by Amy Wolof
“Your way, you mean? I pray you not to wait standing up.”
“I wait no more,” he said, “for I must be off to the palace.”
“To service your queen?” I asked with a wicked smile.
“Yes. But not in the manner you imply.”
He turned and strode to his horse, harnessed it, and, as the sun rose, left.
That night, while my friends slept, I did not close my eyes. Now that I knew where Frances was, how to leave Jeffries to see her? I thought hard as I stared at the fire whose orange flames danced like witches. Should I quietly sneak away—again? Or call upon all my wiles to devise a convincing scheme?
By morning, I thought I had the answer. Striking a queenlike pose, I cleared my throat as Gad prepared breakfast.
“Well, Megs?” said Jeffries.
“Do you have a good tale?” asked Carnatus.
“Um . . . yes.” I leaned forward, trying to steady my voice. “My friends, I did not want to tell you, but I saw a Royal Proclamation last time we were in London.”
“What does Charles want now?” groaned Carnatus. “Soon, he will rule against mixing green with scarlet!”
“A pity,” I said. “No, this Proclamation had to do with wines—French ones, to be exact.”
“As this concerns me closely,” said Jeffries, “I pray you to go on.”
“Well, Charles has decided to ban them—from English shores, at least.”
“What?”
Jeffries looked more indignant than when Monmouth had called us “commoners.”
“Along with French brandy,” I said, “vinegar, linen, cloth, and silks—even salt and pepper.”
“Whatever for?” asked Carnatus. “Does he wish to hoard them for himself?”
“He claims,” I said, “they ‘exhaust the treasure of the realm.’”
“I see,” said Jeffries. “He clearly wants us to buy only English.”
“English wine?” Carnatus spat. “Is there any besides Hertfordshire?”
“And that must be shit,” said Jeffries.
I smiled at the two of them as if I held a great secret.
“Well, Megs,” said Jeffries. “why do you raise this now?”
“The sea,” I said.
The two of them, plus Gad, exchanged a look of concern.
“But . . . you hate it,” said Carnatus. “The whole way to France, you were sick.”
“Yes,” I replied, “but I could dispel my dislike if the waves yield hundreds of guineas.”
“Continue,” said Jeffries.
“I give you one word: Smuggling. Outlawing these goods—wine, in particular—will only whet the appetite of those who feel they must have them. I suggest we run a small boat from Dover to Calais. Then, we return with contraband for which the English will pay dear.”
Carnatus’s eyes glinted like the gold he no doubt foresaw.
“I like this,” he said. “No more pounding the roads or sleeping on hard ground. No more peril of being shot, for we shall be ‘tradesmen.’”
“And we needn’t mind Customs,” said Jeffries. “I hear they are as bribable as any crooked innkeep.”
“I’m in!” Carnatus yelled, throwing his hat in the air. “Dammee, what a scheme! And all from a woman’s mind!”
“A woman,” I said, “who would shortly like to retire. Before dancing the Tyburn jig.”
“Hear, hear,” said Carnatus. “I wish to avoid that place as much as I do my children.”
“To be sure,” said Jeffries, “this is a fine plot, worthy of me or Aventis. But I confess I am no smuggler: no, the trade degrades me. I shall ride the road till I die.”
“But, captain—” I began.
“I cannot be swayed,” he said, putting up a hand. “However, that I give you my blessing. I shall return to town, to Moll’s caresses and Charles’s cries. You two attempt your scheme and see what success it brings. Besides, without Aventis, we cannot work our trade in safety.”
“Many thanks, Jeffries,” said Carnatus. “Come, Megs! Dover awaits us—again.”
“A moment.”
I paused before the captain and noted for the first time the gray hairs obscuring the black. He must be . . . I did a quick mental figuring . . . well into his fifties. High time for him to withdraw from robbery lest he join his old friends on the gibbet.
“Of course, we shall miss you,” I said, but he waved a gloved hand.
