The Star of Versailles

by Catherine Curzon

  Lover.

  Thank God for it.

  Gaudet met him coming across the yard, face ashen when he asked, “What did Dee say?”

  “He says he’s going to swap himself for the girl.”

  “Then he will have to join the end of the line.”

  “Will you help me”—William held Gaudet’s gaze—“to do it without him noticing?”

  “Please, chérie,” Gaudet whispered, touching William’s hand very lightly, “we have just found one another. Please do not get chopped up or boiled or turned into jam or anything silly like that.”

  “I would make,” William told him as solemnly as he could, “very unpleasant jam.”

  “I thought you very tasty.” Gaudet gave a saucy smile. “And you must come back because you haven’t seen my amazing bed yet.”

  “That is reason enough in itself.” William touched Gaudet’s hand in turn before he murmured, “Do not worry, please.”

  “You might as well ask the sun not to shine” Gaudet attempted a smile, though it was a weak effort at best. “Anyone would worry, but I know you will come back safe.”

  “You won’t get rid of me that easily,” was the bold promise. “Now, let’s go and rescue a maiden.”

  “You have already done that in Paris. I am rather fetching in a gown.”

  “Perhaps you can show me,” William called as he turned to inspect the carriage, “when all this is over.”

  Minutes later they were on the road again, the farmer and his family sending the group off with supplies, bullets and good wishes. The plan, Dee had told them, was to find safe lodgings in Harfleur, then he and Adam would go to the meeting point, where the professor would surrender himself and Adam would return with Harriet. No one was to take a risk, he warned, no one to try to be a hero.

  Leave the stupidity to me and Adam.

  William concentrated on making sure the horses remained on the road, more glad than he could say of Gaudet’s comforting presence at his side. With Adam, Dee and Bastien traveling inside the coach with Papillon, Gaudet made the occasional admiring noise about William’s prowess as a driver, but his heart was clearly not in the good humor, worry mapped across his handsome face.

  “When we reach the town,” William told Gaudet, “drive them round, buy me some time.”

  “I will do what I can.”

  He nodded grimly, watching as the ghostly shapes of buildings approached in the distance. “Slow the carriage as we enter, I’ll slip away then.”

  “Of course.”

  “And remember,” he whispered, “smile.”

  “Smile,” Gaudet repeated, attempting to do so. “I will try, Guillaume.”

  William managed a small one of his own as the carriage approached the entrance to the town. Gaudet took the reins and drew them back to slow the vehicle as promised and, with a final touch to Gaudet’s hand, he slipped down, praying he wouldn’t be seen by Dee or Adam as he did so. For once his luck held and the carriage rumbled on, leaving William alone in the bustle of the street, Gaudet watching over his shoulder until they could no longer see one another.

  Then he was alone.

  William felt suddenly and utterly bereft. Closing his eyes briefly, he gathered himself, knowing he had little time to put his plan into action. For a few moments, he stood calming his nerves, reminding himself that he was a professional, that, if he could steal Gaudet out from under Tessier’s nose, then he could definitely do this. With that thought in mind, he set off, asking a passerby for directions to the street before he went on his way.

  As William walked he perfected his story—the shot had killed Dee, leaving William to take his place, and the girl was to be set free immediately. He repeated it over and over to himself, the thought of Gaudet and that bed of his keeping him going when he approached the address.

  The building was a tall, well-appointed house in an expensive street, the only indication that anything untoward was happening the man at the door, who shouldered his rifle with all the self-importance of a military general. He eyed William suspiciously as he neared and asked, “What’s your business, citizen?”

  “My business,” he told the man, “is with Citizen Tessier.”

  “What name?”

  “Morel.”

  The guard knocked three times on the door and it was opened from within by another. For a few moments, they conferred quietly, then William was ushered into the musty hallway, which was surprisingly ill-kept, given the fine exterior of the building. He peered around, heart pounding despite himself. If something were to go wrong, if it did not play out as he had planned…the thought was too horrible to contemplate.

