Crown Prince Carl Johan of Sweden looked up from studying a chart by the light of a lantern hooked to the wall. It was hooded, as were the braziers, and a false ceiling of pitch-coated canvas stretched overhead. No light could possibly escape to the opening forty feet above, where the two bells hung. From his position by the door Antony studied the strong profile outlined against the shadowy wall, the mouth taut above a firm chin, the tall, narrow frame dressed severely, even to the black satin stock about his throat. He looked a forbidding figure, a man of force. Dark eyes stared back questioningly at Antony.
‘I crave your pardon, sir. You addressed me?’
‘No, Lord Marchmont. I was observing you. What is it that brings such a wary expression to a man well used to running into danger?’
Antony hesitated. ‘I… am not certain. But I should be pleased if your Highnesses would bring your final deliberations to an end. We have, I believe, covered every eventuality that can be foreseen, and we are in accord?’
Prince Grigoriy Malenski Romanov, representing his most Imperial Majesty, the Tsar of all the Russias, shifted on his uncomfortable stool and scowled. His expression was echoed by his aide-de-camp, a gigantic bearded Cossack, standing close behind. Antony had known as soon as he saw him that the Russian prince would be a man conscious of his rank and dignity. Richly dressed, despite the need for anonymity, he strutted with the gait of a portly pigeon and thrust out his heavy jaw. However, he had demonstrated no mean ability as a negotiator, and this, together with his knowledge of European politics made him a worthy viceroy of the Tsar.
The man Antony always thought of as Bernadotte, the Swedish Crown Prince, raised a hand. ‘I have the greatest respect for the sixth sense of a man who lives much of his life in peril. We will, I think, adjourn this meeting within ten minutes, if your Highness is in agreement?’ He spoke with perfect courtesy, but his eyes were hard. His own aide, General Count Carl Lowenhjelm, stood with a hand resting lightly upon his sabre, thoughtfully watching the Cossack.
Antony drew in his breath, aware of the antagonism between the Swedes and Russians, although their spokesmen had achieved unanimity in their negotiations with speed and surface amicability. The Tsar had been willing to promise Norway to his new confederate, even to send a Russian corps to help persuade the unfortunate Norwegians in the event of resistance. In return, Bernadotte relinquished all Swedish pretensions to Denmark, and both rulers mutually guaranteed each other’s existing possessions. They also undertook to launch a diversion against the German coasts should Bonaparte advance upon Russia.
Bernadotte’s fury at the invasion of Pomerania and the treatment of his people underlay the whole meeting. It pulsed like the heart of a volcano, not yet ready to erupt. He had willingly revealed to his new allies the weaknesses of the French Army, the bickering and jealousy between the marshals that ate away at discipline amongst the common soldiers. His reward had been a delicate hint that, should he care to divorce his wife, the Tsar would not be averse to a union with one of his own sisters.
Bernadotte would be inhuman if he were not flattered by such an offer, thought Antony. A former member of the bourgeoisie who even now ruled over a mere five thousand subjects (nominally ruled, since the king had relinquished all pretence to policy making) – a Gascon soldier who had fought his way up through the ranks – this man was now on an equal footing with the most powerful ruler in the western world, barring only Bonaparte himself. What an achievement! But, shrewd as he was, he’d best have a care when supping with the half-oriental and exceedingly devious Tsar.
Antony watched the two princes carefully inscribe their names on three copies of the same document, the article of agreement between the two countries. Britain, too, had made offers and concessions, mainly regarding trade; she had also, pending ratification by cabinet, entered into a secret military alliance with Sweden and Russia. Hopefully, when this triple agreement became generally known, supporters would rally – the European nations who were only waiting for an opportunity to rise against Bonaparte. It would work. It had to work, or there was no hope for the world.
The Russian prince looked up at him. ‘Naturally this document will be affirmed as soon as possible by a person of status, a prince of the blood royal, at the least. Your title is comparatively minor, is it not?’