“Off you go,” he said gruffly. “Just ensure you do not get caught. I have no wish to intrude upon Judge Jeffreys’s court.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, looking down. “There is so much I wish to tell you.”
“No need,” said Jeffries. “Megs, I once told you I was sorry I took you on. You must know I did not mean it.”
“I do,” I said.
Gad had already harnessed my horse, and so I went over and mounted, attempting not to weep. Carnatus reined his own horse beside me.
“Farewell for now,” I called back to Jeffries. “May God protect you.”
“No talk of religion!” said Carnatus, urging his mount forward while Gad hung onto his back. “My only god is guineas, and his angels are silver louis!”
I confess I had forgotten just how long was the journey to Dover! A full thirty-five leagues, which meant two-day’s hard ride. I glanced over at Carnatus as we made for the Great Western. This was the first time we’d set out without Jeffries or Aventis. After the fit he’d thrown upon learning my sex, I was somewhat amazed he had agreed to my plan.
“So,” I asked, “does your pride suffer at riding with only a woman?”
“With only a woman, yes,” he said, “but not with you, Megs. You have proved as fine a companion as any I’ve had through the years.”
“Thank you, Phillip,” I said, using his real name. “It might appease you to know that I do not mind riding with a foppish glutton.”
Gad nearly fell off his horse. He gave me a sign with his fingers, as if to say, “Well done.” This relieved me quite a bit, for the success of our venture depended upon us all.
Our horses maintained a brisk trot as we headed east. We stopped each night in an inn, where I insisted on my own room. At night, when I was alone, my thoughts often strayed to Aventis, and how he was faring at court. But I tried to push these aside and think instead on my new venture . . . and the real reason behind it.
I managed to conceal my real plans all the way to Dover. Once there, we dispatched our mounts to a livery and surveyed the bustling port.
“Well, ‘captain.’” Carnatus turned to me. “What should we do now? Since I supply the brawn, you must supply the brains.”
Hoping that I could, I led my friends down to the harbor which looked much the same as when I’d last viewed it: a full eight years prior. We stepped onto a beach strung below white cliffs, and my first thought was that unlike Jeffries, I had no seafaring “friends.” But I did have an idea of the sort of craft I sought, and it did not take long to find it on the water. Before lines of docked merchant ships, it bobbed like a miniature.
“Hullo!” I called to a man on her stern. His squint and weathered skin betrayed his years on the sea. “May I speak?”
“You ken,” said the seaman, “but I may not choose ta listen.”
“Fair enough,” I answered. “I seek a bark such as yours. Would you be willing to let me lease her, along with your own good service?”
“Depends,” said the man, a clay pipe clenched in his teeth. “I rather like her, so it’ll cost ya dear.”
“We have gold enough,” I said, then cursed myself. How Jeffries would have scolded at my over-liberal tongue!
Realizing my blunder, Carnatus spoke.
“What my friend means,” he said, “is we like your ship well enough, even with her flaws.”
“Flaws?” the seaman exclaimed. “By God, you must be mad!”
“To start, she possesses but two sails.”
“As does every shallop on water!” the man cried, incensed.
“Sweet Jesus, have you ever left land?” asked the sailor. “That is the leeboard, to prevent her from drifting leeward.”
“Ah.”
As Carnatus was clearly finished, I decided to take command.
“How much would you ask, sir, for your services and the bark’s?”
“Ah! Well . . .” A broad smile creased his face. “What would you say ta . . . three-hundred guineas?”
“No,” I replied, “But I will give you half that.”
“Done!” cried the sailor, touching his wool cap and bowing. “Name’s Noah.”
“Fitting,” I said. “Well, Noah, we mean to make for Calais. How soon can we depart?”
“At next high tide, sir,” he answered, his face as alight as Carnatus’s at the prospect of gold. “If I may ask, sir, what cargo will we be carrying?”
Since his sails were painted black, I felt I could tell the “truth.”
“Let us say . . . wines from ‘Portugal’ and ‘Spain.’ Perhaps linens from ‘Holland’ and ‘Germany.’”
