Gideon's Angel Page 2

  “Aye, well, I won’t tell you otherwise. But where one door closes, another opens. And that’s from an old soldier who knows.” I leaned out of the bed and pinched the candle that guttered in the cold draught. Pulling her in to me once again, I drank in her perfume.

  Softly, she spoke again. “I think it’s time you told me what happened to you this summer—what you did for the king. What really happened. And why he knighted you. I know you don’t have enough money to have convinced him. You must have done something else.”

  I sighed and lay back, falling into the pillow with her head upon my chest. “Very well,” I whispered, “but there are good reasons why few people know what happened. You mustn’t tell a soul lest you bring harm to yourself and others. There are enemies who would learn such things of the Stuarts.”

  “I swear to you,” she said.

  Like a moth, my bumbling, aimless flight had brought me back into the Stuart flame after several years on the Continent as a soldier in the pay of the French. Or to be more exact, His Eminence Giulio Raimondo Cardinal Mazarin. The French had gotten it into their heads to have a little civil war like we English and my skill at arms drew a good price. So I told her of that day last July, as the French rebel army retreated to the gates of Paris in hope of being let in by the city fathers. The Parisians were much too wise to let any army into the town so the rebel leader, Prince Condé, pleaded his case at the city gates while King Louis, the Cardinal, and the royal army closed in for the kill. Condé knew he was trapped at the walls of Paris, so he barricaded himself into Faubourg village, and prepared to fight us.

  “I know all that,” she said. “What was your part in all this?”

  “Not so fast,” I chided. “I will relate that soon enough. What you probably didn’t know is that young James, the brother of our own good king, was also with us that day. Aye, the lad was doing good service as an adjutant to General Turenne, running messages and the like.

  “It was late afternoon before what would prove to be a day of battle outside the walls,” I said. “I was leading a few squadrons of the Cardinal’s cavalry, harassing Condé’s stragglers. Andreas Falkenhayn was with me.”

  “The loutish German fellow we saw today?”

  “The same. My old comrade of many long years. There was a rebel musketeer behind every window flowerpot and every hedge and wall, all taking shots at us as we rode by. The whole afternoon we lay into them as they dug deep into the village like fleas on a poodle.

  “Major Falkenhayn and I found a messenger waiting for us with orders to see the Cardinal at once. When we reached the summit of the hill above Faubourg, the Cardinal emerged from his tent, cassock flapping about him like an ensign on the field of battle.

  “We had scarcely bowed and made a reverence before he barked at us to join him in his tent. His Eminence was not alone. There, next to a trestle table scattered with maps and documents, stood a soldier I had not met before.

  “Mazarin’s hand rested on a letter that lay half crumpled upon the table in front of his chair. He gestured at the soldier without even looking at us.

  “‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘May I introduce Monsieur d’Artagnan, of the king’s company of musketeers.’ He picked up the letter and waved it my way. ‘And these two worthies are my trusted servants, Colonel Richard Treadwell and Major Andreas Falkenhayn, of my own regiment. Now then—listen well—we have little time.’”

  “And who is this d’Artagnan?” asked Maggie, her voice quite muffled under the coverlet.

  “He is some young Gascon of lesser nobility, come to Paris to find his fortune, and already a trusted emissary of Mazarin for such a tender age.”

  “Pray, continue,” she whispered.

  So I told her what Mazarin had told us, his Italian-accented French tripping so rapidly that I was hard-pressed to follow him. “‘That young fool of a Stuart prince has managed to get himself captured—or killed,’ said Mazarin, sinking further into his leather camp chair. ‘If the rebels discover they have the Duke of York in their grasp it will give them a strong hand to play against King Louis.’

  “‘Where, Your Eminence? Where was he taken?’ I asked.

  “But it was d’Artagnan who answered my question. ‘He fell off his horse in the main square of the village. He was seen to be dragged inside one of the houses by a group of rebel musketeers before the rest of his party could rescue him. Word is he was as limp as a sack of grain when they pulled him boot-first through the doorway. He might even be dead.’

