Daughters of the Storm (60 page)

‘Death by guillotine. The parricide among you will wear the red shirt,' intoned the president, and, as if in response, a cloud passed over the square of sky revealed by the window.

De Choissy's arm tightened and he drew Héloïse closer to his side.

‘You are mine now,' he said. ‘I have you.' And he laughed at the horror and incomprehension on her face. ‘Did I not promise your lover that I would win you in the end?'

Héloïse had no reply.

‘Prisoners first.'

The guards shouted for the public to remain where they were. The fight to quit the chamber and to gain the best vantage points outside in the Cour de Mai had begun. The clerks rushed around with the lists of the condemned destined for the executioner and for the waiting journalists.

‘Quick. On your feet.'

The sergeant in charge was jumpy and nervous and it was more than obvious that he was in no mood to pander to anyone he considered already dead. He ordered his men to chivvy the prisoners into a file.

De Choissy ignored him. ‘Justice,' he said, cool and calm, ‘you are a stranger to this place.' He raised his voice. ‘Your turn will come,' he caught the judges's attention, ‘and the deaths of your victims will haunt you.'

At least two of the judges looked agitated. A soldier pushed de Choissy into line. ‘Shut up, you're a dead man.'

The procession moved towards the door. After his outburst, de Choissy was silent and looked neither to the right nor to the left. Marie-Victoire glided ahead of Héloïse and seemed composed. Héloïse thought of all that she was going to leave.

‘No,' one of the women cried out and sagged to her knees.'No. I can't.'

A soldier prodded her with his rifle. ‘Get up,' he said, and attempted to drag her across the floor. The woman's screams intensified, agonising and agonized. Marie-Victoire tapped the soldier on the arm.

‘Let me,' she said.

The soldier stepped back. ‘Get the bitch to her feet.'

‘You must have courage, madame,' Maire-Victoire bent over the woman. ‘I'll support you.' She laid a hand on the woman's head. ‘Listen to me.'

The woman raised her tormented face to Marie-Victoire. ‘How can you?' she asked in a choked voice.

‘Like this...' Marie-Victoire held out her hand. ‘It's easy.' The woman took it, fumbled clumsily to her feet and Marie-Victoire supported her. ‘Come, madame,' she said, ‘we'll walk together.'

‘Marie-Victoire sets us an example,' said Héloïse to de Choissy.

‘I believe she does, my dear,' he replied.

He drew himself up to his full height and offered his arm to Héloïse.

‘Please,' he said.

After a hesitation, she reached out and placed her hand on his sleeve.

The prisoners filed out silently, past the spectators, into the
salle des pas perdus,
through the door that led into the
galerie des prisonniers,
down a narrow staircase and into the prison below.

Chapter 15

William's watch said it was nine o'clock when they let themselves out of the barn and made for the road. Sophie had made an effort with her dress and, although it was creased and stained, it sat neatly enough on her enlarged stomach. She had scraped back her hair and bundled it under her cap. William had been less successful with his clothes and he would present an odd appearance to a curious onlooker. But there was nothing much they could do about it, except to brazen out any questions.

Sophie leant heavily on William's arm. Her head ached and she was surprised to discover that she had developed a tendency to jump at unexpected noises. The baby sat like a stone inside her and a pain nagged at the small of her back. My baby, she thought with a sudden, fierce and protective emotion.

The village turned out to be larger than they had expected and it as market day. In the crowded main street vendors had set up loaded booths and trestle tables. Sophie's stomach rumbled at the sight of fresh bread, yellow and white cheeses and mounds of fruit laid out for inspection in a riot of red, green, orange and purple, often with a fresh bloom on them. Paris had had nothing so plentiful to offer for a long time.

William had disappeared and Sophie sat on the stone lip of the village pump and ate some the luscious grapes which he had bought with a portion of their remaining money. After half and hour or so, he materialised out of the crowd and indicated with a jerk of his head that she was to follow him.

Reluctantly, Sophie got to her feet.

