If there was one symbol of equality in the new France, then surely this machine was that symbol.
In the old days only the nobly born could expect the quick execution of a swift axe. The peasants were not so fortunate. They might be burned, hanged, disembowelled, or killed in some other slow, imaginative way that would amuse the crowd. Yet today was the age of equality and now all condemned men and women died in the same privileged way. They lost their heads and they lost them swiftly.
The machine was not a French invention. It had been used in Britain, Germany and Italy, yet French genius had refined it. Dr Joseph Guillotin, a member of the National Convention, had recommended the adoption of the machine and, under the supervision of the Academy of Surgeons, he had refined its operation by testing it on live sheep and dead lunatics. Now it stood, massive and high, a product of equality and science.
Terese and Toby, arm in arm, shuffled towards the great machine. The angled blade, beaded with water, was held at the top of the two uprights by a taut rope. The crosspiece above the blade had been whitened by the pigeons that huddled against the rain.
Terese licked her lips and stared at the machine. 'You've seen it before?'
He shook his head.
She laughed. 'Sneezing into the basket.'
That was what the people of Paris called the death that this machine gave. The sound of the falling blade was like a sneeze, and the motion of the head, twitching up as the blade struck then going violently down as it bit, was like the jerk of a man sneezing. Toby laughed. 'Sneezing?'
'Atishoo.'
The crowd pushed them away from the machine. The rain fell steadily. From Toby's left came the sound of boots on the cobbles and he could see the bright slashes of bayonets over the crowd's heads.
Terese stared about her. 'I don't see Gitan.'
'Patience.' Toby was astonished at the loyalty the Gypsy engendered in girls. This one had not seen Gitan since the previous autumn, yet the mere mention of his name had made her face flushed. To take her mind off the Gypsy, he bought them both some petits pains from one of the many hawkers. The bread tasted of sawdust. 'Do you see Brissot?'
The soldiers cleared a path through the crowd and held it open with their steel-tipped muskets. Cavalry, ragged men with curved swords, clattered down the cleared path and arrayed themselves beside the machine. The platform was tall enough for the crowd to see over the horses. They waited.
Terese was worrying. 'He'll never find us!'
'He said to meet him at the bridge if he couldn't get through the crowd,' Toby frowned. 'But he might not come till tomorrow!'
Not that anyone could now hope to get through the huge throng that filled every inch of the great square. Even the hawkers had given up trying. The crowd, packed and expectant, waited. Voices made a great buzzing hum, broken by laughter or a child's crying. The rain fell. The pigeons on the tall machine strutted up and down as if bemused by the noise and the great crowd that stretched in every direction.
Then, oddly, there was silence.
As if by agreement the crowd stopped talking. Heads turned to the north side of the square.
'Brissot,' Terese whispered and nudged him. 'There!'
'Where?'
'There! The man with the bottle!'
Toby saw a lank haired, pudgy man tipping a black bottle to his lips, and then the movement of a tattered umbrella half hid the man.
Over the heads of the crowd he could see the roofs of carriages, the leading one a dark green that glistened from the rain. The crush of the crowd created warmth. Terese had an arm about his waist.
Toby stood on tiptoe and moved his head till he saw the plump, grinning Brissot again. The sight of him, the thought that that pig had raped his Lucille, stirred a sudden, terrifying anger within him. He put a hand inside his ragged, string tied coat, and felt the handle of the knife that was strapped to his body.
Drums sounded from the procession that approached the machine, drums whose skins were made soggy by the weather, but which were thumped energetically by the drummers who had been told to keep the sound going until all was over.
The coaches stopped. Now, from his place in the crowd, Toby could see nothing of what happened. He could not see a pale, fleshy man descend from the green carriage and be stripped of his brown coat and hat. He did not see the shears slice off the collar of the white shirt and then cut the long hair from the nape of the man's plump, white neck.
He did not see the priest, dressed, as the law demanded, in lay clothes, mutter his prayers against the crowd's silent enmity.
He did see the man climb the wood stairway to the platform where three men waited for him. The priest, the rain soaking his book, followed.
