Clash of Empires (19 page)

“I will lead it myself,” Willem says.

“You may wear the uniform of a major, but that does not make you one,” the earl says. “Wellington will not allow a civilian to lead a team of soldiers into battle.”

“If I may, Your Grace,” Arbuckle says.

“Arbuckle?” the earl asks.

“I would regard it as an honor if you were to release me for the duration of this mission,” Arbuckle says. “As you know, I have traveled the old smugglers' routes in and out of the continent on many occasions. If anyone can get them to the Sonian undetected, I can.”

“Are you not also a civilian?” Frost asks.

The earl shakes his head. “Arbuckle still holds his former rank. That of a captain of the infantry. However, most of his time in recent years has not been spent on the front lines, but far beyond them. Lieutenant, will you accept Captain Arbuckle as your commander?” the earl asks. “I can assure you that he is an extraordinarily capable man.”

“It would be a privilege,” Frost says. “It…” His voice trails off and he cocks his head, listening. Willem listens too, but cannot hear what Frost is hearing. All he can discern is the buzzing of the rain on the eaves of the big house.

The earl clears his throat to speak, but Frost raises a finger to his lips. He points to Willem, then toward the forest.

Confused, Willem begins to turn. Arbuckle moves in that direction also, but Frost holds up a hand to stop him. He gestures toward the house.

As the others, taking Frost's hint, disappear in that direction, Willem waits alone in the garden. The rain finds gaps in his clothing and water trickles down his neck. There is neither sound nor sight of anything notable. He has half turned to go inside when a movement by the large fountain that is a centerpiece of the garden catches his eye. He turns back to it and waits.

A figure emerges, female. At first he thinks she is naked but then realizes that she wears a simple brown smock that is rain-saturated and clinging to her body.

“
Bonsoir
, Héloïse,” Willem calls.

She takes a few steps toward him, then stops, crouching by a tree next to the pathway, eyes darting around like those of a small, tense animal. This is not the Héloïse Willem knows. The girl he knew was a wildcat, unpredictable and dangerous. This is a timid fawn, trapped and trembling.

The rain thickens, yet she appears not to notice it. Willem's clothes are now fully saturated, clammy and noisy when he moves.

Still he waits, unwilling to spook her. Water droplets gather in the fur across her scalp that once was long, wild brambles of hair. They run down her face, dripping from the ends of her eyelashes.

A horse whinnies in the nearby stables and she jumps.

For the first time Willem realizes how much he and this wild girl have in common. They were both outcasts in their own village, now both cast out from that village. Both a little lost in a world that is foreign to them.

Slowly, so slowly, he raises a hand from his side, palm up and open, extending his arm toward her.

She does not move.

He extends his arm to the fullest, and leaves it there, an invitation, no more.

Her feet, he can see, are gray-brown with river mud, thick and gluggy, so that not even the heavy rain can wash it away. The mud has seeped up between her toes, and her toenails are black.

She scratches at an armpit like a monkey, then her other armpit, then her crotch.

She raises her head and sucks at the rain, never taking her eyes off him.

Still he waits.

She turns and looks back at the forest—
deciding
, he thinks.

He keeps his arm out although it is growing heavy and is starting to waver.

Then in a quick movement she is standing in front of him, her eyes piercing his, looking for answers to questions that he does not know.

He lowers his elbow to his side, keeping his forearm extended.

He feels a light touch on his hand, small, strong fingers wrapping around his. Withdrawing, then returning, interlacing with his. It is a feeling of warmth and connectedness that transcends the rain, the wind, and the mud on her skin.

At last she smiles.

He turns, and she turns with him, and together they walk toward the house.

 

AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR

In far-off Antwerp, the front door of a different house is opened, a centimeter, no more, and a huge shape blocks any light from inside. François stands patiently, without speaking, aware he is being scrutinized. It is almost dark outside and a sharp wind is gusting through the grassy park that is opposite number 25 Avenue Quentin Matsys.

