The Fallen Angels

by Bernard Cornwell

  “Have they sent you a man more handsome than the devil? Sent you a man who could break any woman’s heart. Let her fall in love, let her have the sun and the moon! Let the stars be jewels in her eyes! Send her the Gypsy!”

  “No!”

  “It was all so convenient, dear Campion! He just happened to be in the right place at the right time. Not a moment too late! At the last second, when Lewis is tearing the clothes from you, a tall, handsome Gypsy rides to your rescue.” Achilles made a gesture of wonder. “Does it not sound familiar? Twice? The kitchenmaids would envy you! But are you so blind that you can’t see that these things do not happen by chance! Once, maybe, but twice?”

  She stared at him, shook her head. “He killed Lewis. He killed three other men!”

  “And when Lewis rescued you, dear Campion, he killed his own man too. The parallels, my lovely niece, are horribly precise.”

  “No!”

  Achilles let her protest echo and fade. He sighed. “Tomorrow, he says, he goes to see Lord Paunceley?”

  “Yes.” She was miserable.

  “We don’t even know that he knows Lord Paunceley!” He looked at her. “I think I shall go with him.”

  “Go with him?”

  “He claims he works for Paunceley. His Monstrous Lordship has never mentioned him to me.” Achilles shrugged, as though that might not be entirely surprising. “But this is a plot against us! Against our family. It’s our relatives who die, Campion, not Paunceley’s. So I shall go with your Gypsy and I will find out if he does know Paunceley, and I shall find out if that depraved monster supports your Gypsy in wanting you to go to France.”

  “But I won’t go anyway!”

  “Not even for love? Not for a love put there by the Illuminated Ones? The Fallen Angels?”

  “I won’t go!”

  “You’d be a fool to go.” He said it tartly. “Remember I have my own shadowy friends in Lord Paunceley’s world. Do nothing, dear Campion, till I find out who this Gypsy is.”

  She nodded. “I will do nothing, uncle.”

  He reached a hand to her and patted her arm. “I am sorry if I have made you sad, dear niece.”

  She shook her head. “You haven’t.”

  “Oh but I have!” He gestured and the candlelight caught the dark red stone of his episcopal ring. “Lovers have such a propensity for sadness, it is as essential to them as happiness. Only intensity of emotion convinces them that love is real. They cannot settle for contentment, oh no! It has to be the peaks of ecstasy or the chasms of melancholy, and they never understand that to throw up everything for one moment’s joy is to risk an eternity of boredom.” He smiled. “I feel a preaching mood coming upon me; I shall be quiet.”

  She said nothing. The darkness spread from the east, a velvet, soft darkness on Lazen. Lucifer still lived and she knew, staring into the enfolding night, that while he lived there would be no peace in this valley.

  “A game of chess, dear niece?”

  She played, but her mind was elsewhere. She had thought that the Gypsy’s swift sword had cut the tendrils that wrapped about Lazen, that he had defeated her enemies, but now it seemed that the man she would love could be the man who had been sent just to make her love. Love tore her, love tormented her, love drove her.

  She advanced her black knight. Achilles sighed and took it with his bishop. The small horseman, sword raised, went from the board and her queen was threatened. She could not win. She was in love, and love’s misery, on this night of victory, engulfed her.

  19

  L ady Campion Lazender, she refused to allow anyone to address her as Lady Culloden, had an overwhelming desire to tell Simon Stepper, bookseller of Lazen, to have a bath. It would be too hurtful, she decided, so instead she opened the upwind library windows and sat on the low, cushioned sill. “Did you discover anything, Mr. Stepper?”

  “I’m rather proud to say I did, yes!” He laughed to himself, a habit he had caught over the lonely years of sitting in his dusty shop waiting for customers. He pulled his bag of books onto the table and settled himself happily in a chair. He wore a scarf summer and winter which he twitched now to dust the cover of a large leather volume. “Do you have the Tractatus by the Abbé Ferreau?”

  “No,” Campion said.

  “A mere four guineas, your Ladyship, and I could leave it now?” He peered hopefully over his spectacles.

  “Of course.” She smiled.

  “Splendid, indeed!” He laughed. “Well, now, I’ve marked the places. His Latin is execrable, not what one would expect of the Roman Church, dear me, no! Would you care to look?” He pushed the open book toward her.

