Quicksilver (81 page)

A man danced by with an ostrich-plume in his hat, and she thought of Jack. Riding across Germany with him, she’d had nought but her plumes, and his sword, and their wits—yet she’d felt safer then than she did now. What would it take to feel safe again?

“Friends in warm places are lovely to have,” Eliza said distractedly, “but there is no one here who would have me, monsieur. You know very well that I am not of noble, or even gentle, birth—I’m too exotic for the Dutch, too common for the French.”

“The King’s mistress was born a
slave,
” d’Avaux said. “Now she is a Marquise. You see, nothing matters
there
save wit and beauty.”

“But wit fails and beauty fades, and I don’t wish to be a house on piles, sinking into the bog a little each day,” Eliza said. “Somewhere I must
stick.
I must have a foundation that does not always move.”

“Where on this earth can such a miracle be found?”

“Money,” Eliza said. “Here, I can make money.”

“And yet this money you speak of is but a chimæra—a figment of the collective imagination of a few thousand Jews and rabble bellowing at one another out on the Dam.”

“But in the end I may convert it—bit by bit—into gold.”

“Is
that
all you want? Remember, mademoiselle, that gold only has value because some people say it does. Let me tell you a bit of recent history: My King went to a place called Orange—you’ve heard of it?”

“A principality in the south of France, near Avignon—William’s fiefdom, as I understand it.”

“My King went to this Orange, this little family heirloom of Prince William, three years ago. Despite William’s pretensions of martial glory, my King was able to walk in without a battle. He went for a stroll atop the fortifications.
Le Roi
paused, there along a stone battlement, and plucked out a tiny fragment of loose masonry—no larger than your little finger, mademoiselle—and tossed it onto the ground. Then he walked away. Within a few days, all the walls and fortifications of Orange had been pulled down by
le Roi’s
regiments, and Orange had been absorbed into France, as easily as Mr. Sluys over there might swallow a bit of ripe fruit.”

“What is the point of the story, Monsieur, other than to explain why Amsterdam is crowded with Orangish refugees, and why William hates your King so much?”

“Tomorrow,
le Roi
might pick up a bit of Gouda cheese and throw it to his dogs.”

“Amsterdam would fall, you are saying, and my hard-earned gold would be loot for some drunken regiment.”

“Your gold—and you, mademoiselle.”

“I understand such matters far better than you imagine, monsieur. What I do
not
understand is why you pretend to be interested in what happens to me. In the Hague, you saw me as a pretty girl who could skate, and who would therefore catch Monmouth’s eye, and make Mary unhappy, and create strife in William’s house. And it all came to pass just as you intended. But what can I do for you
now
?”

“Live a beautiful and interesting life—and, from time to time, talk to me.”

Eliza laughed out loud, lustily, drawing glares from women who never laughed that way, or at all. “You want me to be your spy.”

“No, mademoiselle. I want you to be my friend.” D’Avaux said this simply and almost sadly, and it caught Eliza up short. In that moment, d’Avaux spun smartly on the balls of his feet and trapped Eliza’s arm. She had little choice but to walk with him—and soon it became obvious that they were walking directly towards Étienne d’Arcachon. In the dimmest and smokiest corner of the room, meanwhile, Mr. Sluys kept laughing and laughing.

SPRING
1685

Thou hast met with something (as I perceive) already; for I see the dirt of the Slough of Despond is upon thee; but that Slough is the beginning of the sorrows that do attend those that go on in that way; hear me, I am older than thou!

—J
OHN
B
UNYAN
,
The Pilgrim’s Progress

J
ACK WAS BURIED
up to his neck in the steaming manure of the white, pink-eyed horses of the duc d’Arcachon, trying not to squirm as a contingent of perhaps half a dozen maggots cleaned away the dead skin and flesh surrounding the wound in his thigh. This itched, but did not hurt, beyond the normal wholesome throbbing. Jack had no idea how many days he’d been in here, but from listening to the bells of Paris, and watching small disks of sunlight prowl around the stable, he guessed it might be five in the afternoon. He heard boots approaching, and a padlock negotiating with its key. If that lock were the only thing holding him in this stable, he would’ve escaped long ago; but as it was, Jack was chained by the neck to a pillar of white stone, with a few yards of slack so that he could, for example, bury himself in manure.

