Feather Castles (36 page)

Claude thanked him profusely. Devenish protested that he was only too glad to be of service. He bowed, dazzled them with his smile, and moved off, not by the flicker of an eyelid revealing that a small key of great consequence resided in his waistcoat pocket.

The evening wore on, and Rachel's nervousness increased with every tick of the clock. Torn between the fear that Tristram might not be able to slip away, and the even more chilling fear that he would, she had to struggle to appear at ease. She stood up with Claude for a
boulanger,
went into supper with the German General, and had just been claimed by an elderly and distinguished Frenchman and led into a set for the quadrille, when an unexpected diversion offered, in the form of a small commotion at one side of the room. Two gentlemen were arguing, one heatedly, one—the munitions maker, Monsieur Monteil—with acid cynicism. Claude exchanged a meaningful glance with Gerard, and they moved toward the disturbance. Necks craned, and a hum of speculation arose. The heated gentleman was becoming quite loud, and it appeared that considerable tact would be required to placate him.

The music struck up in rather hurried fashion, and the dance began. Progressing through the movements, Rachel saw Monteil looking very grave as he conversed with a Spanish officer whose splendid uniform seemed literally covered with medals. Antoine Benét was partnering a very pretty dark girl in an adjoining set. Madame Fleur sat against the wall, gossiping happily with the rotund Comtesse D'Azarpé, and Claude and Gerard appeared to be winning their battle to calm the angry gentleman.

Of Tristram, there was no sign.

*   *   *

Tristram thrust the bar of soap into Devenish's hand and, peering around the tall grandfather clock at the two stalwarts near the front doors, murmured, “Why you want it is more than I can fathom.”

Devenish lifted his brows and said airily, “Wanted me to create a diversion so you could hop up the back stairs, did you not?”

“I'd not specified a freshly laundered diversion.”

“I, sir,” imparted Devenish, “am a gentleman of taste.” Saying which, he bit off a chunk of the soap.

“Good God!” gasped Tristram. “Dev—poor fellow. Perhaps you had best lie down.”

“Oh, I mean to,” Devenish nodded, a sparkle coming into his rather watery eyes as he masticated the soap. He slipped the cake into his pocket. “Do not dawdle,” he hiccuped, and walked with uncertain gait down the corridor and across the main hall.

Two powdered heads turned warily to regard Devenish's wavering approach. He picked up speed, headed straight for the doors. One of the footmen stepped before him, jaw set, lips tight, eyes cold. Devenish stopped. His body jerked, and he emitted a bubbling croak. The footman, prepared for cold steel, bare knuckles, or bullets, was not prepared for this. He recoiled, his brutal face paling.

Tristram, his eyes dancing with merriment, waited for no more, but started swiftly toward the rear stairs. A remark uttered in shrill horror, wafted after him. “
Sacre bleu!
He foams at the mouth! He have the very bad seizure!”

Chuckling, Tristram took the stairs two at a time. The flight terminated at the northeastern corner of the first floor, from which vantage point he could see the entire length of the halls along the north wing and the main block. Both were bare of either servants or guests. He strode along briskly, staying close against the wall when he reached the main stairs. They also were empty, and just beyond was the forbidden panelled door. He slipped the key into the lock, opened the door to a silent dimness, and stepped inside, pulling the door to behind him. He was in a small landing, from which stairs rose in a sharp spiral, quite unlike the broad curve of the lower flight. To his right, a small table held a broad candle burning steadily in a hurricane glass. He moved to the stairs. These were not carpeted, the wood gleaming richly in the dim light, and he climbed as swiftly and silently as possible. Above was the brighter glow of the upper hall. Ears straining, he paused when his eyes were above floor level and peered around. And then stood motionless, staring incredulously at the scene that stretched away to either side of him. He had stepped into another time, for all here was medieval, from the torches that flickered in several wall sconces to the gleaming suits of armour, and mighty swords and shields that were hung along the half-timbered walls. The floors were of random-width planks, uncarpeted. At intervals great banners were suspended from the ceiling, each bearing the heraldry of a noble house, not all French, he noted with a frown, for some were of ancient British houses. He climbed the last few stairs and hesitated. To each side stretched a line of heavy gothic doors, behind one of which was the painting he sought. Beginning in the middle, he walked lightly to the first door past the stairs and put his ear against it. The stillness was deathlike, and he realized that he was holding his breath. He lifted the iron latch carefully and eased the door open. He beheld the chamber of a feudal monarch: faded but magnificent arras hung on the walls; the floors shone and were spread here and there with animal skins. A massive bed was set on a wide dais in the centre of the room, great war axes and lances were hung here and there between the tapestries, and all the furnishings were intricately carven relics of the past. Despite its splendour, however, the room had a brooding air that made him eager to leave it. He backed out and closed the door.

