Fallen Angels (47 page)

'Forget, citizen?'

'You will forget, Colonel, because some knowledge can be dangerous knowledge. You will have to trust me.'

Tours nodded. 'Yes, citizen.'

Marchenoir looked up at the inn. His heavy face, that struck fear into his enemies, suddenly broke into a smile. Things change, Colonel! There was a time when they threw stones to keep me out of this place.'

The innkeeper brought the
cassoulet
to Citizen Marchenoir's room. He brought the best wine and, once he had set the table with the inn's finest chinaware and lit the tall candles, he nervously waited on the great man himself. To the innkeeper's relief the food gave satisfaction. It was bolted down hungrily and even earned a nod of approval from Citizen Marchenoir who pushed the empty plate away. 'Take it away.' The innkeeper came obsequiously forward and Marchenoir looked at the man. 'You remember me, Jules?'

'Of course, citizen.' The innkeeper was nervous. 'With pride, of course, citizen.'

'Ah! Pride! A dangerous emotion, citizen.'

The innkeeper went white. 'Pride in you, citizen.'

'Of course, of course.' Marchenoir leaned forward and lit a cigar from one of the tall candles. 'You remember that your father wouldn't let me in here, eh?'

'My father was his own worst enemy, citizen.'

'How true, Jules, how very true. He was glad enough for my mother to be here, though, wasn't he? He took his slice, yes?' Marchenoir laughed. 'But not me. Not me.' He looked about the comfortable room with its tall, curtained bed, its two windows that looked eastwards towards the mountains, and its big fire. 'Did my mother work in this room, Jules?'

'I wouldn't know, citizen.' The innkeeper edged towards the door, but Marchenoir waved at him to stay.

'You think she earned her livres here, eh? Until your father threw her out because he found a prettier whore, yes?' He stared at the frightened innkeeper. 'Do you have a whore in the inn these days, Jules?'

'No, citizen.' The inkeeper smiled nervously. 'We have some apple pie, citizen? Or damsons? The damsons were specially good this year!'

Marchenoir's eyes were like death. 'Damsons, Jules? Damsons?' He blew smoke towards the innkeeper and leaned back. 'I looked into your main room as I came in, Jules. You're very busy!'

'Indeed, citizen.'

'And there was a young whore serving your tables, Jules. Green skirt and a white blouse. Very fetching, I thought. Had you forgotten she existed in your happiness at seeing me again?'

The innkeeper almost hesitated, hearing his own daughter described, but he managed to hide his consternation and smile ingratiatingly. 'White blouse? Green skirt? Yes, citizen, I know her.'

'She can fetch me two more bottles of wine.' He waved the innkeeper away.

When the man had gone Marchenoir stood, loosened his corset, and went to stand by the window. It was a clear night, the stars bright above Auxigny, the sickle moon rising over the hills to touch silver on the river.

His servant had put the small, gilt-framed portrait of Lady Campion Lazender on the table by the window and Marchenoir picked it up and stared obsessively at the girl's extraordinary beauty. It was hard to believe that this portrait was not just a painter's fantasy, yet Gitan had sworn that it scarce did her justice. Tomorrow, Marchenoir reflected, he would find out. Tomorrow he would have Lady Campion Lazender's tall, slim body for his reward. She was the last daughter of Auxigny, the last and the most beautiful, and tomorrow she would die. He felt the anger in him, the terrible, unassuagable anger. He would kill them all for mocking him when he was a child.

He stared into the night again. The eastern hills were dark except for one tiny spark of a fire high on the slopes above the chateau. He guessed that shepherds were coming from the high summer pastures, bringing their goats and sheep down to the valleys. When he was a child he would sometimes carry big cans of ale to the high pastures and he would skirt the great chateau and wonder what splendours lay behind the red-curtained windows. Now he knew what lay behind the red velvet. Girls like this one in the portrait that he held, like jewels in a locked box, but he had forced the lock and he would take this one tomorrow.

The door behind him opened.

He turned. He frowned.

A woman stood in the doorway with two bottles of wine. She wore a white blouse and a green skirt, but she was not the girl he had seen in the main room carrying the tray of tankards high over her head. This woman was older, much older, with a face that had once been pretty and now seemed filled with terror. He scowled. 'Well?'

'The citizen wished for wine?'

