The Silver Blade (21 page)
‘Chantilly,’ repeated Yann.
‘Yes, the chateau has been made into a prison. Can anything be done?’
‘I hope so,’ said Yann.
T
hat night Yann bathed in a large tin bath and slept in a feather bed. He woke early. Monsieur Tarlepied arrived with breakfast and later shaved Yann, and opened the Duke’s dressing room for him.
hat night Yann bathed in a large tin bath and slept in a feather bed. He woke early. Monsieur Tarlepied arrived with breakfast and later shaved Yann, and opened the Duke’s dressing room for him.
Yann selected a pair of breeches and a waistcoat that belonged to the days of dancing and grand balls, a shirt and a beautifully embroidered dressing gown, and took them down to the kitchen. He and Marie sat at the table altering the clothes so that the breeches looked like those worn by the National Guard.
By three o’clock,Yann was ready to leave. He stood at the door dressed in a waistcoat, shirt, breeches and dressing gown, a three-cornered hat with a tricolour pinned to it and a sash of office across his chest, his boots well worn and muddy.
The old man stared at him, foxed. ‘Forgive me, monsieur, ‘ he said, ‘but I can’t see how this is going to work. You look too eccentric.’
Yann lifted his shoulders back, stuck his chest out like a cockerel and in the thickest of Marseilles accents, which Monsieur Tarlepied could hardly understand, demanded to know why he addressed him as ‘monsieur’. Wasn’t he a patriot?
Marie, looking terrified at the transformation in Yann, backed away. ‘Stop it, sir, you’re frightening us.’
‘Good,’ said Yann, ‘that’s the effect I want to achieve. As for the clothes, I will explain that the waistcoat and the dressing gown have come from the Conciergerie, property of a prisoner who was guillotined, a reminder, if one was needed, of what we are fighting for: the freedom of this great country against the tyrannical claw of the past that all this brocade represents.’
I
t was late afternoon when Yann set off, riding the Duke’s only remaining horse, a fine white stallion which had been loose in the fields and near gone wild. Yann whistled him to come, spoke Romany into his soft ears, and the great horse stood quietly as Yann mounted. Like Yann he had need of the wind beneath his hooves. Yann’s unanswered question came back to him: should I forgive Tetu? And he was surprised by his own answer. Yes.
t was late afternoon when Yann set off, riding the Duke’s only remaining horse, a fine white stallion which had been loose in the fields and near gone wild. Yann whistled him to come, spoke Romany into his soft ears, and the great horse stood quietly as Yann mounted. Like Yann he had need of the wind beneath his hooves. Yann’s unanswered question came back to him: should I forgive Tetu? And he was surprised by his own answer. Yes.
Chapter Eighteen
T
he grand chateau of Chantilly purported to be one of the finest specimens of Renaissance architecture. In the moonlight it looked like an enchanted castle, surrounded on all sides by a silvery moat, but its wrought-iron gates had been boarded up to stop any prisoner talking to the outside world. Yann arrived as he had planned, at midnight.
he grand chateau of Chantilly purported to be one of the finest specimens of Renaissance architecture. In the moonlight it looked like an enchanted castle, surrounded on all sides by a silvery moat, but its wrought-iron gates had been boarded up to stop any prisoner talking to the outside world. Yann arrived as he had planned, at midnight.
On the journey he had been thinking about how he was going to free the Duchess. He planned to use his new trick, one Tetu had taught him. Yann had spent months perfecting it.
Now he was here, he realised that only audacity would save him. He started shouting at the top of his lungs.
The old turnkey, gnarled like applewood and pickled in cider, came running, woken from a drunkard’s dream, and with great effort pushed the gate open far enough to see who was causing such a rumpus.
What the turnkey saw, or thought he saw, standing at the gate were several young men on horseback, all rather oddly dressed.
‘I am here from Paris. Take me to the governor. What’s wrong with you, man? Stand straight when you talk to me.’
Yann handed him a letter, knowing the man couldn’t read, which made him considerably easier to deal with. The turnkey saw on the paper a lot of squiggly lines that looked like the kind of official squiggly lines one might need to see the prison governor.
The gate ground open all the way and Yann was in.
‘My horse needs feeding and watering. Did you hear me? Jump to it!’
Yann’s voice was very loud, loud enough to waken the dead. It worked. Lights appeared at windows. Half-dressed, the guards came running.
‘I want to see the governor of the prison now,’ he demanded.
He was taken to see Citizen Notte.
The prison governor came reluctantly from his bedchamber, wearing a dressing gown quite inferior to the one worn by this very handsome and assured young man.
Yann handed him the papers. He examined them carefully and all the while Yann’s eyes never left him.
Citizen Notte put them down. ‘All seems above aboard. Just the one prisoner, I see.’
‘That is correct.’
The governor was staring at Yann.
‘What is your name?’
‘Socrates,’ Yann replied.
‘And what was it, citizen, before this new fashion to have Greek names?’
