Standing up, she proffered an apology. ‘Forgive me. My youngest child.’
Markham was nodding sympathetically, wondering why he had assumed Magdalena to be unattached. She must have a whole tribe of children, if this Gianfranco was the youngest. That in turn meant a husband somewhere.
‘The boy has dreams,’ said Paoli, indicating to an attendant that he should pour more wine. ‘Bad ones, full of blood, which is a sadness in one so young.’
‘How many children does Magdalena have?’
‘Three, all with her beauty.’
‘Of course,’ Markham replied.
‘The two girls will need careful watching, or they will start a blood feud by the attention they command. I would have sent them abroad for their education, but times do not permit of such luxuries.’
‘They could go to England, sir,’ said Bellamy.
Paoli smiled again. ‘I wish to tame their wild natures, Mr Bellamy, not freeze them to the marrow.’
‘The boy’s dreams, does he have them often?’ asked Markham.
‘Every time he has visions of his father, my nephew, Luciano.’ The old man’s eyes suddenly became watery, as though the memory had the same effect on him. ‘He died saving me, old, weary and useless Pasquale Paoli, which was a very foolish thing for a young man to do. Especially one who would have risen to be a leader to his country.’
Neither guest spoke. They just sat and watched as the tears began to run down the general’s cheeks. ‘There are many joys to a celibate life, gentlemen; the suppression of jealousy, the time to pursue great causes. But to lack an heir, which seems so unimportant at thirty, becomes a sad gap at forty, and a positive curse in old age.’
‘You say he died saving you?’ asked Markham.
‘Did I not say to you, Lieutenant, that too many of my fellow countrymen have died by the knife? Luciano was one such. An enemy wanted me removed so, in time-honoured fashion, an assassin was employed. Magdalena’s husband distracted him from his task, and paid the price instead of me.’
‘I take it the son was there?’ Bellamy inquired.
‘He saw his father die.’
Whatever General Paoli had been going to say next was killed off by Magdalena’s return. She moved into the candlelight which filled the table, with Markham looking at her in a new way. The mood of the gathering had changed as a result of her absence, though it wasn’t gloomy, just more introspective as they discussed how and why the bright hopes of liberty had died in France. Paoli, with his long political experience, knew the faults of men in the public eye, the way some competed to be holier than their neighbours, losing the capacity to forgive in the process.
‘I thought of going to France after my benefactor died,’ said Bellamy, ‘believing for a moment that my situation in such a society would be improved.’
‘It would have been under the Bourbons, sir,’ Paoli replied, ‘though I hate to credit kings for anything. But not under the Revolution.’
‘How can people lose sight, so badly, of their cause?’
Paoli leant forward. ‘Is it St Francis Loyola given great power, gentlemen, or the Inquisition applied to government. Robespierre and his friends, like flagellant Jesuits, vie with each other to prove that their brand of revolutionary purity is the most sincere. And in order to establish, with the mob, that their care for the rights of man are correct and paramount, they kill even more human beings than their rivals.’
That mention of the founder of the Jesuits made Markham think of Fouquert, and at the same time Lanester’s incisive identification of that trait in the Frenchman. Yet he thought Fouquert different. His stand on killing contained less hypocrisy than that of people like Robespierre and St Just. They did it at arm’s length, for political advantage. He did it close to, for pure pleasure.
‘I have made you all sad talking of this,’ said Paoli.
They all murmured negatively, denying what was palpably true. The conversation had driven them all to their own unpleasant thoughts: Magdalena about the corruption brought on by the search for power, Bellamy of a world that despised him, and Markham imagining Fouquert at work.
‘It is my habit to take a turn around the square,’ said Paoli, ‘to breathe some air after eating.’
Magdalena smiled. ‘A filthy English custom.’
‘Which I acquired while a guest in English houses,’ her uncle replied, in a way that firmly labelled the exchange as a family joke. ‘When I insisted that I continue it in London, my friends forbade it, saying crime was too rife.’
