by Stella Riley
‘As sure as I can be. It’s vicious, pointless and will create more problems than it solves. Worse still, for God knows what reason, it has official backing.’ Eden passed over the de-coded version of the October letter and then, when Nicholas looked up frowning, handed him the more recent one. ‘As you can see, whoever this man in France is, he seems to have most of his pieces on the right squares – and, if he hasn’t, he soon will have. I’ve done my best to discover his identity but without success – and I have no further avenues open to me. I can’t prevent this atrocity from here and I haven’t any valid excuse for leaving the country. I can, on the other hand, supply you with a travelling pass. You and Francis may not be able to stop it but you can make sure that Charles is warned.’
Nicholas looked up from the letter and said thoughtfully, ‘There’s Ashley, too.’
‘Who?’
‘Colonel Peverell. I told you about him once. What I didn’t say was that the King has a pretty high regard for him and that he … well, from time to time, he undertakes what you might call specialist missions.’
‘You mean he’s an intelligence agent?’
‘Of a sort,’ shrugged Nicholas uncomfortably. ‘If Francis is in Paris, it may be that Ashley is with him. And he’ll know what to do.’
‘Only if he’s less inept than his fellow agents,’ said Eden caustically.
‘He isn’t inept at all.’
‘That’s a relief. If the ones I know about were any good, I wouldn’t be able to name them.’
Nicholas eyed him in silence for a moment and then said slowly, ‘You’re taking a big risk with this. If your knowledge or the use you’re making of it comes to light, Cromwell will have you in the Tower and under interrogation quicker than you can spit.’
‘I know. Which is why you and Francis and Colonel Peverell are going to take every precaution to keep my name out of it. My guess would be that the fellow at the head of this conspiracy has reasonable access to Charles. If that’s so, you’ll need to be very wary whom you trust. And if you need an example of that … we intercepted a message from Colonel Massey, warning Ned Hyde not to rely on a former Royalist agent by the name of Bampfield. Hyde needs that information because it’s true. And supplying it will help cement your credentials.’ Eden paused and then added, ‘You can also tell him that we have a copy of Charles’s marriage lines.’
‘What? His Majesty is married? To whom?’
‘Supposedly, to his one-time mistress, Lucy Walter. Except that he probably isn’t.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Neither do I, entirely. Suffice it to say that I’m fairly certain the marriage certificate and those letters – which I will now have back, if you please – were written by the same person. Ergo, the certificate is a forgery.’
Nicholas blew out his cheeks, his brain reeling.
‘This is beginning to seem just the tiniest bit complicated.’ He stood up. ‘All right. How soon do I leave?’
‘Hopefully, on tomorrow’s evening tide. I’ll have the pass for you by then … and my letter to Francis.’
He nodded. ‘And is there anything else – anything that might help us find the assassin?’
Eden’s brows rose. ‘Us?’
‘Well, yes. You didn’t think I’d simply hand all this over to Francis and Ashley, then take the next ship back here, did you?’
‘And won’t you?’
‘Of course not. For one thing, they’re my friends. And, for another, I’ll be able to feel I’m doing something useful at last.’
For the first time, Eden grinned at him.
‘Well done, Nick. If you’d said anything else, I’d have been disappointed.’
~ * * ~ * * ~
ACT FOUR
MÉNAGE
Paris; November and December, 1652
‘Aye – now the plot thickens very much upon us.’
George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham
ONE
In the darkness of the alley, fighting to hold on to the shreds of his consciousness when letting go of it would have been a mercy, Ashley was dimly aware of a sudden, unexpected blur of movement that made no sense. Then the blade that had been about to drive into his chest clattered from Henri’s grasp and he collapsed on the cobbles and lay still.
His breath coming in ragged gasps, Ashley dropped his head on his arm and struggled to open his eyes. He was in so much screaming, burning agony that engaging his brain was a near impossibility. Dragging some air into his lungs, he gasped, ‘Is he …?’
A booted foot nudged Henri over.
‘Dead? Yes.’
‘Shit.’ He squinted at his rescuer. Then, because he wasn’t just looking at, but up a very large nose, he closed his eyes again. ‘Don’t think me … ungrateful. But I wish … I really wish you hadn’t … done that.’
