The count and his lady reached the bottom of the stairs and were crossing the lobby. The count stopped to assist the lady with her cloak, then walked over to exchange greetings with the landlord. The lady stood a short distance from him in front of the parrot’s cage. She looked exceedingly pale and nervous. The hand holding the fan trembled.
The parrot had been asleep with his head beneath his wing. A sudden noise—perhaps the landlord’s loud laughter at something said by the count—woke the bird. He let out a loud and raucous squawk. At the unexpected sound, the lady gasped and dropped her fan.
Like an arrow shot from love’s bow, Rodrigo leaped from his chair and ran to the lady’s side. He picked up the fan and, sinking to one knee, held it out to her.
“I give you your fan, my lady,” he said and added in a low voice, meant for her ears alone, “And with that fan my heart, if you will take it.”
The lady stared at Rodrigo with wide, frightened eyes. She was trembling all over now, probably terrified of her lover. But the count was either not the jealous type or he did not consider Rodrigo a threat. He glanced with some irritation at his lady and said sharply, “The gentleman has picked up your fan, Imogene. Thank him, my dear, and allow him to get up off his knees.”
The lady stammered something incoherent. She took the fan from Rodrigo with a hand that was shaking so much that she nearly dropped it again. Rodrigo rose to his feet, made a gallant bow to her. He bowed to the count, who bowed back.
The count took hold of the lady’s arm and guided her firmly toward the door and their coach that was waiting outside. Stephano went to join Rodrigo, who was standing by the parrot, gazing after the woman with love and longing.
“She comes into my life for a brief moment and is gone,” said Rodrigo.
“Funny how that always seems to happen,” Stephano remarked. “I’m off to bed.”
He had his foot on the marble stair. Rodrigo remained in the lobby, yearning after his lost love, who was standing on the sidewalk. The coach driver was opening the door, when the count gave a loud shout, “Assassins! Help!”
Men armed with clubs were attacking the count. He had drawn his sword and was fending them off, all the while trying to drag his terrified lady toward the coach. One of the thugs grabbed hold of the woman and tore her away from the count. She cried out in terror and dropped, senseless, to the ground. The other thugs redoubled their attack on the count. He clouted one with his fist and thrust his sword at another.
The doorman rushed out in the street, shouting for the constable. The landlord stood in the lobby wringing his hands. The parrot screeched. The page boys went running to the windows to see the fight. The maids screamed in horrified delight, and Rodrigo went bounding out the door to save the lady.
“Rodrigo!” Stephano cried. “Are you mad? Oh, for the love of—He’ll get himself killed!”
Drawing his sword, Stephano ran after his friend.
The count’s blade flashed in the lamplight. He jabbed and stabbed with expert skill, but he was hampered by his efforts to protect the lady, who was lying on the pavement. The coachman was on the box, yelling for the count to get in. The horses were stamping, their eyes rolling.
One of the thugs made a dart at the lady and grabbed one arm, apparently with the intention of dragging her away. Rodrigo seized the lady by her other arm and a tug of war ensued, both of them pulling at the poor woman, yanking her back and forth.
“Let her go, you bounder!” Rodrigo cried angrily.
In answer, the thug aimed a blow with his club at Rodrigo’s head. Stephano’s blade sliced through the meaty part of the man’s hand. He dropped the club with a cry, but continued to stubbornly hang onto the lady.
Stephano held his sword poised over the man’s arm. “Let go of her or end up minus a hand!”
The thug apparently decided Stephano meant what he said, for he let go of the woman and ran away. Stephano turned to see the count still fending off two attackers.
“Carry the lady to the coach, Rigo,” Stephano shouted. “I’ll help the count.”
Rodrigo endeavored to lift the unconscious woman, only to find the delicate beauty much heavier than he had anticipated. He staggered and nearly dropped her. “You are a sturdy little thing, aren’t you my love?” he said, gasping.
