D’Arche made no reply but the cold look on his face became harder still.
‘What of Jean Faugres?’ Natalie asked. ‘Might he not come up on us?’
‘Faugres’ll not catch us,’ Henry announced confidently. ‘Walking, he’ll not have crossed the Vienne yet; and besides, how is he to know what road we took, or what inn we chose?’
‘And what of the man who raised the rabble against me?’ d’Arche demanded. ‘Might he not be following?’
‘What of it?’ Henry laughed after quickly checking himself from revealing his knowledge of Emile Boillot. ‘He sounds a meagre fellow, anyway, and not one to concern us.’
‘He is an orator,’ d’Arche continued, ‘and as such more to be feared than any number of beef-bound peasants.’
‘An orator? Ha!’ Henry exclaimed. ‘The fellow’s still got pap in his mouth. He’s certainly no Fox. Now there’s an orator, for all that he’s a mad bastard . . .’8
Emile Boillot paused for breath. His previous attempt to raise a crowd, in St Romain, had been less than successful than he might have hoped. St Romain, though, was small, bucolic and its population had known him since childhood. Angers was very different; large, cosmopolitan and with a hungry mob eager for the fire of his speech.
He had begun by flourishing his letter of authority from the assembly in Paris, which had suitably impressed the crowd. Then, by combining revolutionary rhetoric with descriptions of Eloise’s beauty, depravity and cruelty, he had managed to engender anger, lust, envy and hatred. When he had started, few of the crowd had even heard of the de la Tour-Romain family. This had helped him in painting them as the very epitome of all the faults and excesses of the ancien régime. Stirring hatred against Donatien d’Arche had been easier still, as the vicomte’s reputation for extravagance and callousness had proved well known in the city.
‘Citizens!’ he called, bracing himself for the final burst. ‘Are we to allow these parasites to go free? Are we to sit quietly by while they roll from the country with their crimes still unpunished? They have coin enough to live high in their pockets alone, taxes extorted from the people, while we starve in the streets! Is this just? Is this to be tolerated? I say no!’
A roar of agreement answered his call, and his tiny mouth set into a smile as not dozens, but hundreds of men and women raised their fists in agreement.
‘Go out into the country!’ he continued. ‘They cannot be far, so do not rest until they are dragged back to face trial and execution!’
This time, the roar was louder and Boillot’s grin broader still. Whether the mob cared for the principals he had so eloquently outlined he was unsure. What mattered more was their hunger and the thought of the wealth that Eloise was carrying. How much wealth she in fact had, he was unsure, but it hardly mattered. That morning, he had seen black bread on sale for three sous a loaf in the market, and since that moment he had been certain of his ability to raise a vengeful mob to seek out his prey.
Once more he raised his hands, intending to impose some sort of order on the mob to ensure that the search was successful. As the crowd grew slowly quiet, a movement beyond them caught his eye and his face broke into a fierce grin as an elegant landau pulled by an ill-assorted team of four turned into the street.
Jean Faugres grinned to himself as he entered the city of Angers. Twice since leaving Tours he had changed horses, his massive bulk and ferocious appearance quashing any doubts the beasts’ owners might have had about the exchanges. After leaving Lucie, he had picked up the story of how the landau had run the bridge and realised that it could only be his quarry. Using most of her money to purchase a horse, he had set off in pursuit, riding hard down the southern bank of the Loire in the hope of overtaking them. He had not, but enquiries had revealed that he was on the right trail and it was his earnest hope that they would stop at Angers.
A noise caught his attention, a wild, roaring sound that rose and fell only to swell again with a new fever. Stopping in puzzlement, he strained his ears, thinking to pick out voices and a mad clattering of hooves. Suddenly, a team of horses burst from a street ahead of him, turning into the main road so sharply that the landau they were pulling came close to tipping up. Two men rode postillion and four figures were in the open rear, one with a gown of an unmistakable rich vermilion. With a curse and a yell of joy, he spurred his own horse forward, even as a mob of hundreds erupted from the street in pursuit of the fugitives.
