  “Are you not also a civilian?” Frost asks.

  The earl shakes his head. “Arbuckle still holds his former rank. That of a captain of the infantry. However, most of his time in recent years has not been spent on the front lines, but far beyond them. Lieutenant, will you accept Captain Arbuckle as your commander?” the earl asks. “I can assure you that he is an extraordinarily capable man.”

  “It would be a privilege,” Frost says. “It…” His voice trails off and he cocks his head, listening. Willem listens too, but cannot hear what Frost is hearing. All he can discern is the buzzing of the rain on the eaves of the big house.

  The earl clears his throat to speak, but Frost raises a finger to his lips. He points to Willem, then toward the forest.

  Confused, Willem begins to turn. Arbuckle moves in that direction also, but Frost holds up a hand to stop him. He gestures toward the house.

  As the others, taking Frost’s hint, disappear in that direction, Willem waits alone in the garden. The rain finds gaps in his clothing and water trickles down his neck. There is neither sound nor sight of anything notable. He has half turned to go inside when a movement by the large fountain that is a centerpiece of the garden catches his eye. He turns back to it and waits.

  A figure emerges, female. At first he thinks she is naked but then realizes that she wears a simple brown smock that is rain-saturated and clinging to her body.

  “Bonsoir, Héloïse,” Willem calls.

  She takes a few steps toward him, then stops, crouching by a tree next to the pathway, eyes darting around like those of a small, tense animal. This is not the Héloïse Willem knows. The girl he knew was a wildcat, unpredictable and dangerous. This is a timid fawn, trapped and trembling.

  The rain thickens, yet she appears not to notice it. Willem’s clothes are now fully saturated, clammy and noisy when he moves.

  Still he waits, unwilling to spook her. Water droplets gather in the fur across her scalp that once was long, wild brambles of hair. They run down her face, dripping from the ends of her eyelashes.

  A horse whinnies in the nearby stables and she jumps.

  For the first time Willem realizes how much he and this wild girl have in common. They were both outcasts in their own village, now both cast out from that village. Both a little lost in a world that is foreign to them.

  Slowly, so slowly, he raises a hand from his side, palm up and open, extending his arm toward her.

  Sh
e does not move.

  He extends his arm to the fullest, and leaves it there, an invitation, no more.

  Her feet, he can see, are gray-brown with river mud, thick and gluggy, so that not even the heavy rain can wash it away. The mud has seeped up between her toes, and her toenails are black.

  She scratches at an armpit like a monkey, then her other armpit, then her crotch.

  She raises her head and sucks at the rain, never taking her eyes off him.

  Still he waits.

  She turns and looks back at the forest—deciding, he thinks.

  He keeps his arm out although it is growing heavy and is starting to waver.

  Then in a quick movement she is standing in front of him, her eyes piercing his, looking for answers to questions that he does not know.

  He lowers his elbow to his side, keeping his forearm extended.

  He feels a light touch on his hand, small, strong fingers wrapping around his. Withdrawing, then returning, interlacing with his. It is a feeling of warmth and connectedness that transcends the rain, the wind, and the mud on her skin.

  At last she smiles.

  He turns, and she turns with him, and together they walk toward the house.

  AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR

  In far-off Antwerp, the front door of a different house is opened, a centimeter, no more, and a huge shape blocks any light from inside. François stands patiently, without speaking, aware he is being scrutinized. It is almost dark outside and a sharp wind is gusting through the grassy park that is opposite number 25 Avenue Quentin Matsys.

  Eventually the door is opened farther, revealing a huge man with a well-rounded stomach and a long, thick, and drooping mustache. It is the man who led them to, but not through, the Ruien, the underground sewer system, a few months earlier.

  The man nods briefly in recognition but says nothing.

  “I am François, from Gaillemarde,” François says. “You remember me?”

  The giant is silent and motionless.

  “You helped us escape from Antwerp,” François says.

  There is a small noise from inside the room and François is surprised to see two eyes appear, as if from nowhere, in the darkness. It is a lady, very old. Dressed in an elegant dress of indeterminate color and constantly shifting shape. This must be Sofie Thielemans, François decides.