  “Are you carrying any weapons?” the guard asked, polite yet frosty in his tone. “I must ask you to surrender them if so.”

  “I am carrying nothing.” William held up his hands. “As you can see.”

  “Secure him,” Jacquet’s voice sounded along the hallway and the scarred man emerged from the gloom, gripping a length of thick rope. “He’s slippery, this one. Kills folk soon as look at them.”

  “It takes more than a look,” William assured him. “There’ll be no need for tying anyone.”

  “We fasten your wrists,” Jacquet said again, “or I start shouting that there’s someone out here causing a nuisance and the girl wouldn’t want that, would she?”

  She wouldn’t, he knew, even as he held his hands out. Freeing Harriet was what mattered, the only thing at that moment to concentrate on.

  William recognized the gleam of triumph in Jacquet’s eyes as he tied the rope roughly, far tighter than was necessary, until it bit into the skin of his wrists. The guard stalked ahead, pulling at the end of the rope as though he were walking a dog on a lead.

  Another knock at another door and Tessier called, “Enter!”

  William kept his head up, ready to meet the other man’s gaze as he entered the room.

  “Ah, Morel.” the room was an unremarkable middle-class study that had clearly seen better days. Harriet sat on a chair in a corner, apparently unharmed but fastened with a pair of heavy iron manacles about her wrists. She lifted her tear-streaked face to William, gaze imploring. “You may see the young lady is quite unharmed—quite uncommunicative, but unharmed.”

  “I am here”—he forced himself to watch Tessier instead of Harriet—“to take her place.”

  “No.” Tessier shook his head, cracking his knuckles with the gloves he wore. “You are not the one they call Dee.”

  He kept his expression as neutral as he could at that, praying Harriet would forgive him when he told Tessier, “Dee is dead.”

  “Dead?” Tessier ignored Harriet’s cry of horror, a sound of utter desolation escaping her lips before her head dropped, chin resting atop her breastbone. He held up his hand to her for silence and narrowed his eyes, though William saw a flash of something pass across his cold gaze. “How?”

  “One of your men shot him.” He refused to blink.

  For a long moment there was silence, punctuated by the sound of Harriet’s sobs, then Tessier nodded and turned to her to say, “Do not cry, Mademoiselle—if one’s parents are not of the finest stock, one is often better to find oneself relieved of them.”

  “So you see,” William pressed on, “I’m afraid you must make do with me.”

  “So I shall.” Tessier nodded and turned away, clearly contemplating matters. When he swung round it was at a furious speed, his fist landing solidly in William’s stomach as he spat, “And you, sir, will have to do.”

  The shock of it made William’s knees buckle, just managing to catch himself with a hand to the edge of the desk, the world suddenly spinning.

  “Jacquet,” Tessier bellowed, “The horsewhip.”

  “Let the girl go,” he gasped.

  “Are you making demands of me, Morel?” Tessier dragged William back by his shoulders, flinging him down to the floor, breath blasting from his lungs with a gasp.

  “Let her go.” William refused to stop, even a
s the wind was knocked out of him. “That was the deal.”

  “And where will a girl with no father go?” Tessier landed a solid kick to his stomach, snatching the horsewhip from the newly arrived Jacquet. “Better that she stay here, don’t you think? Stay where she is safe until trial?”

  He couldn’t speak, managing barely more than a moan, the force of the betrayal, the lies hitting hard. Sylvie had given them up. Tessier had lied in his offer.

  They were lost.

  “I know,” Tessier crouched beside him, voice a low whisper, “what you are…you and your playwright.”

  “You don’t,” he whispered, “know anything.”

  Tessier slowly peeled off the black leather gloves, the melted, knitted flesh revealed bit by bit as the sometimes-pale, sometimes-pink skin glistened before William’s eyes. “They tell stories of how I came by these scars,” Tessier told him. “I feel the fire even now, deep in the bone.”

  William remained stubbornly silent, the only sound his gasps as he tried to steady himself and catch his breath.