Henry leant forward to whisper words of encouragement to his exhausted mount. For perhaps an hour they had driven the landau with as much speed as the tiredness of the horses would allow. At first, riding through the well-made streets of Angers, they had gained easily, their horses outpacing the mob. Yet, on crossing the Loire and turning west, they had found themselves in a strip of open country between two rivers and able only to press forward. As Henry had feared, the dust from pursuing horses had quickly appeared.
They had crossed the smaller river only to find themselves on a twisting road that ran along bluffs and offered no better chance of escape. Angers had become a distant line of ragged grey and the dust of their pursuers had drawn gradually closer, until now Henry lay crouched low over the neck of his grey, urging it on and praying for some chance of concealment. Knowing that they were likely to have to fight, he shouted back for the pieces to be loaded.
‘There’s no ball!’ d’Arche answered him.
‘Hell!’ Henry swore as he realised that what remained of his stock of shot was in his coat pocket.
Gripping the reins desperately in his hand, he began to dig among the contents for a ball. He cursed once more as his thumb caught the pin of a brooch, then a finger brushed the round shape of a pistol ball, then another. Dragging them free, he turned in the saddle and hurled both into the body of the landau. Behind, their pursuers were clearly visible, two dozen or more horsemen. They were strung out along the road, with more on a side turning that disappeared behind the hill. With a sick feeling in his stomach he realised that there could only be one interpretation of their action – an attempt was being made to cut them off.
To the right was a steep drop, to the left a cliff. Trees and marsh lay below, a vineyard above, neither offering refuge. With no other choice, he dug his heels into the flanks of the grey and yelled for more speed. Foam speckled the beast’s lips and its eyes held a wild, hunted look, showing all too clearly that it would soon reach the end of its reserves. The others were no better and he found himself casting desperately around for anything that might present the slightest hope.
Nothing came, only the triumphant yells of their pursuers, closer now. They rounded a bluff, then another, to come out on to a hillside that showed empty air stretching away to a far, western horizon. The wide vista seemed to Henry to offer a taunting freedom, yet it was no more than that. Ahead, a road came in from the left, and horsemen were spilling from it. Cut off, he tried to rein the horses in, resolving on a desperate stand among the trees and marshes below them.
‘What are you about?’ d’Arche’s voice demanded from behind him as the landau slowed. ‘They –’
The vicomte’s voice cut off abruptly and was followed by a report, then another. Henry turned to find the pursuing horsemen almost on them and d’Arche standing with a smoking pistol in either hand. An instant later, a musket crashed and a ball whined overhead. Then horsemen were swarming around them and Henry knew that they were lost.
Snatching the dog-whip from his belt, he struck out blindly as the landau at last came to rest. Red, yelling faces were on every side, showing exultation and anger. Natalie screamed and Gurney roared in anger, to be answered by a curse in French. Expecting to feel the pain of a musket ball or knife at any instant, Henry lashed around himself with the whip. Then a bellowing voice was calling for the men to back away and, to Henry’s surprise, they obeyed.
His feeling of relief lasted no more than the space of a heartbeat and then dwindled to dismay as he looked up to find the massive figure of Jean Faugres lookin
g down from the low cliff above them. The giant’s face was split into a triumphant grin and he held a musket levelled directly at Henry’s chest. With as much dignity as he could muster, Henry slid the whip back into his belt and raised his hands in surrender.
After much shouting and gesticulation, the mob appeared to reach a decision. Surrounded by men with muskets, the landau was led a little further along the cliff road and down a narrow track. This descended into the valley and ended at the ruins of a Château. The landau was brought into a small yard that lay between the lowest level of the once fine building and a narrow water-course. They were ordered to dismount and, with a dozen muskets pointed at them, it seemed futile to argue. Henry allowed himself to be manhandled from the grey and thrust into a tunnel that opened beneath the ruins. The others were pushed in behind him and the iron gate slammed shut and locked, leaving them imprisoned.
A moment later, Emile Boillot appeared and sauntered towards them, his thin face set in a disdainful sneer.
‘That’s the agitator!’ d’Arche exclaimed, seeing Boillot. ‘The man who was going to have me hanged!’
‘Justice, then, has caught up with you, Citizen Arche,’ the lean student remarked as he neared the bars of the gate.