  “I looked over to Andreas who merely raised his eyebrows in reply.

  “‘And you, gentlemen,” said Mazarin, wagging a long bony finger at me and Andreas, “you are going to get him back—this very night. You will find him. If he is dead then we shall know. If he yet lives you will bring him back here. If you cannot get him out, then, in such an eventuality, I’m afraid for the good of the State you must kill him where he is.’

  “I just stood there, dazed. ‘Aye, Eminence, I shall assemble the squadron—’

  “Mazarin jumped up, flapping like a puppet. ‘No, man! This is work for three, not a regiment. Use your wiles, sir, it is what I have paid you for these last years!’

  “‘What three, Your Eminence?’

  “‘D’Artagnan will accompany you. He knows roughly where the Englishman was taken and you’ll find he is a useful man in such circumstances.’

  “D’Artagnan gave a slight bow but said nothing.

  “‘I pray that James Stuart has not opened his mouth to say who he actually is,’ said the Cardinal as he dragged a lantern across the table onto one of his maps, his attention already moving to other concerns.

  “I blinked in the gloom of the stifling tent, waiting.

  “‘You may go,’ the Cardinal said without looking up again. ‘God be with you.’”

  IT WAS NEAR to midnight before we could commence our plan, hatched as best one could on short notice and with barely a scrap of intelligence. I looked up at the moon, two days waxing full, and cursed our luck.

  “Too much light,” whispered Andreas. “We’ll be as naked as a cuckoo at Christmas.”

  I don’t know how long it took us to scale the low wall that confronted us, then skirt the gardens and make our way alongside the little abbey and so into the village. But at last, we entered an alleyway cut between two houses and followed it out to the street. And then, as one, we stopped. There were at least a hundred rebels, many around well-stoked braziers in the middle of the street.

  D’Artagnan crossed to the far side and we followed, ducking into another alley.

  “How long do you expect our good fortune to hold out?” I hissed.

  “I’ll find where the prisoners are. Don’t worry,” D’Artagnan said.

  His arrogance burned brightly indeed. “I shall hold you to that, monsieur,” I said quietly.

  The Grand Rue held even more rebels. My Gascon musketeer sailed straight away across the street, carrying Andreas and me in his wake. After a few minutes it became painfully plain that d’Artagnan didn’t have a clue where the prince was being held.

  “This is near the spot he fell. I know it,” he hissed at me when he saw my disdain.

  “But near isn’t close enough is it, my friend?” I shot back. It was time for other measures if our mission was to stand any chance at all and we were to get back alive. I reached into my pocket and retrieved something I had hoped not to have to use.

  The brass device filled the palm of my hand as I raised it up, full in the moonlight. D’Artagnan recognised it straight away.

  “That belongs to the Cardinal! How did you get it?”

  Andreas grabbed my wrist to get a better look. “Why, it’s a sun dial.”

  “It’s no sun dial,” I said. “It is a compass.”

  “And a rare one at that,” added d’Artagnan. “You stole it from his field table today. But it will do scarce good. Just what are you playing at?”

  I didn’t answer him. I raised the compass up to chest he
ight and held my other hand over it palm down. And then I started to recite what I had been taught.

  “In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti... In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti... In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.”

  The needle, motionless and straight on north, now began to slowly revolve.

  “Witchcraft!” whispered d’Artagnan. “Stop this now, you old fool!”

  Andreas took a step backwards, his eyes big as supper plates. I continued the incantation.

  “Invenium... quem... quaera.”

  The needle began to quaver, slowing until it stopped dead. “Now we know where the prince is,” I said. Andreas looked at me, shaking his head. “It’s a little trick,” I said. “One I picked up in your country a few years ago.”

  “And you’d better not show it to anyone else,” said d’Artagnan, his face hard. “Not if you value your neck.”

  “We can argue the sanctity of it later. Now we must be quick. I don’t know how long it will keep pointing the right way.”

  The whole of the village was stuffed full with rebels but most were too busy thieving what they could from the houses to bother us. We walked up the street. I saw the needle move again. It led us straight to a large house set back from the road.

