by Blake Ferre
Guillaume blew a puff of air through his puckered lips. “A day early? Don’t be a fool. You can’t… That’s a big risk to take on your own. We work as a team; if we act in haste…”
“I have to.” Henri closed his eyes. “I can’t let Perrin suffer more than he already has. You can’t stop me. But I need you to send word to our leader. Tell him I’m sorry.”
“Our leader won’t be pleased.” Guillaume squeezed his hand. “But I shall send word to him, though he’ll likely receive it too late to assist. And just so you know, we’re in this together, Chevalier. I’m not about to let you play vigilante on your own and take all the fun. Selfish bastard.” He winked. “But I hope you have a plan in mind. Come. Help me pull down one of these drapes. We need to visit our seamstress friends.”
Henri lifted his gaze to Guillaume’s, overwhelmed by such support from a man who barely knew him. “Are you certain?”
Guillaume arched a brow and offered him a sly grin. “If you refuse my help, I shall give it anyway and become a burden to you. It’s far better for your own sake to accept it.”
Henri let out an unexpected laugh, uncertain what he’d done to deserve such kindness. “I do.” He only hoped the revisions to Lemaire’s plan would work.
…
Henri’s biceps strained as he hoisted the large bundle under his arm. He cursed as it slid out of his grip. His eyes were swollen from tears. But he had to act now if he wanted to protect Perrin. A surge of determination pulsed through his veins.
Up ahead stood the unmistakable turrets of the Conciergerie. Though the massive medieval fortress lurked in the distance, its reflected image in the murky water of the Seine made it appear all the larger. An odd exterior for a prison, the former palace held too much majesty, the stone architecture too grand to hold the number of atrocities he’d heard were committed within. The coppery scent of blood loomed in the crisp winter air. He hoped he could overcome his fear and get through this plan without fainting.
Henri was no warrior. His heralded heroic act—saving the capitaine’s nephew—had been a fluke. What use was Henri’s training and skill with a blade if he collapsed at the first slice of skin during battle?
Today differed from the battlefield. He no longer feared death. Or perhaps he’d finally accepted his own guilt.
The joke of it all was that he’d grown into his own worst nightmare. His crimes of arrogance and superiority were exactly what he had chastised the aristocrats for.
From the opposite side of the street, Guillaume appeared, clad in a simple brown cape, wearing a wiry wig and a false nose. They shared a glance before Henri hid himself behind a stone wall and watched from a safe distance, waiting for the signal.
Guillaume approached the prison’s iron entrance gate, immediately catching the guards’ interest. Henri adjusted his own prop nose as he watched the theatrics unfold. He couldn’t help but fear he would be recognized. Only yesterday, he’d questioned those guards about their loyalty to the Republic.
Hand deep in a large satchel, Guillaume rattled its contents as he approached the first guard. Henri remembered the fellow’s short and portly form. But most memorable was the constant sweep of his pudgy little finger picking his round, pockmarked nose.
How Henri wished he could hear their voices. He looked at the other guards, who drew closer to Guillaume with greed in their eyes. He hoped they intended to accept the bribes, rather than imprison him.
The round-nosed guard smiled, his gaze on Guillaume’s satchel.
Guillaume huffed theatrically, handing each guard a handful of coins. They had the guards right where they wanted them.
Just before Guillaume entered the fortress, he pretended to trip down the steps, scattering another batch of coin and jewels onto the rugged stone floor. As guessed, the guards took the bait, squatting on the steps, grasping between the cracks for every last item.
That was Henri’s signal. In a brisk rush, he swooped behind Guillaume, who blocked the guards from view on the steps.
“Good luck,” Guillaume murmured before Henri hurried deeper into the prison.
Clinging to the bundle in his tightened grip, Henri didn’t dare look back. With a great deal of luck and the predictability of human greed, the guards hadn’t noticed the intrusion; now, Henri needed to ensure Perrin’s friends could escape.