“Smuggled goods from France,” said Noah. “Fine with me.”
When the morning tide came in, Noah pulled up his anchor and we were off. Since his shallop was thirty feet long and about eight feet wide, I hoped I could stomach this voyage without bending over the side. Alas, it was not to be! I spent most of my time heaving out my last meal. My only recompense was that Carnatus did the same.
“Ah, Megs,” he breathed, lifting his large head, “I rue it is already autumn, for the waves are coming in strong.”
“If only,” I gasped, “we could ride to France.”
“Dam’d England!” he yelled. “Why must you be an island?!”
The only comfort to us was that the trip was mercifully short: a mere twenty miles. If the wind held (and it had been steady so far), we might arrive in port within the next five hours. Surely I could endure! Besides, there was something compelling—something far above profit—that bid me to plant my foot upon French soil again.
After Calais at last appeared and Noah had expertly docked, I was the first on land.
“Now, Carnatus,” I said, noting that his face had turned an unnatural green. “I must conduct some business. I leave it to you and Gad to find those who have what we seek and load it into the hold. Then, wait for me here.”
“Very well,” said Carnatus, but his frown told otherwise. “Be quick about your return.”
I nodded, then strode to a livery I knew from my last trip. Using a mixture of dumb-show and terrible French, I was soon inside a coach.
“The Chapel of the Trinity!” I shouted up to my driver.
What followed was a stream of French, sprinkled, I thought, with curses.
“Lyon,” I went on, “very far south of Paris! Paris . . . sud.”
“Oui, monsieur,” he said.
We set off in the right direction as I saw the coast disappear. On this strictly land journey, I was able to stay upright, my digestion improving with each swat of the horses’s long reins. As I stared out the open coach window, I saw what was not really there, but memories: Aventis and I floating up to the Grand Canale, sneaking into a huge chateau and meeting a princess there. Where was he now? I wondered. Embracing the queen and planning to flee to Portugal? There was no way I could know: only that, thanks to him, I sped closer to Frances.
Since Lyon was so far, it would take at least eight days of travel. Impatient as I was to get there, I could hardly enjoy my stays at small auberges, or inns. I marked most of my time in the coach gazing at the French countryside, which, I had to concede, rivaled even England’s. There were cows, goats, vineyards, and I thought idly on the lives of those who tended them. Were they wholly content performing their day-to-day tasks? Or, like me, did they long for gold and adventure? Still, their children were with them and somehow that meant all. It was then that I leaned out the coach window.
“Driver!” I cried, “can we proceed any faster?”
“Oui, monsieur,” he said, but our pace did not increase.
At the end of the third day, we reached Paris at last. It seemed much the same as it had in 1670, though the duke’s Palais-Royal seemed strangely deserted. Where was Phillipe? I wondered: Had he ever recovered from his young wife’s tragic passing?
My mission pressing upon me, I did not stay long in the city. After a single night, my driver changed teams and set our course for the south. In one small village, he offered me a cup of wine. Taking a sip, I was filled with regret—wishing that Jeffries were there!
“Vin de Bourgogne!” cried my driver. “Le favori du roi!”
“Ah! Burgundy,” I said. “Very good.”
At least four more days on the road. I confess I was growing weary of my bouncing coach. Could they not make these things more stable?
“Lyon,” my driver announced eight days out from Calais. After paying him, with some extra (that exquisite Burgundy!), I found myself stepping into the brisk night air. Seeking a rented bed, I thought only of the morrow, and, once on my mattress, tossed and turned until the dawn.
Foregoing breakfast, I strode onto the street and accosted a woman.
“Uh . . . I beg your pardon, pardonne. “La Trinity? Chapel?”
She scrunched her nose in that haughty way the French had.
“29 rue de la Bourse.”
Before I could nod my thanks, she spun me around with a push.
“De la sorte!” she spat, as if I had asked my way to the devil.
“Merci,” I answered, attempting to look for signs.
It was a good thing for me that Lyon was not large. After a few false starts, I was able to find my way.
