by Blake Ferre
Perrin shunted the drawer closed, jostling the roll of parchment he’d received from Duclos last night. In a tumbling plummet, it fell to the floor. Perrin froze. Slowly, he lowered his gaze. He refused to look at the images enclosed within, particularly if the bound parchment held what he feared might be inside.
Duclos had once stood as a paternal figure to Julien, whose father by blood had disowned him after learning of his inclinations. In return, Julien had modeled for the artist on several occasions, but, all too soon, Julien’s brothers had raided Duclos’s estate and destroyed all the pieces with his likeness. Or so Perrin had assumed.
“Let me take this somewhere a little more secure, hmm?” Philippe set the tray on the edge of the dresser and swept the parchment into his arms.
“Don’t!” Reaching for the gift in a brisk motion, Perrin knocked several trinkets off the dresser in a cascading crash.
Philippe’s long jaw reached toward the floor. “My lord, I assure you, the parchment is safe. I’ll store it in the study, where it might be kept under better care.” He glanced at the mess of dust and porcelain.
“I’m sorry. So sorry, friend. Please. The study would be perfect.” Perrin didn’t know what he’d done to deserve Philippe. He dipped his chin to his chest in gratitude.
“No need to apologize, my lord.” Philippe offered a sympathetic smile. “This is a difficult time for all of us.”
Perrin’s heart twisted with another thread of guilt. Philippe had once risked his livelihood to sneak Julien out of his cruel father’s unwelcoming home, hiding him at Duclos’s residence. After Julien’s death, the kindhearted manservant had latched himself to Perrin.
It was a wonder Philippe had remained in Paris this past year, given Perrin’s maudlin mood. But it seemed their combined misery had bound them together.
“One last thing, my lord… When I urge you to accept my escort, you ought to listen.” With a wink, Philippe turned on his heel and hoisted the parchment under his arm. “I’m growing too old to chase after you in angry mobs.”
Perrin scowled but swept the shards of glass and porcelain into a tidy pile. Beneath his palm, a slip of paper jostled amongst the remnants of debris. Grasping it between his thumb and forefinger, he staggered to the window for better light. Scrawled upon it was the same delicate script. The penmanship matched the note Duclos had left on the table last night. He was certain of it.
Take the pain, bind it, and paint new strokes.
A riddle? The dear man loved his games. Paint new strokes. It appeared to be his way of urging Perrin to move on from Julien. But last night, the other note’s call to action, to fight for humanity… What had the benevolent old man been up to? The handwriting didn’t match the letter Perrin had received from the Scarlet Crest. In fact, Duclos had mentioned that he, too, had hoped to meet the elusive schemer. Apparently, tonight at twilight they would all get the chance to meet this stranger. The day simply needed to hurry so Perrin could finally seek answers.
“Is everything all right?” Quill’s breathy voice called from the doorway. His cheeks flushed crimson, and his chest heaved.
Perrin rubbed his thumb and forefinger over the parchment, careful not to drop it. “Duclos left another message. None of it makes sense. Why does he think he’s being watched? Why leave these nonsensical notes?”
“Living in this city? I’m not surprised he’s resorted to writing in riddles.” Quill frowned, glancing at the smashed trinkets on the floor. “I’m sorry, Perrin. I know he’s a good friend, but we should leave the city immediately. I don’t like this, and I beg you not to go to his home tonight.”
Perrin slumped onto the cushioned seat underneath the sprawling window. He swatted the heavy damask drapes aside, blinking back tears from the bright attack of light. Down below, the street buzzed with a rowdy crowd. “Need I remind you Duclos is one of our own? A member of Crimson Rose. Beyond that, I owe him a great debt for helping Julien. If Duclos is in danger, I must help him. To Stand and Shield.”
“Don’t guilt me with our club’s motto. You know as well as I that you can’t protect someone who willingly steps into danger.” Quill gently squeezed Perrin’s shoulder, the contact warm but stiff. “Look at the mindless fury on the street. It’s unsafe to remain in Paris. We’ll be lucky if we live to see London again.”