'Who sent you?' He knew, but he wanted to hear from this woman's lips that the innkeeper had tried to cheat Bertrand Marchenoir.

She trembled. 'My husband.'

Marchenoir walked towards her. She had been beautiful once, and there were vestiges of that beauty left on her face that was so terrified. 'Your husband?'

'Yes, citizen.'

'And the girl?'

'Is my daughter, citizen.'

He understood. So the mother had come instead! He watched as she put the bottles on the table. 'Your daughter is too proud to bring me wine, citizeness?'

He could see how hurriedly this woman had pulled on the blouse and skirt. The husband had undoubtedly sent her thinking that she would not attract Marchenoir. Undoubtedly, too, the daughter would have been sent on some errand by now, sent safely to another house in the town. The innkeeper, Marchenoir thought with anger, was playing a most dangerous game.

The woman seemed to shiver. 'My daughter's not well, citizen.'

'Oh? Not well?' He pushed the door closed and latched it. She looked at the latch, then back to him. He smiled and pretended concern. 'She's not well! A sudden illness, yes? She was well enough an hour ago!'

She touched her stomach. 'A sudden pain, citizen?'

'Oh!' Marchenoir laughed. 'So what do you propose for my happiness, citizeness?'

She tried to smile, a feeble effort, and Marchenoir found her terror suddenly annoying. He frowned at her. 'Do you remember me?'

'Yes, citizen.'

'I don't remember you. You grew up in Auxigny?' He walked close to her.

'Yes, citizen.'

He pulled the bonnet from her head and the pins from her brown hair. It fell to her shoulders. 'Where in Auxigny did you grow up, citizeness?'

'Behind the town hall, citizen.'

'Ah! The Draper's Row?'

'Yes, citizen.'

'No wonder we didn't meet. You wouldn't talk to dirty little boys who lived beyond the river, would you?'

'Citizen?' Her eyes were wide.

He looked at her with loathing. 'Get ready, woman.'

She took off the blouse, the skirt, and kicked off the shoes. She stood, naked and weeping, the brown hair tousled on her thin shoulders.

Marchenoir walked slowly forward. 'You're a fool.'

'Citizen?'

'Get out! Get out! Get out!' The rage came from nowhere, thrusting up like a red surge. 'Get out!'

She fled, scooping her daughter's clothes, unlatching the door, and running in terror past the astonished sentries in the passage.

Marchenoir kicked the door closed. There was no joy in power so easy, there was no pleasure in the tears of a woman from Draper's Row.

He looked at the portrait on the table. There was joy, and there was pleasure, for that was a bitch who he would haul from her pinnacle and in doing it he would make a new world.

He took one of the bottles that the innkeeper's wife had brought and brooded at the window, staring at Auxigny. Tomorrow was the day of Lucifer. Tomorrow.

—«»—«»—«»—

When the day-star had faded and the sun was dancing a rainbow in the spray of the waterfall, Skavadale led Campion from the high place where they had loved in the face of the world's scorn.

They crossed the stream and went down steep paths through dark woods towards the valley. Journey's end, the Chateau of Auxigny, was still shrouded by a white mist that flowed softly towards the town.

The mist cleared slowly. First Campion saw the blue-black slates of the turrets, rising out of the vapour like some fairy-story castle instead of a place that had been given to evil. She stopped in a clearing to watch the last shreds of mist unveil the placid, steel-smooth waters of the moats. Auxigny.

She thought how her journey had begun when this man, now her lover, had come to Lazen a year before. She wondered when it had begun for him.

He smiled when she asked. 'Four years.'

'That long?'

'Paunceley's been hunting the
Illuminati
for longer, but that's when he started me on the hunt.' He led her from the clearing. 'It's one of Paunceley's private obsessions. He hates secret societies, he says they're sewers, and I'm the rat that he sends in to explore them.' He laughed.

She could smell the fresh dampness of the pines. The ash trees that clung to the rocks were bare, the twigs beaded with dew. 'Why,' she asked, 'if Lord Paunceley's behind all this, couldn't I tell him that Toby is alive?'

Skavadale did not answer at once. He had stopped at a bend in the path and was slowly examining the way ahead as if looking for enemies. She saw his tense stillness and guessed that it was not just his eyes and ears that he used, but a kind of animal instinct that would warn him of danger. She saw him relax. He gave her his quick smile. 'Because in the sewers, my Lady, you trust no one.'