‘Justice? How dare you speak of justice?’ the vicomte demanded. ‘I myself have the sole right to dispense justice within my domaines, as has been my family’s privilege since time immemorial!’
‘How can a system that is in itself inherently unjust claim the right to dispense justice?’ Boillot sneered. ‘No, Citizen Arche, I represent a higher justice: the natural justice that condemns your crimes against the French people.’
‘I have heard this talk before,’ d’Arche stormed, ‘and now, as then, I declare that I have committed no crimes but merely taken what was mine by birthright!’
‘A statement that is in itself an admission of guilt,’ Boillot responded. ‘A guilt exceeded only by your companion, the harlot Delatour, beside whom your excesses appear trivial.’
‘How dare you speak thus of the Demoiselle de la Tour-Romain!’ d’Arche responded. ‘You know nothing of her!’
‘To the contrary,’ Boillot responded. ‘I was raised in St Romain. Her behaviour has displayed a monstrous wickedness that exceeds even the arrogance and depravity of her father. Indeed, it was while I was in pursuit of her that I took the opportunity to bring justice to you.’
‘Is this true, Eloise?’ d’Arche demanded as he turned to where she was standing.
‘Yes, Donatien, it is true,’ Eloise replied softly.
‘It’s no fault of ours,’ Henry cut in defensively. ‘How were we to know the rabble-rousing bastard would choose to harass you?’
‘It is all one,’ Boillot announced imperiously, before the vicomte could answer. ‘Tomorrow, you will all be tried for your crimes against France, also against myself and others. You will be found guilty and executed forthwith.’
‘Guilty? What do you mean, guilty?’ Henry demanded. ‘What of fair trial? What of the justice by which you set so much store?’
‘You shall be appointed a defence, of course,’ Boillot responded. ‘Indeed, a defence who is fully acquainted with the events in question – myself.’
‘You?’ Henry demanded.
‘Certainly,’ Boillot replied. ‘You are guilty, of course – it is beyond doubt – but I shall plead for a quick death for you on the grounds of natural mercy.’
‘Guilty of what?’ Henry roared.
‘Unlawful seizure of a prisoner of the French state, twice; assault upon and attempt to murder various citizens of France; looting; brigandry; horse theft; rape –’
‘Rape!’ Henry interrupted. ‘I’m damned if I –’
‘There!’ Boillot declared, turning to the crowd behind him. ‘A clear admission! When challenged with his crimes, the prisoner denies only one. This is a clear admission of the others!’
‘What?’ Henry roared. ‘By God, I’ll wring your scrawny neck, you slimy little toad!’
‘Do not stoop to his base level, Mr Truscott.’ Eloise spoke from behind him. ‘Let us face our end with becoming dignity.’
‘I’ll be damned if I’ll let myself be turned off without a fight!’ Henry swore as Boillot turned on his heel and began to walk away. ‘Come back here, you little bastard! I should have put an end to your poison in the Bazois!’
‘I did suggest it,’ Eloise reminded him.
Henry responded with a grunt and sat down on a projection of the wall. Peering glumly through the bars, he watched as Boillot posted three guards armed with muskets. Two of these were local men, the third the giant Jean Faugres.
To avoid the taunts and threats of their captors, they moved back into the darkness of the tunnel, only to find the air thick with dust. A brief investigation showed that this derived from seems of coal in the walls which had evidently been recently worked. Finally, they settled down just far enough from the gate to avoid any missiles that might be thrown.
As afternoon faded to evening, the crowd began to lose interest and dispersed, leaving only their three guards beyond the portal. Nevertheless, these remained vigilant and Henry could think of no means of escape. As a cold dusk set in, another man appeared briefly, guiding the carthorse that had been pulling the landau. Now it was roped to a shallow barge with a covered deck, which the man moored and then went on his way.
Presently, Faugres and one other disappeared from view, leaving a single man with his musket levelled at their door. After a while, he rose and walked over to near the bars.
‘Greetings, my lords and ladies,’ he called with deliberate sarcasm as Henry looked up.
‘Yes,’ Henry replied.
