MV02 Death Wears a Crown (4 page)

“There are times when I am. At other times fishermen come from home, and I do not feel so isolated.” She sighed. “It has not happened much, recently.”

Victoire did her best to appear surprised. “But English, in this part of the coast, surely there are many English here?”

“Not these days,” said the Englishwoman. “They prefer to deal with the Dutch, for there is less interference.”

“But ...” Victoire chose her words very carefully. “I was told that often there were mariners here who carried secret cargo from France to England. A merchant I knew at home said he made a good profit on brandy sent to England clandestinely.”

“Oh, that happens,” said the Englishwoman, coloring a little. “But it is very dangerous now that the French have become more strict in ... in so many things.” There was a slight hesitation. “It must be for the good, of course.”

“But I know how it is to be in a foreign place without the company of your own people,” she said with sincerity. “How unfair to someone like you.”

The Englishwoman smiled uncertainly. “My father might say so,” she ventured at last. “But it is the way of the world, now that Napoleon is reigning here.”

“Reigning?” Victoire asked, startled at the woman’s choice of words.

“What else would you call it, now that he is First Consul and there are no others.”

Victoire nodded, agreeing in spite of herself; she shifted the topic a bit. “If you could tell me, how much traffic of that sort goes on about here?” She saw the Englishwoman stiffen, and went on, “I’m curious because the merchant I knew made some claims that I find hard to believe.”

“There is money to be made,” said the Englishwoman, her face clouding. “But the risks are great.”

“The merchant made it seem as if it were just a game. You know, saying that they would make the run at night without any lights, and there would be signals and transfers, sometimes at sea, sometimes in secret harbors.” She was able to make it seem as if she longed for such adventure, which was nearer the truth than she wanted to admit.

“I have heard that the patrols of the French and the English both have been increased. If your merchant friend thinks it a game, then he is being a fool,” said the Englishwoman. “No one carries special cargos for the sport of it, not these days.”

“And what of other cargos?” asked Victoire innocently, concealing a frisson of danger. “Is everything done so honestly, even by the honest merchants?” She laughed at her own impertinence. “Your pardon, Madame, but it seems to me that those who are the most sanctimonious about minding the laws are merely the ones who have found a successful way to cheat.”

The Englishwoman made a very French gesture of contempt. “It is all the navy now, in any case. They are everywhere, stopping honest fishermen and looking for spies and all the rest.” She looked around nervously, and added in an undervoice, “They say that there are fishermen who do that, too, but I know of none. And I would if they lived in Dunkerque.”

“Of course you would,” said Victoire as if the notion had just occurred to her. “I suppose you know all the English.”

“Not all, but I know enough,” she said obscurely. Then she sighed. “If war comes again, no doubt my husband will be detained because of me.”

“Surely there is not going to be real war,” prompted Victoire.

“It is coming,” said the Englishwoman heavily. “It is in the air, like the smell of fish.”

“Ah,” said Victoire. “Perhaps you know more than most, living where you do and being English. I pray that we will not fight, for I hate to see our fine young men die.” Her smile was roguish. “There are so many better things for young men to do.”

It took the Englishwoman a short moment to answer. “My father says it’ll not come, and my brother thinks it will not, but they are wrong.” Her face darkened. “I have spoken to others, and they are afraid.”

“Afraid?” Victoire prompted. She had sensed she was being watched, but she could not determine where the watcher was; it made her nervous.

“Fisherfolk do badly when navies battle. They are all troubled because once the guns sound, they will have to find other waters.” She wiped her face with her apron.

“What woman does not fear for her men when there is war?” Victoire said this with great feeling, and added, “It’s unfortunate that powerful men cannot find other ways to agree.”

“Amen,” whispered the Englishwoman. Then she smoothed her apron. “The price could be a single sou, since you have just come here.”

Victoire realized she had learned all that she would be able to from the Englishwoman, and so she reached into her reticule and retrieved the coin. “Done!” she cried, and handed over her basket.

“Come again some time, Madame ... Ver ...”

“Vernet,” said Victoire. “And perhaps I will.” She took the basket back, and dropped the Englishwoman a sociable curtsy. “God send you a good profit and calm seas.”

The Englishwoman smiled, and ducked her head politely.

As she made her way back through the market, Victoire decided she would ask the landlord at the Garçon Rouge to prepare the fish with a caper sauce.

* * *

They were almost ready to depart for Calais; Vernet had supervised the loading of their luggage and was now making a last check of their room to be certain that nothing had been left behind. He glanced at Victoire as he rummaged in the armoire. “You are satisfied then, that the woman knows nothing of the English landing?”

