The Sunken (35 page)

Julianne saw it, too. “Into the forest!” she cried, her words lost in the wind. He pulled her up, and they dashed into the trees. Snow pummelled them from all sides, and Nicholas could hardly see a foot in front of himself. He kept a tight grip on Julianne’s hand, fearing that to let her go would be to lose her forever. The wind howled in his ears, the cold stinging the raw wound on his face. He felt certain at any moment they would plunge over a cliff or be shot from behind by one of Jacques’ men.

The ground sloped away downhill, and the pitch beneath their feet became steeper. “Look out,” Julianne cried, throwing out her arm just as he nearly sent them hurtling forward down a steep slope.

“Where now?” His whole face felt numb from cold, and his breath came out in ragged gasps. Julianne didn’t seem to be faring any better. He knew they were lost, that they wouldn’t last long out here without food or shelter.

She yelled something back, but he couldn’t hear it. The next thing he knew she had thrown herself down the steep slope, her skirts flapping wildly behind her. He gathered his breath and hurtled down after her.

Immediately, his legs were swept from under him, and he tumbled down the slope, battering his arms against the branches and rolling over the roots ’till the ground drew even and he sailed to a stop, every bone in his body aching as if it had just gone through a grinder.

He opened one eye and saw Julianne a few feet away, dusting off her skirt. She stumbled over and helped him to his feet.

“I know where we are.” said Julianne. “If we follow the river, we’ll make it down to the pass. That is, if they don’t catch us first.”

“Even if they ride after us,” said Nicholas, “it will take them time to get the horses across the bridge. The wind has erased our footprints, and even if they managed to track us, they couldn’t follow us down that slope.”

“You mean we are safe?”

“I’m hopeful.” Nicholas replied, “but we need to find food and shelter soon. We’re not clear of him yet.”

“Nor shall you be.”

That booming voice sliced through the biting air. Nicholas whirled around and saw Jacques, a silhouette against the moonlight. He stood with two of his men on the edge of the valley, blocking their exit. The men each pointed a pistol at them.

“You forget,” he said. “I know every inch of the tunnels under this hill. The old monks created escape routes in case they were overrun, and one emerges not a mile to the west. Your crashing about in the forest made it almost too easy to find you. And now—”

He took a step toward them, drawing his rapier from its scabbard, a broad smile across his face.

Nicholas stepped back, pushing Julianne behind him, and fumbled for Ramée’s blade. It slipped through his numb fingers and stuck in the snow.

Jacques laughed, gesturing with his blade for Nicholas to pick it up. “I fancy a bit of sport,
Anglaise.”

Nicholas stepped forward, losing his balance on the ice, and scrambled for his blade. He gripped it at last, and stood to face Jacques, who took another step toward him, closing the distance.

Snow flew in thick clumps from the trees high above, and great gusts of wind circled around them as they sized each other up, neither daring to make the first move.
He is smiling because he knows he has beaten me. My only chance is my strength. If I can disarm him, I could overpower him, perhaps get a hand on his throat.

Jacques came at him with a high cut. Nicholas parried, bottling up Jacques’ blade. They battled, pressing against each other, ’till Nicholas saw an opening and took it, winding his blade around and opening a long cut over Jacques’ right eye. The Frenchman’s head snapped back, and blood obscured his vision.

Nicholas feigned left, thrusting for Jacques’ belly, but despite his injury, the Frenchman parried him easily, laughing as Nicholas stumbled off balance once again. “Your walk in the snow has weakened you,” he said. “You will die soon,
Anglaise
.”

Jacques attacked — a lazy cut to the shoulder. Nicholas parried easily, but now he was on the defensive, blocking cut after cut as they came thick and fast. His swung wildly, blocking too high on Jacques’ blade, and the mistake compounded with each subsequent parry, ’till Jacques caught him in a bind, bent his sword arm back behind him, and pulled Nicholas’ head into his chest. He pressed the thin blade of his rapier against Nicholas’ throat.

“You Englishmen, you steal our wealth, you steal our gods, but this is not enough? You must have our women too! I will enjoy very much slitting your throat—”

“Jacques,
arrêtez-vous!”

