‘The letters?’ demanded Markham, in a loud voice.
She showed some reluctance so he fingered his pistol. As she turned to go Markham asked Rannoch to signal to the others to come in. By the time they arrived, he and Rannoch were sitting enjoying their second bumper of local red wine, feeling at peace with the world. His men waited outside, but Aramon, de Puy and Ghislane rushed in, to be greeted by Markham holding out two letters, one of them addressed to him.
‘I forbore to open mine till you arrived. What intrigues me is that yours seems to be somewhat thicker than mine.’
De Puy opened the one addressed to him and Ghislane slowly, catching the five gold pieces that fell out. When he read it he passed it to Aramon. He in turn went puce as his head dropped down the page.
‘They have stolen it and taken it for themselves, and they have the devil’s cheek to apologise.’
‘They ask that we send that on to you,’ said de Puy, clinking the coins, ‘by whatever means possible.’
The lady came out of the back of the inn, and having spotted Aramon she sank to her knees and kissed his hand, spouting what sounded like gibberish. He was led into the rear of the building, and no sooner had he disappeared than he was shouting for assistance. His servants rushed in, and they emerged holding fine gold caskets, with crystal glass on each side, inside which lay what looked like piles of old bones.
‘The relics. That blessed pair left the relics, with my name and enough money to send a messenger to Rome!’
‘This makes you happy I take it.’
‘These, Markham, are what I came for.’
The Monsignor reeled off the names of the saints whose bones lay in these caskets, St Gobain, Lazarus of Nimes, speaking so quickly that half of them were lost.
‘So you did not come for the gold and silver?’
‘The church has much of that, and can when it wants get more.’
‘Then I am pleased for you.’
Markham opened his and began to read.
My dear Lieutenant Markham,
You will be angered at my desertion, I am sure. But I beg of you to pause and consider the plight of a creature who carries more natural burdens than most. What could I hope for in His Majesty’s service? With you, little in the way of punishment. I fear you are a poor officer, too kindly for the rank you hold. But others are less scrupulous, and it would only be a matter of time before I met a man who loved the lash. You will know, with my tongue, what the consequences of that would be!
So, as this opportunity presented itself, I had to take it. France will serve as a place to live, and if not that then Italy. The treasure Monsignor Aramon sought was not so fabulous, but it will allow Renate and I to live in decent estate, without providing the means to cut a true dash. I have left his relics in the care of the inn so that they can be passed on to him.
As to the lady and gentleman who arranged for us to steal it, I imagine they were sad. But they only have themselves to blame. Renate was easy to engage in conspiracy, but Mademoiselle Moulins’ pursuit of me was masterly in its tact and subtlety. Who could not warm to a tale of love denied by circumstance, and be excited by the means to free two troubled hearts?
Yet our star-crossed lovers, even in felony, treated us as servants, never once offering a portion free from entail to the two people they needed most. What were we to do, acquire the means to make them rich, then serve them faithfully there after? What vanity!
Truly it is a strange world where people only see skin colour and not quality. You, it has to be said, were not like that. And for the rest, after we buried our initial animosities we managed to arrange a modus vivendi in which I sought not to annoy them more than necessary. It is my wish that they live and prosper.
That applies of course to you as well. And should chance put you in my way, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to treat you as an honoured guest.
I am, your most humble ex-servant,
Eboluh Bellamy.
‘Jesus, Rannoch,’ said Markham with feeling, ‘I’m going to miss him.’
Epilogue
Markham stood rigidly to attention before Admiral Sir William Hotham, aware not only of the amount of light streaming into the Victory’s cabin, but of the straight white line of the ship’s wake. It had taken a month to get from the French side of the Italian border to this place, and in that time Lord Hood had gone home, leaving the man at the desk in charge of the Mediterranean Fleet. He’d heard about Hotham; that he was timid, slow to action, and had let the French slip in and out of Toulon on too many occasions without offering battle.
He didn’t look timid now, as he finished reading Markham’s report on the events that had taken him from Corsica to France and back again. In fact he looked downright fierce, the eyes unfriendly even when he smiled. Writing it, Markham had been sure that any reader would be impressed. But now that he’d handed it over he was less sanguine. Every fault he perceived seemed to leap up at him from the overfamiliar text. Finally Hotham passed it over his head to his secretary.
‘I have here a note from Lord Hood regarding promotion.’
‘If I were to be granted that, sir, there is one favour I would very much like to add.’
‘So you pleased our allies, Markham,’ Hotham said, completely ignoring the inference.
‘Yes, sir. They were grateful for the plans, even though they were out of date. A copy was made for our Ambassador, and have I believe been forwarded to Horse Guards.’
‘A fine lot of good that will do. Those boneheads think they still use bows and arrows.’ Hotham reached out for the other packet. ‘And what is this, pray?’
‘It is a despatch written by my commanding officer.’
‘Young Germain?
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Know his papa quite well. We hunt together.’
‘Is there any news of him?’
‘Back in England, trotting around Bath trying to get back the use of his arm. Exchanged at Calais of all places.’
‘He wrote that in great pain sir, right after he had been operated on to remove the ball. I fear it will not make easy reading.’
‘A game lad, I recall. Always close to the stag.’
Hotham tore Germain’s seal and began to read. He hadn’t got far before the first ‘My God’ emerged. That was followed by a couple of ‘damn me’s’.