‘But why, mon ami? He was about to kill you. And truly,’ remarked Cyrano de Bergerac dispassionately, ‘Henri de Vauvallon will be no loss to anyone.’
‘I needed to … to ask …’
‘Questions? Of course. And the other fellow still lives. You, however, will not if you continue bleeding like a pig.’ Stooping, Cyrano took hold of Ashley and prepared to get him up but, knowing what the result was likely to be, paused to say, ‘Where shall I take you?’
‘Sixteen … Rue des Rosiers. But --’
Cyrano heaved him to his feet. Ashley gave a strangled grunt and finally passed out.
‘Putain!’ grunted Cyrano, shouldering what was now a dead weight. ‘One day I’ll learn to mind my own business.’
* * *
Summoned by the hammering of a hefty fist, Archie reached the door first with Pauline two steps behind. The sight of Cyrano de Bergerac half-carrying Colonel Peverell stopped them both in their tracks for a moment.
Then, taking in the amount of blood and the fact that Ashley was barely conscious, Archie said, ‘What the buggering ’ell’s ’appened?’
Pauline shoved him unceremoniously out of the way and greeted Cyrano with a brief nod.
‘Monsieur de Bergerac.’
Cyrano managed a grin. ‘Madame Fleury.’
‘Bring him inside.’ Her gaze skimmed over the blood soaking through Ashley’s left sleeve and staining his hand, then on down to the leg-wound which was clearly far worse. ‘We’ll need to put him to bed. Would you mind --?’
‘Pauline? What is it?’ Athenais erupted from the parlour, horror investing her face as she clapped eyes on Ashley. ‘Oh God. What happened? Is – is he --?’ She swallowed. ‘He’s not dead, is he?’
‘No. Stop talking and find Francis,’ snapped Pauline, turning back to Cyrano. ‘Can you get him upstairs before he bleeds all over the hall? His friend will help if --’ She stopped, as Francis came running down the stairs and, stilling him with one hand, said, ‘Don’t ask. Just help Monsieur de Bergerac get the Colonel upstairs and try not to damage him further. Everything else can wait till we’ve seen how bad it is.’
‘Use my room,’ said Athenais, her voice not quite steady. ‘The attic … there are too many stairs. My room, Francis.’
He nodded, his mouth for once firmly closed and his expression grim.
Carefully, he and Cyrano supported the Colonel between them, balancing his weight until they could lift him clear of the floor. Ashley promptly lost his frail hold on consciousness again.
‘Damn,’ grunted Francis. And considered Cyrano’s quiet snort decidedly misplaced.
Athenais stood like a stone in hall, twisting her hands together and watching them out of wide, frightened eyes.
‘Don’t just stand there,’ said Pauline sharply. ‘We’ll need hot water, cloths and bandages. Set the kettle and some pans to boil – as many as you can. Find anything we have that can be torn into strips. Old sheets, petticoats – anything as long as it’s clean. Tell your father to guard the door and have Suzon mop up this mess on the floor. Move!’
Then, without waiting to see if Athenais did as she’d bidden her, Paulin
e ran up the stairs in the wake of the gentlemen.
They had laid Ashley, still unconscious, on the bed.
Whilst trying to unlace his coat, Francis said, ‘You and Ashley know each other?’
‘Through a mutual friend.’ Cyrano laid rolled up towels beneath the freely bleeding leg wound. ‘Tonight was just chance. He was under attack – three fellows, two of them dead.’
‘Do you know who?’ asked Francis.
‘The man I killed was Henri de Vauvallon. For the others, I can’t speak. Our friend here despatched one and put the other down. He wanted to ask questions but he was bleeding too much to waste the time.’ Cyrano glanced down and, shrugging slightly, added, ‘Still is, for that matter.’
‘What do we have?’ demanded Pauline, peering over Francis’s shoulder at the ruined, blood-stained shirt. ‘Blade or bullet?’
‘Blade,’ he replied, tearing the shirt so that he could slip it from Ashley’s shoulder. ‘Not as bad as it looks – but still bleeding.’
‘And the leg?’
‘Sword thrust,’ supplied Cyrano. ‘Deep and clumsy. Also, a knock on the head but that is not so bad, I think.’
