Chapter 13
“And just where do ye think ye are going, little one?” M’sieur Bequel’s gruff voice startled her, staying Zoé’s hand on the door leading from the townhouse to the courtyard where the carriage awaited.
“Out,” she replied, slowly turning around.
The quartermaster stood with his fists on his hips and a scowl on his leathery face making his dark eyes ominous beneath his heavy brows. If she hadn’t known him since she was ten, she might have been frightened. Émile Bequel had a savage look about him. He must have just left the study where he had been confined with her uncle. He wore no coat and his waistcoat of brown leather was only partially buttoned over his linen shirt.
“Just for an hour,” she pleaded. “I have a thought as to how I might learn something more about the Conciergerie.”
His scowl deepened. “The capitaine is meeting with that macaroni, Dordogne, and would not be happy if he discovered ye gone when he’s finished. Ye’d best stay close as he plans to gain entrance to the prison today. ’Sides, the streets of Paris are not safe for one such as ye, even in the daytime.”
“But I must go. Those I intend to call upon might know something others don’t.”
He huffed. “If ye insist on going out, I will go with ye.”
“All right, but be prepared to meet women of pleasure.”
Émile’s mouth dropped open. “And what would ye know of such women, little one?”
“Enough to suspect they service both guards and prisoners and see more than most. When Oncle Jean had the carriage drive by the Conciergerie this morning, I saw women lingering near the front door, smiling at the men going by. I know who they are.”
“We’ll go, but ye’ll not be lingering, or the capitaine will be ordering lashes for me.”
The carriage M’sieur Bequel hailed pulled up several feet from the entrance to the prison. Two women of indeterminate age leaned against the stone wall of the Conciergerie, looking bored. Their faces were painted, their hair long and unkempt and their chemises barely covered their nipples. Zoé had dressed plainly so as not to draw attention. She might have been a nun next to these women.
Bidding Émile to wait by the carriage, which he only reluctantly agreed to do and then with one hand on the pistol shoved into his belt, Zoé approached the two women. “Mesdames,” she said, “might I beg your assistance?”
Their eyes rudely raked her up and down before glancing over her shoulder to where M’sieur Bequel stood wearing a dour expression. “If ye’re lookin’ to ply yer trade here, ma belle, ye might think again. Ye’re pretty enough but these are crowded waters and none too calm.”
“Ye’re too fresh for these men,” said her companion. “Tell yer man watching ye to look elsewhere.”
“Non, vous ne comprenez pas. I do not wish to join you. Mon frère, my brother, is one of the prisoners and I need to see him. Can you tell me when ’tis best to visit so as to gain entrance?”
“Well, now, we can help ye with that,” said the first. “L’après-midi, the afternoon, is best.”
“And why is that, may I ask?”
“The jailor who guards the entrance is a bad sort, but by then, he will be drunken as will the turnkeys below. Les prisonniers will be in the gallery. They won’t hurt ye; it’s the guards ye must be wary of.”
“Them and their dogs,” added the second woman. “One gave me a nasty bite.”
“We’ll be going in ourselves then,” said her friend, “to see our regulars.”
Zoé thanked them and hurried back to M’sieur Bequel and his scowl.
The trial before Fouquier-Tinville went forward amidst crowds of spectators that included the abusive turnkeys. Prostitutes mingled outside the courtroom making Freddie think of a backstreet in London’s St Giles.
The verdict was a foregone conclusion. All were found guilty of being traitors to the revolution and condemned to die, including him and Pax.
In his mind, Freddie heard a door slam.
He had known this was coming but for the boy, it was worse. Freddie had lived some and known a wonderful woman who had given him memories to cherish, but the boy had yet to live. A revolution that devoured its children would not end well.
After the trial, they were shuffled back to the prison and told they would face the guillotine on the morrow.
“What shall we do now?” Pax asked, despondent, his large brown eyes looking up at Freddie as if he alone controlled their choices.
Freddie had been thinking of how to spend their last night and so he was prepared for the question. “How would you like to hear a story of a boy your age who felled a fierce giant?”
Pax nodded vigorously. “I would like that very much.”
“Good. We shall spend my remaining assignats to buy us a fine dinner, well, as fine as this establishment is capable of producing, and then I will tell you the story before you go to sleep.”
The boy’s eyes lit with expectation. Neither of them spoke of what would happen the next day. Freddie planned to tell the boy the story of David and Goliath and the shepherd boy who became a great king. It seemed appropriate since they would soon be meeting David’s God.
“François de Dordogne has agreed to meet us at the Conciergerie,” said Zoé’s uncle. “He tells me West still lives, at least as of today.”
Early that afternoon, her uncle, M’sieur Bequel, Gaspar and Flèche had gathered in the study to go over the details of the rescue. Set before them on the desk were the plans of the prison.