Antony had had enough. For the past hour, in subtle ways, this arrogant prince had missed no opportunity to gibe at him and his country, and he’d grown heartily tired of it. This had also been a subtle thrust at Bernadotte, whose plebeian background stuck in the Russian’s throat. No doubt he felt free to give rein to his prejudices, now that the alliance was a fact.
Taking his copy of the signed document, Antony placed it carefully in his coat pocket and said, ‘Even a mere Viscount may represent the British Crown, when so empowered, your Highness. In this case, it happens that I also speak for the British Government, and therefore the people of my land. I am proud to say that they are given a voice in their country’s deliberations, and not used merely as pawns and slaves.
The Cossack aide sprang forward, his sword half out of its scabbard.
Bernadotte’s voice stopped him.
‘Hold! Your Highness, please order your man to put up his weapon. We have no time to indulge in petty arguments.’ He glanced at Antony. ‘Lord Marchmont, your comment was uncalled for. An apology would be in order, I believe.’
Antony bowed stiffly and faced the Russian Prince. ‘Sir, I withdraw my remarks.’ Scarcely an apology, he knew, but as far as he was prepared to go. He turned back to Bernadotte. ‘I believe we should now disperse. It is snowing heavily, and even the short distance to Orebro will be difficult enough for the horses.’
At a nod from his master, Count Lowenhjelm left the tower, his exit carefully masked by a blanket hung over the door. The Cossack stayed, a looming menace overshadowing the room. When Prince Malenski eventually stood up to leave, he attached himself to his master like a grim shadow.
Without warning, the door crashed back and the Count appeared in the opening, his face concerned.
‘Your Highness, a woman has been found nearby. The guards stationed at the barn brought her in. She was on foot, struggling through the drifts, and appears to be half out of he senses. I can make nothing of her words, but she speaks in English.
‘English!’ Antony stepped forward. ‘I do not like this development. It would be wiser for this woman to be kept in ignorance of your identities. Will you give me leave to deal with the matter, when you have departed?’
Prince Malenski looked impatient and waved a dismissing hand.
Bernadotte said thoughtfully, ‘I shall leave at once. I am giving a state dinner tonight for the members of my Diet, and as far as anyone knows I am now on my way from Stockholm. Please deal with the matter as you see fit.’ He turned to the Russian. ‘Prince, your escort to Vasteras awaits you.’ He bowed and deferred to his guest, who snatched up his hat and hurried out, attended by his shadow.
Antony followed, anxious to see this ‘English’ woman and discover how much she knew. He grew more uneasy by the minute.
As soon as the sleds had drawn away he beckoned to the two men supporting a bedraggled, snow-covered figure against the church porch.
‘Bring her to the tower, where there is warmth and light. Then return to your posts. And keep a sharp lookout. She may not have been alone.’ He spoke in Swedish, and the woman did not look up. It was impossible to make out any features in the dark. When the men dragged her forward she collapsed in the snow.
‘Carry her,’ snapped Antony, leading the way.
In the eerie atmosphere of the tower, flanked by coffins, Antony and the woman faced each other. She had slumped down on a camp stool, against the wall. Her wet hair straggled from beneath her hood and, in the relative warmth from the braziers her clothes had begun to drip.
Antony reached forward and pulled back her hood.
Blue eyes glazed with enormous fatigue looked up at him from a face so pinched i
t was almost bloodless.
‘Caro!’ For a moment he stood frozen, off balance, his arm still raised. Then the moment passed and he had swept her up into his arms, dripping cloak and all. ‘Caro, my darling. My dearest girl. How come you here?’
Her chilled mouth was unresponsive to his kiss, but he felt the movement of her throat muscles as she tried to speak. Swiftly he deposited her back on the stool and dug in his coat pocket for his flask, holding it to her lips while he supported her. She swallowed a little brandy and choked. Recapping the flask, he brought a brazier closer, removing her wet gloves to chafe her hands, and watching anxiously as the blue shade about her mouth gradually faded.
