“Did you see where the thugs went, gentlemen?”
“That way, down the alley,” Stephano said, pointing. The constable touched his hat and ran off.
Stephano and Rodrigo continued along the street and were about to cross to the other side, when a small carriage came dashing straight at them, almost running them down. The carriage careened around the corner and was gone.
“Someone’s in a hurry,” remarked Rodrigo.
He and Stephano walked on, dispirited and downcast.
“This entire venture has been an unmitigated disaster,” said Stephano.
“At least we managed to save a damsel from assassins,” said Rodrigo. “That brute actually tried to drag her off!”
“Assassins would have just shot the count. Those men were trying to abduct him and the lady, as well,” said Stephano.
“I saw him say something to you. What was it?”
“Something about being in my debt. He gave a kind of chuckle and hoped someday I would realize what I’d done.”
“That’s a rather odd thing to say to someone who has just saved your life.”
“I might not have heard him right. It doesn’t matter,” said Stephano, shrugging.
“I guess not,” said Rodrigo. “Though it pained me deeply to see him drive off with the woman of my dreams. I don’t suppose we’ll ever know what it was all about.”
“And I don’t suppose we’ll ever find Sir Henry Wallace,” said Stephano.
“Look at it this way, our luck can’t get any worse,” said Rodrigo.
“Don’t say that,” warned Stephano. “You’ll jinx us.”
Dubois had watched in disbelief as Captain de Guichen rushed in, sword drawn, to save Sir Henry Wallace from being captured by Dubois’ agents. Poor Dubois almost lost his faith that night. He was sorely tempted to ask God whose side He was on.
Dubois regained control of himself, however. He did not stay to wait for the constables to find him. He had two carriages stationed around the corner. He ran to one of them. Red Dog peered down at him from the driver’s seat.
“Follow that coach!” Dubois ordered, pointing. “Sir Henry’s inside. He’s probably bound for the docks. Find out what ship he’s sailing on and report back to me.”
Red Dog nodded, and within moments the carriage was whirling down the street in pursuit. Dubois climbed into the other carriage.
“The Archbishop’s residence,” Dubois told the driver. “And don’t spare the horses!”
Inside his coach, Sir Henry Wallace roused Alcazar from his fainting fit with a couple of smacks across the face.
Alcazar sat up and looked around. “Are we safe?”
“Yes, my love, thanks to your alluring charms,” said Sir Henry Wallace, laughing.
He was in an excellent mood. He thought back to Captain de Guichen coming gallantly to the “count’s” aid, helping him escape. Sir Henry leaned back in the seat and roared with mirth. Alcazar came near fainting again at the dreadful sound, but Sir Henry reassured him.
“Be merry, my friend. We are now on our way to your brother’s ship.”
Alcazar realized with a start they weren’t alone in the coach. Two people shrouded in black cloaks were seated opposite him. He shrank back into the cushions.
“Who are they?”
“The woman’s name is Brianna. She is a friend of mine. Brianna say hello.”
“Hello,” said the woman.
“The man is known as the ‘Duke.’ ” He is, of course, not a duke at all, but he looks well in evening attire.”
“Why are they here?” Alcazar asked, quivering.
He noticed, as they passed under a streetlamp, that the man and woman were dressed in the same clothes he and Sir Henry were wearing.
“Because I never leave anything to chance,” said Sir Henry. “And don’t start whining, or I’ll smack you again.”
He glanced out the rear window. He did not see anyone following them, but that didn’t mean much. Dubois’ agents were good at their jobs. Almost as good as his.
Henry sat back in the seat. He put his fingertips together, tapping them, thinking. When he arrived in Freya, he would hand over Alcazar to Mr. Sloan with orders to take the journeyman straight to the armory. Henry would travel to court, report the joyful news to his queen, and receive her praise and thanks. He would then go to his wife. She would be devastated over the loss of the manor house, but he would be able to assure her he would build her a new one, far grander than any other manor house in Freya.