The bolt shot and John Churchill stepped in on a tongue of
light. In contrast to Jack, he was
not
covered in shit—far from it! He was wearing a jeweled turban of shimmering gold cloth, and robes, with lots of costume jewelry; old scuffed boots, and a large number of weapons, viz. scimitar, pistols, and several granadoes. His first words were: “Shut up, Jack, I’m going to a fancy-dress ball.”

“Where’s Turk?”

“I stabled him,” Churchill said, pointing with his eyes toward an adjacent stable. The duc had several stables, of which this was the smallest and meanest, and used only for shoeing horses.

“So the ball you mean to attend is
here.”

“At the Hotel d’Arcachon, yes.”

“What’re you supposed to be—a Turk? Or a Barbary Corsair?”

“Do I look like a Turk?” Churchill asked hopefully. “I understand you have personal knowledge of them—”

“No. Better say you’re a Pirate.”

“A breed of which
I
have personal knowledge.”

“Well, if you hadn’t fucked the King’s mistress, he wouldn’t have sent you to Africa.”

“Well, I
did,
and
he
did—send me there, I mean—and I came back.”

“And now he’s dead. And you and the duc d’Arcachon have something to talk about.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Churchill asked darkly.

“Both of you have been in contact with the Barbary Pirates—that’s all I meant.”

Churchill was taken aback—a small pleasure and an insignificant victory for Jack. “You are well-informed,” he said. “I should like to know whether
everyone in the world
knows of the duc d’Arcachon’s intercourse with Barbary, or is it just that you are special?”

“Am I, then?”

“They say
l’Emmerdeur
is King of the Vagabonds.”

“Then why didn’t the duc put me up in his finest apartment?”

“Because I have gone to such extravagant lengths to prevent him from knowing who you are.”

“So
that’s
why I’m still alive. I was wondering.”

“If they knew, they would tear you apart with iron tongs, over the course of several days, at the Place Dauphine.”

“No better place for it—lovely view from there.”

“Is that all you have for me, in the way of thanks?”

Silence. Gates were creaking open all round the Hotel d’Arcachon as it mobilized for the ball. Jack heard the hollow grumbling of barrels being rolled across stone courtyards, and (since his nose had stopped being able to smell shit) he could smell birds roasting,
and buttery pastries baking in ovens. There were less agreeable odors, too, but Jack’s nose sought out the good ones.

“You could at least answer my question,” Churchill said. “Does everyone know that the duc has frequent dealings with Barbary?”

“Some small favor would be appropriate at this point,” Jack said.

“I can’t let you go.”

“I was thinking of a pipe.”

“Funny, so was I.” Churchill went to the stable door and flagged down a boy and demanded
des pipes en terre
and
du tabac blond
and
du feu.

“Is King Looie coming to the duc’s fancy-dress ball, too?”

“So it is rumored—he has been preparing a costume in great secrecy, out at Versailles. Said to be of a radically shocking nature.
Impossibly
daring. All the French ladies are aflutter.”

“Aren’t they
always
?”

“I wouldn’t know—I’ve taken a sound, some would say stern, English bride: Sarah.”

“What’s
she
coming as? A nun?”

“Oh, she’s back in London. This is a diplomatic mission. Secret.”

“You stand before me, dressed as you are, and say that?”

Churchill laughed.

“You take me for an imbecile?” Jack continued. The pain in his leg was most annoying, and shaking away flies had given his neck a cramp, as well as raw sores from the abrasion of his iron collar.