Eventually the door is opened farther, revealing a huge man with a well-rounded stomach and a long, thick, and drooping mustache. It is the man who led them to, but not through, the Ruien, the underground sewer system, a few months earlier.

The man nods briefly in recognition but says nothing.

“I am François, from Gaillemarde,” François says. “You remember me?”

The giant is silent and motionless.

“You helped us escape from Antwerp,” François says.

There is a small noise from inside the room and François is surprised to see two eyes appear, as if from nowhere, in the darkness. It is a lady, very old. Dressed in an elegant dress of indeterminate color and constantly shifting shape. This must be Sofie Thielemans, François decides.

“Monsieur, we do not know you,” Sofie says. “Nor do we know anything about the escape you speak of.”

“I understand,” François says. “I have come to the wrong address and I apologize for disturbing you. I am searching for a friend of mine named Willem Verheyen. Do you know anyone by this name?”

“No,” Sofie says. “But I wish you luck in finding him.”

“You must leave,” the man says, moving his head forward and checking both ends of the street.

“You are sure?” François asks. “I have an important message for him from his father.”

The man does not react to the mention of Willem's father, but Sofie cannot avoid a slight widening of her eyes. Just the merest movement, a flicker of her eyelids, but enough to confirm to François that she knows Willem and the circumstances of his family.

“You have the wrong house,” the man says.

“Again, my apologies,” François says. “But should you, by any chance, happen to meet Willem, please let him know that his father has recovered from a long illness and is currently recuperating at the abbey in the Sonian Forest.”

“I assure you, we do not know this friend of yours, and so are unlikely to meet him,” Sofie says.

“Please do not come again,” the giant says as he closes the door.

From the house to the tavern where Baston waits is barely a few hundred meters, but François walks a long, circuitous route that takes him past two or three of Baston's men, casually stationed in windows and doorways. If anyone was to follow him, they would see it. He cannot be too careful. Sofie Thielemans has eyes in all corners of the city.

What kind of signal they have among themselves is not visible to François, but it is there, for as he enters the tavern he is given a brief nod by a thin-faced French soldier standing just inside the door with a glass of ale that has not been touched.

François makes his way through the tavern, past a plump woman in an indelicate dress and a moneylender engaged in a furious argument with a man who smells strongly of fish. A rear door leads to the alley behind and it is there that Baston waits, while more of his men guard each end of the alley.

“It was him,” François says. “And an old lady who must be Sofie. They denied knowing Willem, as you predicted.”

“And the message you gave them was exactly as I worded it?” Baston asks.

François nods. “If they can contact Willem, they will do so. I am sure of it.”

Baston looks over François's shoulder and François turns to see the thin-faced soldier from the tavern, who still holds his untouched glass of ale.

“Use only your best men,” Baston says to the soldier. “Watch them day and night.”

 

Book Two

THE MISSION

October 6–October 14, 1815

 

THE SIEGE OF FORT CARLISLE

Thibault walks briskly through the courtyard of Fort Carlisle, his latest conquest in Ireland, and the one from where he intends to defeat the anticipated English counterattack.

Three battlesaurs are chained to huge bolts driven into the walls. Not one bolt, but four for each of the greatjaws. The idea of one of these creatures getting loose during the night is too awful to contemplate. They do not distinguish between French and foe. They can be controlled; that is all.

They are his girls, but they are not pets. They are not tame, nor tameable.

They growl and bellow at his approach, thrashing against the chains, but the links are large and the walls are resolute. The largest of the three girls, Mathilde, snaps at him as he walks almost within range. A meter closer and her great teeth would have taken his head off. She is his favorite.

Another cannon roars in the distance and the whistle of an approaching cannonball makes Thibault look up. There is a dull
thud
as the ball hits low on the outer stonework of the fort, where the wall is strongest and the cannonball will do little damage. The British dare not bring their cannon any closer as that would put them within range of the fort's cannon, so they content themselves with the occasional shot primed with extra powder for longer distance.