He was thinking these pleasant thoughts; the rocking motion of the coach sending him into a half-doze, when he was awakened by a cannon’s boom.
Sir Henry sat straight up. He listened to the echoes of that single cannon shot dying away in the night and swore.
“What is wrong now?” Alcazar asked fearfully. “Is it war?”
Sir Henry Wallace sank back in the seat of the coach that was now taking him rapidly nowhere.
“The port of Westfirth has just been closed,” Sir Henry explained in dire tones. “From this moment, no ships can sail in. No ships can sail out.”
“Then we’re trapped!” Alcazar cried.
“So it would seem,” said Sir Henry.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Confusion, misdirection, greed, bright penny blindness-the art of the confidence man.
- Sir Henry Wallace, Earl of Staffordshire
DUBOIS’ CAB SPED FROM THE FRACAS AT THE Blue Parrot straight to the Old Fort, the residence of the archbishop. In his morning meeting, Dubois had told the archbishop as much as he deemed the man should know about Sir Henry Wallace and the threat he posed. He had warned the archbishop that if Wallace eluded capture, the port would have to be closed. The archbishop had scoffed at such an idea.
“Nonsense,” said the archbishop. “His Holiness can’t be serious!”
The archbishop had heard rumors about Dubois, knew him to be the grand bishop’s trusted and confidential agent, but had never met him. The archbishop was at first unimpressed by the common, shabby little man. Dubois was used to creating such a deplorable first impression. Indeed, he fostered such impressions. He liked being underestimated, forgotten. He found it easier to slip up on his victim unawares.
Having been confident he would capture Sir Henry, Dubois had said nothing more at the time. Now the man had once more escaped him. Dubois found the archbishop hosting a private musical evening for several wealthy gentlemen of the city, hoping to be able to persuade them to donate to the building of the cathedral. The archbishop was not pleased at being summoned away from the concert to meet with Dubois, who was waiting in the shadows of a balcony outside the salon.
“Well, what is it?” the archbishop demanded. He could hear, in the distance, the soprano singing one of his favorite arias.
Dubois explained briefly that Wallace had managed to escape.
“You must act now, Your Reverence,” Dubois concluded. “Close the port before this extremely dangerous man can flee to Freya.”
“Out of the question,” said the archbishop brusquely. “People will view this as a prelude to war with Freya. Does His Majesty know about this?”
“The bishop will handle His Majesty,” said Dubois. “As you are aware, I have here the bishop’s letter giving me full power to make this demand.”
The archbishop was well aware of the letter. He knew it was genuine. He could see and touch the grand bishop’s own personal seal that was affixed to it. But the archbishop was still not convinced. The idea that he was about to unofficially declare war on Freya by closing the port was appalling. He could envision the hordes of angry ship owners descending on him, howling about lost money. And, the truth be told, he was worried about the funding for his magnificent cathedral. In the event of war, that funding might dry up and so would his legacy.
“The Royal Navy would have to be informed-”
“I’ve already done that,” said Dubois coolly.
The archbishop flushed in anger. “You
had no right-”
“I have every right,” said Dubois. “I refer you, once again, to the grand bishop’s letter.”
The archbishop thought this over. The grand bishop’s letter gave Dubois power to deal with any crisis in general. The grand bishop did not say anything specific about the closing of the port.
“I would feel more comfortable if I had a letter in the grand bishop’s own hand stating that he was responsible for issuing the decree,” said the archbishop. “As you know, I am but his humble servant. I could send a messenger to Evreux by griffin. He would be back by morning two days hence.”
“By which time, Sir Henry Wallace will be well on his way to Freya bearing Rosia’s doom,” said Dubois.
“Hardly my fault,” said the archbishop with a telling glance at Dubois. “You are the one who lost him.”
Dubois would have liked to wring the neck of the grand bishop’s humble servant. He restrained himself, however. He was thinking he was going to have to get tough with this man, threaten to reveal a certain sordid incident in the archbishop’s past which Dubois had taken care to discover, just in case. He did not want to resort to such a drastic measure. Not yet. Not if there was an easier way.