At first Markham thought them expressions of happy amazement, which made him wonder just how praiseworthy Germain had been. But when the admiral looked up at his visitor over the vellum, he wasn’t so sure. And he was confirmed in that impression when Hotham finally said.
‘You’re a disgrace, sir, a damned disgrace.’
‘Captain Germain assured me he was personally happy with my conduct, sir.’
‘He could hardly tell you otherwise you blackguard. If he had, I doubt this would ever have been delivered. I have never read the like. Making arrangements to transport civilians behind his back, including some trollop to entertain you in your cot, undermining his authority with the other officers and interfering daily in the running of the ship.’
‘Sir!’
‘Silence!’ Hotham yelled, the sound echoing off the deckbeams above his head. ‘Don’t think I don’t know your name, Markham. I was anchored at Sandy Hook enough times during the American war to get sick of the sound of it. As for that father of yours …’
‘My father is not here to defend himself, sir.’
That stopped Hotham for a moment, since the inference was clear. The son was, and any traducing by the admiral might cause more trouble than he could handle. The older man jabbed a finger at the vellum again.
‘And what’s this about buggering up a boarding party by calling for a retreat when the damn vessel was nearly ours.’
‘That is not true, sir.’
‘What? You’re calling George Germain a liar.’
‘I have no choice, sir. And might I be permitted to read what he has said about me so I can rebut the rest.’
&
nbsp; ‘No, you cannot.’ Hotham growled. ‘I wish his pa were here to witness it. He’d horsewhip you.’
The secretary, who had previously served Lord Hood and had seen Markham before, leant forward and whispered in the admiral’s ear.
‘What!’ barked Hotham, before adding an angry, ‘Oh, very well.’
The vellum slid across the round table, and Markham grabbed at it eagerly. The writing was a trifle spindly, only to be expected from a recently wounded man. But the contents were pure bile. Germain had managed to accuse him of everything but the flood; Fletcher’s death during the aborted boarding; of trapping them, against his advice, on a hostile shore in deep forest; venery both sexual and fiscal in the matter of the Avignon treasure; deserting his superior officer despite specific orders not to do so. The only thing that was missing was the regimental goat!
In the background Hotham was muttering. ‘Promotion. I’ll see you damned, drummed out the service, more like.’
‘I demand a court, sir.’
That stopped him. Markham had a right to that. No officer could be denied that.
‘I should think you’ve had enough of courts, Markham. They don’t always clear your name.’
That was when he finally cracked, his voice loud enough to match that of Hotham. ‘I have always found battle a decent remedy, sir. Might I suggest the next time the French venture out, you try it.’
‘Damn you for an insolent pup.’
The secretary leant forward again, and whispered urgently, his first request being for the admiral to lower his voice. There followed an exchange in which Markham only heard the words Hood and personal appointment, that followed by ‘an insult to his flag’.
Hood was still the titular commander, and to cross swords with him was something Hotham would do at his peril. He’d already been lacerated by that scorbutic tongue, for the very thing Markham had just accused him of.
‘All right, all right,’ Hotham finally said, his impatience turning his face bright red. Then he looked at Markham again, in such a way that made plain that whatever pleading had been done in his favour, the admiral had not changed his mind one iota.
‘You may have your court as soon as Germain is fit enough to return to duty and the Mediterranean.’
‘That could be never, sir.’
‘I cannot move mountains, and I have little inclination, I confess, to try. You will hold yourself ready for whatever duty I give you.’
Then he turned to the secretary, and hissed in a bitter tone. ‘But don’t ever put anything on my desk that even hints at promotion for this scoundrel.’
It was both blue eyes on him now, cold and furious. ‘You may well find yourself guarding a prison hulk, Markham, which would be too good for you. Now get out of my sight. You are dismissed.’
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BY DAVID DONACHIE
THE JOHN PEARCE SERIES
BY THE MAST DIVIDED
A SHOT ROLLING SHIP
AN AWKWARD COMMISSION
A FLAG OF TRUCE
THE ADMIRALS’ GAME
AN ILL WIND
BLOWN OFF COURSE
ENEMIES AT EVERY TURN
A SEA OF TROUBLES
WRITTEN AS JACK LUDLOW
THE REPUBLIC SERIES
THE PILLARS OF ROME
THE SWORD OF REVENGE
THE GODS OF WAR
THE CONQUEST SERIES
MERCENARIES
WARRIORS
CONQUEST
THE ROADS TO WAR SERIES
THE BURNING SKY
A BROKEN LAND
A BITTER FIELD
THE CRUSADES SERIES
SON OF BLOOD
SOLDIER OF CRUSADE
PRINCE OF LEGEND
About the Author
DAVID DONACHIE was born in Edinburgh in 1944. He has always had an abiding interest in the naval history of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries as well as the Roman Republic, and, under the pen-name of Jack Ludlow, has published a number of historical adventure novels. David lives in Deal with his partner, the novelist Sarah Grazebrook.
Copyright
Allison & Busby Limited
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First published in Great Britain in 1998 under the name Tom Connery. This ebook edition published by Allison & Busby in 2013.
Copyright © 1998 by DAVID DONACHIE
The moral right of the author is hereby asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All characters and events in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.
ISBN 978–0–7490–1564–0
Honour Be Damned Page 28