By Fire and by Sword (15 page)

Neither the sad, mournful sounds of tears from the maids, nor the chanting prayer of the priest, nor the sad
melancholy that echoed through the château like the lugubrious notes of a cello had the power to divert attention away from the decisions that had to be made immediately following the
comte’
s demise.

In the
comte’
s library, the Duc de Bourbon, Comte de Lorraine and Vicomte de Bignan sat quietly talking with Kenna and Josette.

Kenna, so vibrant and rosy-cheeked the day before, was now an ethereal, pale beauty, her former fire now turned to ice. In the candlelight, her skin took on the look of transparent opaqueness, so frail and fragile it seemed. The only glimpse of the woman she had been the night before was the graceful, regal elegance with which she conducted herself. No one could see that deep in the secret chambers of her heart she hid her sorrows, bitter rue. “He was of noble blood, and an important man, beloved by so many,” Kenna said. “He must have prayers and a mass, then a proper funeral, before he is interred in the family crypt.”

“I understand that,” the
duc
said, “but we cannot take the risk of allowing you to attend the
comte’
s funeral. When the mass begins, the two of you will already be on your way to Calais. In your place at the mass and burial, we will have two of the
comte’
s maids dressed in black with dark veils to impersonate you. Father René Delon, Gaston and the footmen will make it known that you are so grief-stricken you cannot speak with anyone, and will beg they respect your request for privacy until some time has passed.”

“When will we leave?” Josette asked, her own
dusky beauty now quite pale, the curved cheeks drawn, and the dark lips trembling with each forced word.

“You will be on your way to Calais with us tonight. I do apologize, but we must go on horseback, because it is faster and much safer,” the
duc
said.

Josette dabbed at her eyes with her kerchief. “It seems a sacrilege. He deserved so much more than that.”

“What he deserved,” the Comte de Lorraine said, “is for the two people he loved most in the world to survive, and right now that is what we must concentrate on. The longer we delay, the greater the risk to your lives. We have to get the two of you out of France, secretly if possible, before your friend Lord Walter can strike again.”

The
duc
seemed to be pondering something, for he seemed caught in a moment of quiet consideration.

“What are you thinking?” the
vicomte
asked him.

The
duc
seemed to have trouble expressing just what was in his thoughts. “I was only wondering, that is…well, my question is, are we
certain
it was this Lord Walter person?”

Kenna wasted no time with her quick reply. “I am sure it was Lord Walter. Mere seconds before he plunged that knife in the
comte’
s chest, he turned his head and looked straight at me, as if he wanted me to know he was there. I would know those eyes anywhere.”

“What I don’t understand is, why would he take the
comte’
s life when it is yours he wants?” the
vicomte
asked.

“Oh, my friend, you do not know him as I do. To kill me quickly as he did the
comte
would not give him the satisfaction he desires. I must be tormented. He wants to play with me as a cat does a mouse. Killing me would be too easy, and he would not find satisfaction in my death coming so soon. He must make me suffer, for that feeds something inside him. He wants me to know he is here, and he will enjoy knowing I will live in terror each second until he decides to end my life.”

“Sinister monster, isn’t he?” said de Bignan.

“You have no idea,” Kenna replied, and she felt a gush of sorrow that filled her eyes and twisted her heart with a painful ache. She breathed deeply, pushing the pain aside, so she might focus on the evil being who was no longer confined to his den, but roaming freely, thanks to the English king, who like Lord Walter, was both cunning and wicked.

After a few parting words, they dismissed themselves to get a few hours’ rest and prepare for the long ride ahead. De Bourbon, de Lorraine and de Bignan were to reside in the guest apartments of the château, so they would be close at hand, should anything go wrong.

As they walked down the dimly lit passages, no one seemed to notice the presence of so many more of the
comte’
s men, standing guard.

They stopped by the Rose Salon to pay their last respects to the
comte
, and to speak a few words with Father René, who offered them prayers and condolences. The salon was now more like a dim cathedral than a
greeting room for guests. The lovely, tall windows had been darkened with black velvet drapes, and the haloed light of four large tapers cast eerie shadows from the four corners of a catafalque, a raised platform hung with black, on which rested the
comte’
s coffin.