Unable to lift her, Rodrigo was forced to half-carry, half-drag the lady to the carriage. He shoved her hurriedly inside and turned to await developments.
“Go to your lady, my lord!” cried Stephano, coming to the aide of the beleaguered count. “I will hold them off.”
The count thanked Stephano in a few brief words, then jumped into the coach and slammed shut the door. Stephano shouted at the driver, who cracked his whip. The coach lurched forward and rushed off with such speed that the wheel narrowly missed crushing Rodrigo’s foot.
The instant the coach departed, so did the thugs, vanishing into the darkness, taking their wounded away with them. The piercing screech of whistles announced the coming of the constabulary. Rodrigo was standing in the gutter, gazing woefully after his lost love. Stephano seized hold of him and dragged him off down the street.
“But I haven’t finished my brandy—” Rodrigo protested.
“If we stay to be questioned by the police, you’ll be drinking your brandy in a jail cell,” said Stephano.
“Ah, good point,” said Rodrigo.
“Walk. Running looks suspicious.”
The two sauntered down the street, pausing as any curious bystander would pause to watch the constables race by. An officer skidded to a stop in front of them.
“Did you see where the thugs went, gentlemen?”
“That way, down the alley,” Stephano said, pointing. The constable touched his hat and ran off.
Stephano and Rodrigo continued along the street and were about to cross to the other side, when a small carriage came dashing straight at them, almost running them down. The carriage careened around the corner and was gone.
“Someone’s in a hurry,” remarked Rodrigo.
He and Stephano walked on, dispirited and downcast.
“This entire venture has been an unmitigated disaster,” said Stephano.
“At least we managed to save a damsel from assassins,” said Rodrigo. “That brute actually tried to drag her off!”
“Assassins would have just shot the count. Those men were trying to abduct him and the lady, as well,” said Stephano.
“I saw him say something to you. What was it?”
“Something about being in my debt. He gave a kind of chuckle and hoped someday I would realize what I’d done.”
“That’s a rather odd thing to say to someone who has just saved your life.”
“I might not have heard him right. It doesn’t matter,” said Stephano, shrugging.
“I guess not,” said Rodrigo. “Though it pained me deeply to see him drive off with the woman of my dreams. I don’t suppose we’ll ever know what it was all about.”
“And I don’t suppose we’ll ever find Sir Henry Wallace,” said Stephano.
“Look at it this way, our luck can’t get any worse,” said Rodrigo.
“Don’t say that,” warned Stephano. “You’ll jinx us.”
Dubois had watched in disbelief as Captain de Guichen rushed in, sword drawn, to save Sir Henry Wallace from being captured by Dubois’ agents. Poor Dubois almost lost his faith that night. He was sorely tempted to ask God whose side He was on.
Dubois regained control of himself, however. He did not stay to wait for the constables to find him. He had two carriages stationed around the corner. He ran to one of them. Red Dog peered down at him from the driver’s seat.
“Follow that coach!” Dubois ordered, pointing. “Sir Henry’s inside. He’s probably bound for the docks. Find out what ship he’s sailing on and report back to me.”
Red Dog nodded, and within moments the carriage was whirling down the street in pursuit. Dubois climbed into the other carriage.
“The Arch
bishop’s residence,” Dubois told the driver. “And don’t spare the horses!”
Inside his coach, Sir Henry Wallace roused Alcazar from his fainting fit with a couple of smacks across the face.
Alcazar sat up and looked around. “Are we safe?”
“Yes, my love, thanks to your alluring charms,” said Sir Henry Wallace, laughing.
He was in an excellent mood. He thought back to Captain de Guichen coming gallantly to the “count’s” aid, helping him escape. Sir Henry leaned back in the seat and roared with mirth. Alcazar came near fainting again at the dreadful sound, but Sir Henry reassured him.
“Be merry, my friend. We are now on our way to your brother’s ship.”
Alcazar realized with a start they weren’t alone in the coach. Two people shrouded in black cloaks were seated opposite him. He shrank back into the cushions.
