‘Is there a treasure.’
‘Oh yes, though not to the value that the Monsignor would have you believe. Certainly there is plate, precious objects and jewels. But they could be old bones to him.’
Markham was thinking of those boxes, and how much Aramon could get in them. ‘But valuable?’
‘To a man involved in a desperate search for influence, they are very valuable.’
‘He resides in Rome now?’
‘Yes.’
He hardly needed to be told of the politics and intrigue that surrounded the Holy See. Rome had always been held, even by the faithful, to be nothing more than a cesspit. Into that had come Aramon, a man of influence in the Avignon he had been forced to leave, a nobody amongst the cardinals and other senior clerics that inhabited St Peter’s. He needed to draw attention to himself. What better way than to return the stolen treasure of a papal fiefdom to the rightful owner.
‘He will be taken into the bosom of the man who has the power to elevate him.’
‘And you too are tradable commodity?’
She wasn’t offended by that, but replied in a very matter of fact way.
‘I am an orphan. Though educated to be accomplished I have no money and no position, nor do I have the aptitude to be a nun.’
Markham ran his hand over her belly, the flat and hard surface of a young woman who’d never had to think of her shape, and had certainly never borne children. But she was not a virgin. But then neither was she really adept at the art of lovemaking. The idea of teaching her was something he found quite appealing.
‘If you were a nun, Ghislane, I would be after taking holy orders tomorrow.’
It was, considering the proximity of Aramon, a tactless remark, something he knew as soon as he’d said it. But although she noticed too, she made a joke of it.
‘I’ve had enough of holy orders this last year in Rome.’
‘I cannot imagine the Monsignor as a considerate lover.’
‘He considers only himself. Luckily, since we arrived in Corsica, I have been spared his more intimate attentions.’
‘And de Puy?’
There was an element of sadness in her reply. ‘He does nothing but look, Markham.’
‘Yet married bliss beckons.’
‘He is no beast, nor is he the type to excite a woman. He has estates in this area that were abandoned in ’91, and some hope that he may regain them. If a king returns to the French throne, he can look forward to advancement. The Comte worships me, and I am just good enough in my pedigree to make me acceptable.’
‘You have a pedigree.’
‘I was raised in the Nunnery of Santa Hildegard de Brescia. They are a special order, with a special place for children. Only the unbidden offspring of the best and richest families can gain entry to such an institution.’
‘No written evidence of your pedigree then?’
Her finger slipped between his lips. ‘Does that disappoint you, Markham?’
‘Never in life, girl. If you want to have fun with a horse, a dog, or a woman, choose a mongrel.’
‘And in the case of a man?’
‘The same. And in my circumstances, the pedigree is perfect. I’m a bastard caught between two nationalities and two religions.’
‘Even more of a mongrel than me.’
Markham rolled on top of her, looking down into the deep pools of those large brown eyes. ‘And proud of it!’
They should have extinguished the lanterns. But passion drives out common sense, and they made love without thinking that, if Markham had been attracted to the light, so might others. The swish of the sheet being violently pulled back was enough to have both lovers pulling away from each other, seeking in vain to cover their nakedness. Aramon stood there, his bulk and black cassock filling the doorway, a deep frown on his face.
Ghislane was up, kneeling, looking at the ground, the shawl doing a poor job of covering her. Markham realised that he two was in a submissive pose, and deliberately stood up and slipped into his breeches. The Monsignor walked across to the girl, and touched her hair. Markham, expecting some kind of violence, stepped forward to protect her, only to run into his other hand. How much had Aramon seen? Had he stood outside and watched them the way he’d had watched Ghislane. Would a lie help?
‘It was all my doing, Monsignor, I forced myself on her. Mademoiselle Moulins is entirely innocent.’
‘Come, child,’ the priest said, in a surprisingly gentle voice. ‘Clothe yourself.’
‘Forgive me,’ she murmured, in a meek voice.