When he saw awareness in her eyes he felt the tension go out of him. ‘Allow me to remove your cloak, my love. Now, tell me what has induced you to undertake such a journey.’ He knew it had to be bad news. Nothing else could have brought her such a distance under such circumstances.
‘Erik!’ she croaked.
‘What of this Erik?’
‘Mr. MacGregor’s man. Out there in the snow, injured.’ She struggled to her feet, swaying.
He sprang forward to hold her. ‘Rest there, my love. I will send out a search party.’
‘No! We must leave this place.’ She grasped his coat lapels and pulled feebly. ‘You were betrayed. The French are coming to kill you, and the others.’ She looked about her as if wondering where the others had got to.
Antony felt her words hit him like a blow to the chest. Betrayal. Who? And why?
Karen’s voice rose frantically, when he failed to respond. ‘They’re only minutes away, if that. Don’t you understand?’
‘Wait. I must think.’ With an effort he controlled his instinctive reaction, to run, to take Caro to safety. He thought about the two princes speeding away in widely different directions. By now they should certainly be beyond range of an attack. The French would have to divide their forces and give chase – an uncertain and risky procedure. Perhaps they believed the meeting still to be in session. If so, he could lure them into a trap.
‘Caro, did they know the exact time of our secret conclave?’
‘I… Yes, I believe so. They captured Mr. MacGregor’s grandson and made him tell. Then they killed him.’
Antony stifled a groan. The poor young lad. And what a desperate blow to MacGregor. ‘’Tis possible that he gave them a false time. My illustrious co-conspirators have already gone, the alliance signed and in their pockets.’
‘Thank heaven for that. We must go too.’ She tried to drag him towards the door, but clearly her legs were no longer capable of holding her. If he hadn’t supported her she’d have fallen.
‘Caro – ’
The bombs, thrown simultaneously, crashed through the church roof and exploded, one beneath the loft above the door, the other before the altar. Everything blew into little pieces, shot out into space, and fell back again in a storm of dark hail. Bits of scorched timber flew like blades, shearing away branches in the nearby forest. Glass shards embedded themselves in the trunks. The acrid smell of gunpowder hung in the air. Trees around the churchyard were flattened by the blast, and inches of frost scoured away to expose the iron hard ground. Church and bell tower had disappeared. When the lethal hail stopped, there was nothing but rubble and silence – dead silence.
Snow fell softly on the wreckage. It began to hiss and steam, a sibilant prelude to the sound of flames taking hold somewhere deep within the pile.
Men came out of the night like wolves and looked upon the destruction. They waited, and when nothing moved, they melted away back into the night, as silently as they had come.
Behind them the fire spread slowly, but inexorably through the rubble towards the ruins of the tower.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Thursday, December 20
Tom stood at the door of Valerie’s apartment and pressed the bell. For the past hour he’d been preoccupied with the problem he faced – how to set his patient on the new path opening before her. He had no doubt she was capable of change. She had the strength and intelligence, but perhaps she hadn’t the will. Her lifetime attitude of ‘me first’ had to be turned around before she could even look at the possibilities opening up.
He wanted to help her. She needed support and guidance, and there didn’t seem to be anyone else but him offering. Yet he wanted to bow out. He found Valerie’s temperament too abrasive, and her basic attitudes were completely foreign. The line between therapist and patient had been erased and he was becoming entangled against his will. Damn Phil! If he’d only stayed in America. If Valerie had been just another patient. If, if, if…
A full minute had passed, so he pressed the bell again, juggling the bottle of claret and a single spray of Thai orchids, gorgeous matt-white blooms with throats that matched the wine. Valerie’s personality seemed to call for something more exotic than roses.
Valerie opened the door. Tom gasped, and just stopped himself stepping backwards, the bottle slipping in his fingers.
‘Hello, Tom. I’m sorry you had to wait. I was fixing you a cocktail.’ Her smile dazzled him. He’d never seen her in full battle array, with her face superbly made up, hair like lacquered gold, and a gown that did astonishing things for her figure. Warning bells and signals would have been superfluous.
