The Trojan Icon (Ethan Gage Adventures Book 8) (9 page)

“We’re just visiting. There’s a better place down the road.”

A mirror confirmed our disarray. We smelled like a stable and I wouldn’t have blamed fat Louis for heaving us out. What I was counting on was curiosity. It’s dull to wait in exile and we’d prove diverting. Or so I bet.

CHAPTER 11

T
he maids brought screens to allow us to strip and scrub, and Astiza supervised Harry. Our clothes were taken for washing and we got presentable substitutes: mine a white guards’ uniform and my wife’s the dress of a lady-in-waiting. For Harry they fetched a sailor suit, which thrilled him. Then a chevalier came to escort us to an audience with Louis.

I complimented the nobleman on his lord’s charity.

“The king has sympathy for all refugees because of his own misfortune at the hands of the execrable Bonaparte,” the chevalier replied. “The king is interested to hear your insights on the usurper and the United States. Royalist France was the father of your country’s independence.”

Interesting that they pretended Louis already had the crown, and gave their aid so much credit, but I figured it was smart to agree. “I hope its not too late to say thank you. We revere Lafayette.”

“An idealist who proved foolishly liberal in our own revolution. I, for one, regret ever helping America. It was the start of all our troubles.”

Like all palaces, this one was a dozen times larger than it needed to be and less comfortable because of it, with drafty corners, echoing hallways, and clattery stairs. The pomposity was made worse by the structure’s emptiness. I knew that erratic Tsar Paul ordered Louis out of Jelgava five years ago when he abruptly tired of his royal guest. The French refugees were already so bankrupt that they’d had to auction off most of their remaining furniture simply to move away. Now Tsar Alexander, who judged Louis a potential pawn, had invited the French royalists back without providing money to buy new belongings. Louis might wish to restore the rituals of Versailles, but he lacked the tables, chairs, knickknacks, or courtiers to pull off such pretense. The palace did shine from French scrubbing, and boasted that upper-class smell of candlewax, floor polish, tobacco, chamber pots, and mildew. By Russian custom, the servant who led our little procession swung a charcoal censor that burned perfume.

A wide corridor absent of carpet, its decorative niches barren, led to a broad double door. Two grenadiers flanked this entry, stiff as statues and wearing antique royal uniforms with tricorne hats. Both had muskets. The exile was taking no chances.

At the chevalier’s nod the soldiers swung the doors to reveal an inviting library with ample furniture and crackling fire. Harry bolted so quickly to the heat that an embarrassed Astiza had to rush to corral him.

“Monsieur Ethan Gage,” the chevalier announced. “And family.” This last was said with disapproval. Then he shut the doors behind us.

The king-in-waiting sat in a shadowy corner on a stuffed leather chair, its arms spotted with crumbs. Did he eat in this hideaway? The library was walled with books, tapestries, maps, and heavy oil portraits of Louis’s royal ancestors. Two of those pictured—Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette—were now headless, but here they gazed with neck firmly attached. The picture frames were scuffed from frequent traveling, I noted, and the chairs looked nicked and stained. Louis had fled for refuge to Holland, Italy, the Duchy of Brunswick, Prussia, Warsaw, and twice to Jelgava, begging for subsidy from other rulers. So long as they pretended he might someday be king, he could pretend to be one.

Astiza and I bowed deeply, Louis regally nodding in reply.

“Harry, take a bow,” I ordered, and my son bobbed as told.

“Are you a real king?” he piped.

Louis was taken aback. “Indeed I am,” he said. “Or will be.”

The “king” had none of Napoleon’s magnetism. His lower lip was plump as a pouting girl’s, jowls hung around his chin, and his complexion was pasty. He was an overweight, sedentary, fifty-year-old conservative still favoring the court dress of the 18th Century, meaning an evening robe atop waistcoat, tight knee-breeches, silk stockings, silver slippers, and a high collar to warm his own neck. His legs looked swollen and his hands putty soft. His gaze was shy yet curious, like my child’s.

Since he didn’t invite us to sit we stood like petitioners. “Monsieur Gage,” he prompted.

“Your… majesty.” Always err on the side of flattery. “Ethan Gage, diplomat and military attaché, at your service. I bring you greetings from America and the best wishes of our president.” I brought no such thing but I could put into Jefferson’s mouth any words that came into my head, since the Virginian was a safe six thousand miles away.

“A diplomat who comes as a ragged refugee, my sergeant-of-arms informs me.”

“We were beset by thieves while on the way to Poland.”