Jacques whirled around, wrenching Nicholas’ neck around so he too could see Julianne. She stood on the other side of the valley, out of pistol range. She held Auguste’s dagger in both hands, the tip pointing inward, aimed at her belly.

“If you hurt Nicholas,” she cried, “I shall kill your child.”

The winds gusted through the valley, pushing a bitter cold deep inside Nicholas’ bones. He felt the shock of this statement descend down Jacques’ arm, and he pressed against the jolt, hoping Jacques might loosen his grip enough for him to pivot underneath. But Jacques regained composure quickly, and when he spoke, his voice was cold and firm.

“You can’t do that,” said Jacques. “I forbid it.”

“You are
not
my husband,” she said. “You’re a charlatan. A liar.”

“Please, Julianne,” said Nicholas. “Run! Save yourself!”

She stared at him, and her eyes too were cold. “Let him go, Jacques. Let him run into the forest behind me, and do not chase after him, and you shall have me and the baby. This is what you want, isn’t it?”

“You are the one who is lying,” Jacques spat. “You have said so yourself. You do not want me.”

“What I wanted has never mattered to you before. If you allow Monsieur Thorne to go free, I will marry you in front of the men. I will live as your wife, your slave. If you kill him now, I kill the baby, and myself too.”

“Julianne, no!”

But Jacques had already made up his mind. He broke the hold on Nicholas’ neck and shoved him forward. Nicholas pulled himself to his feet.

“Run,” said Jacques. “Run like the cowardly Englishman you are.”

He staggered to his feet, his rapier still gripped in his fingers. His eyes met Julianne’s as he trudged toward her on the other side of the valley, toward the freedom that had been so bitterly bought. She looked up at him, tears running down her pale skin shimmering in the moonlight, and a cold determination in her eyes. As her gaze locked on his, he realised what she planned to do.

Julianne … my beautiful Julianne …

He made to pass her on her left, and as he did so, he leaned in, whispered “
Je t’amie.
” and flicked out his wrist, driving his sword up into her chest, straight into her heart.

She gasped, a horrible, wet, gurgling sound that welled up from inside her. As she went down, her eyes met his, and the hiss of her final breath passed through the air, carrying with it the trace of her words:
Thank you.

Now he ran.

Up the slope and into the forest, shot falling uselessly in the snow behind him. If they shouted after him, he could not hear them over the roar of the wind and the pounding of his heart in his ears. His chest burning, he reached the crest of the slope and leaned against a tree, resting for a moment. He watched the lamps below — little daubs of light like fireflies dancing as Jacques’ men carried Julianne’s body back to the monastery.

As they carried her far away from him.

Tears stung in his eyes. He had done what she asked — what her eyes had burnt into him. She would not have allowed herself or the baby — if there even
was
a baby – to suffer in Jacques’ hands any longer. She would have killed herself anyway — plunging that knife into her own belly, sacrificing herself in a great ocean of agony, condemning herself according to Morphean law to an eternity of torment.

Now she was free, and so was he, though how he could go on living, knowing the price of his freedom, he didn’t yet know.

He ran. Like a coward, he ran on into the darkness.

The Council didn’t want to take any chances with Isambard, so they locked him in a cell below Stephenson’s church while the broad gauge test track was constructed. Of course, they made the Stokers do it, for no extra pay, on top of their regular duties. But the men toiled happily, clearing the ground and laying the wide track alongside Stephenson’s line, which ran from one side of the Engine Ward to the other.

“Do you think Brunel’s lad will really beat Stephenson?” William Stone asked Aaron as he held the rails in place for William to hammer the nails through.

“His calculations are sound enough,” Aaron replied. “But he told me he’s never brought it up to speed before. We — that is,
he
— doesn’t know how fast it truly runs.”

Aaron was allowed to visit Isambard down in his cell, but he had to wait in line while Stoker after Stoker dropped in, each bearing gifts — blankets and food and drink to make Isambard comfortable. He accepted them all gratefully, and stayed chatting and laughing ’till his guards got annoyed and threw in the next visitor. Finally, Aaron was allowed to enter.

“We’ll complete the track within the week—”

Isambard sighed. “You’re upset.”