She remembered him saying that nothing would be what it appeared to be. Nothing. 'You don't trust him?'

'When Toby was to come to your wedding it was Lord Paunceley who told the French where the boat would collect him.'

'Lord Paunceley?'

'He said he wanted to know if the French really were interested in Lazen.'

'How do you know?'

He smiled. 'Because I was his messenger, of course.'

'You told the French?'

'Yes.'

'But Toby could have died!'

'I told him, too.' He said it as if such duplicity was the most natural thing in the world. 'It wasn't really until I saw your portrait that we were completely sure that they were interested in Lazen. We go this way.' He led her away from the open pasture of the valley, deeper into the trees.

'But Lord Paunceley was my father's friend! He wouldn't attack Lazen.'

He laughed. They had reached the floor of the valley and he led her towards a forester's hut that was roofed with pine branches. 'I don't think Lord Paunceley has a friend. He just has lesser enemies. If it's not offensive to you, I'd imagine that he liked your father because a cripple was no threat to him.' She said nothing. He gestured at the hut. 'Welcome to your home for today.'

The hut was damp, small, and lonely. 'Can't I come with you?'

He shook his head. 'I can move faster on my own. Besides, you've got a long night in front of you. You need rest.'

'You'll bring Toby back?'

'Yes.' He smiled at the anticipation on her face. 'This afternoon.'

She put her arms about his neck and held his face close. She liked the smell of him, the strength of him, the shiver of desire that he gave her. She had thought, as she followed him down the mountainside, that he was a man who had always walked alone, had stalked the treacherous roads with only his own wits and strength to keep him alive. Perhaps it was that, she thought, that was so desirable; the desire to tame this tall, lean, self-sufficient man. She looked up at him. 'You don't really need anyone, do you?'

He smiled at her. 'To love someone isn't to need them.'

'It isn't?'

'No.' He kissed her with the tenderness that she liked so much. 'If you need someone then you lack something.'

'You make it sound very simple.'

'It is.' He stroked her hair. 'What's the matter?'

She was shivering, but not from the cold, nor desire. She shivered because they were in this dark valley, this place of the Fallen Ones, and her happiness, that seemed to be so close, still had to survive the ordeal of this night. He stroked her hair, he kissed her, and then he left her. He went, he said, to find her brother, and then, united again, they would go to the shrine of madness and to Lucifer.

—«»—«»—«»—

By the time the Gypsy reached the inn, Valentine Larke had arrived and was sitting in Marchenoir's room. Both men welcomed Gitan, though the Englishman showed reserve. The memory of their last meeting still rankled.

Bertrand Marchenoir offered him wine, but the Gypsy said he preferred water.

'You're certain?' Marchenoir asked.

'I have to give answers tonight.'

Marchenoir shrugged. 'The questions are easy, Gitan. You've been in the
Illuminati
long enough to know the answers. Still, water it will be. You've got the girl?'

'I've got her.' The Gypsy turned to Larke as Marchenoir went to the water jug beside the bed. 'I owe you an apology, sir.'

Larke's hard, bland eyes looked up. 'An apology?'

'For the deception at Lazen. I didn't know what she planned to do.'

Larke shrugged. 'Give me revenge tonight.' His words were edged with bitterness. He would beat the girl tonight for what she had done in Lazen. He would beat her until she screamed. 'Just give me revenge tonight.'

Gitan nodded. 'It will be given.' He turned to take the water.

Marchenoir stared at the Gypsy intently. 'She's here?' He asked it as if he could scarcely believe it to be true.

Gitan smiled. 'She's here.'

'You enjoyed travelling with her, eh?'

'Enjoyed?'

'Come!' Marchenoir leaned back in his chair. 'You tell me you cross half of France with a girl and don't bed her? Did you find her to your satisfaction, horse-master?'

Gitan kissed his fingernails and flicked them outwards.

Marchenoir laughed grimly. 'Lucifer was right about you. They can't say no to you, can they?' He waved dismissively at the Gypsy's shrug. 'Lucifer said you would get her here. For that, Gitan, well done.'

Larke sneered. 'She thinks she's in love?'

Gitan laughed. 'Love is a dream. She's come for reality. She thinks her brother lives. She thinks I'm meeting him now and that we're planning your deaths.'