“You are only
alive
because of your recent imbecility, Jack.
L’Emmerdeur
is known to be clever as a fox. What you did was so stupid that it has not occurred to anyone, yet, that you could be he.”

“So, then…in France, what’s considered suitable punishment for an imbecile who does something stupid?”

“Well, naturally they were going to kill you. But I seem to have convinced them that, as you are not only a rural half-wit, but an
English
rural half-wit, the whole matter is actually
funny.”

“Funny? Not likely.”

“The duc de Bourbon hosted a dinner party. Invited a certain eminent writer. Became annoyed with him. Emptied his snuff-box into the poor scribbler’s wine when he wasn’t looking, as a joke. The writer drank the wine and died of it—hilarious!”

“What fool would drink wine mixed with snuff?”

“That’s not the point of the story—it’s about what French nobility do, and don’t, consider to be funny—and how I saved your life. Pay attention!”

“Let’s set aside
how,
and ask:
why
did you save my life, guv’nor?”

“When a man is being torn apart with pliers, there’s no telling what he’ll blurt out.”

“Aha.”

“The last time I saw you, you were ordinary Vagabond scum. If there happened to be an old connexion between the two of us, it scarcely mattered.
Now
you are
legendary
Vagabond scum, a picaroon, much talked of in salons.
Now
if the old link between us came to be widely known, it would be inconvenient for me.”

“But you
could
have let that other fellow run me through with his rapier.”

“And probably
should
have,” Churchill said ruefully, “but I wasn’t thinking. It is very odd. I saw him lunging for you. If I had only stood clear and allowed matters to take their natural course, you’d be dead. But some impulse took me—”

“The Imp of the Perverse, like?”

“Your old companion? Yes, perhaps he leapt from your shoulder to mine. Like a perfect imbecile, I saved your life.”

“Well, you make a most splendid and gallant perfect imbecile. Are you going to kill me now?”

“Not directly. You are now a
galérien.
Your group departs for Marseille tomorrow morning. It’s a bit of a walk.”

“I know it.”

Churchill sat on a bench and worried off one boot, then the other, then reached into them and pulled out the fancy Turkish slippers that had become lodged inside, and drew the slippers on. Then he threw the boots at Jack and they lodged in the manure, temporarily scaring away the flies. At about the same time, a stable-boy came in carrying two pipes stuffed with tobacco, and a taper, and soon both men were puffing away contentedly.

“I learned of the duc’s Barbary connexions through an escaped slave, who seems to consider the information part of a closely guarded personal secret,” Jack said finally.

“Thank you,” said Churchill. “How’s the leg, then?”

“Someone seems to’ve poked it with a sword…otherwise fine.”

“Might need something to lean on.” Churchill stepped outside the door for a moment, then returned carrying Jack’s crutch. He held it crosswise between his two hands for a moment, weighing it. “Seems a bit
heavy
on this end—a
foreign
sort of crutch, is it?”

“Exceedingly foreign.”

“Turkish?”

“Don’t toy with me, Churchill.”

Churchill spun the crutch around and chucked it like a spear so
that it stuck in the manure-pile. “Whatever you’re going to do, do it
soon
and then get the hell out of France. The road to Marseille will take you, in a day or two, through the
pays
of the Count of Joigny.”

“Who’s that?”

“That’s the fellow you knocked off his horse. Notwithstanding my earlier reassuring statements, he
does not
find you amusing—if you enter his territory…”

“Pliers.”

“Just so. Now, as insurance, I have a good friend lodging at an inn just to the north of Joigny. He is to keep an eye on the road to Marseille, and if he sees you marching down it, he is to make sure that you never get past that inn alive.”

“How’s he going to recognize me?”

“By that point, you’ll be starkers—exposing your most distinctive feature.”

“You really
are
worried I’ll make trouble for you.”

“I told you I’m here on a diplomatic mission. It is important.”