There were six more rooms at this end of the hall, and he counted another six beyond the stairs. Any one, or all of them, might be occupied, but that chance must be taken. With his hand on the next latch, he paused. Faint but unmistakable, he caught a whiff of oil paint. Triumphant, he very literally followed his nose to the last door, which stood slightly open. He pushed it wider and whispered an elated, “Excelsior!” The room was equipped as an artist's studio, the only furnishings being a long bench, a high stool, some easels, and two work tables under windows now hidden behind closed curtains. A branch of candles and a tinder box had been left on a small but ponderous carven table by the door. Tristram lit the candles, swung the door shut, and scanned the room, holding the candles high.

There were three canvases. One, a portrait of Rachel was in the very early stages, certainly not—as Antoine had told her—nearing completion. The other two were unlike any art he had ever seen and, curious, he drew nearer. They were very large, loosely attached to plain board backings, and each required the support of two sturdy easels. One faced the door, the other was placed where the daylight from the window would fall upon it. Tristram peered at the nearest painting. It was apparently almost finished, because the top was already framed, a strange sort of frame consisting of a round wooden bar. He saw then that the sides were also enclosed, but by flat black strips, and the most curious aspect of all was the shape of the painting, for the lower edge was cut in sharply at each side, about two feet from the bottom, so that only a narrow central panel remained, this also being edged by the black stripping of the sides. The subject matter was as outlandish as the shape, resembling nothing so much as the windows of a large room viewed at night from between two dimly seen benches.

Baffled, he decided it simply could not be completed. Perhaps the wood edging was merely some kind of shaping or stretcher. He made his way to the second painting. The shape, size, subject, and framing were identical to that of the first. He shook his head, frankly astonished, then returned to the first easel. He had seen many dark works by the early masters, and whereas in seconds the details of those fine paintings seemed to leap out at the viewer, in this instance even after holding his gaze steady for several minutes, he could discern nothing more than those two dim benches and the far window. He could only conclude that both works had been brought to an identical stage, with more detail to be added at some future date. It was clear from the odd conformation of the canvases that they had been fashioned to fit into some recess or between certain items of furniture, but why anyone would want two paintings having identical subject matter, or how such unattractive art works could possibly constitute a threat to England, was an enigma. Unless Antoine Benét had used these dull scenes to cover something that had been on the canvas previously! He paced closer, his eyes narrowing, and was so engrossed by this new thought that he failed to notice the flame of the candles flicker.

“I was right, Shotten,” purred a smooth voice behind him. “He does not know what to make of—”

Tristram gasped with shock, but his reaction was quick-silver. He flung the candle branch aside, seized the painting and easel and hurled them at the group of men in the doorway.

“No!” screeched Sanguinet. Attempting to dodge, two men came into violent collision and sprawled on the floor. An odd, high-pitched metallic twang sounded, and Tristram felt a sharp tug at his sleeve, but he was already gripping a small but heavy table and sent it whizzing after the art work. He had a blurred impression of shouts and a crash, of more men floundering on the floor, and of Claude Sanguinet wresting a crossbow from one of them. Even as he launched himself at that crowded doorway, Tristram realized his candles provided the illumination for this revelation; they had landed on one of the benches and a merry blaze was licking up from the oily rags scattered there. He cleared the cursing tangle of men with a running leap; his hair brushed the top of the door jamb, and he was in the hall and racing for the stairs.