“Quite satisfied,” said Victoire. She automatically smoothed the bed cover and then added, “I gave her every opportunity to reveal something about English landing here, but there was no suggestion of it in anything she said. I doubt she is clever enough to dissemble so expertly. Which, when you come to think of it, is all the more reason to be worried.”

“Truly,” said Vernet, closing the armoire. “There should be answers to my dispatches waiting for us by the time we reach Calais. Then we will decide what is to be done.”

“Or it will be decided for us,” said Victoire fatalistically, and followed her husband out to the waiting carriage. As she handed a doucement to the ostler, she remarked to Vernet, “I hope that someone has the good sense to pay attention to your warning.”

“You mean to
your
warning,” he said with a wink.

“It had best be your warning, or they will not heed it at all.”

She took her place in the carriage, wishing that she had a softer pillow for her back. But that would be a foolish extravagance, she reminded herself, and she had endured far worse than sore muscles in her travels. Her physician had said that it would require time for her to recover completely from the miscarriage, and that in time her muscles would be as strong as ever.

“Victoire?” Vernet asked as they set out. “Are you uncomfortable?”

“Only a little,” she lied.

* * *

“At least there is one response,” said Vernet as he came to their room in the Lanterne in Calais. “Bernadotte has sent this.” He held out the response, which he had opened already. “Read it, and tell me what you think. He is suggesting—which is as good as ordering—that I go to Antwerp. He wishes me to act at once. Apparently he thinks that if the spies have landed, they are seeking to disrupt the negotiations to unite the Republics of France and Holland.”

Victoire took the sheet and read it. “Ah. I see this is another man who consults his wife. You noticed that he indicates that his wife Desirée believes that the spies are bound there, and she has convinced him of it. I hadn’t realized he relied on her so much. Look there: ‘My dear wife wishes to preserve the safety of France as ardently as I do, and for that reason I am accepting her good counsel. She has much knowledge of these affairs and her mind is as keen as any man’s. Therefore I will be guided by her and advise you to proceed as soon as possible to Antwerp.’ Antwerp.” Victoire shook her head.

“What is it?” Vernet asked, recognizing Victoire’s expression of doubt. “What makes you question the orders?”

Victoire did not answer directly. She tapped her finger on the vellum. “Something is not quite as it should be, but ... I am curious as to why ...” Her words trailed off as she lapsed into deep thought.

Vernet sighed. “I suppose you will tell me when you have worked it through?”

Her smile was quick but preoccupied; already she was caught up in assessing the letter, “Naturally.”

“Naturally,” Vernet echoed with an affectionate gesture of resignation.

IT WAS
a small inn, far from prosperous. The innkeeper had inherited it from his father and somehow kept it open throughout the Revolution and the invasions that followed, though just barely. Now taxes threatened what the combined armies of three kings had failed to do—force him to close. He was therefore more pleased than annoyed when a party of twenty men woke him after midnight, demanding rooms and a meal. The landlord set about making them welcome, opening the taproom to the travelers while he filled the ewers in the guest rooms. He was bustling for the pantry to put together a cold supper for his guests when he realized some were speaking English, and was foolish enough to comment upon it.

They buried the innkeeper under his own midden pile.

* * *

There were half a dozen Gendarmes waiting for Vernet first thing the next morning; he hastened away with them for a day of conferring and evaluations, which left Victoire with little to do but darn socks and think. She kept to their room, half-listening to the bustle in the inn yard as she strove to turn the collar of his second-best uniform just one more time.

It was dusk by the time Vernet came back, apologizing as he opened the door. “I had no idea we would require such a long discussion, but there—”

“It is not important,” said Victoire, who had not risen from the end of the bed where she sat. “I am pleased to have had the time to think. Truly, Lucien, I have put the hours to good use, I think.” She indicated the uniform tunic. “And I do not mean that.”

Vernet shook his head. “It is bad enough that you have had to pass the time alone, but you have had to have such thankless chores, as well.”

“Never mind,” she said, assuring him more emphatically. “I am certain that a little darning will not destroy my eyesight or my fingers. And what I have decided is more important than darning, in any case.”

“How do you mean?” Now he was curious, and he dropped his cap on the bed as he sat down in the single chair provided.

“I mean that I have considered that reply sent from Bernadotte, searching for what has rankled,” she told him. “And I am more perplexed by it than ever.” She looked at him, trying to discover if he wanted her to go on.

“Why is that?” asked Vernet, willing to encourage her.

“It bothers me that spies would enter France to disrupt negotiations in Holland. We have both remarked upon it. It is difficult and dangerous to land in France, but relatively easy to land in Holland. So if the negotiations are their destination, it makes no sense that they would go to the risk of landing here rather than sailing quite properly into a northern port in Holland, where there would be no trouble for them. Do you follow my thoughts?”