‘I've made contact with someone,' he whispered. ‘He's willing to help us. He has offered us a hiding-place until he can arrange transport.'

William indicated a villainous-looking
sansculotte
whom Sophie had noticed earlier. He was lounging against a wall, chewing a wisp of hay. Sophie shrank back and laid a restraining arm on William.

‘Can you trust him?' she whispered back.

William tapped his finger to his nose. ‘There are ways,' he said. ‘Look at his coat.'

Sophie was puzzled. There was nothing extraordinary to observe in the man, except that he was more than usually dirty and greasy and sported a large and very stained cockade.

‘Look at the lapels on his coat, Sophie,' William said into her ear. ‘You will see a small V cut into the material. For those who know about these things, it is a signal.'

‘A counter-revolutionary?' she asked.

‘Shush, not here. We'll discuss it later.' He took her arm and walked her down the street.

The
sansculotte
straightened up and followed on behind. At the first crossroad, William stopped and pretended to engage Sophie in conversation, and allowed the stranger to saunter past.

‘Are we mad?' whispered Sophie.

‘There is little else we can do,' said William, his mouth set in a grim line.

The
sansculotte
turned left and plunged down a network of alleyways. Sophie gasped for breath at the pace he set, and was profoundly relieved when he halted in front of a small courtyard, at the back of which was a tumbledown building.

‘Ask for Angèle,' he said and pointed at a door. ‘Say I sent you.'

And with that he disappeared back up the street from where they had come.

‘I still say we are mad,' said Sophie. ‘What if this is a trap?'

‘There is honour among spies and counter-revolutionaries,' replied William.

‘So says you.'

He led her through a yard littered with bales of straw and old agricultural machinery and pushed open a green-painted door.

‘If there's trouble, make your way back to the square,' he instructed Sophie.

They found themselves in a long, rectangular room at one end of which stood a printing press. Papers lay everywhere: on the floor, on the benches and stacked in heaps on the trestle table by a window. Pegs secured bundles of it to the wall and pages printed with crude black type were draped over a rope strung across a corner. Over by the window, a youth in a leather apron was talking to a woman across a table strewn with yet more papers, glasses and a pewter flagon. She was plump and middle-aged and, Sophie hazarded, kindly looking.

The youth was explaining a point with extreme vehemence and raised his glass repeatedly to his lips.

‘Are you Angèle?' William asked cautiously.

The woman glanced up. ‘I may be.'

‘Your friend has sent us,' said William. ‘He said you would help.'

Angèle licked her lips. Was that hostility or fear registering in her face?

‘Yes,' she admitted reluctantly. ‘What do you want?'

There was no option but to bluff through his one. ‘Can you shelter us?' He indicated Sophie behind him who had gone very pale. ‘We need to rest.'

No sooner had he spoken than Sophie swayed and William only just caught her as her knees gave way. She sagged against him, willing herself to keep upright.

Angèle shrugged and opened her mouth to reveal a row of blackened teeth. ‘If
he
said so. But I don't like it. We'll all end up on the guillotine.'

She inflected the ‘he' with a good deal of contempt and dislike. Silently, William held out his watch. Angèle took it, bit it and tossed it to the youth. ‘Follow me,' she said, opening a door at the other end of the room to where they had entered. ‘Get up those stairs.'

It was more than she could manage. Sophie tried but failed, and William was forced to drag her up the stairs and onto a landing above. Angèle snapped open a latch of a small wooden door, so small it could be mistaken for a cupboard, to reveal a closet with a mattress and a bucket stacked against one wall and a tiny window high up.

‘In you go,' said Angèle. ‘I'll come back later,' and with that she locked the door and left.

Sophie shivered uncontrollably, and waves of ice ran through her veins. Her head hurt, and stabbing pains went shooting at intervals through her abdomen. William ripped off his coat and tried to cover her, but she wouldn't let him. Now she was burning hot, her numbed limbs catching fire .

‘I must have caught cold in the boat,' she said incoherently, before the ghosts from the past bore her away into delerium.

