Frankenstein's Legions (48 page)

There was no time to enquire about that or anything else. Even their earlier simple ‘where?’ questions had been only grudgingly and partially answered. Now the coach door was wrenched open the second they halted and its inmates allowed minimal time to stretch their legs (or leg in Foxglove’s case) and stare at the new scene.

The high ridge of the Downs bounded one horizon and a road ran along it, complete with toy horsemen and vehicles. That was the route normal and sensible coaches took. Below in the valley were silent woodland and landscaped gardens. A place of peace.

Normally. Right now it seemed to be nothing but frenzied comings and goings. To the eternal hills who’d seen it all before and would see it all again, such transient fevers were presumably nothing, but short-spanned humans were more easily impressed.

They arrived just as a delegation of high-flying Churchmen fled. Considering that they dealt with matters infinite the men of God should have looked more composed than they did. Red-faced exasperated expressions topped some of the clerical collars.

But at least that supplied a spot of colour, for otherwise the flood of black issuing from Loseley would have been in total contrast to Ada’s scarlet (gown) and white (skin), Frankenstein’s dandy waistcoat and the gay motley of their Highland soldiers escort. With the addition palette of Church of England rage or blushes, a charitable eye might mistake the two groups as the same species.

Except that they were heading in different directions. The two parties intermingled, inter-penetrated and then parted without a word. One had come to supply enlightenment and failed, the other now arrived in hope to receive it.

For Talleyrand was dying. It was common knowledge and the only thing about him all could agree on. There was even a tinge of sadness felt here and there, leading to sporadic acts of kindness. Frankenstein had noticed straw strewn on Loseley’s gravel drive to muffle the rattle of coach wheels, and churchmen had volunteered their time to come and shrive the sinner. Even some French relatives and/or former lovers had travelled on specially issued ‘compassionate passports’ to an enemy realm to say farewell—or something.

All in all, for a departing soul preparing to meet his Maker, Talleyrand had a packed program and Julius envisaged having to await their turn in the queue that snaked up the main staircase to the deathbed.

Far from it. Immediately that news of their arrival reached the Prince they were sent for in no uncertain terms. Frankenstein and co were sped through a portrait festooned Great Hall complete with suits of mismatched armour and a minstrels’ gallery. Then chivvied up the ornate carved stairs past suspected old master paintings without opportunity to study either. Outraged others before them in the queue muttered harsh words but their skirted soldier escort deterred anything worse. Within minutes they were ushered into the presence.

And what a presence—still. It filled the room, along with the scent of death. The Prince was propped up in bed on countless pillows and his cravat had never looked crisper or more carefully confected.

But that was the sum of the good news. Talleyrand no longer needed powder to pale his cheeks. Instead, rouge was now required to de-deathshead his face. His chest heaved for breath that was reluctant to come. His eyes were closed against the world.

Yet somehow he seemed to know they had come. Shut eyelids were not signs of surrender but screens across the intimate process of rallying his remaining force.

They heard a sigh of relief. There was the distinct, if illogical, feeling of being studied without being seen.

They’d not met before, not in the flesh. Frankenstein, Lady Lovelace and Foxglove stood in line abreast like culprits brought before the headmaster and wondered what, if anything, to say. Meanwhile, nurses bustled around justifying their being there, and doctors held conference. A residual prelate lurked in the shadows of the four-poster on the off-chance the Prince would relent and sign the retraction that lay unscrolled on the bedspread.

Suddenly, the Princely pink shutters opened. The painted lips likewise.

Talleyrand tried to speak but was out of practice. Only a cough emerged, horribly liquid. A nurse dabbed at him but was gestured back.

The Prince swallowed, ventured a silent dry-run and then had another go.

‘Welcome,’ he said, gaining confidence. ‘Welcome, welcome!  Thank you so much for coming...’

Once, not so long ago, Ada might have said ‘did we have any choice?’  Which would have been honest but inappropriate. Today she just thought it and smiled instead.

Frankenstein also. He’d heard of the man’s famous charm but was still impressed it should remain so persuasive, even teetering at Death’s door. Waves of that warm force washed against all, disarming them of any resentment they might be harbouring.

‘The pleasure is all ours,’ said Julius.