  Peering through the open door that rocked upon its hinges, I spied a table full of rogues playing at cards, illuminated by one small tin lantern. For the moment, the five contented themselves with cursing and laughing, their muskets and halberds stacked against a cupboard.

  D’Artagnan gestured for us to move away and we crept along the side of the house, looking for a back way in. Fortune was smiling so far; the alley led to a tiny courtyard where at the back of the house was a door to a kitchen. The voices of the gamesters carried down to us from the front of the house and, in the reflected moonlight, I watched as Andreas and d’Artagnan felt their way forward until they found a staircase.

  “Have a care, my friends,” I said and we began our climb.

  I heard d’Artagnan whisk his poniard from its scabbard. We reached the top, carefully shuffling forward in the gloom. Rounding a wall, faint candlelight now afforded us a view of the front room.

  Three men lay upon the floor, feet bound with rope. The only furniture in the room was a little table and stool and it was here that another tin lantern burned, its tallow candle stinking and sputtering in the last gasps of life. One of the prisoners appeared half dead, his bloody head bandaged, face ashen even in the faint orange glow of the chamber. The other two spotted us, and d’Artagnan thrust out his open palm, ordering them to keep silent.

  I stepped forward and, in English, whispered to them. “Are any of you James?”

  One of them opened his eyes wider. “Who are you?” he said, in French.

  “Colonel Richard Treadwell, of Mazarin’s guard,” I replied in English. “Are you wounded, sir?”

  James looked at me for a moment, his long hair sweat-soaked and threaded through with hay. The English words followed, quietly and with hesitation. “I suffer no broken bones but my head is still hammering.”

  “If it’s him,” said d’Artagnan, “let’s get out now!” He reached down and pushed the youth forward harshly, snipping his bonds in a trice and then sawing at the ropes that held James’s bloodied ankles.

  “And what of these fellows?” asked Andreas, already furtively looking over his shoulder. The half-dead man still lay unmoving while the other prisoner, agape at his turn of fate, had not yet uttered so much as a squeak.

  “Free him,” I said. “We shall deliver him as well. We leave the other to the mercy of God and the rebels.” Andreas knelt down to cut the rough bindings as James tottered to his feet, his grip strong on my arm.

  “I thought I was lost,” he muttered, “but they don’t know yet who I am. After they robbed me of my boots I was of no further interest.”

  “That is most fortunate, lad. For had they wrung the truth from you it’s doubtful we’d be standing together now.”

  The tramping of feet upon the stairs froze my blood. Andreas snuffed out the lantern and backed into the room with d’Artagnan. I melted into a corner. A loud oath issued from a soldier as he walked into the door jamb and then into the room, cursing the darkness.

  He may have been drink-addled, but he quickly sensed our presence and whirled to face me with a cry. Like a cat, d’Artagnan was upon him. His right arm hooked about the poor fellow’s windpipe while he clapped his left hand over his mouth. I saw another shadow dart past—Andreas—who lifted the soldier’s legs clear up. D’Artagnan and his opponent sank to the floor, a writhing heap of arms and legs which Andreas and I sought to pinion before the noise aroused the others downstairs. D’Artagnan had now managed to sit on the fellow’s chest, his hand still clamped upon the man’s face. A flash of silver and d’Artagnan’s dagger descended. The man’s strangled cries turned to a pig’s squeal, but only for a moment. His legs shot out stiff in his death throes as the dagger found his heart.

  We three leaned back from the corpse, regained our feet, and without a word, bundled our freed prisoners out of the chamber and down to the back of the house. Once out into the courtyard, we stopped.

  “How do we find our way back with these two, half-naked and barefoot?” whispered d’Artagnan. He threw a quick look back towards the house as if we would be pursued at any moment. “In this moonlight we’ll be spotted by the rebels quick as you like. We cannot return the way we came, that’s for certain.”

  “Schwartzer Peter,” said Andreas, half to himself, as if he had remembered something long since forgotten.

