Poulaine winked and rubbed his hands again.
‘The other thing we need is a couple of swords,’ Henri continued. ‘We misplaced ours on the way here.’
Tilly smiled. Misplaced indeed.
‘But of course, I’ve some swords here you can have, monseigneur,’ Poulaine assured them. ‘As for the passage to England, I will make enquiries and return soon. I’m sure I can arrange passage in the next few days, and in the meantime I will make up some comfortable rooms for you.’
A few days?Tilly, Amelie and Henri glanced at each other in horror. Having made it all the way to the coast, they were all impatient to be on the final stage of their journey.
‘We would like to leave at once,’ Henri maintained. ‘There will be a bonus for both you and the captain if we can leave tonight.’
Poulaine frowned momentarily, as though considering the options.
‘But of course, monseigneur,’ Poulaine replied. ‘I will do my best.’
He left them once more, bowing and scraping as he left.
‘I don’t know that I like that man...’ commented Tilly. ‘He is so obsequious.’
‘Nonsense,’ replied Henri. ‘He is perfectly amiable. I think he is just not used to dealing with people of consequence.’
Tilly felt her egalitarian sensibilities worried by the different attitude that Amelie and Henri had towards servants and commoners. But she imagined, after their extremely privileged upbringing, it must be hard for them to see the ‘common people’ as being there for anything other than their own comfort.
17
The Cornish Captain
Poulaine returned in an hour, bringing with him two rusty swords and a small, slight Cornishman with deep-sea-blue eyes; tanned, wrinkled skin and black hair.
‘Monseigneur, may I introduce you to Captain Trevelyan, who is willing to take you and mesdemoiselles across the channel on his ship the Mermaid of Zennor– for the right price, of course.’
Captain Trevelyan did not bow or smile. He stood there in his pale-blue smock, baggy trousers, red handkerchief around his neck and oversized seamen’s boots, examining the three with his piercing blue eyes.
‘Aye, we leave tomorrow morning directly on the full tide,’ stated Captain Trevelyan; his French was good but spoken with a thick Cornish accent. ‘Ye can stay here until my cargo is laden. I willna ’ave landlubbers in the way while we are loading. I will send my ship’s boy to collect ye ’alf an hour afore we sail.’
Tilly felt an overwhelming sense of urgency. She wanted to build a relationship with this Cornish captain who would take them on the final stage to England. She searched back in her memory and concentrated really hard.
‘Captain Trevelyan, please could we leave tonight?’ begged Tilly in English.
A look of concern crossed Poulaine’s face as he realised he could not understand the conversation.
‘We must leave France at once. We have been running for our lives for days. Henri’s parents were murdered, their home burnt to the ground. People are being killed all over France. Please, please help us.’ Tilly clutched at Trevelyan’s sleeve. He patted her hand.
‘We have jewels we can pay you for your trouble,’ Tilly offered.
Captain Trevelyan glanced at everyone in the room appraisingly. ‘What jewels? Let me see them.’
‘Amelie, show Captain Trevelyan the jewels we have to pay for our passage,’ requested Tilly, once more speaking in French.
Amelie pulled out the remaining diamond buckle. The captain said nothing.
‘And the pearl bracelet, Amelie?’ cajoled Tilly. Amelie glared at Tilly, furious, but reluctantly pulled out the bracelet.
Captain Trevelyan nodded. ‘Orright,’ he agreed, also speaking in English. ‘We leave on the full tide in two hours. Make sure ye are ready to go. The tide waits for nobody.’
‘Do ye ’ave luggage?’ asked Captain Trevelyan, once more speaking in French.
‘We have lost everything,’ complained Amelie with a catch in her throat, thinking of her portmanteaus of dresses and shoes, the chateau, the horses, the townhouse, Tante Beatrice’s jewels.
‘Ye have your lives, do ye not?’ replied Captain Trevelyan. ‘From what I hear, that is no mean feat nowadays in France. Till high tide then.’
Captain Trevelyan turned and strode from the room, Poulaine showing him out.
It was a long wait until high tide. Poulaine offered them bedchambers to rest in, but they decided they would rather stay together, playing backgammon to pass the time.