“So far,” Vernet told her.

“They exposed themselves, these supposed spies, for no reason. Which means that they are fools. Which I do not believe.” This last she said darkly. “If it’s the fleet they seek, then it makes more sense that they are here, for Antwerp is a goodly distance from the fleet. But Boulogne-sur-Mer is southwest of here, and why would spies wishing to work against the fleet not attempt to land closer to it, if they are willing to risk landing in France at all? It is true that Boulogne-sur-Mer is directly on the road from here, but it’s also a day by coach. Why would they not attempt to get as near to the fleet as possible? It would be more sensible to land here at Calais than at Dunkerque.”

“I agree with you,” said Vernet, listening attentively.

“Therefore, I come again to the fear that the spies are bound for Paris.” She rose to her feet and began to pace. “You see, if they are going to Paris, then they might well want to land here, away from the Marine guards at Boulogne-sur-Mer, and not so near the border with Holland that they might encounter patrols there. They could travel to Paris quickly, but avoid the main road from here, and therefore not be subject to much inquiry. They might even—if they are very sly—come by way of Lille and Saint-Quentin. Those roads are not watched as the Calais-Amiens-Paris Road is, or the coast road, for that matter.”

“It would take them longer,” Vernet pointed out.

“Yes, perhaps. But they would have to hide a great deal on the main road, and I reckon that on the lesser roads they would not have to be so much on guard. Either way, they’ll not reach Paris quickly, but by coming on minor roads, they will arrive without anyone the wiser. Then they will be free to do whatever they came to do while we guard ships and diplomats.” She stopped, looking out the window. “I listened today, and I think I heard more than four languages spoken in the inn yard. There was a fuss made over an English merchant, and soldiers came to search his luggage, and were not polite about it. The man was very put out, for he was only carrying goods to his factor in Paris, but they singled him out because they noticed him. His accent and his clothes made him conspicuous. That was what finally convinced me that they are striving to be invisible.”

“And do you think they will succeed? Is it possible they will reach Paris, and Napoleon?” asked Vernet, feeling the first real grip of apprehension. “Surely no Englishman could get close enough—”

“That is assuming that the English ship carried only English; that is another question that I cannot dismiss,” she reminded him. “There is some guess that there could be Frenchmen among them, Aristos seeking to return. If there are as many Frenchmen as English, then they will not be easily apprehended.” She gave him a quirky smile. “And if that is what they have done, I will have to tell you that they are more subtle than I thought they were.”

“But what you say is so complicated,” protested Vernet.

“Only to our eyes, and only because we have to guess so much. For those men we are seeking, it is not complicated at all. We must not forget that.” She cocked her head to the side. “What do you think?”

“I think,” he said wearily, “that I had better go to Antwerp. I have only just convinced the Ministry of Police that we may have spies in Antwerp. I don’t think it would be prudent to change quite yet. Bernadotte would not like me to act counter to his orders.”

“No,” she said. “He expects you to go to Antwerp.” She looked Vernet directly in the eyes. “Therefore I should go to Paris.”

“Victoire!” he objected. “I want you to come with me.” He half-rose as he spoke.

She moved away from him. “I have given this my careful consideration. I believe it is necessary that I make the attempt to discover if the Englishmen have gone to Paris, and what their goals are.” Her stance was very firm; Vernet recognized the stubborn set of her shoulders.

“And who do you think you will be able to convince in Paris?” he asked, not entirely without ire.

“I don’t know. I don’t know if I am correct in my thinking. But there are those who have some respect for my methods, and they might hear me out.” She did not raise her voice but it was apparent that she had made up her mind.

“So you say,” he countered.

“Berthier will give me his full attention, and so will Fouche, if I can get his attention at all. Both of them know in what danger Napoleon stands at all times.” She came and stood directly in front of him. “And this way, whether you are on the right track or I am, one of us will be, and the promotion you seek will not be lost.”

“Always practical,” he said in aggravation.

“I am tired of darning your uniforms and living like paupers so that you can maintain your career, Lucien. If you are worthy of advancement—and you most truly are worthy—then it is time you were paid according to your worth which requires another promotion.” She put her hands on her hips and all but dared him to argue with her.

“I don’t want to be away from you, Victoire,” he said softly.

“Nor I from you,” she responded at once. “But we must think of what we seek and turn our efforts toward it.”

“I understand,” he said. “I do not want to agree, but—” He gestured his capitulation. “You will go to Paris, then, tomorrow?”