Ah! There it was! 29 rue de la Bourse! And, to be truthful, I found myself disappointed. As I craned my neck, I saw a white brick building whose façade was really quite plain. I sighed, for I had expected some Popish ode to marble. No matter, I thought, my concern is with what’s within. Now, as to entry . . .
I leapt at my chance as I spied a black-robed priest.
“Pardon me, sir,” I said with a bow. “I am a stranger here—”
“Oui,” he said. “It is all right. I speak your English tongue.”
“Thank God!” I cried.
“Blessèd be His name,” said the priest.
“Uh, yes.”
“What do you seek, friend?” he asked. “Are you one of our faith?”
“No, sir-I mean, father. In truth, I seek a child. She is eight years old and answers to the name of Frances. Frances . . .” I thought hard, “. . . del Castillo.”
“Of course.” The priest gave me a warm smile, which served to dispel the oddness of his tri-cornered hat. “She is a light in our midst.”
I tried to halt my trembling as I followed him through the doors. Once inside, I started. The college’s drab exterior hid an inner courtyard bursting with different styles. The ground floor held elaborate emblems all of which celebrated Work. Good God, if mine became known!
Then, on the first storey, I saw busts and full figures of I know not who—dead saints, perhaps?—and, on the second, statues of noble folk who seemed to embody Learning. As I strained to see the top floor, I spied large facades—even sundials! One thing became clear as I trailed my host through the courtyard: the Jesuits had refined taste—and gold enough to put in in practice.
“Please, sir, wait here,” said the priest, who, upon closer inspection, struck me as rather young.
“What is your name?” I asked, in case he did not return.
“Friar Caussin.”
“I am called . . . Megs.”
“Welcome.”
Once he stepped away, I saw that I stood in a chapel, its ceiling so beautifully painted I might have been in Rome. Indeed, the vault flew so high that I fancied myself half to Heaven, and, flanked by a nave and choir, I started to pray.
“Dear Lord,” I whispered, “pleas
e, don’t let her hate me. Let her be a kind, loving child. May she someday know me for what I truly am. I know I’m an outlaw, Lord, unworthy of Your grace. In any case, Amen.”
I looked up at a hanging Crucifix where Jesus seemed so at peace. I hoped at that moment to borrow some of His fortitude.
“Monsieur Megs,” called Friar Caussin, and I whirled as if set upon. “May I present Mademoiselle Frances.” In his soft French accent, he pronounced it “Frahn-ees.”
“Bonjour,” said the girl shyly. “Je suis heureux de faire votre connaissance.”
“Oh, God,” I groaned. “Does she not speak English?”
“Indeed I do, sir,” said Frances.
“In light of her . . . parentage,” said the friar.
“Ah.”
I looked down at the girl who stood before me. She had long, dark hair (of course!), Aventis’s black eyes, and was clad in a simple white dress. On her head was a thin white cap which sported two red tassels.
“Frances?” I asked, rather stupidly.
“Yes, sir,” she answered.
I noticed that she did not fidget.
“I-I am Megs from England. I am a friend of your parents.”
“Why,” she asked, with a small frown, “do they never visit?”
“They . . .” I gulped. “It is their greatest wish, but they are unable. However, they send their love and want you to know they think of you every day.”
“Who are they?” she asked, in a child’s disarming way.
“I-I wish I could say,” I stammered. “But I am bound to silence.”
“That is a shame,” she sighed.
In her eyes, I thought I saw some moisture, but she quickly blinked it away.
“Did you bring me a present?” she asked. “I so seldom get them, except on my birthday.”
“26 November 1672,” I said.
“Oh. So you know!” She broke into a grin. “Well?”
“Well what?” I asked, cowed by her small form.
“My present?”
“As a matter of fact, I have one.” I dug into my pocket and removed a small wrapped package I had been sure to purchase in Burgundy. “Here. Here you go. From your parents with love.”
Frances squealed with delight as she snatched up the paper. Tearing it to bits, she held up its contents: a thin gold necklace from which dangled a single pearl.