It was only seven o’clock by Henri’s watch when the door to their parlour was flung open and a man in a brown suit barged in. Tilly looked up, expecting to see Poulaine or a messenger from Captain Trevelyan. She took a quick, deep breath.
The man in the brown suit was Jacques, holding a pair of black-muzzled pistols. Tilly’s heart pounded. How had he found them? What was he going to do?
‘Monsieur le Comte,’ said Jacques. ‘What a pleasure to see you again.’
Henri froze at the sound of that familiar voice and the sight of the weapons.
‘Jacques?’ called Amelie in surprise. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’m here to see you, mademoiselle,’ replied Jacques. ‘When I last saw you, I made you both a promise I have yet to fulfil. You escaped quite unexpectedly, so I made some enquiries. It only took me a day to learn that an empty barge was seen cruising down the Seine with three aristos, a monkey and a dog on board – a most unusual sight.’
Jacques pulled up a chair and sat down at the table with them. Henri and Amelie were shocked at the effrontery of a servant pulling up a chair to sit in their presence. Amelie stood up haughtily.
Jacques ignored her and kept talking. ‘I picked up your trail at a farmhouse downriver where one of you traded a pearl bracelet for food. I thought you might be headed for Rouen, so I rode on ahead and waited for you there. I saw you with my own eyes as you floated through, but unfortunately you did not stop.’
Tilly inched over towards the door, slowly, surreptitiously. Jacques ignored her.
‘I rode on again, presuming you would head for either Le Havre or Honfleur. It seems I was right. I paid several innkeepers in both harbours to inform me as soon as three disguised aristosarrived trying to buy passage to England, and if possible delay their departure.
‘Our good host, Poulaine, was kind enough to send a message for me as soon as you arrived at his inn. So here I am.’
Tilly felt a wave of anger. Poulaine had betrayed them. He had taken their jewels and bowed and scraped, the whole time scheming how to hand them over to their enemy.
Jacques set down one of the pistols, pulled over the jug of golden cider in the centre of the table and poured himself a foaming tankard. He took a deep draught and smacked his lips.
Henri and Amelie were still speechless. Tilly glanced around, looking for weapons. The two swords that Poulaine had brought were on the floor over near the chair. Juju growled under the table and Henri put his hand on her collar to calm her.
‘You see, monseigneur,’ Jacques continued, placing a sarcastic note on ‘monseigneur’. ‘I did not finish telling you my story. I have some sad news for you. Your brother, Jean-Pierre, was killed a few days ago. He died when a burning beam from the chateau fell on him.’
‘My brother?’ asked Henri in surprise. ‘You mean Jean-Pierre from the family that fostered me when I was a baby? ... Or do you mean to imply that my father fathered him, too?’
‘No, I mean that Jean-Pierre’s mother, Marie, my sister, was your mother,’ stated Jacques.
Henri shook his head and frowned. Amelie tossed her head in annoyance and stalked across the room.
‘Jacques, what games are you playing?’ Henri asked impatiently.
‘I am here to tell you your birthright,’ Jacques continued. ‘You see, once upon a time, there was a Comte, and for many years the Comte tried for a child. His wife fell pregnant many times, but the children were always sickly and died at bir
th or before. Now, the Comte needed an heir. You see, he had quarrelled with his own brother and could not bear the thought that he or his son might inherit the title.’
Henri had gone pale, his knuckles clenched. Amelie drew closer again at the mention of her father, the Comte’s brother. Tilly crept backwards towards the swords, her eyes on Jacques.
‘Meanwhile, down in the village that belonged to the Comte body and soul, lived a peasant woman called Marie, who had borne four strapping, healthy sons. When the Comtesse became pregnant again, and the pregnancy drew near to its term, the Comte discovered that Marie was also pregnant and due to give birth shortly before his own wife.’
Jacques took another long draught of cider. Tilly found she was holding her breath. She did not quite understand what this story meant, but she could sense the tension in the air.
‘The Comte hatched a plan – an absurd, crazy plan,’ said Jacques. ‘He employed Marie as a wet nurse and had her installed in a cottage in the grounds of the chateau where she delivered a strong healthy boy child. A few days later, the Comtesse went into labour early. After a long, difficult labour, she gave birth to another thin, sickly male – at last, the longed-for heir.