She stepped aside and he edged gingerly past. In the pastel peach living room he looked about him with dislike at the spongy chairs coming up out of the rug like an abundance of fungus. He’d begun to feel thoroughly uncomfortable.
‘I’m sorry I’m late.’ He presented her with the wine and orchids adding, slyly, ‘I hadn’t realized we were dressing for dinner.’ He thought, if she says, ‘What, this old thing?’ I’ll probably burst out laughing.
He should have credited her with a little more finesse.
‘Thank you for the gifts. The spray is beautiful. I’m pleased you noticed my dress. It’s one of my favorites.’ She pirouetted, making the folds of flame-colored sheer fly about a good pair of legs. Her smile had a small edge of malice. ‘I wore it to honor my guest.’
Tom blinked. For one fraction of a second he’d thought he’d seen… No. He had Valerie’s witch woman on the brain.
She gestured towards the drinks trolley where a jug of iced martinis waited beside chilled glasses. Tom obediently trotted over and picked up the jug. He hated martinis, but resolved not to say so. Valerie was up to something, and until he was sure of her motives, he wasn’t about to give away points. Modesty had never been his strongest attribute, but surely she wasn’t planning a seduction. Once the usual patient-therapist fixation had been dissolved, there’d been nothing lover-like in her attitude during their past weeks together – no warning at all that tonight he might have walked into a perfumed trap.
‘Will you excuse me for a few minutes, Tom? I’ll put these in water and check things in the kitchen.’ Valerie cradled the orchids against her cheek for a second, then left the room.
The electric logs glowed pleasantly in the fireplace; polished brass fire-irons, unnecessary, but decorative, shone in the glow of a Chinese black and gold porcelain lamp. Tom sank back in cushioned comfort and sighed. Wouldn’t Phil just love to see him in this situation? How he’d roar.
Thinking of this morning’s episode made him sad. Phil’s attitude had been a shock – childish, really, with overtones of ‘If you won’t let me play, I’ll take my bat and go home’. He wondered whether he could have handled things better, been less abrupt in announcing the end of the past life sessions. Phil had looked really upset. Perhaps he should try again to phone him.
He’d almost managed to struggle out of the chair when Valerie came back and sat down close beside him. She raised her glass in a silent toast, and he did the same. They both drank, Tom repressing a shudder as the gin hit his taste buds and curled them like salted snails.
She leaned gracefully back against the curve of the seat. ‘I thought we’d leave our discussion until after dinner, if that’s okay with you?�
��
Tom smiled. ‘Well, I had hoped to make it a fairly short evening. I’ve been visiting a friend in hospital each night this week, and starting work early. You can probably see the results in my haggard face.’
She leaned forward and stared at him with disconcerting intensity. ‘You poor thing. I can see you’ve been overdoing it. And I’ve been so demanding, haven’t I? Of course you must see your friend. I’ll serve dinner at once.’ Her eyes had darkened and had a hooded look. Her smile seemed to be painted on, a disguise for a very different expression.
Thoroughly uncomfortable, Tom put down his glass and heaved himself out of the chair. ‘I’d like to make a phone call, if you don’t mind.’ He wanted to get away for a few minutes. He had to reassess the situation and his own sudden wariness. Valerie wasn’t bent on seduction, and there was nothing humorous about the atmosphere she’d managed to create.
‘Make your call later, Tom. You wouldn’t want the meal to spoil, would you? Let me freshen your drink.’
He watched her crossed to the drink trolley, following her movements carefully. What on earth was he watching for, he asked himself? Did he suspect her of trying to poison him, for God’s sake? Was the great ruby she wore on her left hand a Borgia ring” Disgusted with himself, Tom deliberately sank back into the lounge. When the fresh glass was handed to him he took a large gulp. Valerie’s smile looked completely normal.
Endless Time Page 39