The fleshy, pale man's arms were tied behind his back, lashed from wrist to elbow so that his shoulders were unnaturally forced back.
As the plump man came in sight of the crowd so there was a kind of sigh that went through it. Terese, her tongue between her lips, stood on tiptoe, one hand on Toby's shoulder. Her eyes were bright. For a moment at least she had forgotten the Gypsy.
The man walked to the platform's edge. Toby saw his fat, white neck, his double chin, and his fleshy, drooping lips. The man began to speak and, miraculously, the drummers stopped. Toby frowned as he tried to catch the words.
'I pray God that the blood you are about to shed will never be asked of France…' and then the wind seemed to snatch the next words of the fleshy man away. Someone shouted by the machine, shouted angrily, and the drummers guiltily began to beat their soggy skins again, the noise rising to drown the man's words.
'Fat bastard,' Terese said.
The three men who had waited on the wooden platform, the executioner and his two assistants, moved towards the man. One assistant took his left upper arm, the other the right, and they guided him forward to the plank.
Clumsily the man lay down. The two assistants lugged him forward as if he was a sack of barley, pulled him until his head was under the uprights. Then the executioner dropped the wooden brace that trapped the man's neck beneath the blade.
The assistants stood back.
The priest knelt. He made the sign of the cross.
The drummers, their wrists weary, kept their sticks moving. The crowd seemed to hold its breath.
The executioner stepped to the taut rope. He unlooped it, jerking drops of water from the twisted hemp, then let it go.
The blade scraped in the grooves. It fell. The rope, snatched by the weighted steel, snaked and danced and looped upwards.
The man screamed.
The scream went on. The blade had fallen, yet all of Dr Guillotin's experiments with sheep and lunatics had not allowed for a neck this thickly fleshy.
The scream came pathetic and shrill over the drums' failing sound. Not one of the great crowd spoke or cheered as the scream rose and fell, sobbed and faded. The executioner, startled into action by the awful scream, hauled on the rope so that the great blade rose jerkily to the top of the shafts again.
The scream faded. The blood on the wide blade, diluted by rain, ran pale down the slanting edge. The executioner gave one more tug, stepped back, and the rope snaked up again.
The blade caught speed, hissing, rattling down, and the plump man sneezed into the basket with a snatch of the head and a thump as the blade bit through his neck and sprayed a fan of bright blood on the kneeling, praying priest.
Silence.
Toby thought the crowd drew its breath.
And then the cheer came, a cheer that startled the pigeons up into the grey, wet air, a cheer that sounded like the thundering of a great sea within the elegant facades of the huge square, a cheer that told France that its King was dead, that tyranny had met the blade, that the Republic had cut its last ties with the past.
Louis XVI was dead. Pigeons circled the square. A soldier jumped onto the scaffold and held the dead man's head by the hair. He rubbed it against his trousers to provoke the mocking laughter of the crowd.
The
priest, his clothes spattered by the King's blood, hurried into the anonymity of the crowd which was reluctant to go back to the cold, hungry hardships of winter.
Slowly, still excited, the great crowd dispersed.
Toby struggled to stay near Jean Brissot, fighting against the tide of bodies. Terese, gripping his cloak of sacking, wanted to find the Gypsy and Toby suggested she waited at the bridge to the south of the square. 'He said that's where he'd meet me.'
'What if he's not there?'
'Meet me at Laval's tonight!'
He watched her go, then pushed through the crowd towards the plump man who had gone beneath the wooden scaffold to dip his finger in the blood of a King.
Toby stayed with Jean Brissot. He followed him through the day, through the alleys, followed him until the fat, loud man went into a dark courtyard to relieve himself of the wine that had celebrated a monarch's death.
Compared to Louis XVI, Jean Brissot was fortunate. He had little time to contemplate his death. He had listened with horror as the red-headed man talked of a long dead girl, a horror that turned to panic as he tried to run and shout for help. But Toby tripped him, turned him, stood astride him, and gutted him from groin to chest. He did it for Lucille de Fauquemberghes, for whom death had been far, far worse, and when it was done the small courtyard seemed awash with the fat man's blood.
