Brothers in Arms (15 page)

At length, after they had stared at each other for a few moments, she addressed him: ‘We meet again, Captain …’

‘Johnson, ma’am.’

‘You appear to be in something of a hurry. Still about the King’s business? Are you late for an appointment? Or perhaps you hasten to some other, more interesting diversion? I do not believe we have met on formal terms.’

She extended her hand and Steel bent to kiss it before straightening up.

‘Captain Johnson, my lady. Of the Irish Dragoons. Currently on leave in Paris before returning to the front. We fight in Flanders for the King, against the tyrant Marlbrook.’ He had added the last for effect, but instantly regretted it as appearing over eager.

She sighed and put on a wistful look intended to gain Steel’s sympathy. ‘Ah, me. My husband too fought in Flanders. He was brigaded with the Irish. Perhaps you knew him? The Marquis de Puy Fort Eguille.’

Steel shook his head. ‘I am sorry, madame. I do not know him.’ So, he thought, that would explain her previous interest in my regiment.

She continued. ‘Nor shall you then, Captain, for he died there with his regiment. Only two years back, although it seems an eternity. And now I must wear a widow’s weeds. A dreadful tragedy, wouldn’t you say, for a woman just entering her prime?’ She flashed another smile at Steel and parted her lips an infinitesimal distance. It was enough, and she played on the effect. ‘People do say that black becomes me. What think you, Captain Johnson?’

She picked up her full skirts and slowly raised the hem until Steel was afforded a good view of a pretty ankle and calf. ‘You say nothing, sir. Do they suit me? Do I make a good widow? Speak, Captain Johnson, or I shall not be pleased.’

‘They are indeed most becoming, my lady, and I am very sorry to hear about your husband. I vouch that he died bravely and well fighting the damned British.’

‘Thank you, but I’m afraid that he did not. Brave, yes. Of course. But in fact he died horribly.’

She was cut short by Steel’s former partner in conversation, the Pretender, still masked. ‘Ah, Madame la Marquise. I see that you have met our brave soldier-savant.’

‘Monsieur?’

‘Why, this young man is not merely a soldier but a thinker.
Un philosophe
, to be sure. And handsome too. He would do well at your château.’

The man who would rule all Britain bowed to the marquise and turned away. Steel realized that she must have known perfectly well who he was and wondered why she had not curtsied or at least made some sign of deference. Was she so arrogant, or merely on familiar terms with James Stuart?

She clapped her hands with delight. ‘What a wonderful idea! Yes. You must most certainly come to visit me in the country. Can you spare the time from your heroic ventures? I’m sure that you would find it a most pleasurable experience.’

‘If you promise that I shall not again find myself face to face with a wild boar, ma’am.’

‘I cannot promise anything, Captain. When you visit me you must be prepared for any eventuality. Anything might happen. I shall send my servant to find you. Give him your address. Until we meet again, Captain. I shall await your arrival with anticipation.’

As she turned and left him, Simpson hurried up to Steel. ‘That woman. The Marquise de Puy Fort Eguille. What did she ask you?’

‘Nothing really. My name, where I had served. Not much more. She asked me to stay with her. Why?’

‘Stay away from her. At all costs. I could tell you things about her that would make you quake.’

‘A woman, Simpson. Surely not. She’s damned pretty, don’t you think? Not your type, of course, but –’

‘Don’t be stupid, man. I’m serious. She’s trouble. Pure evil. Just leave it at that and don’t be tempted to flirt with her.’

Steel smiled and nodded, but Simpson was not sure what the young officer meant by that and whether he would keep his word.

Steel spoke. ‘Oh, there is one more thing I’ve been meaning to ask you.’

Simpson looked grave. ‘Ask me whatever you will, although I cannot promise that I shall be able to answer you.’

‘Whereabouts in this city does one go about finding a pair of boots?’

Simpson laughed. ‘Good God, man. You continue to surprise me. If it’s boots you want, you’ve come to just the man.’