“What will this lawyer do for us, mon oncle?”
“He is to gain us admission without the need for a story about you being dishonored, and he has promised to bring papers allowing us to remove a prisoner.”
“Is he trustworthy?” asked Gaspar.
Her uncle exchanged a look with M’sieur Bequel. “He has not been in the past, but this one time I believe he will be—for his own sake. He is well aware of my reputation. And, with this favor, he will be released from his debt to me.” Turning from the drawing of the prison, he said, “There is another reason I wanted to use him. I intend for us to carry weapons and I don’t want to be searched. We can be glad ’tis a chilly day as we’ll all need to wear cloaks. With Dordogne waiting at the door, Émile can enter with us.”
Shooting their way out of the Conciergerie with armed guards and vicious dogs in pursuit had little appeal for Zoé but she could throw a lethal knife and would if it came to that. Freddie would have no weapons, of course. He would have her uncle, M’sieur Bequel and Gaspar to defend him. The three of them were good with a sword and crack shots with the French pistols they carried. She, too, would carry a pistol, a small one her uncle had given her.
When the carriage finally departed the townhouse, it was with eager anticipation more than fear that Zoé looked out the window to a fair day and busy streets.
She had not seen Dordogne arrive for the meeting with her uncle. But the man who paced in front of the prison dressed in a black suit with a great mound of lace at his neck and cuffs had to be the lawyer who once crossed her uncle. He was slender, almost feminine in appearance, and not much taller than she. His dark hair, longer than that of most Frenchmen, was tied back at his nape.
They stepped out of the carriage and François de Dordogne greeted her uncle with anxious eyes. It was clear he was not pleased to be about the task set before him. “I have come as you asked, Donet.” Working as he did for the revolution’s leaders, Dordogne could not utter the forbidden “Monsieur” of the Ancien Régime nor would he dare label her uncle a citoyen. In turn, her uncle did not introduce Zoé, Gaspar or M’sieur Bequel. “This way,” Dordogne said, gesturing them into the entrance hall. As he did, he paused, giving her a puzzled look.
To the thin jailor wearing a red cap who sat at the door, Dordogne gave his name, “François de Dordogne from the Committee of Public Safety” and handed the doorkeeper some folded papers.
Whether the jailor could read or not, he gave the papers a quick perusal and handed them back. “All seems in order, citoyen Dordogne. You may enter.”
The lawyer gave her uncle another paper and waved them ahead. “This may help. I will wait for you here. Be quick.”
Gaspar led the way down to the dungeons below. The stench of urine and rats nearly overwhelmed Zoé but the thought of seeing Freddie brought tears to her eyes and kept her moving forward. Soon, my love.
As they reached the lower level, a guard approached Gaspar, who offered the paper her uncle had passed to him. “We come for an Englishman wanted for further questioning by the Committee of Public Safety.”
“And the woman?” asked the guard, who reeked of strong liquor.
“To identify him,” said her uncle.
The jailor’s dogs sniffed at them, growling low in their throats, the beasts’ eyes predatory and fierce. Zoé felt like she was looking into the face of evil itself.
They paid most attention to Gaspar. Why soon became evident.
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out some raw meat, tossing it to the dogs. They fell upon it voraciously, snarling at each other.
“Aye, they do love fresh meat,” mumbled the guard, the smell of liquor strong on his breath.
From his waistcoat, her uncle lifted out a wad of assignats. “Here, for your trouble.”
Apparently satisfied, the guard nodded and pointed the way to a large area where many prisoners had congregated.
Searching the faces of the men, Zoé did not recognize Freddie until he stood and shouted, “Zoé!” A small boy held on to his coat or what was left of it. She could hardly believe the soot-covered man who stood before her, tears streaming down his face, was her childhood friend, her Freddie. Her love.
At his approach, she saw his clothing hung in tatters, filthy and stinking, his torn shirt stained with blood. He was thinner than when she’d left him outside of Rennes.
She reached out to hug him and he stepped back. “I am not fit to embrace you.”
Her uncle held out his hand to Freddie. “You have survived, West. That is all anyone can ask.”
Reluctantly, Freddie shook her uncle’s hand.
“Meet Gaspar,” said her uncle.
The former carpenter nodded his head.
Unable to hold back one minute more, Zoé flung herself into Freddie’s arms. “Oh, Freddie. I don’t care what you look like, what you smell like. God has answered my prayers. You are alive!”
“I am, aren’t I?” he said. “Though not quite hale and hearty this time.”
“Come,” urged her uncle, “We must go. Our presence here was gained on a pretext and I cannot be sure how long it will hold.”
They turned toward the stairs but Freddie stopped. “I’ll not go without Pax.”
All eyes turned to the boy still clinging to Freddie’s coat.
Her uncle considered the small lad. “Pax, is it?”
The boy nodded, his eyes full of fear. He must have believed he would be left behind.