Stepping into the first corridor, Henri regretted his lack of involvement with the prisons. If only he’d had time to learn the layout. He came across a large cell housing far too many men. Though the architecture’s sweeping, arched ceiling was a lovely reminder of its regal history, the stench was nearly unbearable. Urine, filth, and lord only knew what else lingered in the air.
None of that masked the coppery scent he dreaded the most. But he’d not allow that to stop his momentum. Henri held his breath and pushed onward, sneaking into a smaller cell that housed a rectangular wooden table. On top of it rested a wicker basket with a large set of shears. On the floor were the scraps of severed linens mixed with tufts of freshly shorn hair.
There’s no blood. He gritted his teeth, making every effort not to succumb to the bile that brewed within his stomach. He needed to be strong.
Think of good things. A summer evening, swimming under the stars… Perrin. The name alone covered him with warmth, offering renewed strength to his shaking limbs.
He stripped his worn, brown cloak, casting it aside with the discarded remnants of life that decorated the cell. Unwrapping the bundle he’d smuggled inside, he withdrew the saber and tossed the scarlet cloak over his head. He stroked the fine velvet, a quick work of art Guillaume and the seamstresses had stitched together from the drapes at Crimson Rose.
To Stand and Shield.
It was fitting to wear a part of the club that had brought him and Perrin together. What he wouldn’t give for one final embrace. The chance to say goodbye. Henri bit his lip, hoping to keep his emotions in check. He needed to conserve energy for the next part of the mission. Perhaps what would be the greatest act in his life. Perrin would move on—he’d sail to England and start anew. Perhaps he’d even find love. Though the thought of someone else earning Perrin’s affection tugged at Henri’s jealous heart, he knew his sacrifice wouldn’t be in vain.
Hood drawn over his wig, Henri pulled the blade from its sheath. In a matter of moments, the glistening metal would likely be stained with blood. But he’d endure. He had no other choice.
Creeping into the corridor, he encountered rows of cells that were crammed with suffering prisoners who were practically piled atop one another. Even the smaller cells held as many as seven people huddled upon filthy straw. He evaded their sorrowful glances, but remorse still slowed his steps. Sadness and sickness invaded the very soul of the building, a hollow reflection of Henri’s heart.
Gripping the saber’s hilt, he hurried his stride. When he reached the end of the hall, he spotted the men’s courtyard, where a group of prisoners strolled freely. The two officers in charge made desperate attempts to figure out who they had, calling out names in strained voices, then marking their lists.
Sensing this was his best chance, Henri raised his blade and cried at the top of his lungs, “Here I am, citizens! The Scarlet Crest has come for you.” He ran toward the stunned guards, who blinked at him, hands clasped on their parchments.
“W-What’s the scarlet c-crest?” the taller guard stammered to the other.
“That group the prisoners have been whispering about. The one that frees people from the guillotine.”
Henri pierced his blade through the taller guard’s parchment, pressing the tip to the man’s heart. “And I am their leader.”
The guard released the page, the paper swinging on the metal. “Don’t want no trouble.”
Henri turned toward the row of haggard prisoners. “Citizens, help me tie up your captors.” He winked at the gawking group of men, tossing his
satchel to a blinking youth. The scrawny lad dug into it, retrieving the leather bindings and rope stowed within.
Shouts of surprise intermixed with cheers from the prisoners. Soon, the two guards were gagged and bound together. Henri dashed into the center of the courtyard, sword in hand. He thrashed his blade at another young guard who dared to confront him. Though the youth’s untrained parrying managed to keep Henri’s attacks from striking him, Henri easily flicked the poor man’s weapon from his loose grip.
“It’s too bad the Republic spent more time and money on new uniforms than they did on training their officers,” Henri barked, earning a few laughs from the prisoners. “I could almost thank the National Convention for their foolish debates on which buttons to use. You make for mighty weak opponents.” Thank God it also meant less bloodshed. “Tie him up with the others.”
As the prisoners bound the defeated guard, another armed officer approached Henri. Blade wobbling in the young man’s hand, he thrust in attack. Henri laughed, easily parrying his move. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
The man licked his lips and looked to his left and right.
Henri grunted. “At least pretend you know what you’re doing.”