Pauline nodded.
‘Thank you, Monsieur. We’re in your debt. I’m sure Athenais will be happy to pour a glass of wine if you --’
‘No, no. I’ll be on my way. If you need me, send word to the Chien Rouge. Anyone there will know where to find me.’ And with a flourishing bow and a twirl of his hat, he took his leave and went clattering down the stairs.
Pauline looked across at Francis. She said, ‘Go and see how Athenais is getting on with the water and bandages, will you? And pass me the scissors from the table. I’ll cut the rest of his clothes off. They’re ruined, anyway.’
By the time Francis and Athenais re-appeared, bearing hot water and a stack of assorted linens, Pauline had stripped away Ashley’s clothes and was trying, without much success, to staunch the flow of blood from his right thigh.
With a lifted eyebrow but none of his usual flippancy, Francis absorbed the sight of the Colonel spread out – battered, gory and totally naked – under Pauline’s ministrations.
Athenais walked past him saying, ‘I’ve brought all the towels I could find and the oldest sheets and --’ Then stopped dead on a shocked gasp.
She stared and stared again, apparently transfixed. With the first faint stirring of humour, Francis suspected that she wasn’t just assessing Ashley’s injuries. She was enjoying the perfectly sculpted musculature of his chest and thighs, the tautness of his abdomen … and the parts in between which, under normal circumstances, she’d never see at all. He didn’t blame her from enjoying the view. He imagined any woman with breath still in her body would do the same. On the other hand, he didn’t think Ashley would appreciate being surveyed in all his naked glory and was just reaching out for one of the towels Athenais was carrying when the dark gold lashes lifted a little and a slurred voice said faintly, ‘Call the neighbours in, why don’t you? You could sell tickets.’
Francis’s mouth curled – more in relief than amusement – and he dropped the towel across Ashley’s loins. Before he could speak, however, Pauline glanced across at Athenais and said, ‘Stop gawking and pull yourself together. I need the water and cloths now, not tomorrow.’ And, when Athenais drew a shuddering breath and crossed to her side, ‘Put the water on the table and the linens here on the pillow. Francis – use some of the towels and put pressure on that leg wound. See if you can stop the bleeding – or at least, slow it down. I’m going to attend to his arm first. It’s a nasty cut but compared to his leg, it’s nothing. Athenais – go downstairs and fetch my sewing box from the parlour.’
Athenais lost what little colour she had left and swallowed hard.
‘Sewing box? You can’t mean you’re going to --’
‘Do you want him to die?’
‘No! But surely the doctor ....’
With a visible effort, Pauline summoned a shred of patience.
‘We won’t get a doctor out at this time of night – and if he carries on bleeding like this, he won’t last till morning. So just get the box – and the brandy from the kitchen, while you’re about it.’
Athenais ran from the room but had to pause for a moment at the top of the stairs when she discovered her knees were shaking. Shock and fear were churning in her stomach and making it impossible to think clearly. She didn’t know what had happened or why or how to grasp the sense of what Pauline had said. Ashley couldn’t die. It wasn’t possible. Any minute now, he’d wake up and smile that slow, bone-melting smile … and this whole nightmare would be over.
Or maybe not, said a nasty little voice at the back of her mind. She stumbled on the last step and had to grab the newel post to stop herself falling. She tried to steady her nerves, drawing one ragged breath after another. Then she fled to the kitchen for the brandy and the parlour for Pauline’s sewing box and set off back upstairs. Her skirts kept getting in the way and every step was an effort. The only image in her head was that of Ashley, as she’d seen him just a few minutes ago; hurt, bleeding and barely conscious but still unbelievably beautiful. The faintly golden hue of his skin; the light and shade of perfectly formed muscle; the breadth of shoulder and length of leg; and that part of him which, even now, terrified as she was, brought a flush of heat to her belly. Then, without warning, another image intruded; that of the terrible wound on his thigh. The wound that Pauline said might kill him.
Athenais hauled her skirts higher and ran.
The scene in her bedchamber had changed very little. Pauline had cleaned the gash in Ashley’s arm and was plastering it with some kind of green salve. Francis was still labouring to stem the blood-flow in the other wound with a great deal of grim-faced determination. On the floor beside the bed, a small heap of stained towels bore witness to his efforts.