That tone of abject resignation surprised Markham even more. She had seemed so spirited just a few minutes ago. Yet he had to consider what he had concluded before, that if they were caught he would not pay anything like the price she would pay. This cleric had a hold on her future, and he had no idea how high his costs would be to her, a penniless orphan.
‘It may be, in years to come, you will need memories like this to sustain you.’ Aramon looked up at Markham, his eyes hardening. ‘You on the other hand will, no doubt, forget about this the next time you indulge.’
He wanted to say no, to plead that he would remember every detail of this night’s encounter; her skin, her smell and the delicious pain. But he could not do so, without further compromising Ghislane. Aramon took her under the arm and helped her up, gently arranging the shawl so it served a better purpose, taking up her clothing and leading her out into the night. There was a way with him that the marine officer had never observed before, a tenderness of manner that seemed so out of character. It was almost as if he was the lover, and not George Markham.
Guilt at being caught in flagrante was multiplied by his realisation that he had neglected his duties. He should have kept in touch with his sentries, to ensure that they were awake and alive. As soon as he was dressed he grabbed his lantern, rearranging the shading, and went out through the doorway and hurriedly crossed the courtyard. The steps to the parapet were taken two at a time, which at least gave Yelland, if he was asleep, the chance to properly wake before he arrived. He found the youngster leaning over the wall, musket at the ready, massacring his marching tune with his incompetent attempt to whistle.
‘Garry Owen,’ he said, before the youth challenged him.
‘Back to the stables, Yelland.’
‘Sir.’
‘We will be pulling out shortly, though say nothing till I inform everyone. Just wake Sergeant Rannoch and tell him to get ready. He will know what to do.’
Markham moved onto Dornan, who was still getting to his feet when his officer arrived. The man was incorrigible. But this was no time to chastise him and he sent him after Yelland.
‘Bellamy.’ There was no reply, so he moved the cloth that covered his lantern just enough to show the stretch of parapet the Negro was supposed to be guarding. His voice was much louder, as seeing nothing, he called out again. ‘Bellamy, damn you.’
Still no reply! ‘If this is some kind of joke to show the nocturnal superiority of the black man, you sod, I’ll have you flogged till your hide is bright red.’
Markham pulled the cloth off completely and, lantern raised, traversed the whole area that Bellamy had been detailed to cover. He examined the wood of the flooring to see if there was any trace of a struggle, or, God forbid a spot of blood. There was no trace of anything. The man had gone to sleep somewhere, like the useless article he was, neglecting his duty in such a blatant manner that Markham would have to severely punish him.
No considerations of like and dislike could be allowed to interfere with that. It was the worst offence in the book, if you took out rogering the Regimental goat. To fall asleep on duty was bad enough; to desert your post was tantamount to going absent permanently. The curses flowed as he made his way back to the stable, in his mind’s eye a vision of a bloody-backed Bellamy hanging from the wheel of a gun.
Markham stopped suddenly, realising that if Bellamy had gone to all the trouble of finding somewhere out of sight, he had no wa
y of looking for him. To send out his men to search would only wake up the people they intended to leave behind. He knew he would go regardless, but it would be so much easier to depart without a scene. The last thing he wanted as he crossed that field was Aramon’s curses ringing in his ears. Worse than that, knowing it to be the best means of escape, the cleric would probably follow him.
‘Bellamy has disappeared,’ he told Rannoch quietly. ‘Snoring somewhere, I’ll wager.’
The Highlander replied in that slow careful way that drove Markham to distraction sometimes. It seemed the more agitated he was the more deliberate became the Scotsman’s tardy mode of speech.
‘He might be with that Negro girl, Renate, seeing as how they were so very friendly.’
Markham was about to state what an offence that was when he recalled his own adventures. ‘I will go and look.’
‘Do not go getting caught in her chamber,’ said Rannoch, grinning. ‘I doubt you would be believed if you tried to explain it away.’
‘Just get the men to lighten their packs.’