  “Black Peter?” I asked. “What are you talking about?”

  “The old tradition at the Feast of Saint Nicolas. Do you not remember, Rikard?”

  He did not stay to explain but instead bolted back into the kitchen while the rest of us watched. Andreas reappeared in a few moments, his hands cupped together, bearing a dark substance.

  “Soot!” he whispered as he reached our sides. “Get their shirts off and rub them down. Faces as well.”

  And then I remembered how in Germany at Christmas a blackened man would accompany Saint Nicolas, handing out sweetmeats—or a lump of coal—to the children. I understood what he had in mind. Sufficiently blackened to discourage all but the most sharp-eyed of rebels, we mounted a low wall at the back and fled to another courtyard and so on till we made the back alleys. And so, at length, and in the small hours, we crossed again the lines and to safety.

  Maggie was listening still, her eyes wide open in the dark, their whites all I could see of her. She had not interrupted me once since I had resumed my adventure, drinking in every detail of revelation. “So you saved the Duke of York! That was your worthy deed.”

  “When we finally returned to Mazarin, he said that he had sent us in search of a prince, not a blackamoor!”

  “And what of your miraculous magic compass, then?”

  “D’Artagnan returned it to the Cardinal, naturally. Not a word was mentioned.”

  “Convenient for your story, sir.”

  I shrugged. “A storyteller is allowed to embellish here and there, no?”

  She was silent for a moment before she spoke again, her soft voice curiously on edge. “This French musketeer truly slew that poor soldier like a dog?”

  “It had to be done that way, make no mistake, my dear. I beg you not to judge me on this business.”

  “Monsieur d’Artagnan strikes me as a rogue... I should like to make his acquaintance.” She wrapped an arm about my chest. “If only to discover whether he looks as bad as he sounds.”

  I embraced her plump nakedness tightly and settled myself down in my pillow. I didn’t have the courage to tell her that it was my dagger and my hand that had dispatched the unlucky rebel during my little adventure and not that of d’Artagnan. And as for the compass, better for her to believe it just an embellishment to my tale. So, even as I gave up some secrets, I wove lies to take their place.

 
; Chapter Three

  MY LORD MAZARIN, to give him his due, had outdone himself this night. I was holding up Marguerite as we stood in the balcony of the theatre behind the Louvre, watching what was unfolding below on the stage. We had been standing nearly six hours, having arrived at midnight to take our place among the other English exiles. It was now nearly dawn and the ballet was reaching its climax.

  The performance told the story of the life of one night in the city, of the witches and demons that lurked in the darkness, of the mortals that struggled in the wee hours, and the arrival of Apollo and his cohorts to drive away the foul beasts and nightbanes. Marguerite had begun to lose interest after the departure of the frolicking werewolves at the witches’ sabbath. For me, it was the play of light and fire, of cloud and rain which held me enraptured. Gods descended from above, moonbeams sprayed from out of clouds and spread across a starry sky that appeared from nothingness and hovered over the stage. Fire without smoke, rain without water, all was miracles. Marguerite’s head popped up as the trumpets blasted, heralding the entry of Aurora and her handmaids to summon the day. And as the scenery parted, unaided by man, the goddess receded, beckoning a floating golden chariot upon which stood the young king of France himself. The sudden intake of breath of six hundred people, a collective moan of enchantment, drowned out the musicians who laboured below.

  The king was dressed in cloth of gold, a golden breastplate strapped to his chest upon which the face of the sun was emblazoned. Sunbeams emanated from his neck, waist, and wrists and upon his flowing locks sat a magnificent tiara of golden rays a full yard in length. His face, painted gold, was fearless, and Louis descended the chariot as all bowed before him. And then the king danced. Without hesitation, without misstep, he moved to the strings of the viols, as dashing a figure and as fine a dancer as ever breathed, and he a boy of fourteen.

  “By God, he’s magnificent!” said Marguerite, gripping my arm as she stood on tiptoes to peer over the balcony rail. All around me the nodding heads of approval, the wide eyes of lords and ladies alike.