Perrin sneered at the slow progression of a tumbrel making its way through the crowd. The rickety-wheeled, tightly bundled wooden cart held too many prisoners. It was a wonder they’d crammed so many in at once.
“After tonight, once we’ve met with Duclos, I’ll help you leave the city.” Perrin traced his finger along the fringed tassels on the drapes.
“You and Philippe are coming with me. I’ll not take no for an answer.” The lines beneath Quill’s eyes deepened with worry. “I understand you’ve remained here for sentimental reasons, but it’s time to move on.”
The harsh crack of a gunshot rang out from the street below, rattling the windowpane and vibrating through Perrin’s body.
A woman screamed.
Something in her cry drew back memories of the night he’d lost Julien. Desperation. Hopelessness. Terror.
He held his breath as a mounted officer forced his way through the crowd. Veering his black steed in a frantic beat, he shouted at a pair of men who struggled to restrain their captives—a crying mother and her two clinging children.
Perrin’s eyes narrowed. The fiends wore tricolored sashes and dark blue military jackets.
The mounted officer gestured at them with sharp swoops of his arms until finally the two men released their captives and stomped off.
If only the heroic officer had been there to save Perrin’s dear Julien. Some bastard on the street had recognized Julien, pried him from Perrin’s arms, and dragged him into the middle of a crowd. Perrin was too slow to reach Julien before they stuffed him in a godawful death cart. No trial. Julien had paid the price for his father’s involvement in some damned plot to lure his Austrian friends into financing an invasion of France.
Perrin rested his cheek against the cool glass, though it offered little solace to his burning skin or his twisted heart.
“Chevalier!” A familiar lanky-limbed, blond-haired officer plowed carelessly through the crowd on a chestnut steed.
The hero lifted his chin to the sky, and Perrin’s very breath was stripped from his lungs. Of all the leering filth in Paris… He would recognize those irritating hawklike eyes anywhere.
Chevalier, that blasted revolutionary.
Perrin closed the drapes tightly together, barricading him from view. It didn’t add up. The officer had been in such a foul mood last night. Yet he had protected Perrin from that mob. And now he was saving children?
A rancid burn crept up his throat.
Last night, Duclos warned him about Chevalier. Had the old man known he was an officer all along?
“That scoundrel’s an officer.” In an instant, Perrin’s pulse quickened as he recalled his own words last night. Borderline treasonous statements. Oh God, he’d spoken about Robespierre’s stockings. Implied their leader was no better than the aristos he hunted.
“Which officer?” Quill shoved closer.
“Chevalier. That’s him. That sneaky revolutionary was at Crimson Rose. Duclos warned us we were being watched.” Storming out of the room, Perrin slung his cloak over his shoulders and pushed onto the crowded street, where he suddenly paused. His path was blocked.
Behind him, Perrin ignored Quill’s concerned pleas. Not wanting to drag him into the danger, he tipped his hat over his forehead and merged with the crowd.
Perrin puffed a few breaths, the stench of bodily odors attacking his nostrils. Clenching his jaw, he caromed through a throng of dirt-coated citizens, toward Chevalier and his wretched companion. He breathed in quick spurts, willing the crowd to disperse.
All about him, the r
uthless citizens howled their impatience for the executions, following the tumbrel toward the Place de la Révolution, where the convicted traitors would meet the guillotine.
…
Henri urged his steed toward a nearby alley, his heart thudding faster than a scurrying mouse chased by a feral cat. His smug cohort followed and sneered at him with beady eyes. Of all the men to see Henri’s heroics.
Luc veered his horse to block Henri’s. “What do you think you’re doing, Chevalier?”
“Those officers tried to arrest a mother and her children. No proof. No trial. Robespierre would never support such a thing. It defies the very establishment of the Tribunal. Those men must be caught and taken to trial.”
Luc raised a palm. “Citizen, so eager to condemn your fellow officers? They might have found evidence against the wench and her brats. What if she’s working for the enemy?” His squawking voice pounded into Henri’s head. “And you let her escape. For all we know, she might be conspiring with counterrevolutionary enemies who aim to tear down the republic we fought so hard to establish.”