“Poland no longer exists.”

“Unless you ask a Pole.” Since no royal will tolerate boredom, a diplomat needs just enough cheek to remain interesting. Louis chuckled.

“Indeed, indeed. Persistent as lice! And you beset by thieves. The scum of the earth prowls like wolves since the wars of Bonaparte. Renegades, deserters, tramps, camp followers, gypsies, Cossacks, Jews, pirates, peddlers, and mercenaries. Should be hanged, the lot of them. Will be, when order is restored.” He gazed into this elusive future. “Well. I seldom get a diplomat at nighttime in winter, accompanied by wife and child, in garments suited to a Huron or Ojibway.” He smiled thinly. “We are amused.”

“Determination, combined with your reputation for wisdom and charity, brings us here, my lord …”

“I’m not a lord, I’m heir to a king, displaced by a tyrant, and slandered by traitors.” He glanced at my boy. “
Oui
, the rightful king.”

“Yes, your majesty,” I said again. “The Russian foreign minister suggested you might find me informative. I’ve worked for and against Bonaparte … “

“The usurper.”

“The usurper, your majesty. I know his strengths and weaknesses.”

“You witnessed Austerlitz?”

“Fought in it, on the French side. And at Trafalgar as well.”

“You contrived to be at both battles?” They’d been six weeks apart.

“I’m an energetic traveler.” This, at least, was true. “Terrible struggles, the havoc of hell. I also helped the United States purchase Louisiana after exploring there. Now we’re on a mission for Prince Czartoryski, but barely escaped the criminals who plague the roads.”

“What times we live in.” Louis shook his head. “Me, an exile. You, a diplomat. Baffling, no?”

“We need refuge and supply before resuming our journey. As a protégé of Benjamin Franklin and confidant of President Jefferson …”

“Won’t you introduce your wife?” He peered at her as intently as the sergeant outside had done.

“Her name is …”

“Astiza, your majesty.” She used her serene tone that can be as arresting as her beauty. “A priestess, student, and philosopher of the East, as well as a seer and alchemist.” She smiled, which she can do very well, and performed a curtsey with a grace that emphasized her charms as a woman. Frankly, Astiza is better at this game than I am.

“Alchemy? The art of transformation?”

“Indeed, your majesty.”

“Did you know that the Italian sorcerer Cagliostro once stayed at this palace and astounded the aristocracy of Latvia with his prophecies?”

“I sensed his lingering spirit.”

“Some thought him immortal.”

“Cagliostro?” My heart quickened. I’d run afoul of his sect and put an end to a lieutenant or two of the famed Egyptian Rite. Was Louis tangled up in their intrigues? That would be the worst luck.

“I’d be interested if he left any writings or experiments, your majesty,” Astiza said smoothly. “I’m anxious to learn from remarkable men in our remarkable times.”

“Ghastly times. And you a woman! Astounding, astounding. Well.” He sipped from a goblet. “There were witty women at Versailles, you know.”

“There are witty women everywhere, majesty.”

“I suppose. Can’t include my wife, homely as a hound and mindless as a squirrel, bless her troubled heart. Now the Countess of Balbi,
she
could carry a conversation.” This was Louis’s mistress, as all the world knew. “And are you aware I wrote a biography of Marie Antoinette? Lost times, lost times.” He peered at us in turn. “Well. A most peculiar family.”

“Even Horus here contributes to our search for wisdom.”

“Does he now? And have you met a king before, my boy?”

An ordinary child might be too shy to answer, but mine gabbed as rashly as his Papa. “I saw Napoleon. He’s an emperor!”

“Hmph,” Louis said. “So he claims. But not a king.”

“He’s a bad man,” Harry went on blithely. “I hope you’re a good king.”

In a year of diplomacy I couldn’t have thought of anything to better break the ice with our host. Louis beamed. “Actually, I’m presently the Count of Provence and heir to the French throne. My brother was king of France, and someday I shall be too.”

“I think I shall be President,” Harry said solemnly. And with that the two of them, one five and the other fifty, bonded.

“I approve of your family, American. But mother and son are no doubt exhausted and in need of rest. It is bedtime, is it not, young Horus?”

“I suppose so, king.”

“Your family will be shown to a bedchamber while you and I talk, Gage.” Louis reached to a side table to ring a silver bell and summon back the chevalier, who in turn fetched other servants. In short order Astiza and Harry were escorted to a bedroom. I was finally offered a chair and a glass of wine, although a bowl of raisins Louis plucked at was kept well out of my reach. I was exhausted too, but worked to stay alert during an extended interrogation about America, Czartoryski, the mood of Tsar Alexander, and the terrible battles. The exile’s questions were surprisingly sharp.