‘This stream is the Louet,’ the man informed him nastily, pointing to the water-course behind him. ‘Take a good look, for you are to be drowned in it tomorrow, just as soon as you have been tried.’
Henry declined to answer, contenting himself with throwing his tormentor a contemptuous look.
‘You will be put in the coal barge,’ the man continued, ‘along with a goodly ballast of rocks. The hatch will be fastened and it will be sunk. The water is perhaps five feet deep, yet it is enough. Now sleep well.’
The man laughed and tuned his back, leaving them to digest this piece of information.
Night settled over the Louet and the dull marshland beyond it, casting the interior of the coal mine into a darkness so black that Henry found himself unable to see his hand an inch in front of his face. Both Eloise and Peggy had cuddled into him, their bodies warm against his sides, yet the feel of plump breasts and soft arms failed to arouse him.
After a night of fitful sleep, Eloise de la Tour-Romain awoke to a chill dawn. Her body felt cramped and cold, while her mouth and nose seemed filled with the thick coal dust. Of her companions, only Natalie remained asleep. The maid’s head was cradled in Todd Gurney’s lap, with her dark hair spread out and her face showing a peace very different from Eloise’s own feelings. That Jean Faugres had not come for her in the night, she could only ascribe to the extreme dark. Now, pale light showed at the mouth of the mine and, unless by some mercy the giant was asleep, she felt sure that he would not waste the morning. The certainty of his intentions, coupled with the knowledge of their subsequent fate, filled her with sick fear and she found herself unable to tear her eyes away from the patch of ground visible outside the mine.
‘At the least we should inspect the gate,’ Henry announced suddenly. ‘Who knows, it might yield to force, or the lock prove weak or easy to pick. Gurney here is reckoned clean among his crew. Are you not, Todd?’
‘Clean enough,’ Gurney replied, ‘though I’m no dubber.’
Without another word, Todd Gurney started to move towards the gate, only to turn back after no more than a glance. As he rejoined them, Eloise’s briefly lifted hopes once more sank down.
‘Could you pick it?’ Henry asked.
‘Dare say,’ Gurney answered, ‘had I a gilt, or even a nail, but . . .’
‘What of whalebone?’ Peggy interrupted.
‘Could do,’ Gurney responded, ‘but it’d not be so easy. Faugres sits just to one side, doing rope work, but with his musket cocked and ready.’
‘Rope work?’ Henry queried.
‘Ay, making some devil’s device, no doubt,’ Gurney answered.
‘He’s going to come for me,’ Eloise said weakly.
As if in answer to her fear, a dull metallic clang sounded from the direction of the gate. Turning, she saw Faugres crouched beyond, his musket tucked beneath his arm as he put a key to the lock.
‘Oh, God, he is!’ Eloise cried.
‘He’ll need to shoot me first,’ Gurney growled.
‘No, no,’ Henry interjected in an urgent whisper. ‘Go with him, Eloise, and while he’s busy we pick the lock!’
‘I –’ Eloise managed, her mind numb with fear.
‘Come on!’ Henry urged.
‘I couldn’t!’ Eloise protested. ‘I just couldn’t!’
‘You must!’ Henry hissed. ‘It’s that or be drowned like a rat!’
‘How can you ask such a thing?’ D’Arche spoke for the first time. ‘The demoiselle’s virtue is worth more than you could comprehend!’
‘Stay quiet, you prattling fop!’ Henry snapped. ‘Come on, puppy, it’s only a cock. Close your eyes and think it’s me.’
‘I –’ Eloise began once more, only to stop abruptly as the gate clicked open.
Faugres crouched beyond with the musket levelled at them as the gate swung back. His features were set in a malign smile, while one great, callused finger beckoned to her to come forward. None of them spoke, but she saw Gurney bunch his fists.
‘Please, mistress,’ Natalie spoke.
At the terror in her maid’s voice, Eloise’s mind went back to the Château de St Romain and to how Natalie had clung trembling in her arms after whippings. Turning her head, she found the tiny maid’s great brown eyes staring into hers, begging. She rose, swallowing in her fear as she walked slowly towards Faugres. His smile broke into a grin of pure evil as she approached, and he moved back a pace to allow her exit.
The Rake Page 21