He awoke late, as the soft Parisian sunlight was flooding into his room through a small but sufficient gap in the shutters, and he instantly regretted the events of the previous evening. Turning slowly on the linen sheets and half-expecting the worst, he was relieved to see that the other side of the bed remained unoccupied and that there was no sign that anyone, male or female, had lain there during the night. Simpson of course knew that Steel did not share his sexual preferences, but you could never, thought Steel, be too sure. He trawled his memory, working backwards to the moment when sleep had taken him. Or, rather, unconsciousness. For, of the amount that he had drunk after the party there could be no doubt. Normally, Steel had the hardest of heads and reckoned that he could out-drink the best of trenchermen. But somehow last night, Simpson, damn him, for all his wiry frame and femininity, had matched him measure for measure in Tokay, claret and brandy.

Steel sat up. His head throbbed and his mouth tasted foul. The recent wounds in his leg and arm had also begun to ache and he suspected that he had not done the leg much good by hobbling around all evening in those blasted dandy’s shoes. The thought reminded him that his first appointment was with the shoemaker. Simpson was right. His boots were a mess, barely adequate in the field, let alone the city. And he was damned sure that he would not borrow the man’s shoes again.

He struggled from the bed, dressed quickly and poured cold water from the ewer into the ceramic bowl. Having doused his face, he found his razor and drew it roughly across his stubble, cursing as he nicked himself. Finished, he wound his cravat about his neck and drew on the heavy red coat of Clare’s dragoons, and lastly buckled on the sword. The house was silent, and at first Steel thought he must have mistaken the hour. However, the gilded longcase clock in the hall chimed the quarter hour and he saw that it was past eleven. Clearly, Simpson extended his dandified persona to the very bounds of realism, sleeping well into the day. Eschewing breakfast and glad not to encounter either of the household’s principal servants, Steel opened the front door and, mustering all his confidence, stepped out into the courtyard wondering where he might find the guide promised by Simpson. He did not wonder long, for directly outside the door was a small boy. He looked up at Steel and smiled, then motioned him to follow. Together they crossed the cobbles and walked out onto the street.

The day was fresh and sunny and a breeze was blowing along the Seine, which lay only a few yards before them. To their right stood the recently built bridge that he had crossed the previous evening en route to the rout. Looking to his left Steel saw the huge mass of the great cathedral of Notre Dame, its crenellated twin towers silhouetted against a brilliant blue sky. Within a few minutes the worst of his hangover had been dispelled, absorbed by all the smells, sounds and sights of a still unfamiliar city. Following the boy, Steel turned right, as he had been told to by Simpson. That much at least he thought he was able to remember. They walked quickly across the Pont Marie, in the direction of the Marais, but once across the river turned abruptly to the left and began to walk along the quay above the riverbank.

Passing hurriedly along the water’s edge Steel paid little attention to the people bustling about him and selling their wares from stalls. All manner of goods seemed to be on offer, from live poultry to hunting dogs, clothing, food and drink. Steel’s guide stopped for no one. One thing, though, was evident. Paris seemed changed from the city of the previous evening. He no longer felt such a complete stranger, and for that he thanked Simpson. His baptism of fire had worked, even if he was still at a loss to know his exact position. He tried to get his bearings and, pausing a little way on from the huge cathedral, realized that they had made good ground, for there to his right was the palace of the Louvre, abandoned by King Louis in favour of his court at Versailles. How much easier his task might have been, he thought, had the King elected to remain in his capital city. But Steel was not hard pressed to understand why he had fled. The stench rising from the river, beautiful as it was, was almost unbearably putrid, even for one so accustomed to the stink of death as he had become these past few years. A right turn took them up and into the rue St Honoré, and the boy indicated a shoemaker’s shop. Having placed his order in halting French with Simpson’s bootman, and being careful to use the alias of Johnson, Steel rejoined the boy and they continued along the street. It was crammed with shops, mostly selling dress materials and such haberdashery. How Henrietta would love this, he thought. Would it be too audacious to return with a parcel for her? He imagined her eyes lighting up as she unwrapped the silks and satins. How she loved him and he her. He would return once he had accomplished his task.

