Royal 02 - Royal Passion (21 page)

"I had no idea you were in France, Your Highness."

"Nor does anyone else. I am still, as I have been for some years, persona non grata here, thus my departure by the back door. It would be flattering, this great fear of me, if it weren't so inconvenient."

From the corner of her eye, she noticed the quick, hard gesture with which Roderic replaced his dagger. He was scowling as he watched the two of them. She said to Louis Napolean, “You will be in danger then. I must not keep you."

"Yes.” He gave a sigh of regret. “I suspect that if you should, it would be worth the risk."

He was a gallant with an eye for a lady; there could be little doubt of that. Still, he was so charmingly diffident about it that he failed to cause alarm. It would be easy, she thought, for a woman to be lulled into a false sense of security by him. She smiled. “Permit me to wish you Godspeed."

"I suppose you must. A pity."

Roderic, watching them, slowly forced himself to loosen his grip on the dagger. It would not do to spill the blood of the Bonaparte pretender all over his own doorstep. He recognized what ailed him with something less than riotous humor. Jealousy. How could it have come upon him so quickly? How could it have happened at all when he was armored against it by cynicism and suspicion?
How
was no longer important. He had allowed a woman without a name to creep under his skin, to burrow toward his heart. She would have to be plucked out because she was nameless no longer.

Mara
, he thought, trying out the syllables in his mind against the reality of her before him, and wondered if he had spoken aloud when she sent him a quick, nervous glance. No, they were waiting for him to move, to play the host by showing his guest out through the servants’ entrance. Without a word he indicated that Louis Napoleon was to precede him, then followed the other man quickly down the stairs.

Mara did not go to bed. She paced up and down, trying to make some sense of what was happening around her. Roderic was a prince, the heir to a throne, and must be presumed to have a vested interest in seeing that monarchy as a form of government was preserved in Europe. He was also a trained fighter with expertise in the protection of royal heads of state—or else in their removal. Through his house trooped radical republican elements, members of the French court, legitimists who would like to see a Bourbon return to the throne in the person of the comte de Chambord, and now Louis Napoleon, the bright hope of the Bonapartist faction. Roderic seemed to have no loyalties, no purpose, and yet he worked diligently at the gathering of information. Why?

Soon there was to be a ball with King Louis Philippe in attendance. Roderic must be there, must be in a certain place as the king entered. Why?

Why?
The question was driving her mad.

If by some miracle she played her appointed part and Roderic was where he was supposed to be at the given time, what happened then would be on her head. She would be the cause. That, too, preyed on her mind.

If he was not there, if nothing happened, then her grandmother would be hurt, perhaps killed. This threat was with her constantly.

It might have been an hour later that Juliana pounded on the door, then opened it and looked in around the edge. “Good, you're still dressed. Come on! Hurry!"

"What is it?"

"They're having a race!"

"Who?"

"The cadre, of course. On the Seine. Bring your cloak!"

Mara came to her feet. “They must be mad."

"Drunk, at least so I think."

The last was muffled as Juliana withdrew her head and pelted away down the corridor. Mara hesitated only a moment. Anything was better than the ceaseless round of her thoughts. Snatching her cloak from the armoire, she ran after Juliana.

The night was cold, the streets slick with dirty, half-melted snow that turned to streaks of black diamonds in the glow of the lanterns. Bundled in furs, buttoned into woolen overcoats, the guests slipped and slid on their way to the carriages lined up outside the house. A few coachmen were exercising their horses, tooling them up and down the streets to prevent damage from standing in the cold, so everyone piled into the few that were available for the short ride to the river's edge. They started out in excitement aided by quantities of wine, but the chill ride along the dark streets, through the Place de la Bastille with its column towering into the night sky to where the Pont d'Austerlitz arched across the Seine, dulled their enthusiasm. They wound up cursing their unpredictable host, though even then they shook their heads in laughing admiration. One never knew what Roderic would be at next: He was a mercurial prince, was he not? So different from the stolid and stiff-rumpled bores at court!