‘They were right, sir,’ said Markham, who had lived in the middle of the metropolis himself, and was well aware of the number of villains it housed.
Bellamy cut in. ‘Was it not Horace Walpole who opined that it was safer to take ship to Gibraltar in wartime, than to cross London after dark for dinner with a friend?’
‘I presume Corte is safer than that?’ said Markham.
‘Much safer,’ said Paoli, standing up.
He let Paoli and Bellamy get ahead on purpose, pleased that Magdalena kept pace with him. In front they could see the Negro, who had drunk more than anyone at the table, gesticulating away as he made some histrionic point. The general seemed perfectly content just to listen, while he aimed an occasional nod at his fellow citizens. They were discussing the value of an Erastian Church set against the central rule of Rome, which was a subject that would have bored Markham rigid, even if he’d had Medusa on his arm.
It was impossible not to treat Magdalena differently. Here was no unkissed maiden, all a flutter at physical contact. She was a mother and had been a wife.
‘Your son is better?’
‘He is asleep again.’ Markham took a fraction off the distance between them, one that she made no attempt to restore. ‘That is not difficult when I am here. But when I am absent, he does suffer for his visions. Gianfranco thinks he will not live if I am not there to comfort him. He thinks his father will come back and kill him.’
It was impossible to mistake the bitter note in her voice, nor the surprise in his when he responded. ‘His father?’
‘We were in Bonifacio. My uncle was doing everything in his power not to invade Sardinia, while making the kind of bellicose noises that keep the more ardent souls happy. That was not a strategy which fooled people for long, especially the Buonapartes.’
‘They tried to kill your uncle?’
It was her turn to close the gap further, by taking a tighter grip on his arm. ‘In Corsica, Markham, things are never that simple. You must often guard against your professed friends, as well as your obvious enemies. Whatever, the assassin came, and got within feet of Paoli. My husband tore Gianfranco from my arms – he was but two at the time – and threw him at the knife to distract the assassin.’ That brought forth a sharp intake of breath from Markham, and by now he was close enough to feel her shaking at the memory. ‘The man was a murderer, but he had compassion, or perhaps a son of his own. He moved the knife aside just enough to spare Gianfranco. Then my husband went for him.’
‘And died.’
‘In great pain, Markham,’ she spat. ‘But not great enough.’
She was trembling from head to foot. He span her round and pushed her gently into the deep shadow formed by the flying buttress of a church, pulling her body close to his so that she could rest her head on his shoulder, whispering in her ear, his lips close enough to make contact.
‘You mustn’t,’ she gasped eventually.
‘Wrong,’ he growled.
It took all her strength to push him away, but she managed, then slipped past him until she was on the other side, back in full daylight. ‘I cannot, ever, have another man.’
‘What?’ he said, genuinely surprised.
The words tumbled out, garbled by her confusion: of brothers who would kill anyone who touched her; of her husband’s family, still addicts of the vendetta, who would knife him for an inappropriate sideways glance.
‘What you’re telling me, Magdalena, is this. T
hat if I try to take liberties with you, I’ll gain myself some enemies.’
‘Deadly enemies!’
‘Jesus, girl,’ he replied, ‘I’ve got dozens of those already. A few more won’t faze me.’
She got him walking again, the distance restored between them and her uncle. ‘You must not even look at me so. I would remind you I’m living in my uncle’s house.’
‘I wasn’t planning to ask him for anything.’
‘The servants,’ she replied.
Markham needed no further explanation. When it came to improper liaisons, he’d had more trouble with servants than he’d ever had with their mistresses, or the husbands of the house for that matter. Nothing could happen under their roof that they didn’t know about. And it wasn’t just a case of relying on one or two. You had to trust them all, right down to the lowest kitchen skivvy who scrubbed the sheets.
Paoli’s voice floated across the square, asking them if they’d had enough. Markham’s response was whispered to himself.