Toby dropped his blood-soaked cloak of sackcloth over the body. A cat licked at the blood which was pecked by falling sleet. Dusk made the courtyard dark. Toby could hear a violin playing in the tavern from which Brissot had swaggered to his death.
Lord Werlatton went back to the Rue des Mauvais Garcons, to the small, filthy lodging house where the name Pierre Cheval was written in the book.
He did not go into the building.
He watched instead from a street corner and saw what he expected to see. Only the Gypsy had known that Pierre Cheval was the Lord Werlatton, and only the Gypsy knew that Lord Werlatton planned to stay in that lodging house on that street.
And that was why the soldiers were searching the house, driving the people out with musket butts, smashing open cupboards and ripping up floorboards.
Toby, the knife hidden again, turned back into the alleys of Paris where he would hide till the roadblocks at the city gates were lifted. Lazen, though it did not yet know its enemy, was fighting back.
—«»—«»—«»—
'It's war,' the Earl said. 'Damned war! The fool's caught up in a war!'
Campion looked at The Times, published four days before in London. France, in the wake of murdering their King, had declared war on Britain. War. The word seemed so unreal to her, so stupid. There was war between her mother's and her father's countries. Britain was at war.
The Earl grimaced as pain caught him. 'Scrimgeour brought the newspaper.' He gestured at the fat man who smiled at Campion as he stood up from behind the table where he had established himself. The Earl growled, 'You do remember Scrimgeour, my dear?'
'Of course.' She acknowledged the fat man's bow. 'You're well, Mr Scrimgeour?'
'Of course he's well,' the Earl snapped. 'He's a damned lawyer. Evicted any widows or children lately, Scrimgeour?'
'One loses count, my Lord.' Scrimgeour, who was Lazen's London lawyer, was oblivious to the Earl's attacks. He smiled constantly. Campion always thought that he would have made an excellent Renaissance Cardinal with his fat, smooth face, his unctuous smile, his ingratiating manners, and sly wit.
The Earl pulled The Times towards him with his good hand. 'Your brother, my dear, is in a war. He's a fool.' He smiled at her. 'I hear you had a good run yesterday?'
'Picked up a scent in Candle Woods and then all the way to Sorrell's Ford.'
'And lost him there?'
'Went to ground.'
The Earl laughed. 'You lost the same old dog last year! He'll live longer than all of us! How did Pimpernel go?'
She shrugged. 'He was whistling by Abbotshill.'
'I knew it! I knew we shouldn't have bought that horse! That damned French Gypsy of your brother's said it was no good, but you can't tell Correy. He won't listen! Boring you, am I, Scrimgeour?'
'Indeed not, my Lord.'
'I try, I try. D'you hunt, Scrimgeour?'
'Only malefactors, my Lord.' The lawyer's shoulders heaved with silent laughter.
'Christ!' the Earl groaned. He looked back at his daughter. Much of his swearing and grumpiness was for her benefit; she pretended to be shocked, but he knew she liked it. After her mother's death it was inevitable that Campion would grow up in a male dominated household, inevitable that she would be teased. She was also loved by this ill, clever, frustrated man who now smiled at her. 'You're out on Friday?'
She nodded. 'We're drawing Sconce Hill.'
'What are you riding?'
'Hellbite.'
He laughed. 'He'll have you on your arse. You'll end up like me, good for nothing, lawyer's bait. Sorry, Scrimgeour, forgot you were here.'
The lawyer laughed. 'Your lordship is ever thoughtful.' He looked at Campion. 'Such wit!'
She dared not look at her father. She would have burst into laughter if she had caught his eye.
'Now!' her father barked. 'We are gathered here for a solemn occasion. What happens when I die.' She looked at him with sudden shock and he scowled at her. 'Don't you cry, Missy. I can't stand weeping women! Your mother never wept, God bless her. Nothing worse than a weeping woman, ain't that right, Scrimgeour?'
'They are a bane, my Lord.' Scrimgeour was delicately hooking the wire earpieces of half-moon spectacles beneath his scrolled wig.