There was no clear consensus about the cause of the race. It appeared to have evolved from a discussion of boating on the Elbe in Prussia, but whether it was the result of a wager, a challenge, or sheer high spirits, no one seemed to know. There was no apparent ill-feeling involved, and yet the men were to be divided into two teams, one headed by the prince, one by the Prussian.

The Seine was the lifeblood of Paris, its main roadway. On its green-brown waters rode much of the commerce of the city, some of it carried by small luggers and thick-waisted barges, but most by narrow boats with square sterns and sharply pointed prows that could shoot easily back and forth under the arches of the many bridges. These smaller crafts were usually controlled by one man with a sweep oar in the stern, though sometimes another man wielded another oar in the prow. They were individually owned, though the fathers and grandfathers of the boatmen may have plied just such skiifs for generations. These boats were moored at night in small flotillas here and there along the river, but especially near the quays upriver where the incoming ships docked. Roderic and the cadre had gone on ahead of the others to wake the sleeping boatmen and to drive a bargain for the use of four of the crafts.

The boats were waiting under the bridge. Each was double-manned with an oar in both the stern and the prow. The cadre had drawn lots to settle the pairing of the teams. The Prussian and Estes were in the first boat, and Michael and Trude in the second, forming the first team. Roderic would be rowing with Jared, and Luca with Jacques, for the second team. Their course of something less than two miles would take them down a straight stretch of the river to where the waters divided to pass around twin islands in the river, the Île Saint-Louis and Île de la Cité. There the boats would separate, the first team going to the right, the second to the left. They would converge again past the point of the second island for the straight stretch sweeping toward the Pont Royal. The first to emerge from under this last bridge would be declared the winner.

They had gathered a crowd. There was a great deal of banter between the boats and the shore. Underneath the bridge a trio of
grisettes
were tearing the flowers and veiling from their hats, flinging them at Jacques and Jared. The twins were flirting with ready wit, at the same time tucking the makeshift favors here and there about their persons. Estes also joined the fun. The others ignored the pretty seamstresses.

Juliana jumped down from the carriage and ran to the bridge railing. “Roderic!” she called down to the men milling about the bobbing crafts below. “I want to go with you!"

"To risk the damp embrace of the Seine? It is not a consummation to be wished. Our respected father would damn it, and rightly so.” His voice floated up, rich and clear and insouciant. His face in the light of the lantern that hung at each prow was pale, but his eyes were bright, too bright. He was not sober.

"He isn't here."

"An unassailable argument. What of the handicap?"

"If it matters that the numbers are uneven, then Chère can go with the other team."

"Fair burdens, both. Shall we see which lady cries quarter first?"

It would not, Mara thought in tight disdain, be her. If it had not been for that slur, she might have refused. The water below the bridge moved black and swift in the night, treacherous with its ripples and wavelets and strings of bubbles whispering of uncertain currents. Here and there along the section of the course that stretched before them was the feeble gleam of lanterns and gaslight street lamps striking across the river's width, but they served only to highlight the windy darkness. From the water rose the sour, oily smell of ancient mud. The boats thudded against the piers of the bridge, oars creaked as the rowers tried to hold them in place. She hoped she did not lack courage, but joining the men in this midnight race did not appeal to her.

"You heard him, we can go. Come on,” Juliana cried. Catching Mara's arm, the other girl half dragged her toward the steps that led down to the footpath under the bridge.

The boats were maneuvered to the water's edge. Juliana climbed into her brother's boat, and Mara was taken aboard that of the Prussian. They seated themselves in the middle so that the weight would be evenly distributed. Once more the skiffs took their places under the bridge.

Quiet descended. The boats rose and fell, and the cold wind whistled around the stone piers of the bridge. The water made a chuckling, ruffling sound. The faces of the men were ghostlike in the faint glow of the lanterns. Michael and Trude were dutifully, grimly ready. Estes, with the Prussian, appeared huddled against the chill but willing, while the crown prince was merely impatient. Luca and Jacques were poised now; the twin, like his brother, turning his attention to the task ahead. Roderic spoke a soft order or two, but sat relaxed and competent, replete with concentration that was unimpaired by the least sign of inebriation. They waited.