‘Holy Mother of Christ, we haven’t had any.’
Chapter twenty-nine
Any attempt to pin down Paoli regarding his intentions was swept to one side, politely but firmly, and once back in his room and feeling the effects of good wine, Markham soon succumbed once more to the need for sleep. The bells of the church woke him, great pealing strokes that called the workers from their toil and the faithful to their evening prayers. The last of the sun had faded outside, and he thought he could hear, faintly, the sounds of sentinels calling to each other.
It was nice to lie there, warm, imagining Magdalena’s body under the same sheets, perhaps lying with her back to him, until that became too uncomfortable and he threw himself out onto the wooden floor. There was no fire in the grate and the room was chilly. So was the water in the jug, which was refreshing.
Few people can resist the sound of marching boots, and certainly no soldier. He threw on his breeches and the scarlet coat, and dashed out into the hallway. There was a shuttered window, and it opened on to the square before the National Assembly building. The torches lining the portico revealed Rannoch and his Lobsters marching towards it, packs on their backs. A shout made them halt, and once he was out of the door he was presented with a disgruntled group of men covered in dust.
‘I take it you’ve been marching all day, Sergeant?’
‘Most of it, sir,’ Rannoch replied bitterly, ‘only to find the bastards would not open the gates after sunset to let us in.’
‘Did they expect you to spend the whole night out there?’
‘They did. Under the walls, freezing our parts off. If I had possessed my own musket, I would have shot the sentry.’
Markham, suffering from some degree of guilt, noticed that all his men were eyeing the scarlet coat, the braid of which picked up the torchlight. It was Rannoch who voiced the question, which had undertones of perfectly understandable resentment.
‘Had a bit of good fortune in the promotion line, sir?’
‘A loan, Rannoch. I’m not a Foot Guards colonel, it’s just that they don’t like French coats round here.’
‘Nor British marines, it seems.’
‘Follow me. I’ll see about a billet and some food.’
At that moment Eboluh Bellamy appeared, still wearing the plum-coloured coat and yellow waistcoat. He didn’t look quite as grand as he had earlier, since his clothes were somewhat creased, and his face looked puffy and pale, if you could say that about a black man. Markham had left him at the table, very close to the port bottle, and it looked as though he’d indulged himself.
‘Holy Christ,’ said Rannoch, ‘would you look at that black bastard.’
The way his men were looking at him, Markham knew he was close to forfeiting whatever trust he’d built up these last months. The prejudice against Bellamy was widespread, his manner multiplying the feelings about his race. To men who had just spent an uncomfortable day on the road, the sight of him, clearly the worse for drink, dressed like a gent, was infuriating.
‘Bellamy,’ Markham barked, with a slight feeling of shame. ‘Get that damned kit off and rejoin the unit.’
The ‘sir’ was slow and slurred, partly by drink, but as much by confusion. What had happened to that amusing companion of the meal? Then he observed the hate emanating from the rest of the men, and that made him scurry to comply.
‘Where’s Major Lanester?’ asked Markham suddenly.
‘They couldn’t find a trace, sir. Major Lanester has disappeared.’
Markham organised food and a billet for his men, and sent a message to General Paoli requesting an immediate interview. The news of Lanester bothered him deeply, but he was at a loss to know what to do about it. He lacked both time and any knowledge of the terrain to go searching for him. But he’d ordered Rannoch to return when he was ready to do so, and give him more details of what had occurred.
Fed and warm in the general’s kitchen, Rannoch told his tale. First the scrawny carter had turned up at dawn, empty-handed. He had been about to set out himself when the Corsicans sent by Paoli turned up. Given their greater mobility it made sense to let them go to the monastery. This they did, only to find no sign of Lanester or Pavin. A search of the surroundings produced no trace either, so they’d returned to San Quilici Rocci. Rannoch, on his own initiative, knowing that his officer would want to be informed, had upped sticks and marched out.