“Who are they?”
“The woman’s name is Brianna. She is a friend of mine. Brianna say hello.”
“Hello,” said the woman.
“The man is known as the ‘Duke.’ ” He is, of course, not a duke at all, but he looks well in evening attire.”
“Why are they here?” Alcazar asked, quivering.
He noticed, as they passed under a streetlamp, that the man and woman were dressed in the same clothes he and Sir Henry were wearing.
“Because I never leave anything to chance,” said Sir Henry. “And don’t start whining, or I’ll smack you again.”
He glanced out the rear window. He did not see anyone following them, but that didn’t mean much. Dubois’ agents were good at their jobs. Almost as good as his.
Henry sat back in the seat. He put his fingertips together, tapping them, thinking. When he arrived in Freya, he would hand over Alcazar to Mr. Sloan with orders to take the journeyman straight to the armory. Henry would travel to court, report the joyful news to his queen, and receive her praise and thanks. He would then go to his wife. She would be devastated over the loss of the manor house, but he would be able to assure her he would build her a new one, far grander than any other manor house in Freya.
He was thinking these pleasant thoughts; the rocking motion of the coach sending him into a half-doze, when he was awakened by a cannon’s boom.
Sir Henry sat straight up. He listened to the echoes of that single cannon shot dying away in the night and swore.
“What is wrong now?” Alcazar asked fearfully. “Is it war?”
Sir Henry Wallace sank back in the seat of the coach that was now taking him rapidly nowhere.
“The port of Westfirth has just been closed,” Sir Henry explained in dire tones. “From this moment, no ships can sail in. No ships can sail out.”
“Then we’re trapped!” Alcazar cried.
“So it would seem,” said Sir Henry.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Confusion, misdirection, greed, bright penny blindness—the art of the confidence man.
—Sir Henry Wallace,
Earl of Staffordshire
DUBOIS’ CAB SPED FROM THE FRACAS AT THE Blue Parrot straight to the Old Fort, the residence of the archbishop. In his morning meeting, Dubois had told the archbishop as much as he deemed the man should know about Sir Henry Wallace and the threat he posed. He had warned the archbishop that if Wallace eluded capture, the port would have to be closed. The archbishop had scoffed at such an idea.
“Nonsense,” said the archbishop. “His Holiness can’t be serious!”
The archbishop had heard rumors about Dubois, knew him to be the grand bishop’s trusted and confidential agent, but had never met him. The archbishop was at first unimpressed by the common, shabby little man. Dubois was used to creating such a deplorable first impression. Indeed, he fostered such impressions. He liked being underestimated, forgotten. He found it easier to slip up on his victim unawares.
Having been confident he would capture Sir Henry, Dubois had said nothing more at the time. Now the man had once more escaped him. Dubois found the archbishop hosting a private musical evening for several wealthy gentlemen of the city, hoping to be able to persuade them to donate to the building of the cathedral. The archbishop was not pleased at being summoned away from the concert to meet with Dubois, who was waiting in the shadows of a balcony outside the salon.
“Well, what is it?” the archbishop demanded. He could hear, in the distance, the soprano singing one of his favorite arias.
Dubois explained briefly that Wallace had managed to escape.
“You must act now, Your Reverence,” Dubois concluded. “Close the port before this extremely dangerous man can flee to Freya.”
“Out of the question,” said the archbishop brusquely. “People will view this as a prelude to war with Freya. Does His Majesty know about this?”
“The bishop will handle His Majesty,” said Dubois. “As you are aware, I have here the bishop’s letter giving me full power to make this demand.”
The archbishop was well aware of the letter. He knew it was genuine. He could see and touch the grand bishop’s own personal seal that was affixed to it. But the archbishop was still not convinced. The idea that he was about to unofficially declare war on Freya by closing the port was appalling. He could envision the hordes of angry ship owners descending on him, howling about lost money. And, the truth be told, he was worried about the funding for his magnificent cathedral. In the event of war, that funding might dry up and so would his legacy.