He spoke loudly, to make Rannoch’s job easier, in case anyone was tempted to argue with him.
‘And that is an order I have cleared with Captain Germain, who will be staying behind. They may take all the food they have but they must not overload themselves with water. All their spare kit is to be abandoned, shirts, boots and greatcoats. The man who takes the flares and tubes is to spread his equipment out amongst the rest. We will be moving at the run, and anyone who falls behind will be left to die in the forest.’
He pushed out into the night again, stomping across the courtyard until he realised that his own footsteps risked causing the very noise he feared. Slowing down, he dropped his lantern on the ground as he approached the cell into which Dymock had shown Renate. It was dark inside, nothing showing through the same kind of sheet that had covered the well house. He quietened his own breathing, so that he could listen out for others. There was no trace of anyone, so edging the lantern closer, so that it spilled a little light, he fingered the sheet back a fraction and peered inside.
He was loath to go without Bellamy, though if he’d been asked to explain why he would have been at a loss. It was certainly nothing to do with his soldierly qualities, nor indeed his too often displayed erudition. But Markham hated to lose a man, even a useless article. He would have acted the same if it were Dornan.
He could see the makeshift cot the marines had rigged for her, but it appeared to be empty. Cursing Bellamy with real venom he lifted the lantern, pulled the sheet right back and edged in. The place was empty. Not only of Renate, but of Bellamy too. There was no trace of the Negro girl’s bundle, which she carried so elegantly on her head. That, he concluded was none of his affair. She could be anywhere. Perhaps she and Bellamy had found another less exposed spot to conjugate.
‘Nothing,’ he said as he re-entered the stable. His Lobsters were lined up, ready to go, though it was clear they were deeply unhappy about the pile of spare kit that had been piled up in the corner. Rannoch had even untied Fouquert, who, with a white bandage round his cut head looked like a Barbary Pirate.
‘No noise as we leave. Stay well clear of anything you might strike your musket against. We will make for the woods and get out of sight before daylight, that way the people we leave here will not know how far we have gone and make no attempt to pursue us. Captain Germain has undertaken to explain to them what I am now about to tell you.’
Their eyes widened when he told them what Fouquert had. Men who had taken wagers on how long it would be before he dangled were now faced with the primary task of keeping him alive.
‘It doesn’t matter who gets through, one of us or all of us. This man must be taken to where the information he has will be of use.’
‘Will they hang him then, your honour?’ asked Dornan.
‘I doubt it,’ Markham replied grimly. ‘They will probably make him a Duke, and gift him a huge pension.’
Fouquert, who had very good English, was smiling. But that was wiped off his face by Tully. He had been one of the first men Fouquert had met, outside Toulon, and he no doubt remembered that the then soldier had a penchant for misuse of the bayonet.
‘Then why don’t we beat everything he knows out of him, sir, and impale the bastard on a stake.’
‘He would lie to us, Tully, even in death. He’s the type. But I want him roped, so that he is attached to both the man in front and the man behind.’
‘That is not necessary. We are on the same side now.’
‘Jesus!’ exclaimed Markham, ‘that will be the day. Tully, search him in case he’s acquired something sharp.’
‘Pleasure.’
It was a rough handling, with Fouquert seething, as every part of his anatomy was checked for a concealed weapon. Markham meanwhile checked his own kit, throwing out all that was superfluous. The last thing he did was feel inside his shirt, to ensure that the package Fouquert had given him, and Germain’s despatch were safe.
‘It would be an idea to check the courtyard before we move,’ said Rannoch.
Markham nodded and the sergeant went out the doorway, moving with a silence born of long experience. The rest of the men waited, their breathing the only sound to fill the stable, until he returned and pronounced the way out to be clear.
‘Single file, lads, and slow on my command. Stay close enough to see the belt on the back of the man in front. If you get lost, you are on your own.’