Henri tightened his grip on the leather reins, leading his horse closer to Luc’s. “Even if they had proof, those officers aimed to load that family onto the tumbrel without a trial.” He bit his lower lip, realizing he took a great risk in explaining himself. Luc had every excuse to use Henri’s words and actions against him. “Of course, if they were traitors, it would be our duty to punish them.” The statement lingered in his mouth like a spoonful of salt, stripping the moisture and plastering his lips together.
“Careful what you say. Wouldn’t want anyone to think you’d speak against the Republic.” Luc canted his head to the side and tossed oily strands of blond hair out of his eyes. He combed his bony fingers through the thinning mane that refused to be contained by the clip at his nape.
“Me? Speak against the Republic? What are you on about?” Henri’s chest tightened as he chuckled nervously. He pounded his fist over his heart to release the knot lodged beneath the bones. “Absurd. You know I support our cause. But I won’t stand by while innocents are arrested.”
“Enough talk of mothers and their babes. I’ll raise the issue with the capitaine. We’ll have those men questioned.”
Henri blinked. Luc wanted to help him? He’d always assumed his partner resented him. Henri’s horse reared a few steps back, whinnying with a firm stomp. Apparently, the steed didn’t trust Luc’s kind gesture any more than Henri did.
“Learn to control your mount.” Luc hacked and coughed into his fist. “You’re slipping, Chevalier. You’d better be careful, or the Committee will demote you—by taking your head!” He cackled a phlegmy laugh. “It’s a new era. Robespierre’s Terror demands justice against those who voice doubt over our republic. Freedom is fragile. A few words spoken against us, and those greedy aristocratic bastards might regain the control so many of our people died for.”
Henri’s chest stretched, every fiber and tendon on the verge of snapping. His father hadn’t had the chance to see the fall of the Bastille, but his death had instigated Henri to fight. He’d rather send himself to the guillotine than watch the aristocracy regain control. “I understand the Terror’s vital.” Henri knew war wasn’t good, but he believed it was necessary at times, in order to restore peace, to bring equality and freedom to mankind. The enemies who stood against the Republic—those who hoarded the wealth—needed to be dealt with. “I’d never speak against Robespierre or our republic.”
“Excellent. Come to the Place de la Révolution; witness the executions of our enemies.”
Henri swallowed and rubbed his fingers along the ridge of his throat, the skin there moist and gritty. He wouldn’t dare venture anywhere near the guillotine’s plaza. Hearing the crash of the blade itself was enough to churn his stomach. “You know that’s impossible. The capitaine understands my…condition.”
The upper corner of Luc’s lip curled up. “When the capitaine leaves and I’m promoted, you’ll grow accustomed to the sight of blood.” The man’s laughter was cut off by several phlegmy coughs. He really ought to see a doctor about it—not that Henri was going to offer advice on the matter.
Luc turned his horse toward the main street, angling his hooked nose in the direction of the distant crowd’s mayhem. The bastard sniffed the air, his slender nostrils spreading wide. “I can smell the fresh blood from here.”
“I’m afraid I can’t stomach it.” Henri clamped a hand over his mouth, the tang of bile coating his tongue.
“Viewing executions is the patriotic thing to do. If anyone else discovers your little secret, the sansculottes or the mob will have your head,” Luc snarled, his tone so sharp it sliced through Henri’s chest.
The despicable oaf drew his finger across his throat. “I wonder if you’d faint from the sight of the blade.” He kicked his heels into his steed’s flesh to get moving. “Don’t worry. Your pathetic weakness is a secret for now. The capitaine sympathizes with your ailment.”
Henri winced. Capitaine Floch’s promotion was imminent, and the only thing stopping him from naming Henri as his successor was the tiny, insignificant fact that Henri couldn’t stomach the sight of blood, as demonstrated by his first glimpse of battle.
Henri didn’t remember fainting, but he’d somehow knocked over a man who’d nearly struck Floch’s nephew. An accidental hero, but it was enough for the capitaine to forgive Henri’s condition.
He hardly wanted the promotion, but he couldn’t bear the thought of reporting to Luc Cyrille.