“While you go to Antwerp,” she said. “There is a diligence leaving for Boulogne-sur-Mer at ten, and I’ll purchase a seat on it, and go from there to Paris. The travel is not very grand, but it costs little, and that must be a virtue.” She put her hands on his shoulders. “I will call on Bernadotte as soon as he is back in Paris, so that he’ll know you are pursuing his orders.”

“And you will tell him what you’re doing?” asked Vernet.

“Possibly,” she said after a short pause; she had felt a twinge of fear that troubled her. “Possibly not. It will depend on what I am able to discover.”

“I will prepare dispatches for you to carry, then,” said Vernet. “Since you’re determined to do this, I’ll make the most of it.”

“Good,” she approved, leaning down to kiss him gently.

“There is nothing good about it,” he grumbled as he put his arms around her. “I am doing what I can to make the best of a bad situation.”

“It will be better when you have demonstrated your devotion to Napoleon and received your reward.” She let him pull her down on his lap. “You will be able to afford all those little luxuries—”

“To say nothing of necessities,” he interjected.

“—we have both missed, and you will not have to accept bribes in order to pay for your family.” She leaned back as he kissed her and reveled in the new-born passion he showed.

“If I have to leave you,” he said a short while later, already a bit breathless, “I want to make the best use of the time we have.”

“Very wise,” she murmured provocatively, and reached to unfasten her lacings. His hands were already there.

* * *

Colonel Sir Magnus Sackett-Hartley sat on the back of the cart as it trundled through Ressons-sur-Matz, his hat pulled down low over his forehead, his clothes smelling of cattle, for there were three young calves tethered in the cart, on their way to market.

“A fine way to return home,” complained La Clouette from the front of the cart where he sat next to d’Estissac. “First we scurry through the night like rats, kill a harmless innkeeper like brigands, and now we plod along like peasants.” Of the twenty men who had come ashore six nights before, this group was composed of eight of them. The other twelve had taken the more direct but more dangerous route along the coast to Boulogne-sur-Mer and south to Abbeville and Beauvais.

“You had best hope everyone believes we are peasants,” remarked Cholet, who was walking beside the cart on the side opposite to Pasclos. “If they do not believe us, we will not accomplish our mission.”

“I think we were wrong to divide into two groups,” said La Clouette, finding something else to complain about.

“We voted for it,” said Lieutenant Edward Constable, one of two Englishmen in this group of the spies. “You were for it, as I recall.” He spoke French adequately, sounding faintly Belgian, but did his best not to speak at all.

“That was when we landed,” said La Clouette.

“You were for it yesterday, or so you claimed,” Sackett-Hartley pointed out. His French—thanks to his aunt—was excellent and he spoke it without hesitation or effort.

“I had not thought it through,” La Clouette whined. “I was afraid we would be noticed if there were too many of us, but I hadn’t realized how exposed we would be, or how difficult our task could become. What if the others are caught?”

“We must trust them to keep silent, or make certain of their silence ourselves,” said Cholet.

Brezolles looked around the square. “I will want to p-pray in church,” he remarked to no one in particular.

“But how will we know we are safe?” La Clouette went on, paying no attention to Brezolles.

“We will know if the others join us in Paris,” said Sackett-Hartley. “Until then, we will have to pray for them, and hope that God and luck are on our side.” He indicated the village well. “We’d better fill the bladders here. Otherwise we might become thirsty on the road.”

“What about buying a bottle or two of wine?” suggested d’Estissac. “I haven’t had wine since the night after we landed.”

“The villagers will expect us to drink something other than water,” Cholet remarked. “They’ll pay less attention if we purchase a few bottles.”

“All right,” said Sackett-Hartley, “Buy wine and bread and cheese, like any other farmer bound for market. And tell them that we are delivering these animals to the best inn at Creil; they might well believe it.” He jumped off the end of the cart and trudged along beside it as they neared the well.

“I hate looking this way,” muttered La Clouette. “I do not like to be mistaken for one of these louts.”

“You had best hope that you are,” said Cholet softly. “Or we will not arrive in Paris to do our work.” He felt in his pocket for coins. “Bread, cheese, and wine,” he said loudly enough to be heard by some of the villagers lingering on the street. “We will have meat later.”

“When these beasts are delivered,” added Sackett-Hartley, affecting a strong Artois accent. “They will feed us well.”

“So you think,” said Pasclos.

“We made a bargain,” Sackett-Hartley declared.

“So we did,” affirmed d’Estissac. “And he will uphold it.” He looked around the square. “A pleasant enough place.”

“Truly,” said Cholet, and started toward a stall-fronted stop where cheeses were laid out. “Will two be enough for us, or should I purchase three?”