“If you will excuse me,” said the archbishop, “I am going to return to my guests.”
Dubois gazed, frowning, into the night. Hearing voices drifting up from down below, he glanced down over the edge of the balcony.
Silhouetted against the lambent light of stars and half moon, three men were walking the battlements at a slow pace. He could not see their faces in the darkness, but he knew them by their attire: one man in helm and breastplate, one in flowing monk’s robes, one in a long black cassock. By their low tones, they were deeply engaged in some important and serious conversation. He spoke to the back of the departing archbishop.
“Your Reverence,” said Dubois, “what would you say if I referred this matter of Sir Henry Wallace to the judgment of the Arcanum?”
The archbishop stopped. He turned around. He looked uneasy. “Why would the Arcanum get involved?”
“Because they have sense enough to understand the danger,” said Dubois.
The archbishop followed Dubois’ gaze to the battlements, to the man in the black cassock. The archbishop looked from Father Jacob back to Dubois and back to Father Jacob. The archbishop’s face went stony. He turned and stalked off.
Dubois smiled and out of habit started eavesdropping on the priest, who had paused right beneath the balcony. He heard Father Jacob tell his Knight Protector that he was planning to order the archbishop to send forces to scour the city in search of one he termed “the Sorceress” and her evil followers. Dubois raised an eyebrow. He had heard of this Sorceress. Was she responsible for the ambush? If so, why had she been attempting to kill both Sir Henry and Father Jacob?
“I need to meet this woman,” Dubois said to himself.
The father and his companions moved on and so did Dubois. As he returned to his coach, he saw the harried archbishop trying to explain matters to his guest, the Lord Mayor of the City of Westfirth, who was almost purple with fury. Dubois shook his head and slipped away.
Within the hour, a cannon announcing the closing of the port of Westfirth went off, as constables fanned out across the city, looking for a young man of about seventeen, who might be suffering from a gunshot wound to the foot, and a Freyan woman named Eiddwen, beautiful, with black curling hair. Dubois returned to his room at the Threadneedle Inn to try to get some sleep while he awaited the reports of his agents.
The echoes of the cannon shot were still lingering in the air when Sir Henry Wallace put his new plan into action. He watched out the window and when the coach entered a certain, shadowy street, Henry rose to his feet and rapped on the ceiling of the coach. The coach rolled to a stop. Henry got out and, glancing behind to make certain the street was empty, he spoke to the driver.
“Are we being followed?”
“Yes, Guvnor,” said the driver, who knew Sir Henry by a completely different identity. “Small hansom cab. Keeps a block or two behind.”
“Come down here,” said Henry.
The driver obeyed. The two walked off to an alley, leaving Alcazar, a prey to terror, alone with the woman and the “Duke.” He lost sight of Sir Henry in the darkness and was afraid that Monsieur Russo (Sir Henry’s alias) had abandoned him. Then, thankfully, Sir Henry and the driver returned. Sir Henry entered the coach. Alcazar was about to say something when he saw the man’s face.
“You’re not Monsieur Russo!” Alcazar gasped.
“Shut yer yap,” said the driver, now wearing the count’s cloak.
Sir Henry, wearing the driver’s coat, mounted the box, took the reins, and the journey resumed.
Henry glanced several times over his shoulder and finally caught sight of the small hansom cab. He took care so that the cab did not lose him. The original idea had been to throw Dubois off the trail. Now Henry wanted Dubois on it. Dubois had grown annoying. Henry wanted to be rid of him.
Henry drove the coach to a small boarding house located near the docks. He stopped beneath a streetlamp and, in his guise as coach driver, climbed down from the seat to assist the “count” and his “lady” to leave the coach. Alcazar was also about to leave. Henry strong-armed him, shoved him back inside.
“Not a word,” said Sir Henry. “Keep an eye on him,” he said to the man who had been driving the coach.