Alone now, Henri slipped off his mount and staggered to the nearest wall. He planted one hand on the rough, cracked plaster, clutched his abdomen, and retched. Each heave offered little satisfaction from the surging disgust that twisted his insides.
Rubbing his groaning stomach, he spit the bitter tang from his mouth. He only hoped those insolent officers would be punished for their heinous act. The very notion of snatching people from the street and sending them to the guillotine without trial… It was no better than the crimes the aristos had committed against his family.
Resting his forehead on the cold, grimy wall, Henri couldn’t regret his actions today, though his protection wouldn’t last long. Not if Luc earned the promotion. Clenching his jaw, he reaffirmed his mission to prevent his cohort from moving up in the ranks. To do so, he’d have to catch Duclos, and soon.
Tonight, he’d wait behind Duclos’s home and uncover what the old fiend—and his aristocrat companions—were up to.
He wiped his lips with his sleeve and leaned against the crumbling plaster wall. Nuzzling the filthy but cool surface with his cheek, he slowly inhaled. Henri closed his eyes and thought of his father’s final words to him. Frail and barely able to sit upright, he’d leaned against the bars of his cell.
The aristocracy might seize all the land and the money in the world, but don’t ever allow one of them to steal your spirit.
Hesitant footsteps clicked from behind Henri, a warning to conceal his weakened condition. Luc might have excused Henri’s momentary lapse, but had it been any other citizen, they would have dragged Henri directly into a bloodthirsty mob.
With a pitiful huff, he pushed off the wall. Unfortunately, severing his body from the solid surface was a monumental mistake. His legs wobbled, and he staggered forward.
Two firm hands gripped his shoulders. With clumsy motions and shaking muscles, the stranger turned him and shook him. Startled, Henri blinked and tried to clear his blurred vision. The person was shorter than him, his nose directly placed at the height of Henri’s lips.
“Who are you? Why are you spying on my friends?” The baritone, laced with an English accent, spiked Henri’s pulse into a palpitating riot.
Not him.
Henri’s vision slowly cleared. Of all people…de Vesey. He never should have saved the pesky aristo. Now the man had seen Henri at his worst. And in uniform.
“Theatrics? What the hell are you on about?” Perhaps the aristo was simply mad.
Henri glanced at the aristo’s poorly tied cravat and plain burgundy suit. At least he’d had the sense to wear less flamboyant attire.
“Don’t play daft with me, Chevalier. Knight? The name hardly suits you. Ha. Or perhaps it does. You’re a deceptive knight, Chevalier.” The man’s voice weakened, and a sheen of sweat formed across his forehead. Yet still he clung to Henri with rage. “Do you always wear such shiny armor on the outside to hide your charred soul?”
“Knights? Armor? What in the world— Have you gone mad?” Henri braced to free himself from de Vesey’s lessening grip, but his feet slipped on the slick cobblestone, leaving him at the aristo’s mercy. “Leave me alone.”
Another swell of nausea whirled in Henri’s stomach. Light-headed, Henri breathed several stinted breaths. His vision blurred once more, and the buildings appeared to spin around him. His stomach couldn’t handle much more. Perhaps if he emptied its contents on the aristo, he’d let go.
De Vesey expelled a breath, stumbling back a few steps from Henri’s weight. “Why…did you…save that family?”
Henri sputtered. “F-Family?” It was worse than he’d feared. The aristo had seen Henri’s act. This wasn’t good. The last thing he needed was this man holding his softer side against him.
I saw you save that mother and children. You can’t deny it.”
“Leave me alone, you rogue.” Henri successfully braced his feet and freed himself from the aristo. “I’ve no need to justify my actions to you, I’m an officer of the Committee.”
“Is that so?” De Vesey fisted his hands at his sides and stepped nearer. His breaths fast from exertion, each frantic rise of the chest lifted his nose closer to Henri’s lips. It was impossible to ignore their heated proximity. “Interfering with an arrest? Seems like a treasonous offense to me. Why did you save them? Was it all an act to lure me to you?” The rogue’s voice lowered into a velvety caress. Danger had never felt so wonderful. Wonderful? Non. Dreadful. Offensive.