Furious cries rang out behind him. He'd have little chance if Claude succeeded in loosing another crossbow bolt at him. He snatched a lance from the wall as he ran, and sent a suit of armour crashing to the tiles. They were hot on his heels now, and he heard Claude scream, “Put out that fire! Imbeciles! Do not kill him!”

Two of the “footmen” bounded up the stairs and ran for him, daggers gleaming in their hands. He swung his lance. Grinning, they separated to each side of the wide corridor, so that he could threaten only one at a time. Grinning also, Tristram reversed his grip, holding the lance horizontally before him and charging full tilt. A dagger whistled at him, but he ducked even as he ran, and it missed. The lance did not; it caught them at a goodly speed and they were slammed backwards. The impact smashed the lance against Tristram's ribs, staggering him, but he recovered and sprinted to the stairs. The spiral would be deadly in a fight, but luckily no one else appeared to challenge him, and he plunged down with desperate haste. The door was unlocked and he was through it in a flash, staying a quivering second while they thundered after him, to turn the key and leave it in the lock. He caught his breath thankfully; that would buy him a few seconds—enough perhaps, to—

He slowed almost before he had started off again, and halted.

Three people stood a short way along the corridor. One of the guards, and Gerard, his grin exultant, his left arm about the shoulders of a paper-white Rachel, and in his right hand a long, wickedly shining knife.

“It is only fair to warn you,
Monsieur le Capitaine,
” he warned, “that I have a score to settle.”

The maddened confusion from behind the locked door exploded into a burst of shouts as the door opened, then quieted abruptly.

“The chit is of no use to me now,” called Sanguinet.

Gerard's grin broadened and he started to lift the knife toward Rachel's face.

“Do be so good as to drop the lance,” requested Sanguinet, politely.

Rachel's white lips formed the word “No!” but looking into her agonized eyes, Tristram dropped the lance.

“Look at me!” demanded Sanguinet.

Tristram tore his gaze from Rachel, and turned. He caught a glimpse of Shotten's triumphant face, the butt of a musket whipping down at him, and Claude, smiling. A violent impact brought a distant sense of pain, and shattered the hall into a thousand brightly glittering fragments …

*   *   *

The cannonade was deafening and showed no sign of abating, even after these long, terrible hours. A shell burst very close by. The trooper screamed, stumbled, and went down, Tristram flinging himself clear in the nick of time. He landed across the body of a Prussian, a pistol still lying beneath one lifeless hand. Tristram took up the weapon, staggered over to put the horse out of its misery, then was shocked to see Ensign Charles Quincy sitting propped against a shattered gun carriage, watching him with a faint, sad smile on his muddied face.

“Hello, Quincy.” He knelt beside the wounded boy. “Is it very bad, old fellow? We must have you off the field.”

“No need for … for that, Colonel,” said Quincy, faint but indomitable. “It—it
is
you, Leith?”

Tristram flinched inwardly, and noting the dimming eyes, knew that yet another fine young life had been claimed by this incredibly savage battle. “Yes,” he said gently. “It's me.”

“I've … message,” gasped Quincy. “Carrying it to—to Colborne. Could you…?”

“Of course.” Leith took the paper from the feeble hand. “Chin up,” he smiled bracingly. “Do not worry about—” And he broke off, his assurances no longer of use to this valiant son of one of his father's oldest friends.

Shoulders slumping, he thought dully that it did not hurt as much now. The grief of seeing one after another of his comrades slain must have numbed his mind. Ignoring the cacophonous uproar raging about him, he closed the sightless eyes gently, wondering with a vague detachment why he himself still lived. His head and shoulder were slightly cut, but otherwise he was only bruised here and there. Remarkable, considering that three horses had been killed under him today. He'd been thrown over the head of one, and briefly stunned by the exploding shell that had killed another. He'd lost count of how many of his friends had fallen. He had held his favourite subaltern's hand as the young man died, and dismounted several times to assist with terribly wounded men. Never before—not even at St. Pierre—had he seen such losses. They'd been cut to pieces by Ney's cannon, and mauled by his cavalry charges. The field was littered with dead and dying—yet the slaughter went on and on, as though there would be no end to it until the last man was slain.