As Athenais entered the room he said, ‘It’s lessening, I think. But if you intend to try stitching it, perhaps we should use a tourniquet.’
‘Do it,’ replied Pauline without turning her head. ‘I’ll be with you in a minute.’
Wordlessly, Athenais put the sewing box down and stood for a moment, staring down at Ashley’s face. It was paper-white and, though his eyes were shut, the muscle working in his jaw suggested that he hadn’t quite relapsed into insensibility. Something twisted painfully in her chest and tears she refused to shed clogged her throat.
Her movements deft but gentle, Pauline finished binding his arm and stood up. She took a second to brush a light sheen of sweat from her brow with the back of one wrist and then briskly circumnavigated the bed to where Francis was fashioning a tourniquet out of a broad strip of folded sheeting. More blood welled from the ugly wound.
Taking Pauline’s place, Athenais sat down on the edge of the bed and closed both of her hands around Ashley’s lax fingers. They twitched in hers and then shifted their position to grip her hard. She remained perfectly still, glad of the pain.
‘Change the water, Francis,’ said Pauline. ‘And pour some brandy into that cup on the dresser. I’ll use it to clean the needle and you can pour the rest down his throat.’
‘That,’ muttered Ashley between clenched teeth, ‘is a splendid idea.’ Then, as Pauline began the process of cleaning the wound, he gave a massive, involuntary flinch and hissed raggedly, ‘Hellfire. Francis – just knock me out, will you? Brandy or your fist. I don’t care which.’ And relapsed again into white-lipped silence.
Francis glanced at Pauline and received a small nod by way of reply.
‘No!’ snapped Athenais. ‘Pass me the brandy. You’re not to hit him. He’s been hurt enough!’
Wrenching her hands free, she snatched the cup from Francis and, raising Ashley’s head a little, held it to his lips. A few drops trickled from the edge of his mouth but he managed to drain the cup without coughing.
‘More?’ she asked. And was answered with a grunt of assent.
By the time he had downed another stiff measure, Pa
uline had cleaned the wound as best she could considering that, despite the tourniquet, it continued to ooze. While she examined her sewing box for a suitably large needle and the thread she thought most likely to prove adequate, she said, ‘You’ll have to hold him for me, Francis. He’s no more than half-drunk at best and this is going to hurt like seven kinds of hell.’
Francis nodded. ‘Whatever you need, Duchess.’
She shot him an oblique, faintly bemused glance and then, with a tiny shake of her head, said, ‘Athenais – you should go.’
‘Go? No. I won’t. Why should I?’
‘Because this isn’t going to be pretty and I doubt your stomach will be up to it.’
Athenais’s mouth set in a mulish line.
‘I’ll manage.’
Still busy making her preparations, Pauline said, ‘Maybe. But we haven’t time to look after you if you don’t.’
‘I’ve told you – I’ll manage.’ She took a breath and wrapped Ashley’s hand inside hers. ‘I’m not leaving him. And that’s final.’
‘Don’t be so bloody stubborn,’ began Pauline, only to be hushed by Francis’s hand on her arm.
He said quietly, ‘Leave it. She’s entitled to stay. She’s in --’
‘I know what she is – and that’s why she should go.’ She threaded the needle and, without looking at Athenais said, ‘Suit yourself. But if you’re wise, you won’t watch.’
‘I think,’ grumbled Athenais, ‘I’d worked that out for myself.’
And then the horrible process began.
At the first insertion of the needle, Ashley’s fingers clamped down again on Athenais’s like a vice, the breath hissed between his teeth and his whole body went rigid in an attempt to remain still. He was already in as much pain as he could bear – his damned leg a screaming, burning agony that, if he’d been able to think at all, might have alarmed him; but, the piercing drag of the thread was a torture beyond anything he could have imagined. Enduring it in dignified silence suddenly no longer seemed possible – and that did alarm him. A groan escaped and only sheer will-power stopped it becoming a scream. The brandy wasn’t helping and he wished Francis had hit him. The needle began its second journey. His muscles ached with the effort to maintain control and his throat rebelled at his refusal to release the sound building there. He held back a flood of curses with clenched teeth and felt sweat break out all over his skin.