  Campion kept her judicial distance. “Please, Mr. Stepper, I had rather you told me.”

  “Of course. Well then, let me see, let me see!” He pulled the book toward him. He wore gloves that had the tops of the fingers cut off. The pages of the book crackled as they turned. “Illuminati. Founded by a man called Weishaupt, Adam Weishaupt of Ingolstadt. I was there once, my Lady, many years back. I seem to remember a very fine Polyglot Bible, the Plantin, of course. Very fine. Beyond my humble means, of course, but…”

  “Mr. Stepper?”

  “What? Oh, of course!” He laughed. “How very wayward of me, indeed yes. We spoke of the Illuminati?”

  “We did.” She had asked Simon Stepper, the man whose mind ranged extraordinary distances in the confines of his book stacks, to discover what he could about the Illuminati.

  He turned a page. “Of course the Abbé Ferreau is not, I think, the most reliable of authorities? A mere gossiper, my Lady, and his Latin is bad, most bad, doggish indeed.” He laughed. “One might expect such Latin at Cambridge, but not in the Roman Church, indeed, no. Ah! He says, my Lady, and you will forgive a free translation?”

  “Of course.”

  He peered at her over his smeared spectacles. “Although I daresay that even my humble translation will be an improvement on the original!” He laughed. “Doggish indeed. Woof, woof. Dear me! Where were we?”

  “The Illuminati?” She hid a smile.

  “So we were. So we were.” He put a filthy fingernail on a line, frowned, and adopted the solemn, portentous voice he thought appropriate to the written word. “They aim to establish and, let me think, propagate? Yes, propagate a new religion, my Lady, which is based on enlightened reason! Ah! They think they know what that is, do they? Dear me! Where was I? Yes. They wish to establish a universal and democratic republic, dear me! They aim to overthrow the existing church and governments of the world!” He leaned back, shaking his gray head. “Ferreau may be wrong, of course.”

  “I think not,” Campion said quietly.

  Stepper had not heard her. “On the other hand you must remember that Weishaupt started the movement in 1776!”

  She frowned. “1776?”

  “The Americans, my Lady? The rebel Washington?”

  “Of course.”

  “A bad year! Indeed so. Nothing will come of it, of course. The red men will drive them into the sea and that will be that!” He shook his head and tutted. “I believe there’s a fine press in Philadelphia, I saw a very satisfying Ovid. Very sad, very sad.” He reflected on the coming cataclysm in America until Campion, helping the breeze with one of the fans left over from the wedding, gently took him back to the Illuminati.

  “Yes! Of course! Dear me!” He fished in his bag and produced another book. “You have Balthazar Bleibacht’s Discourses, my Lady?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “Three guineas?”

  She smiled. “Of course.”

  “Splendid, splendid! Not that I know much of Bleibacht. Execrable printing, of course, I never did like black letter. Still, he has something to say, let me see, let me see. Here it is!” He took a feather from the page. “The Illuminati, he says, are believers in Illuminism. I always wonder why Germans have to state the obvious. Let me see now. The possession of an inner light! That makes sense, what else does he think Illuminism is
if it isn’t that, eh? He says they’re very secret. Ferreau concurs in that. Highly organized! They need to be! Overthrow the world’s governments indeed!” He laughed. “What else now, let me see, let me see. Ah yes! Bleibacht says they believe that the ends justify any means! Any!” He tutted.

  It all made sense to Campion. A secret movement devoted to republicanism and the overthrow of established monarchies. A movement of ruthless purpose. Behind her she heard wheels on the gravel of the driveway. The harvest was coming in, the wains loaded with grain. “Do the books say if the movement has spread to England?”

  “No.” Stepper was polishing his spectacles on the end of his scarf. “They merely say, my Lady, that it started in Germany, was driven south by the German Princes, and found a home in France. That’s hardly astonishing, I suppose. Any lunatic can find a home there these days. Thomas Paine, indeed!” He chuckled at another private jest as he turned back to the Tractatus. “Ah! Ferreau says that they’re very strong in Italy.”

  “Italy?”

  “Indeed, yes. Ah! Here we are! A statement of purpose, no less.” He laughed to himself, twitched the scarf closer about his neck, and frowned as he translated for her. “To deliver the peoples of the world from the tyranny of priests and kings!” He tutted. “Whatever next! Extraordinary people!”