“The Royal Navy would have to be informed—”
“I’ve already done that,” said Dubois coolly.
The archbishop flushed in anger. “You had no right—”
“I have every right,” said Dubois. “I refer you, once again, to the grand bishop’s letter.”
The archbishop thought this over. The grand bishop’s letter gave Dubois power to deal with any crisis in general. The grand bishop did not say anything specific about the closing of the port.
“I would feel more comfortable if I had a letter in the grand bishop’s own hand stating that he was responsible for issuing the decree,” said the archbishop. “As you know, I am but his humble servant. I could send a messenger to Evreux by griffin. He would be back by morning two days hence.”
“By which time, Sir Henry Wallace will be well on his way to Freya bearing Rosia’s doom,” said Dubois.
“Hardly my fault,” said the archbishop with a telling glance at Dubois. “You are the one who lost him.”
Dubois would have liked to wring the neck of the grand bishop’s humble servant. He restrained himself, however. He was thinking he was going to have to get tough with this man, threaten to reveal a certain sordid incident in the archbishop’s past which Dubois had taken care to discover, just in case. He did not want to resort to such a drastic measure. Not yet. Not if there was an easier way.
“If you will excuse me,” said the archbishop, “I am going to return to my guests.”
Dubois gazed, frowning, into the night. Hearing voices drifting up from down below, he glanced down over the edge of the balcony.
Silhouetted against the lambent light of stars and half moon, three men were walking the battlements at a slow pace. He could not see their faces in the darkness, but he knew them by their attire: one man in helm and breastplate, one in flowing monk’s robes, one in a long black cassock. By their low tones, they were deeply engaged in some important and serious conversation. He spoke to the back of the departing archbishop.
“Your Reverence,” said Dubois, “what would you say if I referred this matter of Sir Henry Wallace to the judgment of the Arcanum?”
The archbishop stopped. He turned around. He looked uneasy. “Why would the Arcanum get involved?”
“Because they have sense enough to understand the danger,” said Dubois.
The archbishop followed Dubois’ gaze to the battlements, to the man in the black cassock. The archbishop looked from Father Jacob back to Dubois and back to Father Jacob. The archbishop’s face went stony. He turned and stalked off.<
br />
Dubois smiled and out of habit started eavesdropping on the priest, who had paused right beneath the balcony. He heard Father Jacob tell his Knight Protector that he was planning to order the archbishop to send forces to scour the city in search of one he termed “the Sorceress” and her evil followers. Dubois raised an eyebrow. He had heard of this Sorceress. Was she responsible for the ambush? If so, why had she been attempting to kill both Sir Henry and Father Jacob?
“I need to meet this woman,” Dubois said to himself.
The father and his companions moved on and so did Dubois. As he returned to his coach, he saw the harried archbishop trying to explain matters to his guest, the Lord Mayor of the City of Westfirth, who was almost purple with fury. Dubois shook his head and slipped away.
Within the hour, a cannon announcing the closing of the port of Westfirth went off, as constables fanned out across the city, looking for a young man of about seventeen, who might be suffering from a gunshot wound to the foot, and a Freyan woman named Eiddwen, beautiful, with black curling hair. Dubois returned to his room at the Threadneedle Inn to try to get some sleep while he awaited the reports of his agents.
The echoes of the cannon shot were still lingering in the air when Sir Henry Wallace put his new plan into action. He watched out the window and when the coach entered a certain, shadowy street, Henry rose to his feet and rapped on the ceiling of the coach. The coach rolled to a stop. Henry got out and, glancing behind to make certain the street was empty, he spoke to the driver.
“Are we being followed?”
“Yes, Guvnor,” said the driver, who knew Sir Henry by a completely different identity. “Small hansom cab. Keeps a block or two behind.”
“Come down here,” said Henry.
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