Talleyrand smiled: he wished to husband his strength but could not prevent himself.

‘Liar,’ he said, though without malice. ‘This room reeks of sickness. The Angel of Death peeks through its keyhole. Only a ghoul could take pleasure in such a place. But you mean well, for which I thank you. Yet that is the least of things I should thank you for...’

He had to pause and regroup. His audience mistook that for final exhaustion but it wasn’t so. Instead, the Prince returned to the charge, revived for a sustained offensive. He gulped for air and grasped the bedspread like a drowning man, but at the same time seemed set fair to hurtle down a preconceived path, bearing all before him. Onlookers saw the polished politician he’d once been and was now again— perhaps for the last time.

‘The priests want me to recant,’ he said. ‘To formally repent of my life and actions. And I shall, albeit in my own good time and with certain reservations. It will make them happy and also supply a certain symmetrical form to my saga. However, before all that I must explain some things to you. And ask your pardon...’

‘Why?’ said Ada, who could still be sledgehammer blunt.

Talleyrand looked on her with appraising relish. In times gone by she would not have been safe alone with him, Lazaran or not.

‘Two reasons,’ he answered. ‘Firstly, vanity. A weakness for sure, but perhaps I may be excused such indulgence in my present state. It will please me that others shall understand my extreme cleverness and cunning. Therefore, I intend to outline my great scheme to you, and your part in it...’

‘No need,’ snapped Lady Lovelace. ‘I already know.’

‘Oh,’ said Talleyrand, but took it well.

‘Glimpsing it got me my spark back,’ she continued. For which I suppose I should thank you. Even if you did play us like puppets. However, given that there are still details which remain obscure I wish to keep in your favour. Therefore, thank you, sweet Prince. Now, may I enquire-...?’

Talleyrand  spread his hands in invitation.

‘By all means my dear. I am at your disposal as once you were at mine, albeit unaware. Until the Grim Reaper arrives, that is. Then, alas, his summons overrules even your appeal...’

Ada drew up a chair without asking permission.

‘Right then: first off, did I need to die?’

Talleyrand looked pained beyond his present afflictions. He sighed regretfully.

‘That was one of the things for which I have to ask forgiveness,’ he said, ‘of both you and the Church. My dear lady, I confess I was of two minds on the subject and erred on the side of caution. You might have trod the path I required without it, but I needed to be sure. What I could be confident of was that you would have left instruction for such an eventuality. And that your death would powerfully motivate you...’

He paused, subject to a pang of regret, or perhaps even shame, before pressing on to spoil the moment.

‘Or would I have got away with it if I protested I never intended things should go so far?  What if I’d said my Lazaran agents got out of control—as they so often do?  Might you have believed that?’

Ada equivocated.

‘Normally no,’ she answered. ‘But in your silky presence? Who knows.’

Talleyrand winced.

‘Then I have blundered. To miss a chance to deceive in a good cause like that; to incur enmity without need!  What a lapse!’

Frankenstein’s rectitude was offended.

‘I thought, sir,’ he said, ‘that today was a time for honesty, however disobliging, however lacerating.’

Talleyrand conceded it cheerfully.

‘Indeed so, Swiss sir. I apologise; the habits of a lifetime die hard.’

He coughed blood again but transcended it.

‘As do I, apparently. However, let me set myself on the straight path again. Madame, permit me to say it formally:  I am very sorry my plans required killing you. Likewise with my mischief to poor Mr Babbage...’

‘I did wonder about that,’ said Lady Lovelace. ‘Why him as well?’

‘Two birds with one stone,’ Talleyrand interrupted. Firstly, I understood that his “Analytical Engine” required aborting, in the sure knowledge it would lead to more efficient means of killing: weapons of mass destruction, even!  Moreover, if developed in England they would have been deployed against the land of my birth and affections.’

‘True,’ Ada agreed without rancour. ‘That was our next project after the gambling applications.’

‘‘Though it must be said,’ conceded Talleyrand, ‘I erred on the side of caution. Babbage is a mere mechanic who might have changed things. Whereas you, madame, are the type who will change ideas. History dances to the tunes of ideas.’

Ada acknowledged the compliment.