  A new voice startled both of them, a voice of harsh ugliness and loud confidence. The voice was rude, sudden, and mysterious. “Extraordinary indeed!”

  The shouted words made Campion lean forward and she saw, at the library door, a man more ugly than she could imagine. An old man with a malevolent, leathery face beneath an ancient, filthy wig. A man with a small head that seemed to quest about the room on an unnaturally long neck. A man whose mouth seemed lipless and eyes lidless, a man of reptilian menace. He was wrapped in a great cloak. He pushed the helpless, protesting footman aside and walked farther into the library. “Cagliostro. Mesmer. Laclos. The Anarchasis Clootz, Restif de la Bretonne, and let us not forget the Count Donatien Alphonse Francois de Sade, now secretary of a Revolutionary Committee in Paris. All extraordinary!” He stopped. He glared at her. “I presume you are the Lady Campion Lazender?”

  She stood. Her voice was icy. “I am. And you, sir?”

  “Paunceley, of course.” He nodded to her in what she supposed was meant to be a bow. “And who in Christ’s name are you?” He pointed a finger at Stepper.

  The bookseller smiled. “Stepper, Simon, sir. Bookseller.”

  “You stink, but you’re right. They are extraordinary people. The Illuminati indeed! Cagliostro’s a crook, Mesmer’s a fraud, Laclos is a fool, Clootz is a clown, de la Bretonne a pornographer, and de Sade!” He pulled a chair from beneath the table and sat. His ugly face looked at Campion and his mouth twitched with amusement. “De Sade, my Lady, requires his valet to sodomize him while he tups whores. I tell you not to cause offense, but to satisfy your evident curiosity. You have finished with this man Stepper Simon?”

  She was offended, not by his words, but by his manner. She felt more than offense, she felt awed by him. He had come into the room as if he had a perfect right to dictate to her, and he took for granted that she would know his power and influence. Yet she would not be cowed by him. “My business with Mr. Stepper is not concluded, my Lord.”

  “Then I shall wait for your attention.” He took a book from his pocket and Stepper, his professional interest aroused, leaned over the table.

  Lord Paunceley gave the bookseller a ghastly smile. “The Riche Heures de Madame la Dauphine. Illustrated. Twenty-five guineas.”

  Simon Stepper blushed.

  Campion tried to ignore Lord Paunceley, smiling at the bookseller instead. “You found out more, Mr. Stepper?”

  But Simon Stepper had been flustered by Lord Paunceley’s sudden appearance. He shook his head nervously. “Indeed not, my Lady.”

  Lord Paunceley laughed harshly. “Then go, bookseller! I need her Ladyship’s attention!”

  She turned on him. “My Lord! You have refused to answer any of my letters. You come here unannounced, and you presume to give orders where you have no authority. I would be obliged if you would desist!”

  He looked at her with feigned astonishment. Slowly, his cloaked shoulders heaving, he began to chuckle. He pointed at her. “That’s it! Attack an old man! Would you like to hit me? Shall I get you a pistol to shoot me with? You!” He twisted around to the footman who still stood in the doorway. “You!”

  “Sir?” The footman was as terrified as the bookseller.

  “Before her Ladyship slaughters me I would like some tea and a fire lit. Quick, man! I may not have long to live.” He looked back to Campion. “I have taken the unpardonable liberty of ordering a fire in my bedroom. Christ in his insane heaven, but it’s cold!”

  “It’s the warmest autumn for years!”

  “That’s it! Bully me! I’m just an old man so you can bully me! I prayed, I hoped, I begged for the winter of my years to be peaceful, but I must be insulted by mere children. You!” He pointed at Stepper. “You’re still here! Your stink offends me! Go!”

  “Mr. Stepper!” Campion checked the bookseller’s headlight flight. She was tempted to order him to stay, but something warned her that she should not oppose Lord Paunceley yet. Besides, it would be a relief to get the odorous bookseller safely into Lazen’s open air. “I shall see you from the Castle.”

  She escorted him into the Entrance Hall where strange servants were piling Lord Paunceley’s luggage. She smiled at Stepper. “I do apologize, Mr. Stepper. He is an old friend of my father, so perhaps he can take these liberties.”