Numb and filled with a black abyssal darkness within, Kenna moved to stand beside the
comte
, his face as pale and waxen as the candles that illuminated it. She kissed two fingers and placed them on his cold, silent lips. “Farewell, beloved
comte
, father,
Maître
and friend. Now it is time to say goodbye to the gilded pageantry of the past, and to face the future, not with happiness, but a measure of calm resolve. Your murder will be avenged,
Maître
, or I shall join you in death.”

In trouble to be troubl’d

Is to have your trouble doubl’d.

—Daniel Defoe (1660–1731),

English novelist and journalist.

The Farther Adventures of Robinson Crusoe
(1719).

I
t was almost noon and the sun had already burned the dew from the road that led to Calais. Down this dry, dusty road came a weary cavalcade, sitting astride well-lathered horses. The noble but dust-covered group of travelers, composed of three men, two women and several guards in the service of the Duc de Bourbon, came trotting down the dirt road and turned onto the cobbled streets of the city.

The travelers caught the eye of many of the shoppers on the street, for there was something both majestic and melancholy about the well-dressed group.

The neat figure of the Duc de Bourbon was a mirror
of elegance in his tan breeches and perfectly fitted chocolate-brown coat, all quite indicative of his affluence. He rode a fine gray gelding with a spirited gait, and sat well in the Flemish saddle padded with blue velvet, with enclosed stirrups that covered the top part of his boots.

The Comte de Lorraine was dressed in brown breeches, with a dark blue coat. He was not as tall as his friend, but well put together, and in possession of an extremely attractive face, in which dark, alert eyes took note of everything they passed. His saddle was similar to that of the
duc
, and his horse was a good-natured chestnut, with a smooth gait.

The Vicomte de Bignan rode a black horse that began to prance sideways and nervously champ his bit when they entered the city. The
vicomte
did not seem to notice, neither did he see many of the women on the street casting interested glances at the tall man with the princely face and blond hair.

Kenna and Josette rode side by side, one on a bay and the other on a sorrel, their quiet repose the embodiment of the beauty of womanhood, with a refinement that put them well beyond the attainment of the average man on the street.

Yet, the contrast between the two was striking, one dark and exotic, with black hair, long and straight; the other fair of skin and face, with rosy-red curls tucked beneath the hood of a blue cape.

They turned down a street that sloped toward the harbor and clattered over the cobblestones before they drew up in front of an inn, whose sign swayed in the
breeze, but not so much that one could not read the name, Dessin’s Inn.

When the party stopped, two of the
duc’
s men, who had ridden ahead, came outside to inform them that rooms had been procured for everyone.

A stable boy came out to help with the horses, and one of the soldiers told him to take only the horses of the women. “Leave the other horses here, for now,” he said.

The Comte de Lorraine and Monsieur le Vicomte had already dismounted to help Josette and Kenna out of their saddles.

Jules lifted Kenna from the saddle, and held her for a moment when she was on the ground. “Your legs may not work at first,” he said to her.

She put a hand on his dusty sleeve to steady herself. “Faith! You are right. So many hours in the saddle and such a fast pace…I am stiff as a statue.”

Kenna was about to thank them for the escort, and to tell them that there was no need for them to remain in Calais, when the Duc de Bourbon said, “We are staying here, Mademoiselle Lennox, until we see you safely aboard a ship.”

He turned to the man who had procured the rooms. “You made certain they are clean?”

“
Oui, Monseigneur
, I inspected them myself.”

He was not able to say more, for the proprietor, who introduced himself as Monsieur Dessin, came out and said, “Monsieur le Duc, our rooms are so immaculate, a king would not be disappointed.”

The
duc
turned to Kenna. “It has been a long ride,
and you must be tired, because I am accustomed to such as this, and I am exhausted. Three of my men will remain here, on guard, while the others get a bath, a hot meal and some much needed sleep. I want the two of you to get the same.”

He turned to one of the guards. “See that everyone has something to eat and there’s enough hot water for everyone to have a bath. Once you’ve done that, ride down to the harbor and see what the choices are for early passage out of here.”