‘However, over-cautious or not,’ he went on, ‘I surmised that you would seek Babbage’s help. I prevented it. I wished you to be friendless: thrown back on to your own formidable devices. Your appalling energies had to be fully liberated to carry you where I wished you to go—and to finally kill this terrible thing.’

Which begged a very obvious question, but Ada declined to be predictable. Talleyrand approved and continued.

‘If it is any comfort, my dear, I have seen to it that Babbage does not suffer in prison. Nor shall he in the humble but harmless employment I have arranged for after his release. Welsh-speaking Patagonia is calling out for men of such talent I’m told.’

‘Oh, all right then,’ said Ada equably, with more forgiveness than was hers to give. ‘All’s well that ends well. The pieces fit now. Your intervention had the effect you intended of setting me on my way. Presumably, you also guessed my former husband would not revive me.’

‘Hardly a guess,’ confirmed the Prince, ‘more like a certainty. Such a dull dog of a man. ‘Whatever possessed you to link with that dreary—’

‘Money,’ Ada cut in, cutting it short. ‘But moving on, you likewise must have known I would seek out the foremost man in the Revivalist field...’

Talleyrand acknowledged Frankenstein with a bed-bound bow.

‘…but even he,’ Ada continued, ‘could not give the entirety of what I wanted.’

‘No,’ Talleyrand concurred. ‘I thought not, and moreover had chosen you precisely because you were a person of unbounded wants. What did you call it? Your “spark’”. How quaint. No, no Lazaran has that.’

He peered at her, more innocently this time.

‘Or leastways, not until now. But be that as it may, I knew I could safely assume that you—I even dared to hope both of you—would crusade forth to seek what was missing. You would traverse the leading edge of research, press the most perilous sources of knowledge and badger away at what is presently hid. First Heathrow, then Compiegne, and finally to my ultimate aim, Versailles, and the Emperor’s dastardly plans.’

‘And then..?’ Ada prompted.

Talleyrand shrugged—and found that it hurt.

‘At the very least,’ he obliged, ‘the glare of publicity. Or, better still, stolen secrets. Boney greatly feared both. What I didn’t dare dream of was an explosion, a stolen child, even an instruction manual!  Plain proof for all the world to see!  My dears, what a force of nature you are when combined!  And cruel nature at that, red in tooth and claw. Bravo! Bravo!’

He tried to applaud but the effort was too much. The Prince had to revise his plans in order to have the strength to outline them. Some of the more sensitive there, including Frankenstein and Ada, averted their eyes to avoid seeing him reduced to this.

Fortunately, cover for his difficulties was provided by an invasion of the room. Deftly swerving the arms put out to detain her, a golden-haired child of perhaps five or six years dashed in. She made a bee-line for the bed, brushing between Foxglove’s walking-stick and Ada’s gown, and threw herself aboard.

The Prince received the arrival with joy and waved back those who would retrieve her.

‘Spring and autumn!’ he told the assembly as he accepted the child’s hand in his. ‘Spring and autumn!’

‘Spring and winter,’ corrected the priest from the shadows. ‘Deepest winter.’  And he pointed to the unsigned retraction on the bedspread.

Talleyrand had always had the greatest affection for Truth, even though he could never be faithful to her. He acknowledged her presence now.

‘Winter? Yes, you are right,’ he said. ‘But sometimes sunshine transforms even the most wintry day.’

His fingers transferred a kiss (and perhaps a blessing) from his lips to the child’s smooth brow. She nestled against him.

‘My great-great niece,’ he explained to the uninitiated. ‘And appropriately termed, for she has been a great great comfort to my twilight.’

The priest and some servants frowned, for they couldn’t recall him making a fuss of her before. Maybe, like so much else, he’d done so privately in the labyrinth of his mind.

‘Uncle,’ asked the child, getting round to the purpose of her visit in her own good time, ‘it is true you are going?’

Talleyrand smiled and nodded.

‘It is, child; yes.’

‘Where to?’

‘I’m not sure, my dear.’

The priest signalled he might have a shrewd idea, but had the grace not to interrupt.

‘Will you come back, uncle?’

Talleyrand  shook his head.

‘I’m afraid not, my sweet. Or rather, I am not afraid, because it is time for me to go.’

She looked up at him.