  “Not at all, my Lady, not at all.” He was wrapping the scarf about his neck. “Sticks and stones may break my bones, my Lady, but not mere words. Oh no!” He laughed to himself. “And to say that I smell! Most amusing.” Now that he was out of Lord Paunceley’s presence, the bookseller was regaining his usual optimism and jauntiness. “I have some volumes that perhaps ought to be in the Castle’s library, my Lady?”

  She made a polite response. She was trying to edge him toward the door when, with a clatter of boots and laughter, it was thrown open and she was staring into Christopher Skavadale’s smiling face.

  The doubts evaporated. Every doubt that Achilles had put into her head, and which had festered during these last ten days, disappeared. She had remembered his face, but not the life of it, not the bright, vivid life that stabbed at her and made her smile to see him. She had missed him.

  Another man came to the door and Campion used the stranger’s presence to shake the bookseller loose. Skavadale bowed to her and gestured to the newcomer. “May I present Mr. Geraint Owen, His Lordship’s secretary? This is the Lady Campion Lazender.”

  Owen bowed. “I trust you will forgive this intrusion, your Ladyship.”

  “Owen!” Lord Paunceley’s voice was plaintive from the library. “I’m cold, Owen! I’m being insulted! I’m thirsty! Owen!”

  The Welshman smiled at her. “You will forgive me, my Lady?”

  Campion nodded. She saw the bookseller to the door, telling him to bring whatever books he thought necessary for the library, and then she turned to the Gypsy. She could not hide her happiness. Achilles, she thought, could not be right. This man, this splendid, smiling, handsome man could not be her enemy. “You came with Lord Paunceley?”

  “Yes.”

  She laughed. “He’s a monster!”

  Skavadale nodded. “True. And how’s your own monster?”

  She shrugged. Julius still lived in the Old Stable House, drunk for much of the time, guarded day and night by servants. Dr. Fenner was treating his pox with mercury. “He’s alive.” She said it dubiously and looked up into the Gypsy’s face, feeling the familiar pang that he gave her. “Why has Lord Paunceley come?”

  “Let him tell you.”

  “He wants me to go to France, doesn’t he?” Skavadale nodded, and she shook her head. “I’m not going!”

  “I’ve already told him that.” />
  A servant went past with a tray of tea, another carried a basket of logs. Campion turned to the library.

  It took ten minutes for Lord Paunceley to make himself comfortable. The tea was too weak, the fire too slow to start, and he querulously demanded that the windows be shut. Like a shaggy, bad tempered beast he arranged the library for his comfort as if, on this fine autumn day, he was settling for the winter. Only when the last footman had left, and when he was satisfied with the tea and oatcakes, did he turn his ugly face on Campion. “You are privileged, my Lady!”

  She thought he meant that she was fortunate to live in Lazen. She nodded. “I know, my Lord.”

  “I have not left London these three years, apart from visits to Tyburn! Yet here I am! I have come, at considerable inconvenience, to your very door! You are privileged indeed! Do you know why I have come?”

  She said nothing. Paunceley sucked noisily at his dish of tea. He plucked the cloak over his knees. He looked slyly at her. “Your uncle came to see me!”

  “I know.”

  “He thought the Bastard didn’t work for me! Ha!”

  She frowned. “You mean Mr. Skavadale?”

  “Mister!” The word delighted Lord Paunceley. “You hear that, Bastard! She calls you ‘mister’! Ah! You cheer an old man up, dear Lady Campion, you lighten my old age. Mister indeed!”

  Skavadale smiled at her. “His Lordship does not believe that the Rom marry, my Lady.”

  “Marry!” Lord Paunceley cackled. “What do they do? Dance naked around a cauldron at a coven?”

  The Gypsy smiled. “We’re not like your family, my Lord, we marry in church.”

  Paunceley smiled. “I suppose I shall have to call you ‘mister,’ then. Or would you prefer a knighthood, Bastard? Sir Christopher Skavadale? My God! They gave that dauber Reynolds a knighthood! Sir Joshua! I suppose anything can happen if you have a mad, fat, German King.” He looked at Campion. “Which language do you prefer to use?”

  “Whatever your Lordship prefers.”

  “I prefer Russian. Speak Russian, do you?”

  “No, my Lord.”