Where was she? Somewhere where the scent of apple blossom wafted tantalisingly past her nostrils. The pink-white petals drifted through spring air but, as she reached to grasp them, they metamorphosed into drops of blood. There was a roar of a crowd and the whine and crash of a huge knife falling down, down on to a wooden plank, and Héloïse's white and transparent face grimacing in farewell.

She moaned.

William could only watch helplessly. Sophie gasped, twitched and, from time time, cried out in a fever-racked voice. Loosening her laces, he smoothed back the sweat dampened tangled hair, and prayed as he had never prayed before that help would come soon.

The night hours ticked on. William managed to doze from time to time, only to be jerked awake by Sophie's cries, She was past soothing and he was helpless. Utterly helpless. Edging closer, he lifted her up and settled her against him, hoping that might help.

It did and she quietened but, by morning it was clear that she was no better.

Eventually, the door opened and their saviour of yesterday stood blinking in the gloom. He held out a basket to William.

‘A doctor,' said William, taking it. ‘Can you get me a doctor?'

‘My name is Maurice,' said the man. ‘I will help you all I can but the town is full of republicans, that is why I have chosen to hide you. You will have to stay here for a couple of days until I can arrange transport. It's not easy. I can't bring the doctor because I can't trust him. You will have to fend for yourselves.' He turned to go. ‘Goodbye, my friend. Don't panic,' he said, and added, ‘Tell Angèle nothing. She is not entirely trustworthy. I will deal with her.'

The door closed.

‘By the way,' called Maurice through the keyhole, ‘there's plenty of water in the basket for the woman.'

His hands were troubling him and he found it painful to use them but the gift of water was very welcome. , William soaked his cravat in it and bathed Sophie's face and wrists. Its coolness appeared to bring her some relief and she slipped into a doze.

Her breath laboured through cracked and bleeding lips.

What to do?

As far as they knew, the baby would be born in December. It was now September. Assuming they made it to Calais, would Sophie be fit enough to embark on the Channel crossing before it was born? He rather thought not. On the other hand, how would they find a roof to hide under?

Sipping the beer supplied by Maurice, William spent the day analysing the options: turning over one plan in his mind then discarding it for another. He even considered returning to Paris to elicit Sir Robert's help yet again.

Next time, he bathed her forehead, Sophie cried out, gazing up at him with eyes that didn't see him. His anxiety deepened into real fear.

You are not allowed to die, Sophie

The light poking through the small window dwindled. Towards nightfall, Sophie's cries became weaker and her racing pulse dropped. Crouching over her, he thought he saw death written in her face. She opened her eyes and murmured ‘No more,' in a voice that wrung his heart, so full was it of anguish. Then she sank into an unconsciousness from which William could not rouse her.

In that hot little room, stuffy with fever, slops and the smell of their unwashed bodies, William learnt the meaning of despair. In his desperation, he knelt by Sophie's inert form and gathered her up, cradling her hot head with a gentleness he never knew he possessed. If Sophie was going to die, at least he would ensure that it was in his arms.

When he awoke from an uneasy sleep, it was again nightfall. Sophie lay motionless, her body heavy against his numb shoulder, and he could not even hear the rasp of her breath. He squinted down at the face on his breast and managed to make out that a look of infinite peace had stolen across her features, washing them clean of suffering. It was, he was certain, the peace of death. William closed his eyes to blot out that hateful room.

To live was to suffer. That was the deal between humans and the Deity – whoever He was. But not this. Not this.

He had come to the end.

It was only after Sophie moved for the second time – a tiny movement of her hand - that his brain registered the fact. Stupid with grief and fatigue, he refused to believe the evidence until she gave a definite sigh.

‘Sophie?' He eased her down on to the mattress so that he could look down at her face. ‘Sophie?'

She opened her eyes, the effort appearing to exhaust her, and looked up. This time she recognised him. Sweat was beading her forehead, but she managed a travesty of a smile.

‘Water,' she croaked. William lifted a mug to her lips. She took a sip, and a second, lay back, closed her eyes and fell asleep.