Rannoch killed the light and they stood for several seconds, adjusting their eyes to the dark. Markham went first, calling softly for them to follow. To him, the noise sounded horrendous, heavy boots scraping on the hard, packed earth. But he reasoned that he was listening for it, and that to anyone asleep, it might register enough to disturb their slumbers, but would be gone by the time they were fully awake.
The compass was, in this light, useless, but the sky to the east had the very faintest tinge of grey at the base, just enough to show Markham his direction. As long as he had that on his left he was heading due south. The ground was still in darkness though, and that caused men to stumble, their muffled curses evidence of their high level of discipline.
He tried to calculate, by his memory of the rise and fall of the ground, how close he was to the woods. He knew that they were at the crest of a hill, and that he would be close to them when that became a steep incline. Yet there was a sense of disorientation in the dark, with no fixed object to give him a point of reference. Even that grey line was deceptive, and he knew that if they were going to get to their target, it would not be in a straight line.
Then the ground became really steep and he knew he was close. He called back to warn Halsey, right behind him, bidding him to pass it on, just as he scrambled up the last of the embankment and felt the first twig of the bushes brush his face.
‘Halt ten paces inside, and wait,’ he ordered. ‘You men on Fouquert, keep a tight hold. Stay still until it is light. If you can see the church buildings retreat further back until you are out of view.’
It seemed to take forever for the light to increase, and much as he was tempted to move, Markham stayed still. To try and negotiate the forest in anything but full daylight would be madness. It wouldn’t be easy then, especially moving at the pace he intended to set.
It was an hour before they could see each other clearly, and make out the details of their surroundings. Markham had them eat as soon as they could, insisting that they split their rations with the Frenchman.
‘He’s no good to us dying of hunger and thirst, lads.’
‘Nor am I tied like a hog.’
That was true. They couldn’t move fast with Fouquert roped. He would snag on every branch that he passed, also holding up the men detailed to run with him. Markham was going to be forced to trust him, and that was an uncomfortable notion. Yet it had to be acknowledged that much as he hated him, Fouquert’s only hope of survival was to stay with them. Last night he’d been tied in the stable to avo
id him coming into contact with the others. Now the question had to be asked; was he just roped because of habit?
‘Cut him free.’
Markham moved forward slightly, to look back at the buildings. In the grey dawn he could see Aramon standing in the open gateway, his eyes ranging over the shallow hills and towards the forest. A group appeared behind him, de Puy and the Monsignor’s three servants. They turned right and the cleric joined them, seemingly heading to an empty part of the hillside with a spare set of trees too far apart even to merit the appellation copse. Yet there was something visible in the midst of the trees, a black dot, not a bush or a tree, that looked out of place.
The telescope brought it into sharp focus, a studded set of double doors, quite wide, set into the steepest part of the hill, and partially screened by trees. That made him smile. He’d anticipated that whatever it was they sought had been buried, and would take a lot of work to recover. One sight of the burned buildings, added to the Frenchman’s sanguine response, was enough to tell anyone with half a brain that it was not in any of them. And de Puy had used this very instrument to sweep the valley floor.
But de Puy had been clever. What was it Aramon had said? It had been brought here on the backs of men and could be taken out that way. A burial place would have required men to dig, witnesses to the fact that something valuable was being interred. Even the men who brought the treasure here would not have known its final destination. De Puy could have placed the goods himself, leaving his own men to suspect they were still in the church. And they were as safe as they could be while still above ground, even from the people Fouquert had incited to burn this place down. Who would go into an ice house, even to loot?
The Frenchman had no idea, when Markham turned round, why he was laughing at him. But the idea that this man, who so prided himself on his brainpower, had missed such a prize was amusing. He knew they should leave, there was ample light now, but he swung the glass back in his desire to see the Bourbon officer’s triumph. Perhaps Ghislane Moulins would not have such a dull existence after all. A man who could bait Aramon like that, had to have something in his favour apart from innate courtesy.
Honour Be Damned Page 24