“Trying to work out how England is to be divvied up between Leroy and the Pope of Rome?”

Churchill puffed on his pipe a few times in a fine, but not altogether convincing, display of calmness, and then said, “I
knew
we’d reach this point in the conversation, Jack—the point where you accused me of being a traitor to my country and my religion—and so I’m ready for it, and I’m actually
not
going to cut your head off.”

Jack laughed. His leg hurt a great deal, and it itched, too.

“Through no volition of my own, I have for many years been a member of His Majesty’s household,” Churchill began. Jack was confused by this until he recollected that “His Majesty” no longer meant Charles II, but James II, the whilom Duke of York. Churchill continued: “I suppose I could reveal to you my innermost thoughts about what it’s like to be a Protestant patriot in thrall to a Catholic King who loves France, but life is short, and I intend to spend as little of it as possible standing in dark stables apologizing to shit-covered Vagabonds. Suffice it to say that it’s better for England if
I
do this mission.”

“Suppose I do get away, before Joigny…what’s to prevent me from telling everyone about the longstanding connexions between the Shaftoes and the Churchills?”

“No one of Quality will ever believe a word you say, Jack, unless you say it while you are being expertly tortured…it’s only when you are stretched out on some important person’s rack that
you are dangerous. Besides, there is the Shaftoe legacy to think of.” Churchill pulled out a little purse and jiggled it to make the coins ring.

“I
did
notice that you’d taken possession of my charger, without
paying
for it. Very bad form.”

“The price in here is a fair one—a handsome sum, even,” Churchill said. Then he pocketed the purse.

“Oh, come on—!”

“A naked
galérien
can’t carry a purse, and these French coins are too big to stuff up even
your
asshole, Jack. I’ll make sure your spawn get the benefit of this, when I’m back in England.”

“Get
it,
or get
the benefit of
it? Because there is a slipperiness in those words that troubles me.”

Churchill laughed again, this time with a cheerfulness that really made Jack want to kill him. He got up and plucked the empty pipe from Jack’s mouth, and—as stables were notoriously inflammable, and he did not wish to be guilty of having set fire to the duc’s—went over to the little horseshoe-forge, now cold and dark, and whacked the ashes out of the pipes. “Try to concentrate. You’re a galley slave chained to a post in a stable in Paris. Be troubled by
that.
Bon voyage, Jack.”

Exit Churchill. Jack had been meaning to advise him not to sleep with any of those French ladies, and to tell him about the Turkish innovation involving sheep-intestines, but there hadn’t been time—and besides, who was he to give John Churchill advice on fucking?

Equipped now with boots, a sword, and (if he could just reach it, and slay a few stable-boys) a horse, Jack began considering how to get the damned chain off his neck. It was a conventional slave-collar: two iron semicircles hinged together on one side and with a sort of hasp on the other, consisting of two loops that would align with each other when the collar was closed. If a chain was then threaded through the loops, it would prevent the collar from opening. This made it possible for a single length of chain to secure as many collars, and hence slaves, as could be threaded onto it, without the need for expensive and unreliable padlocks. It kept the ironmongery budget to a minimum and worked so handily that no French Château or German Schloss was without a few, hanging on a wall-peg just in case some persons needed enslaving.

The particular chain that went through Jack’s collar-hasp had a circular loop—a single oversized link—welded to one end. The
chain had been passed around the stone pillar and its narrow end threaded through this loop, then through Jack’s collar, and finally one of the duc’s smiths had heated up the chain-end in the stable’s built-in forge, and hammered an old worn-out horseshoe onto it, so it could not be withdrawn. Typical French extravagance! But the duc had an infinite fund of slaves and servants, so it cost him nothing, and there was no way for Jack to get it off.

The tobacco-embers from the pipes had formed a little mound on the blackened hearth of the forge and were still glowing, just barely. Jack squirmed free of the manure-pile and limped over to the forge and blew on them to keep them alive.