Aaron gulped. “If Stephenson’s locomotive is faster—”

“For the last time, it
won’t
be faster. And besides, I’ve kept my promise,” Isambard said. “I’ve told no one of your involvement. You have nothing to fear.”

“You are my friend. I fear for you.”

“Your fear is unnecessary. I have done the calculations. There’s no way Stephenson will win.” Isambard sighed again. “I shall like very much to get out of here. I’m frightfully bored. I’ve asked that you accompany me on the footplate.”

Aaron tried to mask his dismay, but his conversation with Isambard took on a stilted feel, as though they were both going through the motions. Staring at his friend through the bars as he paced his cell in excitement only made Aaron keenly aware of how different they were — of how their very natures divided them.

The Festival of Steam was over, but most of the engineers and their men remained behind, anxious to see what this magnificent engine, built by a boy and seemingly too squat and ugly to be much use, could really do. Stephenson’s newest engine — the
Rocket
— was rushed down to the city from Manchester, with the Messiah himself as the conductor. An entire regiment of Navvies marched after him, eager to see their master beat the Stokers once and for all. If Isambard’s theory was proven to be false, his punishment would be swift and severe. The promise of a hanging clung to the air, and no one liked to miss a good hanging.

On the day of the trials, a throng of people crowded the streets of Engine Ward. The Council members — draped in all their religious and scholarly robes — gave morning lectures in the great cathedrals, most railing against this upstart engineer, but some showing support for healthy competition. Never had so many come to the Ward to hear the engineers speak or see the result of a public experiment. The city erected a grandstand along one edge of the track near the start/finish line for the engineers, Council members, and other privileged citizens, while the Stokers jostled with the ordinary folk for a view behind a heavy iron fence. Constables patrolled the length of the track, ready with batons in case the crowd got out of hand. Coaches and omnibuses blocked the streets all the way back to the gates — their passengers were forced to exit and walk the rest of the way.

King George III sat on a platform festooned with flowers overlooking the track. He beamed with happiness as he waved at his subjects. As a symbol of his patronage, the workers usually threw bolts and nails at his feet, but the police, worried about injuries and the integrity of the track, were walking up and down with sacks to collect these offerings (which they would no doubt sell later for scrap). Already, four sacks were stacked up against the platform, brimming with loot.

Brunel and Aaron waited together on the edge of the track, while Joseph Banks and two men from the Royal Society checked over both engines for any mechanical tinkerings that might give one locomotive an unfair advantage. Brunel sought out fellow Stokers in the crowd and waved to them, while Aaron hopped nervously from foot to foot.

Only a few feet away, Stephenson waited, surrounded by a crew of Navvies in shiny green overalls. The Messiah had squeezed his wide frame into a frock coat of the latest fashion, the buttons straining under the pressure, and puffed on a cigarette as he exchanged pleasantries with other Council members. He barely even glanced at Isambard’s engine, though its broad frame dwarfed his precious
Rocket
.

As the church bells punctuated the day with fearsome gongs, signalling the start of the trials, Isambard helped Aaron up onto the footplate of their squat engine. He waved to the King, and the King nodded in return. Despite the unease settling in his gut, Aaron beamed too, and waved at Quartz. It was a proud day to be a Stoker.

The King gave the signal, and Stephenson stepped on board the
Rocket,
while the Navvies yelled and stamped their feet. The ground vibrated with their adoration, and Aaron felt his gloom sink deeper.
How can Isambard possibly defeat all this?

Stephenson’s fireman stoked the boiler, and soon puffs of steam rose from the engine and floated across the sky like clouds. The timekeeper held up his pocket watch, and at the King’s signal, Joseph Banks waved the flag, and the
Rocket
lurched away.

To Aaron’s eyes she seemed impossibly fast, much faster than he’d ever seen a locomotive travel when Stephenson used to run them in Engine Ward. She leapt along the track, disappearing from view, save the tip of her smokestack belching black clouds over the cheering populace.

The roar of the crowd grew to such a height he couldn’t hear the
Rocket
returning. Instead, he saw her great black face bearing down on them, careening toward the finish line with Stephenson waving his hat in triumph. They screeched to a halt, belched one final cloud of black steam over the wailing crowd, and the time keeper announced their result: “Seventeen minutes and thirty-one seconds!”