  “What I did to Gaudet”—Tessier rose to his feet, a silver buckled shoe flashing in front of William’s eyes in the second before it connected—“will seem like a dream compared with what I will do to you.”

  William was dimly aware of a noise that must have come from himself, the pain tearing through him and his eyelids falling despite his best efforts not to surrender.

  “Stop it!” Harriet suddenly shouted, pulling wildly at the manacles that held her, but if Tessier heard, he little cared, his foot landing again and again in William’s stomach.

  Let her go, he tried to say again, but the pain was overwhelming, Tessier’s hatred knowing no limits as he vented his anger.

  “He is a British spy.” Tessier stalked across the room to where Harriet was sobbing, near hysterical. “Come from London to France to usurp the people, to spread dissent and terror and I will smoke out the nest.” Tessier leaned in very closely to the girl, inches from her face when he promised, “And you, girl, tears will not bring him back now.”

  “Let her go,” he managed to whisper, the world black around the edges. “Please—”

  “I will let her go on the day you die,” Tessier said, turning back to address him. “She is my guarantee. Only a fool would attempt a rescue while I have her in my custody.”

  “I’m sorry,” he tried to say, certain now that he had failed yet again. “I’m so sorry.”

  William was dimly aware of the ropes on his wrists being replaced by manacles, then, with a shout for Jacquet to lock the door, Tessier was gone, leaving William and Harriet alone.

  “He’s…” He paused, tried again. “Your father—”

  “Papa said you were brave for saving Monsieur Gaudet.” She sniffed back her sobs, voice a whisper. “Papa was very proud of you, sir, but not able to speak such sentiments.”

  “I’m not brave.” William lifted his head to meet her gaze. “And he’s not—he’s not dead.”

  “Don’t…” Harriet rose from the chair, her manacled hands before her as she walked to the desk and picked up a blotting cloth. “You’re bleeding.”

  “He’s not dead,” he repeated, needing her to understand. “Leg wound, that’s all.”

  She dropped to her knees, awkwardly holding the cloth to his forehead as she whispered, “You don’t have to say that.”

  “I thought he’d let you go—”

  “That is because you are a man of honor. He is a monster.”

  Honor or not, they were now in a very bad position indeed and he gasped, “I’m sorry.”

  “Being here.” She renewed her pressure on the cut on his forehead. “That is worth more than you can guess.”

  “I swear I will see you safe.” William met her gaze with effort. “What he said about Monsieur Gaudet…”

  “It doesn’t matter.” She smiled gently. “Not to me.”

  “I have messed up everything I have ever done,” he told her, touched by the innocence of her words, “but I won’t let you down.”

  The door opened with some force to admit Jacquet, who stared at the pair of them for a long moment. Finally, he said, “This one don’t like girls, darling—he likes Frenchmen.”

  “I don’t like you,” William pointed out, certain that politeness wouldn’t get him anywhere with this one. “Leave her alone.”

  “Boss wants to see you. Girl, you’re to sit with the lady, keep her company.”

  William considered refusing, but the thought of putting Harriet in any more danger stilled his tongue and he nodded gingerly, getting to his feet.

  “You’re to help the lady with her hair,” Jacquet informed the girl as he reached out to grab William’s bound hands and pull him across the room. “So behave.”

  “I’ll be back,” William promised Harriet, pleading with her with his eyes not to do anything that might endanger her further. “Don’t worry.”

  “I will behave,” she assured him. “As well as any girl raised by a father like mine.”

  With that reassurance, William allowed himself to be led away, steeling his nerves for whatever was about to come after he had been half-walked, half-dragged along the oppressive hallways to the kitchen. Here William’s hands were wrenched up until the manacles were secured to a meat hook that hung from the ceiling, arms stretched so high that eventually the tips of his toes rested on the floor. Things were, William knew, about to get very, very bad. His muscles screamed, the wounds already inflicted smarting as his stomach ached, yet he found himself focusing on the fear that much worse was to follow.

  “Strung up,” Tessier commented in a pleasant voice as he followed into the room. “Like a British pig.”