'So.' Her father gave her a swift smile. 'You sit and say nothing, my dear, and listen to us men talk. Tell her what's in the will, Scrimgeour.'
Campion looked from the lawyer to her father, and back to the lawyer again. She had known, of course, that Cartmel Scrimgeour had come to Lazen, but she presumed that it was no more than one of his normal visits. She had been summoned to her father's room and had expected only to talk about the domestic accounts. Now this? Her father's will? She wanted to protest, but the fat lawyer, his thumbs and fingers splayed above the papers as if he was casting a spell, spoke first.
'You understand, my Lady, that despite this egregiously woeful topic, we all, of course, wish your father a long and most happy life.'
'Christ!' The Earl groaned. 'Get on with it.'
Scrimgeour lifted a curling sheet of paper. 'In the unhappy event, dear lady, of your dear father's death…'
'Father!'
The Earl looked innocently at her. 'Seen a spider?'
'What are we talking about?'
He smiled at the shock in her voice. 'I am doing, dear child, what the priests tell us to do. I am preparing for my death.'
'But…'
'Be quiet, Campion. Carry on, Scrimgeour, she's usually more sensible than this.'
The lawyer smiled ingratiatingly. 'In the unhappy event, dear lady, of your dear father's death, the estate, and the title, of course, descends to your brother, Lord Werlatton.'
'She knows who her brother is, Scrimgeour!'
'Your Lordship is quite right to tell me!' He gave the Earl a happy, grateful smile. 'Shall I add the details of Lady Campion's own settlement?'
'No. Let her wait till I'm cold.' The Earl smiled at her. 'Periton House and a decent income. You won't be cold. Will you please stop looking as if you've seen a spider?'
She reached for his hand and held it in both her own. She supposed she should say something to him, but this cold-blooded and sudden immersion into the details of his will had left her too shocked to open her mouth.
Her father seemed to understand for he raised her right hand to his mouth and kissed it. Then he nodded to his lawyer. 'Go on, Scrimgeour, don't mind this touching display of fatherly affection.'
'It warms my heart, your Lordship.' Mr Scrimgeour, as if to prove his point, dabbed at one protuberant eye with a plump finger. He smiled at Campion. 'Unfortunately, dear Lady Campion, y
our father has felt it necessary to make precautions against a more unhappy outcome.'
'What he means,' her father said, 'is that if my damn fool son catches his death of a French bullet, then your cousin inherits the Earldom. Making Julius an earl is like making an ape into an Archbishop, or a lawyer into a gentleman. Carry on, Scrimgeour, don't mind my interruptions.'
'They are always most illuminating, my Lord.'
Campion had scarcely thought of the eventuality, yet suddenly it seemed horribly real. There was war. Toby was, at his own insistence, in France, and only Toby barred the Earldom from Sir Julius. She remembered her cousin pawing at her in the straw, she remembered his foul language, and she shuddered to think of him as master of Lazen.
Cartmel Scrimgeour ran a finger beneath his stock. 'In that event, Lady Campion, your father has decided that the property will be entailed upon Sir Julius's issue or, if he has none, upon your own children.'
'Let's hope he has none,' the Earl growled. 'Let's hope it's rotted off by the pox.' He squeezed her hand and she squeezed back.
Scrimgeour went on as though the Earl had not spoken. 'That would mean that Sir Julius, as Earl, would have no power over the estate. He may live at Lazen, he will receive an income sufficient to his needs, and a very generous one too, but you, Lady Campion, will have the administration of the estate until the death of Sir Julius, or, should he predecease his issue, until the majority of his heir or, should he have none, your own.' He smiled.
She was astonished. In effect the whole estate would be given to her if her brother died to hold in trust for the following generation.
She stared at the lawyer. Her father laughed at her. 'Don't pretend you're surprised.'
'Father!'
'Christ! You think I'd let Julius have this? God! He'd gamble the whole damned thing away in a year! Wrote to me a month ago wanting more money. I told him enough was enough and now he's praying for my death and Toby's death. I just wish I could see the little bastard's face when he finds out we've entailed the damned place. Do go on, Scrimgeour.'
A Crowning Mercy 02 Fallen Angels Page 12