“Very well,” said her uncle with a smile for the boy, “you shall come, too. Somehow we will explain you are necessary.”
“We were both to be executed tomorrow,” said Freddie as they headed to the stairs, one hand holding the boy’s and one hand holding hers. He looked back at the other prisoners. “I wish we could take them all. Some have become my friends.”
“Alas, we cannot,” said M’sieur Bequel, heaving a sigh. “Ye are enough trouble, Mr. West. Come now. Ye, too, Pax.”
In the entrance hall, M’sieur Bequel paused, muttering an oath.
Zoé realized something was terribly wrong. François de Dordogne no longer waited at the door and the jailor suddenly rose from his stool to hold out his palm. “Not so fast, citoyen. The man who brought ye left with another. When I asked, he failed to vouch for yer departure. ’Sides,” he added with a disapproving glance at Pax, “there was no mention of a boy.”
Zoé’s uncle flicked his cloak over one shoulder and placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. “That is most unfortunate, citoyen, for it means we shall have to persuade you.” Her uncle withdrew another sword from his cloak and tossed it to Freddie. “I trust you remember how to use it, West.”
“Indeed I do,” he said, giving Pax’s hand to Zoé. “Guard the boy, Pigeon.”
Suddenly a half-dozen soldiers emerged from the wings of the cavernous entrance hall, with drawn swords and shouts of Arrêtez!
M’sieur Bequel whipped his cloak behind him and yanked his sword from its sheath, bracing his legs. “Our four to their seven, Capitaine, assuming the drunken jailor can even fight. Hardly seems a worthy challenge.”
“Then take two!” shouted her uncle with a grin. “That’s my intention.”
M’sieur Bequel chuckled. “Like old times, Capitaine.”
The entrance chamber with its arched ceiling echoed with the sound of crashing steel and men engaging each other’s swords. She pulled Pax away from the fight exploding around them just as Gaspar stepped sideways to deflect the blade of the soldier he was matched with.
Frustrated, the arrogant soldier threw taunts at Gaspar, disparaging his origins.
The former ship’s carpenter merely smiled. “We shall see, mon ami. It is not where you begin that is important, but where you end.”
She had seen her uncle and M’sieur Bequel fight before as merchants defending their cargo and she knew they had once been pirates, so she was not surprised by their prowess with a blade. From the smiles on their faces as they confronted the stiff republican soldiers, they appeared to be enjoying themselves.
Dressed all in black, her uncle untied his cloak and let it fall to the ground. Like a menacing storm, he advanced on his prey, teasing them with his shimmering blade. Outnumbered, her uncle and M’sieur Bequel fought side by side, slicing their blades across their opponents’ swords, causing them to retreat.
Zoé placed herself in front of Pax, guarding the boy with her knife, but the men were too consumed with their fighting to notice her or the lad.
To her amazement, Freddie handled his sword adeptly, confident in his moves as if he’d fought many times before. He swiftly parried the soldier’s thrusts. Much like her uncle, his movements were precise, his style fluid, almost graceful. Twice he turned so rapidly his blade made a rushing sound as it whipped through the air, astounding his opponent.
Where did he learn to fight like that?
A soldier managed to cut the cuff of her uncle’s sleeve. He paused to glance down at the frayed cloth. “Alas, ’twas one of my favorites.” Turning back to the two soldiers who had stopped to gloat, her uncle said, “Enough of this banter! We have no time to teach you braggarts how to fight.” He pulled a pistol from his waist and shot one soldier dead, then quickly dispatched the other with a thrust of his blade.
“Well, if it’s to be like that,” said Émile Bequel, obviously disappointed.
One of his two opponents lunged toward him. M’sieur Bequel snatched his pistol from his waist and fired into the man’s head at close range. The other soldier stared at his fallen companion while Émile slid a knife from his sleeve and threw it at the soldier’s neck. He sank to the stone floor, a gurgling sound emanating from his throat.
Zoé’s mouth dropped open, amazed at how the fifty-year-old quartermaster had fought like a much younger man. She turned to see Freddie sinking his sword into the flesh of the soldier he fought. The man dropped to his knees.
“Well, that’s done,” he said smiling at her.
The last soldier standing was no match for Gaspar. Surveying the field of dead Blues and realizing he was the only one of Donet’s men still fighting, the former ship’s carpenter forced his opponent to the wall, knocked his sword from his hand and sliced the man’s throat. “I wouldn’t want to keep you waiting,” Gaspar said to her uncle as he quickly wiped clean his sword and sheathed it.
Turning his attention to the jailor huddled against the wall, worrying his red cap in his hands, her uncle said, “Care to engage one of us?” Sweeping his arm in front of his companions, he said, “You can take your pick. We are very accommodating. We will even lend you one of our swords.”
The jailor vigorously shook his head, his eyes huge with fright.