Following the boy, he re-crossed the river by way of the Pont Neuf. A double carriageway ran down the centre of the bridge, and pedestrians strolled at the parapets. Midway across the river stood a huge equestrian statue of Henry IV surrounded by high iron railings, and grouped about it, facing the street, were covered booths in which merchants sold their produce. Steel motioned to the boy to stop for a moment and walked across to the wall, where he leant on the coping stones, looking west. From here it was easy to gauge the layout of the city. The river, with its endless traffic of laden barges, bisected it. To the right stood the Louvre and on the left a series of smart stone houses. Turning, he saw again the huge edifice of Notre Dame and around it the streets of the medieval city. The run of the ramparts and city walls had been transformed into wide boulevards, and nowhere in the city could Steel see an obvious area of defence. Once again he could not help but feel that had Marlborough only been granted his wish to attack then Paris would have been taken without a fight.

Then they walked on again, and as they did a carriage swept past, splashing Steel with muddy water and almost bowling into him. A footman shouted something unintelligible at him from the running board. Stupidly and instinctively, he swore in return, in English, instantly regretted it and hoped that his curse had not been heard. The boy looked at him quizzically, and the error brought him back to the danger and the matter in hand. Pushing past one of the hawkers, who tried to sell him a live songbird in a cage, Steel smiled, shook his head and carried on walking until they had reached the far bank.

There the boy paused and pointed. Steel followed his arm, and at last he saw it: a vast golden dome, its pinnacle touching the azure sky, gleaming in the distance. Steel wondered why he had not noticed it before, for it towered over all Paris. It seemed to him at first an unreal sight, as if it had been placed there by some deity. A palace for the gods. And so it was, in a sense. The Hôpital des Invalides was a building like none he had ever seen before, greater even than Wren’s magnificent rebuilt church of St Paul’s in the City of London with its own magnificent domed roof. This, thought Steel, was something quite different. It surely outshone all such achievements of man to date.

For fully several minutes Steel was unable to take his eye off the great gold dome. As he was looking at it, the full magnitude of what he had been commissioned to do became abundantly clear. This was his objective, as forbidding and impregnable as any he had stormed these past ten years. He was making his way directly towards the very nerve centre of France’s military might. For this was not only the hospital for her wounded but the de facto seat of power of her generals and marshals. While Versailles might house the King and the ultimate High Command, it was here that strategic decisions were taken. Here you would find the highest-ranking officers. Steel stood gazing at the dome, undisturbed by and largely unaware of the hawkers and vendors, the passing gentry and the begging children at his feet. Eventually, however, when the boy tugged at his scabbard, he spun round in reaction, scattering passers-by in alarm, and knew that it was time to get on his way.

Their pace quickened now, for Steel was impatient to get to his purpose. He had no time for observations of the city, but travelled swiftly to the southwest, towards the beckoning golden dome. Impatiently he pushed through the labourers at work on a new quarter of the city and kept going towards his goal. At length, entering the newly finished rue de Varenne, he saw it close before him – not merely the dome but surrounding it a great palace of pale white stone surrounded by formal gardens. He stopped and took in the sheer scale of the place. It was as if a giant had taken up a grand country house, one of Mr Hawksmoor’s creations, and transplanted it to the outskirts of this extraordinary city. They had left the crowds and hubbub behind now, and Steel reached into his pocket and gave the guide a golden coin. The boy nodded, then turned and ran off back towards the city, leaving Steel alone. There he remained for a moment, rapt in contemplation, before making his way to the outer gates.