The officer made a pathetic lunge, which Henri blocked and riposted with a counterattack that swept his opponent’s measly weapon out of his grip. The poor fool sprinted off.
Other guards tried to reach Henri, but with a few feigned maneuvers, he scared the combatants away by merely pretending to attack.
“Long live the Scarlet Crest!”
A slew of anti-Republican curses carried through the courtyard as Henri snuck through an arched doorway. Back inside the prison walls, he nearly tripped when he spotted a man who busily unlocked one of the cells. Guillaume. At his side, the guard with the round nose was sprawled on the floor, unmoving.
“I have Duclos and Ashford.” He opened the cell and waved Henri off. “Keep the guards away from us.”
Henri glanced inside the opened cell, where the unmoving form of Duclos was draped across Ashford’s lap. A dark crimson bled through the man’s shirt. Henri’s lungs tightened, and his head grew foggy. He shouldn’t have looked.
Guillaume slapped his cheek. “Don’t you dare faint, Chevalier. Think of Perrin. He needs you to remain strong.”
Henri closed his eyes, inhaled a raspy breath, and willed an image of his lover to his mind. To Stand and Shield.
The past converged with the present as Henri recalled his final moments with his father. The way death had claimed his body long before it had taken him from the world. Crimson had stained his father’s lips. Death’s seal. The mark of loss. Just as crimson had stained Florine’s chemise and his stillborn nephew. Henri. She had promised to name him after Henri. Blood was a cruel reminder of how damned mortal people were.
“Henri, you must move.” Guillaume hoisted Duclos into his arms, stumbling out of the cell with Ashford’s assistance. “Go,” Guillaume urged. “Meet us by the river.”
Henri nodded, though he knew he’d never see them again. He longed to recite a final message for Perrin, but he didn’t have time to listen to the inevitable protests that would follow his request.
The shouts of guards barreled toward them from behind. Henri sprang into motion. “Here I am,” he called, racing in the opposite direction. “Catch me. I’m the Scarlet Crest.”
“He’s down here,” a pursuing guard’s deep voice snarled.
Henri glanced back, thankful that Perrin’s friends were well out of view. Henri’s race through the prison corridors spun visions of the past, but in this version Henri had rescued his father. He’d been brave enough to storm that damned prison himself. Joy and sorrow filled his hollow soul as his father’s memory lived on through his efforts.
“You there, halt!” a guard called after him. Henri didn’t bother to look back. Instead, he continued racing through the halls.
His every action faded into a hazy blur while the sound of his heartbeat sang the name of his lover. Perrin.
Echoes of prisoners’ voices chanted his praises, encouraging him to prevail. Henri reminded himself that they chanted not for him but for the Scarlet Crest. A phantom of hope. One he’d allow them to keep.
“Don’t lose faith, my friends,” Henri called to them, wishing he could simply free them all.
Keep going. The only way to ensure Perrin’s safety was to give his friends the best chance of escape.
Perrin. His heart surged with a pulsing need for absolution. He didn’t even know where he was headed, yet onward he trudged, until a heavy hand clasped his shoulder with a painfully tight grip.
“The infamous leader of the Scarlet Crest.” Luc’s laughter sent chills down his spine.
Henri held his breath. Slowly, he turned. He hadn’t expected Luc to be here, though if he’d been interviewing more guards…of course he was. It appeared the fates were toying with Henri.
“The people’s hero?” Luc taunted. “Let’s see who this treasonous fiend is.”
Luc flung the hood from Henri’s head, and his eyes narrowed. Henri took several gasping breaths as the sweat trickled down his forehead. The prop nose shifted out of place, drawing Luc’s gaze.
“What’s this?” He grunted, prying the false nose from Henri’s face and dropping it to the floor. With a sharp curse, he tugged the wig from his scalp. Luc snarled. “Chevalier? What’s the meaning of this?” His fingers dug into Henri’s shoulder, causing him to cry out. “You? You’re the leader of the Scarlet Crest? You despicable traitor. You lied to me. Pretending all this time to be squeamish?” Luc spat at him, but Henri was barely aware of it. The world spun around him as his body caved to all the fighting he’d endured. Breaths heavy, his weakening legs unable to hold him, Henri strained to remain upright.