‘Marie set her own child aside and fed him goat’s milk from a bottle, saving her own rich milk for the Comte’s heir. It was hard to believe but the thin, sickly child thrived, and Marie’s own healthy child wasted away and died within a few days. He was buried with great haste in the churchyard of the chateau’s chapel.’
Jacques paused dramatically.
‘That is very sad, Jacques, but I do not see why you are telling us this story of something that happened such a long time ago,’ snapped Henri, his head high and his eyes flashing.
‘Because, Henri, of course Marie’s son did not really die. It was the Comte’s true heir who died, and you, Henri, the strapping peasant boy, were substituted for that sickly child.’
Henri jumped up, his hands clenched into fists. Amelie sank onto the floor, her hands covering her mouth in horror. Tilly breathed deeply.
‘That is ridiculous nonsense,’ Henri exclaimed.
Jacques laughed. ‘Did you never wonder why both your parents have blue eyes, yet your eyes are brown?
Amelie’s eyes flew to Henri’s.
‘Brown eyes run in the family,’ retorted Henri. ‘Amelie has brown eyes, too.’
‘From her mother, not her father,’ Jacques insisted. ‘So you returned home with your mother, Marie, for the first three years of your life. The Comte paid Marie handsomely to raise you and make sure you survived to three years old.
‘Then she had to give you up. But she had four other sons to raise, and your true father had died a few months before you were born, so she was poverty stricken. It was a godsend to sell you to the Comte to be raised as a noble.’
Henri flew across the table, lunging for Jacques’s throat. Jacques staggered back, clasping the pistol and pointing it at Henri. Tilly rushed to draw Henri away from the lethal weapon. Amelie sobbed, shaken to the core by this revelation.
‘Henri, it’s all right,’ Tilly whispered. ‘Don’t listen to him. His tales are full of venom.’
‘I will kill him,’ swore Henri. ‘I will cut out his tongue for spreading such filth.’
Tilly winced.
‘Your mother – my sister – died last year, confessing everything to me beforehand,’ Jacques continued, his face twisted with hate. ‘Of course, we all suspected the truth. It’s impossible to keep secrets in a house full of servants. She died alone and poor.
‘The Comte forgot his promise to look after her. Your brothers were forced into the army and sent to fight in the King’s wars, and only Jean-Pierre came home. Now he is dead, too. All your family wiped out by the betrayal of the aristocracy.’
‘Anyway, enough talk. I have come to fulfil my vow to wipe out the name and blood of the Montjoyeuses.’
Jacques raised the pistol he had been clutching and aimed it at Henri.
‘No,’ cried Tilly, rushing forward. ‘Don’t. You would be murdering your nephew.’
‘He’s been corrupted by the aristocrats,’ Jacques spat. ‘It’s better if he dies.’
Juju, the great Irish wolfhound, leapt to her master’s defence, bounding across the room and throwing herself at Jacques, snarling. Jacques flew backwards, defending his face. Juju snapped and bit, hanging on for dear life. Jacques screamed. The pistol exploded. Blood spattered. Tilly snatched up a sword.
Juju howled and let go. Henri and Amelie ran forward. Jacques dropped the discharged pistol, the heavy body of the dog on top of him.
‘Juju!’ cried Henri. ‘Juju!’
The dog looked up at Henri with her great brown eyes. She whimpered and tried to lick his hand. Henri gently pulled her off Jacques, while Tilly covered him with a sword. Juju’s chest was a gaping, bleeding hole. Blood flowed, covering Henri and Jacques.
Henri sobbed, cradling the dog in his arms. ‘No, not Juju.’
Juju licked Henri’s face, her eyes full of love and pain, blood dribbling from her mouth. Tears ran down Tilly’s face, her throat choked with sobs. Amelie ran over to throw her arms around Henri.
‘What can we do?’ begged Tilly. ‘Shall I fetch blankets or water? Amelie, get something to stop the bleeding.’
‘I think it’s too late, Tilly,’ Henri said quietly. ‘I don’t think we can do anything.’
Jacques struggled to get up off the floor, his eye drawn to the pistol still on the table.
‘Don’t move,’ hissed Tilly violently. ‘If you move, I’ll be tempted to run you through with my sword. And don’t think I won’t.’