The count and his lady swiftly mounted the steps of the house. The count unlocked the outer door, and hurried inside, bringing his lady with him. Sir Henry returned to the driver’s seat. He waited a moment to make certain Dubois’ agent in the hansom cab had taken note of the movements of the “count,” then drove off. Looking back over his shoulder, Henry noted with immense satisfaction that the hansom cab remained parked near the boarding house.
Once more having shaken a tail, Henry drove the coach to his next destination. When the coach stopped, he ordered Alcazar to quit blubbering and get out. Alcazar looked around and saw with dismay that they were in a stinking, refuse-littered, festering street of one of the worst parts of Westfirth.
There being no streetlamps in this squalid section of the city, few people dared venture out after dark. Those who did had their reasons. The sight of an elegantly dressed “woman” descending from a coach brought unwelcome attention. Two rough-looking men approached her. Alcazar was mute with fear. Henry Wallace coolly drew out a monocle that when he touched it a certain way, began to glow with light. He held the light to his face. The two men halted, then backed away precipitously.
“Pardon, Guvnor,” said one man, nervously touching his hand to the brim of a filthy hat. “Didn’t know it was you.”
Henry ordered the driver to leave, then took hold of Alcazar by the arm and escorted him to what was popularly known as a rag and bottle shop. Henry drew out one of many keys he carried with him, fit it into the lock, opened the creaking door and shoved Alcazar inside. Henry followed, closing the door, leaving them in pitch-darkness, for the windows were shuttered. He told Alcazar to stand by the door, not to move.
Sir Henry drew out the glowing monocle and by its light, he wended his way among the stacks of refuse and broken furniture, cracked dishes, bags of hair, bottles, clothing, books, weapons, watches, and anything else that could be bartered or sold by those in desperate need.
The shop’s owner, hearing someone rummaging about, came down from his little room above the shop. He was clad in his nightdress and carried a candle in one hand and a stout club in the other.
Henry again allowed the light from the monocle to play upon his face. The owner stared at him keenly, gave a nod, and asked him in a whisper if he needed anything. Henry told him he required food and a bed for the night. The man went back upstairs. Henry continued on his way to a large portmanteau he kept stashed at the very back of the shop. He opened it, rummaged through coats, waistcoats, shirts, boots, hats, gloves, shoes, underclothes, and even handkerchiefs. Henry to
ok off the driver’s clothes he was wearing and placed them in the portmanteau and then opened a small metal box. Henry shone his light on a quantity of letters, official looking documents and papers, all expertly forged. He selected those he required, then shut and locked the metal box.
Henry went back to Alcazar and thrust some clothes into his arms and told him to change. Alcazar was so happy to get out of his corset and petticoats and so exhausted by the events of the evening that he complied readily, without complaining, not even when told he would be spending the night in this ghastly place.
The shop owner returned with a large bowl containing some sort of meat floating in congealed gravy. Sir Henry ate ravenously. Alcazar, smelling it, queasily declined. The owner indicated a vacant room next to his own; they could spend the night there. He brought them blankets and pillows, which Henry spread out on the floor. He lay down on the blanket and stretched out comfortably.
Alcazar remained standing.
“Are there rats?” he asked fearfully.
“Big as dogs,” said Sir Henry.
After his exertions in aiding the count to escape his kidnappers, Stephano also spent a restful night. The combination of brandy and yellow goo sent him into a deep slumber. His shoulder was stiff and his thigh sore, but both wounds were healing well. He went to check on Dag and found him already up and eating breakfast.
“How are you this morning?” Stephano asked.
“Fine, sir,” said Dag, stolidly eating. “The burns weren’t serious.”
Stephano noted that Dag was sitting awkwardly, making certain his burned back did not come in contact with the chair.
“He’s not fine,” Miri snapped. “He’s going to have his bandages changed and more ointment this morning before he goes anywhere.”
She slammed a bowl down in front of Stephano and hurled a spoon in his general direction. He caught it on the bounce. Miri stalked off, going back to the galley.
“Bullets flying, Captain,” Dag advised. “Keep your head down, sir.”
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