“They expect us to cower behind these walls while they besiege the fort,” Montenot says, emerging from a doorway. He holds a letter and the canvas pouch it arrived in. Odette, the youngest of the saurs, snuffles and snorts at his presence.

“That would be the conventional approach for a smaller force protected by stone walls.” Thibault smiles. “There are nearly six thousand troops out there, if our scouts are correct. We are vastly outnumbered.”

“But we are not a conventional force,” Montenot says.

“Indeed,” Thibault says. “And tonight the green fields of Ireland will run red with British blood.”

“And again I protest this decision,” Montenot says. “Battles are best fought in the day. Darkness only produces confusion and disorder.”

“Exactly what I am hoping for,” Thibault says. “The saurs hunt better in the dark, and the British will not be expecting it.”

“You risk the lives of our saurs,” Montenot says.

“But not unnecessarily,” Thibault says, looking back at the beasts, admiring their sheer size, their simplicity, their ferocity. “They are beautiful, are they not?”

“They have a raw power,” Montenot agrees.

“Unhampered by emotion or sentiment,” Thibault says. “Unafraid. The perfect soldier. If all my soldiers were as fearless no empire could stand against us.”

“None will,” Montenot says.

“You bring news?” Thibault asks, gesturing at the letter that Montenot holds.

Montenot glances down at it as if he has forgotten it. He nods.

“From the Sonian,” he says. “We have the name of the collaborator who helped Willem to escape.”

“Who is he?” Thibault asks.

“A she,” Montenot says. “Sofie Thielemans, a resident of Antwerp.”

“I trust that Baston is even now interrogating her,” Thibault says.

“He is not,” Montenot says, holding the letter out to Thibault, who ignores it and waits. Montenot continues. “He says she is old, and would die under torture. Instead he has set a close watch on her, in case Willem should make contact.”

“A wise choice,” Thibault says.

“And he sent François to her to see if she would reveal anything to him.”

“That was foolish,” Thibault explodes. “If he says or does anything to make her suspicious, we will lose our chance to catch the boy.”

“There is more,” Montenot says. “Sergeant Belette is dead.”

“Belette? A shame. He was a good man,” Thibault says. “How did he die?”

“By the hand of François,” Montenot says. “Who ‘rescued' the girl, Cosette, as planned, but killed Belette in the process.”

“An accident?” Thibault asks.

“A crossbow bolt through the heart,” Montenot says. “It was no accident.”

“Then why?” Thibault asks. “Baston said François was under control and doing as he was asked. Baston is a good soldier, but caution and intrigue are not his strengths. I will have to return as soon as this battle is won.”

There are other reasons why he must return, but they are not to be spoken in the light of day.

“If I may speak in Baston's defense,” Montenot says. “There is only so much control with a zealot like François. His faith blinds him to all else. And…”

“What?”

“I think you should not trust him,” Montenot says.

“Why do you say this?”

“We know that he regards Napoléon as being sent by God,” Montenot says. “But once when I mentioned your name, behind my back he made the sign of the cross. One of my guards saw it.”

“He thinks me the devil?” Thibault asks.

“So it would seem,” Montenot says. “I believe that as much as he wants to help Napoléon, he looks for an opportunity to kill you. Be careful, General.”

Thibault smiles. “This is his folly and his conceit, in thinking that I can be killed.”

“Any man can be killed,” Montenot says.

“The angel of death has already taken his chance and lost,” Thibault says, gesturing at his scarred face with his mangled arm.

The lone British cannon sounds again and the whistle of the cannonball is followed by another dull thud in the distance. This shot has not even reached the walls.

Thibault turns abruptly and climbs a ladder to a wooden catwalk that has been erected around the inner wall of the courtyard. From the catwalk a wooden frame extends over the back of each battlesaur and he lithely steps out and onto the back of Mathilde. She stirs and growls softly but otherwise does not object as he settles into the saddle and takes hold of the thin leather straps that will guide the great beast. He ties one of the straps to a clasp on the stump of his arm, before taking the other strap in his one good hand.