‘The name of a saint that stinks of the old regime.’
Citizen Notte could see this earnest young man took his job very seriously indeed, and without an ounce of humour to lighten his load.
‘Quite. Will you be wanting a bed for the night?’
‘The Public Prosecutor’s office never sleeps. This woman is wanted in court tomorrow in Paris. My duty is to get her there. I shall need a carriage.’
This came as a real blow. Carriages were valuable and scarce.
‘You mean you didn’t bring one?’ said Citizen Notte, beginning to wake up. ‘We are very short of such things. A farm cart, maybe?’
‘No, it wouldn’t get there fast enough.’
‘I should tell you that we are understaffed. I suppose you will need a prison guard to accompany you as well?’
‘Why? She is just one miserable woman.’
There was a knock on the door and a man entered. His eyes, too wide apart, had the look of a zealot, burning with fanatical passion. It was clear that mercy was not high on his list of priorities.
‘This is my right-hand man, Citizen Marchand of the Revolutionary Army.’
Yann had seen his name in secret reports which Cordell had shown him. He knew that Marchand worked in confidence for the Committee of Public Safety and his ambition was to be transferred to Paris to work with Robespierre. Yann was more wary of Citizen Marchand than he was of the governor. For a start, he was stone-cold sober. And he took the papers from Citizen Notte before Yann had had a chance to work on him.
‘What are these?’ he demanded. ‘There’s nothing written here. What’s your game? Who are you?’
Yann puffed himself up like a great cockerel. ‘I am here on business for the Public Prosecutor’s office.’ He spoke slowly, concentrating on getting a hold on Marchand’s mind.
Citizen Notte looked flustered and took back the papers to study them again. Visible relief spread over his face as he handed them to Yann.
‘I hope there’s nothing wrong with your eyes, citizen, for this is all correct. I am about to give orders for the woman to be brought down to the courtyard.’
Marchand snatched the papers from Yann and saw quite clearly the name of the prisoner. He looked momentarily uncertain; and yet there could be no denying this letter was from Fouquier-Tinville’s office.
Yann could see how he was battling with his reason, as if doubt still threatened to get the better of him.
‘Strange,’ he murmured.
Yann knew he had him.
‘No, what’s strange, citizen, is that you questioned my word. I think certain friends at the Hotel de Ville should know that.’
‘I meant no offence,’ said Marchand.
‘Just get me the prisoner. I haven’t got all night for these bourgeois pleasantries.’
Citizen Notte looked genuinely worried as he rang the bell, longing for this to be over, and for the young man and his prisoner to be gone.
A guard entered and spoke to Citizen Notte in a whisper.
‘What is it?’ said Marchand.
‘There is a problem. The prisoner says she won’t leave without the young girl who is sharing her cell.’
He looked at Yann, who knew exactly what he was expected to say: that they were to drag her out by her hair if necessary, he cared nothing for any attachment the traitor might have formed.
Instead he said, ‘How old is she, citizen?’
The governor looked at the list. ‘She is sixteen, sir. The whole family was arrested for hiding a priest. Her parents and older brother were guillotined last week.’
‘Sounds to me as if she’s guilty as hell. Better bring her along. They like all different ages on the scaffold.’
Ten minutes later a battered old carriage that looked and smelled as if it had been used as a henhouse was pulled into the courtyard, together with a tired-looking horse. Keeping his head low, Yann opened the carriage door to make sure he had the right prisoners.
‘What’s this?’ shouted Yann, seeing the horse. ‘This nag’s good for nothing but glue. I have to be in Paris by the morning, not next week.’
There was a panic among the guards. Marchand suggested he should use his own horse.
‘What?’ said Yann. ‘My horse is employed by the Republic to take me wherever I’m needed. It’s not meant for pulling henhouses.’
Reluctantly Marchand led out a fine dapple grey.
‘It’s mine, I—’
Yann interrupted. ‘What’s yours is mine, citizen. Remember we are all one now.’
He waited as the old horse was unharnessed and Marchand’s grey put in its place, then climbed up and took the reins. He had set off towards the gates with the Duke’s horse tied to the back of the rickety vehicle when he heard Marchand call.
‘Wait!’
Yann’s heart sank. He could see the open road, he could smell freedom. He was so nearly there. He had a mad impulse to make a dash for it, to get away. That, he knew, would be suicide.
Marchand ran up to him. ‘You will put in a good word for me?’ he said. ‘I am hoping to be transferred to Paris.’
‘Again you waste my valuable time. Good morning to you, citizen,’ said Yann, and he cracked his whip and set off.
The day had dawned by the time they came to a crossroads in the forest, and he took the carriage down an overgrown path as far as he could so that they were well hidden.
He opened the carriage door. The interior was coated with feathers, and perched on one of the upholstered seats was a hen that had obstinately refused to leave.
The Duchess was sitting in the opposite corner, the girl fast asleep, resting her head on her shoulder. Both had had their hair cut off so that what was left stuck up in tufts.
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