Above them came a flare of orange light as a torch was lighted. The voice of the elder Dumas rang out in some eloquent speech, the words of which were lost in the windy night. Then, with fine dramatic timing, the torch was tossed from the bridge above. It flared as it fell, smoking, then was extinguished by the water. The boats surged from under the dark shadow of the bridge. The race had begun.

Like whales leaping free, heavily falling, like horses springing out of a farmyard gate into summer's green pastures, the boats, thrust by strong backs and hard, knotting muscles, plowed the waters of the Seine into splashing furrows as they raced with the stream down the course. The oars shrieked and groaned and thudded, digging into the water, throwing spray into the air. The river gurgled and hummed. The men shouted in jubilance and fierce competition as they strained, grunting, into the oars. Behind them on the bridge the cheers of the prince's guests soared, then faded quickly as the craft swept away.

Neck to neck, the boats held their positions as the rowers beat the river. Now one, then another, eased forward, fell back, separated by only the lengths of the oars. The wind created by their passage flapped their cloaks and tore at their hair. The outflung droplets fell like rain, splattering onto their heated faces and mingling with the dew of sweat.

The shouting died away. Along the quayside streets on either side appeared the shapes of fast-moving carriages as the guests tried to keep up with the boats. Men hung out of the windows, waving their hats, or else yelled from the coachmen's boxes where they had taken seats to see better.

It settled down to a hard contest. The face of the Prussian in the rear of Mara's boat was set in bulldog grimness. Estes grimaced with each pull, but kept to the same unrelenting pace as the crown prince. Roderic's face, in the light of the boat lantern across the way, was reckless in its gaiety, yet concentrated. He lifted his voice and began to sing, a ribald sea chantey that held a strong and steady rhythm. Jared, Jacques, and Luca, the other members of his team, took it as their mark and. pulled together with smooth, hard-bellied strokes.

Within moments the boats began to pull apart, dividing to take the separate channels of the river. Notre Dame with its flying buttresses bulked ahead of them like some ancient squatting stone spider. The boats swept around it, and the night was suddenly quiet as the wind died, blocked by the stone building. The quay on their left was high, a wall of stone brought nearer as the arm of the river narrowed. Above it rose the tall houses of Paris, their windows dark and sightless, the shops on the lower floors closed and with awnings rolled up.

They pulled on in a stone-lined tunnel of dank and black night, the lantern bobbing up and down spreading yellow-orange light on the luminous water ahead of them. The men pulled until the veins stood out in their temples and their breathing grew bellow's deep and gasping, and they had no thought for anything except the next pull, the next breath, the slow-moving turn of the river.

On her seat Mara braced against the regular tugs of the oars and strained her eyes to see ahead. Her thoughts were on the others racing around the opposite side of the islands, nearest to the Right Bank; thoughts hurried by distrust. There might be none who could remember how this race had come about, but she would be willing to wager that there was one who knew it well. Roderic, drunk or sober, did nothing without a purpose. If he was racing down the Seine at this moment, it was for a reason. What was it? What was he doing?

Ahead of them appeared gray rags of fog. It drifted on top of the water, swirling, curtsying around them as they struck through it. It grew thicker, and the light of the prow lantern reflected from it, turning it into a dirty and opaque curtain. It hung close, stifling sound, making the world seem distant. When they rounded the point of the Île de la Cité, it lay like a snug coverlet over the width of the river with the Pont des Arts arching above it, an edging of iron lace. And slicing through it, skimming like red-eyed gulls, were the skiffs of Roderic's team, a boat length ahead.

The Prussian cursed, and the boat in which Mara sat leaped forward. It began to close the distance between it and the leaders, but it left behind the boat driven by Michael and Trude. Finally it drew even. For long moments, the three boats held steady, then slowly the other boat of Roderic's team, the one carrying Luca and Jacques, began to fall back. The Pont des Arts swept past overhead. Driven by the river's flow and the heat of the race, the two leading boats moved slowly closer together. The Pont Royal loomed ahead of them, a mass of stone pierced by five fog-filled arches. In a line upon it were the carriages of the guests who had raced ahead to watch the end of the race. The carriage lanterns shone like rubies as the fog wreathed up and around them.