Juju sighed and breathed deeply. More blood welled up, bubbling from her mouth. She stopped breathing.
Henri collapsed, hugging the lifeless dog in his arms.
‘Juju saved my life,’ whispered Henri hoarsely. ‘And now she’s dead.’
Jacques made a dash for the door. Tilly lunged forward with the sword, pressing it against his back.
‘I don’t think so,’ Tilly called.
Jacques slowly backed away from the door, his arms raised.
The door flew open and it was a young boy, wearing a large sou’wester and bare feet.
‘Coom on then,’ he called in English. ‘I’m Piran. The capt’n sent me to fetch ye directly. He feared there may be trouble, and looks like he was right.’
Piran gestured around at the scene as if there was nothing terribly surprising about bursting in on a room with men covered in blood, a girl wielding a sword and a dead wolfhound. Amelie rose to her feet, dazed.
‘Go, Henri,’ coaxed Tilly. ‘I’ll cover you both.’
Henri gently, carefully lifted up the body of Juju. He struggled with her weight in his own weakened state.
‘I will not leave her here,’ Henri insisted. He marched towards the door, slowly carrying his burden. Amelie picked up the pistol from the table and followed him, her head bowed.
Locking the door behind them, Tilly hurried after Piran, the shouts and banging of Jacques echoing behind her. Tilly’s head spun with all that had happened in the last half an hour.
Henri was not really a Comte. He was a peasant’s son, raised to be an aristocrat. Amelie was not really Henri’s cousin. He was an imposter, unknowingly substituted to cheat her father out of his rightful inheritance. How would Amelie react to this news?
Piran sped his way along the quay, which was now rosy-gold in the late-evening sun. The sunlight sparkled off the water. Ahead of them was a lone scene of activity around the gangplank of a dark-hulled schooner.
Men scurried back and forth, loading bales, kegs, packages and barrels. Two men stood guard, carrying muskets. On deck, more men laboured, stowing the cargo below in the hold. Although mostly barefoot, the crew worked methodically and efficiently, obviously carrying out a well-practised routine.
Piran scampered up the gangway, waving them on.
Captain Trevelyan stood on deck to supervise the proceedings
. ‘Welcome on board the Mermaid of Zennor. Looks like ye ran into some trouble getting away, Comte.’
Henri blushed. ‘Not Comte, not anymore. That life is over,’ Henri said bitterly. ‘My dog was killed. I am sorry, but I could not leave her there. May I bring her with us and bury her at sea?’
The captain nodded brusquely. ‘Yes, of course. Piran, show them directly to my cabin. I would appreciate it if ye stayed there until we are underway. We still have much to do to make the high tide. Perhaps ye could lay your dog down over there?’
Henri nodded curtly and lay Juju tenderly on the deck, away from where the men were working. He followed Piran below deck, through a cramped saloon hung with hammocks, to the stern where the captain had his tiny cabin.
‘Stay here until we make sail. The capt’n’ll be angry if ye get in the way.’
Piran left them and went back on deck.
‘I will just wait out here,’ said Henri awkwardly, not looking at either of them. ‘I do not want to intrude.’
Amelie refused to look at Henri or Tilly, her eyes staying firmly on the floor of the cabin.
‘Don’t be stupid, Henri,’ retorted Tilly. ‘We’ll wait together. As if you would be intruding!’
‘As you wish,’ replied Henri stiffly, going to stand near the wall.
Amelie sat herself down primly at the captain’s small table and took to studying the tips of her rose-pink satin shoes, now muddy and shabby.
‘That is, if Mademoiselle de Montjoyeuse does not object?’ Henri enquired.
‘Non, I have no objection,’ replied Amelie coolly, turning her satin toe from side to side for closer inspection.
Henri flushed and turned away, as if contemplating kicking the wall.
‘Oh, for goodness sake, don’t be ridiculous!’ Tilly exclaimed in annoyance. ‘What is the matter with you two? We’ve been through far too much for you to behave like this now.’
Amelie tossed her head defiantly.
‘The matter is that everythinghas changed,’ Henri blurted. ‘My life is over. I am not, as I believed, a Montjoyeuse. I am not Mademoiselle de Montjoyeuse’s cousin. I am nothing but a peasant impostor.’
The Ruby Talisman Page 16