Kenna and Josette shared a private room on the second floor, a handsome chamber that overlooked the same garden Kenna had gazed upon over a cup of tea, the year before. She almost expected to see Captain Fischer walking up the street. How long ago that all seemed to her now.

She turned away from the window and joined Josette at the small table, which held an assortment of delicious-smelling food.

They were so hungry, the meal did not take more than a quarter of an hour to devour. Now they sat talking quietly while they waited for the maids to fill the tubs with hot water.

Suddenly, the rattle of hooves drew them to the window, and they saw the
duc’
s men riding back from the harbor, their confident expressions telling Kenna that they had met with success. France would soon be in the past.

She breathed a sigh of relief, for she knew it must have been quite difficult to arrange passage for the two of them. Precious few captains were willing to take the
risk of being sunk or captured by the English, who continued to patrol the waters between France and Scotland, as they searched constantly for Jacobites, enemies of the Crown, who were making their escape after Culloden.

Only twenty-one miles separated France and England across the Strait of Dover, so it was easy for the English to patrol the area. If a ship was lucky enough to evade them and make it farther north, the girls’ chances of escape improved greatly.

She let her gaze travel down the cobbled streets, past tree-lined squares and ancient ramparts, until she saw the harbor and the naked masts of ships that tugged at their anchors with the receding tide.

There were several vessels anchored, in readiness to sail when the wind served and the tide was in, and the area seemed to be clear of the English ships seen earlier, prowling the French coast.

Below the window, they could hear the men talking. She identified the
duc’
s voice. “It will be getting dark before too long, and I would like to have this thing decided before we retire for the night. I hope you were successful.”

She did not know which of the men answered, “Monsieur le Duc, it was disappointing to learn all the larger ships were sailing for Bordeaux or the Mediterranean ports of France. I was beginning to wonder if we would be able to find a brave smuggler or a privateer willing to line his coffers in exchange for two female passengers.
Mon dieu!
Is everyone afraid of the English?”

“It would appear so. Were you able to book passage?”

“
Oui, Monseigneur
, the captain of a Swedish ship, the
Ingeborg
, bound for Stockholm, agreed to stop at Kirkwall, Scotland, where you will be able to find a ship to take you to Caithness or Sutherland. She leaves at noon tomorrow, when the tide is expected to be at its highest.”

“Excellent,” the
duc
said. “I will inform the ladies.”

Josette turned to Kenna. “Where is this Kirkwall?”

“It’s a town in the Orkney Islands in the far northeastern part of the Highlands. The Orkneys belonged to the Norwegians for centuries.”

Josette’s only comment was “Hmm…”

The voices died away, overcome now by the raucous cries of vendors calling out as they passed, hawking their wares and arguing among themselves.

The next day, the sun rose through a bank of apricot-tinted clouds, and lent a jade-green sea all its lovely hues. As the hour approached eleven o’clock, a boat carrying Josette and Kenna approached an East Indiaman, the
Ingeborg
, riding at anchor while her crew scampered about readying her for sea.

It was emotional to bid goodbye to the Duc de Bourbon, the Comte de Lorraine and Vicomte de Bignan, who all made Kenna swear she would send word to them when they arrived safely. “And so we will also know where you are in order that we might pay you a visit when you least expect it,” the
duc
said.

Kenna bid each of them farewell, with a kiss to the
cheek and tears in her eyes. “I would not have made it this far, if God had not put the three of you in my life. I hope someday to be able to repay you.”

“You can repay us by staying alive,” the
vicomte
said.

The
Ingeborg
was a large merchant ship on her return voyage from China. She was sailing to Stockholm, and then to her home port of Göteborg, on Sweden’s west coast.

Her captain was a stern Swede by the name of George de Frese, whom Kenna and Josette never saw smile, except when they boarded the ship and he learned they had no luggage except for their small traveling bags.

“I advise you to stay in your cabin. Your meals will be brought to you. We are expecting rough seas.”

They watched their departure from the portholes in their cabin, as the ship, in full sail, negotiated the narrow channel into the sea. Sometime later, they were thankful Captain de Frese advised them to remain below, for the ship was rolling in the billows, plunging one way and then the next, as it fought its way through the rough seas.