‘Had I known what mean-spirited swine I would have to deal with, I would have stayed where I was, or at least brought those cavalrymen back with us.’
‘They didn’t even come and tell me,’ Markham replied, his mind full of images of Lanester and Pavin swinging from the branch of some tree.
‘That would be because they denied your existence, if I understood one word in ten of what they said.’
‘Did you mention Commandatore Calheri?’
‘I did. All that produced was laughter and ribaldry.’
‘I thought you didn’t understand them?’
‘The laugh produced by men slighting women is the same the world over.’
Markham’s anger on her behalf was deflected by the way Rannoch suddenly looked over his shoulder, and shot to his feet, which made his officer turn round. Paoli, dressed in civilian clothes and looking very benign, stood in the doorway smiling. It was a testimony to his presence that the Highlander, who often had to be dragged to his feet in front of most British officers, had spotted right away that this man deserved his respect.
‘Lieutenant.’
‘Sir. Allow me to introduce Sergeant Rannoch.’
Paoli stepped forward. He was a tall man, but he still had to look up into the Scotsman’s eyes. ‘You fought on the Morosaglia trail, sergeant?’
‘I did, sir!’
The General held out his hand, showing a fine sensitivity to the nature of United Kingdom politics. ‘Then I shall thank you in the British manner, and shake you by the hand.’
Rannoch grasped the outstretched limb and shook it, his eyes open more than usual, evidence of his surprise. ‘You will have brought Major Lanester to us.’
‘No, sir,’ Markham replied, before passing on Rannoch’s explanation. A cloud descended immediately over Paoli’s features, a clear indication of deep distress. It was one Markham only partially shared, but he spoke to reassure the General.
‘He was a soldier, sir, as we are, and took a soldier’s risks.’
‘That may explain a loss, Lieutenant. It does not, however alleviate it.’
‘Major Lanester may be safe, sir. Indeed he may well have decided to return to San Fiorenzo and expand upon the despatch he sent Admiral Hood.’
‘Which one was that?’ Paoli asked, absentmindedly.
‘After Cardo, sir, and what we had seen.’ That got the General’s attention, and as he continued Markham found himself looking into the old man’s penetrating blue eyes. ‘We felt that Admiral Hood should be apprised of any information we had.’
For the first time since mee
ting Paoli, Markham was exposed to the rod of steel that upheld that elderly frame. It was hardly surprising it was there. No man without it could have even begun to tame the Corsicans. But it stood as testimony to his skill with people that it was so well concealed.
‘You did not tell me of this?’
‘I’m sorry, General. I took it for granted that you would guess.’
‘It is my fault, Lieutenant, for not inquiring,’ Paoli replied, managing to look as though he meant it. ‘But what you and Lanester have done is a mistake. Can you tell me precisely what the Major said?’
‘No sir. I told him what I saw, he wrote the despatch and we sent it off, in a sealed packet, with three marines.’
‘How far did they have to travel?’
‘A day’s march, perhaps more than that if the terrain was rough.’
‘And they left you when?’
‘Four days ago.’
Paoli sucked in a great quantity of air, which he released slowly. ‘We must leave at once, Lieutenant.’
‘Why, sir?’
‘Because the situation is grave.’
‘You think Admiral Hood will withdraw?’
The reply, given Paoli’s habitual behaviour, was quite sharp. ‘No! I told you he was bluffing. But from what little I know of Hood he is strong-willed. He may act on that information and precipitate a crisis.’
‘Surely, sir, if he acts on what we have told him he will avert one. General Buttafuco will at least be neutralised.’
‘He will condemn an innocent man, and in doing so he will allow the true traitor to flourish.’
‘Buttafuco is innocent?’ asked Markham with disbelief.
‘If Arsenio has taken French gold, and sought to betray us, I hope God sends a plague to rid this island of all human life. I know of no man more patriotic than him.’
‘Then what was he doing talking to the French?’
‘That is not the real question, Lieutenant Markham.’
‘Well what is?’
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