He was walking almost in the open countryside now, leaving the city behind him. The plain of the Ile de France spread out on either side in a patchwork of farmland, making the huge neoclassical edifice with its spectacular crown all the more impressive. But Steel had no sense of space or proportion. It felt to him as if he was walking into the guns. This was as terrifying as any assault. Here, though, he would have no means of retreat. He wondered for a moment whether it might not be more prudent to abandon the peace mission and merely use his sword to do what he did best and kill as many of them as he could before he himself was cut down. But then he recalled Hawkins’s words and thought better of it. He was on a particular mission. Peace was now his goal.

How ironic, he thought, that a man who had known nothing all his adult life but the making of war should now be charged with such a task. Steel the peacemaker. He wondered, if he succeeded, how he would be remembered by posterity. Would his name really figure in the histories of these wars and this time as a man of peace?

He turned right and walked through avenues of elms and poplars, along the long, low ramparts, built as if they were a plan by Vauban for the defence of a town. Another right turn and he stood before the main entrance gates to the complex: a double wrought-iron gate, flanked by pavilions bearing carved triumphs. There was a solitary white-coated guard on the gates, although Steel knew there would be more close by. The man presented his musket and asked in French for his papers.

Of course Steel had papers, a handwritten sheet in French given him by Hawkins, which guaranteed safe passage into the Hôpital and confirmed his name, rank and unit, and also that his purpose was to see Major Charpentier while here on leave. The guard took it and read it carefully before summoning a junior officer who was lolling against a pillar, picking his teeth. The man ambled over and scanned the paper before looking at Steel.

‘Irish?’

‘Yes. Captain Johnson, of Clare’s Dragoons.’

‘To see Major Charpentier?’

‘Yes, Lieutenant.’

The lieutenant stared at him again, looking closely at his clothes, then shrugged and nodded to the guard before handing Steel his paper and wandering away. The sentry snapped to attention and indicated that Steel was free to pass through the arch, but as he was about to walk on Steel wondered for a moment whether he should acknowledge the young man’s evident disrespect for his superior. Was it perhaps a trap? Did the lieutenant have any reason to suspect Steel? Was that why he had been so deliberately rude? If he did not react to this apparent insult, would the lieutenant have him arrested? There was only one way to find out.

Steel spun round and called after the departing officer: ‘Lieutenant. Wait a moment, if you will. D’you not salute a senior officer in this place any more?’

The young man swung round, one eyebrow raised. Steel froze. But a moment later the lieutenant smiled, bowed and murmured an apology. Steel acknowledged the salute and walked on, his confidence restored but no less aware that he had broken out in a sweat.

He crossed the wide esplanade without one glance behind him, although all the time he sensed the lieutenant’s eyes boring deep into his back. At last he reached the façade and gazed up at the great entrance arch with its lofty, curved stone depicting Louis XIV in armour, seated astride a war-horse, and steadied himself as he often did when under fire. He walked quickly, but not so fast as to arouse suspicion, through the archway and found himself in a airy vestibule flanked with columns and filled with white-uniformed soldiers. As he entered, they stared at him. What they saw, though, was merely another Irish soldier, like the many who found themselves here from time to time. There were always Irish mercenaries here, just as there were Germans and Swedes and Swiss and Poles and all the others. All of them happy to serve in the armies of the great King. The Sun King. They soon turned back to their business and ignored Steel. Evidently this was the guardroom, but they would be satisfied that the red-coated newcomer’s papers had been checked at the main gate.

Not wanting to delay here, Steel pushed through the vestibule and found himself in a wide courtyard, the Cour Royale. Paved with cobbles, it was all of a hundred yards long and sixty wide, and lined with galleries of arcades on two storeys. Ahead of him across the square was another elaborately sculpted and decorated vestibule which mirrored that through which he had just passed. In the tall, sloping roofs, numerous dormer windows whose stone lucarnes had been sculpted in bas-relief with what looked like trophies of arms celebrating Louis’s past victories. How far he had fallen, thought Steel, their great, invincible Sun King, once so mighty and now trampled under the foot of Marlborough and his triumphant army. And how much still further he would fall, he thought with satisfaction. First, though, his mission must succeed.