“Then be gone with ye,” said M’sieur Bequel.
The thin man disappeared out the front door.
Freddie offered his hand to Zoé and she took it.
“You did well,” said Pax, gazing up at the Englishman he obviously adored.
Zoé squeezed Freddie’s hand, glad to be assured he lived. No matter he smelled like filth and rats. He was here with her. Not for the first time, she thanked God for this man who had offered his life for hers. “I thought you were wonderful.”
At her uncle’s shout, they raced out the door and piled into the waiting carriage, the men’s chests still heaving with the exertion of their fight.
Her uncle took out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his brow. “I would have preferred a quiet exit, but perhaps the prisoners will take this opportunity to escape.”
“They were already creeping into the entrance hall before we left,” said Zoé.
As the carriage traveled down the street, the horses’ hooves clattered over the cobblestones. Freddie leaned across her to peer out the window, looking back toward the Conciergerie. “A great flood of them is flowing out the door.” He leaned back against the seat and let out a breath. “I am more than pleased at least some of the prisoners made it to freedom. Perhaps they can slip into the crowds, unnoticed.”
Zoé smiled at him and then looked across him to Pax, who clung to Freddie’s side like a limpet securely attached to its favorite rock. With Isabeau, who had remained safely behind on la Reine Noire, there would be two children returning with them to Guernsey. Playmates for Jack, she supposed. Pax was about Jack’s age but Isabeau was older. She smiled thinking that would not deter Jack from ordering Isabeau about.
“I wonder who came for Dordogne,” said M’sieur Bequel, his dark brows furrowed in contemplation.
“Assuredly, one of his own,” replied Gaspar. “Fearing the capitaine as he does, he would not have left except at the command of one to whom he was accountable.”
Remembering the odd look Dordogne had given her, Zoé said, “Oncle Jean, that man, François de Dordogne, gave me the strangest look when he first glimpsed me. Why?”
Her uncle gazed out the window, scanning the street, as if still worried about pursuers. “I suspect ’tis because you look very much like my daughter, Claire. She was your age at the time Dordogne was contracted to wed her. Though her eyes are blue and yours are gray, you both have the Donet hair and it’s been years. At the time, I was unaware that Dordogne had deceived me, that he hid a secret that would forever keep him from being a proper husband.”
“Aye,” said M’sieur Bequel, his mouth twitching up in an uncharacteristic grin. “Must have brought back some bad memories for him. He might even have thought the capitaine brought ye along to remind him of his perfidy.”
Freddie raised Zoé’s hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles.
His warm lips on her skin reminded Zoé of his kiss in the forest that had caught her by surprise and forever changed the way she looked at him. Returning him a contented smile, she breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, Freddie was safely returned to her and soon they would be sailing to Guernsey. The future opened wide before them. Not that the war was over, but they could face it together, no longer merely friends but more. Did her uncle and the others notice the more intimate nature of their friendship?
Still holding her hand, Freddie leaned toward her uncle sitting across from them with Gaspar on one side and M’sieur Bequel on the other. “I know this may seem sudden, sir, and I am not dressed for the occasion, but I have waited years to approach you on a certain subject. I can wait no longer.”
All eyes on Freddie, his gaze paused on each man before continuing. “Now that it appears I’m to live, if you give your permission and Zoé will have me, I would like to ask her to become my wife.”
Zoé beamed her happiness at hearing Freddie’s intention and squeezed his hand. She could think of no other man she would rather have. Her best friend had become the man of her dreams, the one man she wanted by her side forever.
Her uncle glanced at her with raised brows. “Zoé?” Beside him, M’sieur Bequel nodded his approval.
“Oh, oui, Oncle Jean. I love him!”
Freddie flashed his white teeth in a broad smile aimed at her. “And I you.”
“I daresay your aunt will be pleased,” said her uncle. “She hinted of this to me not long ago. You did not mention a dowry, West. I assume it is of no matter to you?”
“None at all, sir.”
“Well it matters to me!” Zoé spoke up.
Her uncle chuckled. “I thought it might. ’Tis a considerable one, West, large enough to buy you and my niece a nicely appointed house on Guernsey, should you choose to live there. Or, if you prefer, a ship of your own.”
His words pleased Zoé. She would not go to Freddie a pauper. “Thank you, Oncle Jean.”
Freddie smiled. “Very generous of you, sir.”
“So be it,” her uncle said, “you have my permission, West. But I must insist on a Guernsey wedding, else your sister will have my head.”
Laughter filled the carriage at her uncle’s macabre humor. It was clear they were all relieved to be quitting Paris.
Pax looked up at Freddie, his dark eyes speaking confusion. “Are we going home now?” he asked in a small but hopeful voice.
“Indeed we are,” said Freddie, pulling the boy to him. “To paradise, I’m thinking.”