By the time land disappeared, Josette was already beginning to feel bad, and Kenna advised her to lie down, for she feared Josette was experiencing the first twinges of seasickness. Josette eyed the hammock swinging back and forth and declared, “It makes me feel worse just to look at it moving back and forth. I can’t sleep in that thing. I doubt I can even get into it.”

Recalling her own experience of climbing into a
hammock for the first time, Kenna was sympathetic. “It is a bit tricky at first. After landing on the floor a few times, I think I finally got the hang of it on about the fifth try.”

Josette had worse luck, and after several attempts, gave up completely and announced, “I cannot sleep in it because I cannot get into it.”

“How about sitting down on it while I hold it still, then see if you can get one leg in, and then the other.”

Josette did not look as if she thought that would help, but she was turning pale and had to be feeling worse, so she agreed to try. “One leg at a time, right?”

Kenna nodded, and gripped the hammock with both hands and held it tight as Josette sat down. So far so good, Kenna thought, and waited for Josette to get one leg in place. “We are almost there,” she declared, “now do the same with the other leg.”

Josette did and the hammock flipped over and threw her on the floor.

Kenna, her finger resting on her chin as she went over the previous procedure, tried to decide what went wrong. “I think it might be your petticoats getting in the way. Why don’t you take them off?”

Petticoats off, Josette tried again, and this time she made it.

“You see? Perseverance always pays off,” Kenna said. “How are you feeling?”

“A bit banged up, and my stomach is queasy.”

“Just lie still and try to sleep.” Kenna tiptoed toward her own hammock, and was relieved to get in on the first try. She settled herself and closed her eyes.

She was almost asleep when she heard Josette call her name. “What?” Kenna replied.

“You won’t believe this,” Josette said.

“I won’t believe what?”

“I need a chamber pot.”

The rough seas lasted all afternoon. With waves rising high as a hillside, the ship tossed and pitched, but Kenna did eat the evening meal, and managed to spill more soup than she swallowed, but it was enough to ease her hunger and make her sleepy enough that she immediately crawled into her hammock.

It was the same the next day. The ship seemed to hover, suspended on the crest of a churning wave, then would suddenly glide swiftly down the other side, to what felt like immediate doom.

Once, Kenna was looking through the port window and saw another ship riding the crest of a huge swell, then completely disappear. Kenna waited, perpetually it seemed, before it suddenly appeared again on another huge wave.

At one point, Kenna truly thought it was all over for them, for it seemed to her that the waves would rip the ship apart. But, miraculously, the ship managed to stay on top of the waves.

“If we are lost, we are lost,” Josette said, “and I would as soon not know about it. Do you have any of those biscuits left from your breakfast? Perhaps eating one would help.”

Kenna gave her the biscuits, and she ate three of them and began to feel better. After a while, they played
cards to help pass the time, or as it turned out, Kenna spent the afternoon watching Josette cheat at cards.

The next day, the storm passed and the sea was relatively calm, except for another bout of rough seas off the coast of Scotland, as they passed Dunnet Head. Kenna knew this because she recognized the sheer hundred-foot cliffs, and she stood at the window, awed by the pure beauty and power of the sea as it hurled geysers of spray that exploded on impact when it collided with the solid rock of the cliffs.

Later that afternoon, the
Ingeborg
sailed as close as the ship could get to the gray old town of Kirkwall. Since there was no harbor here, the ship dropped anchor, and the two women were rowed to shore by two men in a skiff, who complained mightily about the number of herring boats bobbing at anchor. Half an hour later, they found themselves standing on a sandy shore that lay flush along the west side of Broad Street.

The bottom half of their skirts was wet, along with their shoes, for the men did not bring the skiff close to the sandy beach, nor did they offer to carry them to dry ground.

They studied the landscape…or lack of landscape, for the island seemed to have a severe shortage of trees or shrubs. Not even a blade of grass could they see for some distance in any direction—nothing but mile after mile of savage island, desolate and forlorn.

“It reminds me so much of Paris,” Josette said, her wistful words embroidered with melodrama.

Such melodrama, that Kenna burst into fits of laughter, for seconds before Josette spoke she was thinking
it wasn’t much of an island or a town, which sounded awfully apologetic even to her.