The one subject Louis avoided was Napoleon himself, the Colossus astride Europe. Bonaparte’s success, and Bourbon impotence, must gnaw at him like a cancer. The exile had no army, no revenue, and a hollowed court. His sole remaining asset was his ancestry. Louis was the most pitiful of men, a king without a throne, a ruler with no idea how he might rule, claiming leadership of a country that had no use for him. And so I answered as patiently as I could while waiting for his real inquiry, the vulnerabilities of the “usurper” he must in turn usurp. It was when the clock chimed eleven that Louis got to the point of our meeting.

“I invited you into my presence, Monsieur Gage, because I’d already received correspondence about you.”

I smiled as much as I dared. “From Minister Czartoryski?”

“Not the first time I’ve heard mention of your adventures.”

I was puzzled. How else would Louis have heard of me? “I hope it was flattering. I try my best.”

“A treasure hunter, I was told.” He picked up a raisin. “With a treasure, perhaps?”

Here was danger. “I’m afraid not, your majesty. All I’ve possessed has been lost.” I was glad we’d hid the swords. “I’m simply a diplomat on a mission of peace, robbed of horse and sleigh. Thank goodness you’re Adam’s friend. Minister Czartoryski sends his goodwill.”

“Yes. Well. But I was told you might be bringing some artifacts. Patriotic relics. Old things.” It was almost a whine of disappointment.

Odd. Czartoryski had said to keep the swords a secret. “I carry only ministerial messages, I’m afraid.”

He was dissatisfied. “Messages to who, about what?”

“The foreign minister bound me to secrecy. He said you, the target of poisoners, would understand. It concerns the ambitions of the tyrant Napoleon.”

Now the heir held my eye for a long time, judging both my truth and my resolve. I put on a gamblers face, which is to say no face at all. Finally he looked away. “You said you were both for and against Bonaparte?”

“I served with him in Egypt, but barely escaped a massacre he organized in Jaffa. Accordingly, I wound up on the Turkish side in the Holy Land. Since then the two of us have circled like boxers.” Best to be honest about my allegiances, since Louis seemed to know more than I’d expected.

“You’ve no moral compass?”

“My lode star is my family.”

“And yet the usurper still trusts you?” He ate the raisins one at a time, using his fat fingers as a forceps.

“Hardly. Napoleon uses me. Bonaparte prides himself on finding the utility in every man, even me, and thinks he can seduce anyone on earth, man or woman. He trusts no one, but we’re both gamblers. Napoleon believes in boldness because aggression has served him well. Someday he’ll gamble too much, and reach too far.”

“And meanwhile he dictates to Europe while I stew in Jelgava.” It was said with grave dissatisfaction at the unfairness of life. “No monarch will give me men, and each fights him their own stupid, stubborn way. Prussia shrank from last year’s campaign so they’ll stand alone this year. Then Russia the next. Fools! But no one listens to fat forgotten Louis.” In popped another raisin.

“Waiting may not be unwise, your majesty. Napoleon is too proud, too impatient, and too reckless. He unsettles everyone. You, sire, could be the stalwart around whom Europe rallies. I want to carry word of your readiness to Poland.” My mission was to reestablish Poland as a buffer state, not to make Louis a standard, but vagueness, delay, strategic silences, and answering questions with more questions are all tools of the statesman. “Our goal is a peace that gives time for Bonaparte to fall.”

“Or to consolidate his empire. I want war and his overthrow.”

“You have royal legitimacy he can never obtain,” I insisted. “No self-crowned emperor can match you. Meanwhile, I ask only for a horse team, sleigh, and supplies in order to complete my mission.”

“For a Russian government that starves me of support.”

“Perhaps Minister Czartoryski can persuade the tsar to grant more, now that the two of you are cooperating. Don’t give up hope. Fortune turns swiftly.”

“Does it? How the hours crawl.” He paused, lost in thought. A clock chimed midnight. Other timepieces in distant rooms repeated the announcement, bong answering bong through the half-empty palace. “Does Napoleon stay up late?”

“He sleeps very little.”

“I, neither. Well.” He stood up. “I’m keeping you from your family. Let my servants show you to your chamber and we’ll talk more tomorrow. When fortune, perhaps, has turned.” He gave a wan smile. “Goodnight sir.”