  William kept his mouth shut and his gaze fixed on the wall, refusing to give Tessier anything.

  “A deviant.” He snapped the horse whip against his boot. “British pig.”

  Fuck you, William kept the words to himself, fear growing.

  “What do you know the death of Yves Morel?”

  William concentrated on breathing as Tessier spoke, taking reassurance from each breath, in and out, in and out. He could do this, he could see it out.

  “Tell me your name?”

  “Why?”

  “So we can correctly record it for trial.”

  “You will never”—he felt a surge of anger at the arrogance, at what this man had done to Gaudet—“learn anything from me.”

  Tessier’s hand shot out with the speed of a striking snake, the horsewhip slashing across William’s chest twice in quick succession. He wasn’t quite quick enough to bite back the gasp of pain, body jerking at the impact. There followed another slash with the whip as outside, a cry went up from the people in response to the shout from a newspaper barker that, “Citizen Robespierre is dead!”

  “You,” William managed to groan, “you’ll be next.”

  “Jacquet! Jacquet!” Tessier bellowed, the whip striking again. “Fetch me the news of Paris.”

  “They’ll do to you what you’ve done to so many,” William gasped, certain the pain was worth it if his words proved true. “Justice. That is justice.”

  “If they do,” Tessier closed his scarred fingers around William’s chin, spitting the words into his face, “then mollies and traitors will follow me to my fate, and you will be first in the line.”

  “You don’t frighten me.” He met the icy fury of Tessier’s gaze. “Neither do your threats.”

  Tessier, usually so considered, so proud in his violence, let loose with a volley of strikes of the whip, his fist punctuating the blows. Faced with the onslaught, William could only screw his eyes shut, triumph and agony and the desperate hope that this might soon all be over mixing together as he struggled for breath.

  This is where I will die.

  The thought occurred to him as the door opened and the guard slipped into the kitchen, a sheet held in his hand. At Jacquet’s return, Tessier snatched the paper from him, ceasing his assault to read the report of
his friend’s death. His gaze raked frantically over the page and he whispered, “My God.”

  “They want you back in Paris.” Jacquet tapped his yellow fingernail to the page, eliciting a sound of pure disdain from his employer, whose colorless eyes then slid back to William.

  “You’ve lost,” William gasped out. “You will pay for everything you’ve done.”

  “Everything I have done”—Tessier grew calmer—“has been in the cause of righteousness, for the good of my nation. I will ride into Paris with the Star of Versailles in my hand and your body dragged behind my horse.”

  William actually laughed at that, opening his eyes to meet Tessier’s gaze again. Once he started, he found he could not stop, the baffled fury on Tessier’s face fueling his sudden mirth.

  “You…” He tried and failed to gather himself as another wave of laughter engulfed him. “You—oh!”

  “The girl is—” Sylvie burst into the kitchen, hair at right angles. “What on earth?”

  At the sight of the Frenchwoman’s hair, William laughed harder, tears streaming down his cheeks as he told her, “Oh, Madame, if only you knew.”

  “Out,” Tessier bellowed at her.

  “Run along,” William spluttered. “Run along like a good girl there!”

  Sylvie seemed about to argue when she clearly thought better of it, turning and hurrying from the room, the door slamming pointedly behind her.

  “You find this funny?” Tessier asked quietly.

  “Yes,” he told him truthfully. “Oh, God, yes, I do.”

  “Explain?”

  “You’ve lost,” he told the nonplussed Butcher of Orléans with a fresh wave of laughter. “You’ve lost and you don’t even realize it.”

  It seemed to William, through the haze of pain and mirth, that Tessier’s rage was so great as to paralyze him, the Frenchman simply staring through hate-filled eyes. He neither moved nor spoke for a long time, as though he had no idea how to cope with laughter, so used to screams was he.

  “I would say that I am sorry,” William finally managed, “but I’m not.”

  “After twelve hours on the meathook”—Tessier slashed the whip across William’s stomach—“you will be.”