Somehow, he forced the words out of his dry, heavy lips. “Yes. Who else had access to the prisons? To forging papers?” His teeth clamped together. “The capitaine warned it could be one of your own.”
“You damned traitor.” Luc slapped his cheek, and the throbbing pain shot through his skin. Henri deserved that and more for the pain he’d caused Perrin. “I’ve got him,” Luc cried.
Though Lemaire had never wanted Henri to be caught, it seemed to be for the best. Knowing the sacrifice would keep Perrin and his friends safe, Henri didn’t fight back as Luc and his comrades threw him into a cell. He wasn’t worth the effort. He didn’t have a fraction of the honor Perrin had.
Chapter Twenty-One
Perrin’s head throbbed like an ox’s bottom had sat on it and flattened it. The nagging pulse beating within his skull was a cruel contrast to the soft bedding beneath him. When he opened his eyes, he encountered cascading folds of red velvet and damask. Not his room. He raised himself onto his elbow and blinked away the fog of sleep. Midday light streamed across the adornments of Crimson Rose’s opulent facade.
The events from earlier that morning slammed upon him. After realizing his mistake, Perrin had returned to Crimson Rose, but Henri had already left.
Henri. Perrin couldn’t purge Henri’s final haunted expression from his mind. The pure anguish and shock, the twisted regret that deepened the shadows under his eyes.
The door crashed open, and Philippe barreled into the room. “Get up, now.” The urgency in his voice whipped through Perrin’s skull like a thunderous crack.
“Philippe?” Perrin sat upright, holding his hand against his forehead to stop the pounding ache. “What’s wrong?”
“We don’t have much time if you want to save Henri.”
“Henri?” Perrin rasped. Simply speaking the name brought a torrential pang to his chest. “What are you talking about?”
“My lord, always acting without thinking,” Philippe chastised, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “I know all about Henri’s actions, and he’s not to be blamed for Julien. Henri only wanted to
avenge his family’s deaths. And I’ve no doubt you’d have ended Bertram yourself, if you’d had the chance.”
“I know. I have to find him and apologize.” Perrin couldn’t deny the truth of Philippe’s words. “The things I said to him this morning…” Perrin rubbed the sides of his head.
Philippe growled. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. We need to free Henri. Get out of bed now.” He hurried about the room, gathering Perrin’s discarded clothes. “You must make haste. We’ve got to plan how to get him back.”
The words struck Perrin’s ears, but nothing made sense. A knot twisted inside him. A knowing sense of dread tightened his breaths. “Back? Back from where? What’s happened to Henri?”
“He dressed himself as the leader of the Scarlet Crest and saved our friends.”
“Henri?” Perrin’s chest grabbed his own heart and squeezed it. “The plan wasn’t set to commence until tomorrow…” No. Perrin refused to accept it. Henri couldn’t have been so foolish.
Footsteps clomped in the hallway, and Ashford appeared at the door. “Is he coming?”
“Ashford?” Perrin pointed a shaking finger at the actor. “You.” His brows furrowed as he looked questioningly at Philippe. Oh God, it was true. The room spun around him, pulling him into a sinking void.
“Why’s he still in bed?” Ashford snapped at Philippe. “Come on.” The actor tugged at the covers, exposing Perrin’s mostly nude body to the room.
Perrin fumbled off the side of the bed, his legs unsteady. He couldn’t pick up his shirt, his hands trembled so badly. Oh God. This was wrong. So very wrong.
“You should have seen the look on his face. Perrin, that man loves you. Now hurry. You only have one chance to save him,” Ashford explained in quick, urgent beats.
The truth exploded inside Perrin’s head as he tried to make sense of it all. Horror and dread dug through his insides, leaving nothing but a hollow sense of loss. He refused to lose Henri. This was all Perrin’s fault. The mere thought of Henri’s suffering strangled his very being.