To save an orphan and rescue a Heart

The day droned on and the sun was blocked by clouds threatening to rain over head. Still, the people showed up and planted themselves in various spots around the rustic Madame Guillotine whose wood had been tinted the golden brown of dried up death. It was the sickening reminder that despite the cheering of the crowd, there was an underlying horror whose wrath could be unleashed at any moment towards themselves. Her Madame's society had gone insane and offered no safety nets or ways to buy oneself out. Her Madame struck at whomever she felt like biting. The cheers went on, but each member of the crowd near hollered that it wasn't them today.

This particular city where the Guillotine stood was surrounded by an array of old buildings. There was not really one open square, but rather a long crooked passageway of a road that the buildings had forced over time. The guards giggled and turned to look back at the Aristos in their cart that they were bringing to the prisons. If they hurried with their work, they could catch the beheading show just in time. Staring at the young aristo girl clutching her father, they said horrible things to her and offered and teased ways for her to escape, if she gave herself to them. The young woman was called every name under the sun and the guards were more than happy to insult her in this way. "Death to the Aristocrats!" The phrase was yelled at them each time the cart came into someone's new view.

Off in the distance, wet rags were whipped in the air and aimed to throw at the approaching Aristos in the carts. The Citoyens would aim for any hands or faces that came to close to the side of the wooden rail, forcing the once proud aristocrats to cling together in the middle like flies in order to avoid the onslaught.

From his position, Blakeney could see the approaching cart in the far distance. His blood pumped and he closed his eyes to make use of his senses to hear a sound, any sound, behind him that were to be the prisoners for the blade. So far, he heard nothing. Nothing. Near the wooden platform, where Her Madame awaited, he could easily make out Armand and Andrew on their horses. Near enough to the contraption to interfere, but not near enough to seem like trouble. In idea, it was a perfect plan. Nevertheless, none of it would work correctly if he soon did not hear footsteps! The cart came closer to the main square and the crowd became more dense here, along with the cries and hollers that grew louder. Blakeney wrapped the reins of the horses tightly around his already whitening knuckles as the thoughts of having to leave Louise's parents to die on this evening tortured his head. It was ludicrous. He waited and waited longer still. He could now see the forms in the cart, as it came ever so closer. The blue eyes tried to see behind him, but he refused to draw attention to himself by turning his head to look inside the prison gate. Wait! What was that? A click? A clack?

Finally, Blakeney heard the sweet sound of approaching footsteps. He reached up and scratched heavily at his neck as if he might have a rash. The pre-arranged signal for Armand and Andrew to become ready. It was near time to take action and he remained still when the guards inserted the key to the prisons to unlock the door for the incoming doomed and outgoing dead. He could hear the footsteps of the pre-held prisoners coming around behind him with guards. There must have been over twenty of them and his keen eyes quickly picked out the two that he sought from this group. Louise's parents.

They had been pre-warned to wrap a plain brown cloth around their heads as if to keep the sun off their face or the foul air away from their mouths. They were the only ones dressed this way and Blakeney watched in the distance to his men to make sure they saw "them" as well. This way, they would know which two to pick up. The English Baronet had told them every detail and missed nothing. Slowly, he could hear the horse hoofs approach from the Aristocrats cart. The De Tournays would be on it. He had not the time to warn them of their rescue attempt, however he knew the parents by sight and it was not hard to discover their children, who clung to them in such a frightening time. The girl. Sir Andrew's heart. She was a beautiful creature and if he allowed himself, Blakeney would have examined her further and remember his once beloved Marguerite.

In such a terrible time, this Blakeney would not allow himself to do.

It was almost the moment to give his signal for Armand and Andrew to rush in for the snatch and grab. Blakeney had another horse tucked just down the alleyway behind him in the darkness. Unless someone took the time to inspect, they would only see a solo man on horseback, with missing teeth and blonde ragged hair. Blakeney took to ratting up his own long locks today and took to putting soot and grease over his teeth to make them appear no longer there. He wore a burlap cloak and a tan hat. The signal, when the time was right, was for him to take off his hat, toss it behind him and begin to scream and ride toward the aristocratic cart with insults and vulgar phrases. At that same time, Armand and Andrew would use his distraction to nab the parents of Louise.

Frank thought it would work. Blakeney felt if he did not miss a detail he could pull it off. Narrowing his lazy blue eyes, the Baronet of Richmond held his breath and waited, glancing as unnervously as he could make it appear from the wooden platform to the approaching cart.

The ride, humiliation. Suzanne buried her face against her fathers shoulder to try to block out the words they flung so easily and carelessly her way. She would rather die than take their offer, defile her soul only to be offered for death the next day. She felt every jolt of the cart it pulled her towards the edges where she could hold on, but her Father's hands kept her to the center of the cart. They had been moving for a while, she learned if you concentrate on one sound completely you can block most everything else. Holding her head up, not high like she had been taught only to see and appear unafraid. The comfort was listening to the creaking wheels and the grinding of the stones beneath them, no other sound came to her ears. She trembled enough just knowing what those angry faces and mouths could be saying to her.

The father huddled around his family, holding to them. Keeping them to the center of the cart, together. They approached the appointed area of display and would pass before the guillotine was it a warning of what was to come, or simply this was the way to where they were being taken. The area surrounding, Suzanne lost the sounds of the cart and found the angry words once again creeping to her.

He clenched his teeth. "You will not die," he muttered under his breath. "I promise." His horse shifted.

Among the angry members of the crowd, there were three who were silent. For now, at least: Ffoulkes, Blakeney, and St. Just. The latter bit his lip and prayed that they would make it. Percy seemed to get a thrill from this game. Armand played it for the righteousness.

He swallowed, wiping the sweat off his cheek. Damn, but it was hot.

Therese D'Amours clung to her husband's sleeve as the tumbrel, barbaric with its human cargo, jolted through the Parisian streets. She leaned on him as such to keep from swooning as to balance herself in the jouncing cart. The formerly aristocratic woman tried to block out the jeers of the crowd, but they stabbed like needles into her sensitive heart. Desperate for a distraction from both the horrible surroundings and the still more terrible destination, she looked up at her husband. "Richard," she murmured, glancing up at M. D'Amours' tight face, "Do you really think...?" There was no need to finish the question: no need, and much reason not to utter such dangerous words.

Richard D'Amours glanced down at the woman clinging to him, one hand unconsciously going up to finger the brown cloth wrapped around his head. "I don't know," he answered absently, almost too low to hear. He had tried not to give his wife false hope--through their terrible arrest, the fetid prison they had been sentenced to, he had gently tried to make her accept their mutual fate.

However much he had felt it his duty, however, he could not bring himself to contradict her hopeful optimism that their daughter had lived. In fact, he found himself hoping against hope that it were true--though how nine-year-old Louise could have had a possible chance was beyond where he dared speculate. All he hoped was that she were alive somewhere.

And now, despite Richard's adamant pessimism, they themselves had cause to hope. The message had been mysterious, succinct, and cryptic, allowing only brief instructions before the man had moved away. It was ludicrous to believe they might be rescued. Yet Richard had dutifully shrouded his head in the brown sackcloth that morning, and made sure his wife did so as well. For somewhere within the man, the smallest flicker of hope refused to die.

Watching the two huddle together as they neared Andrew and Armand, he knew he would have to give the signal. Prearranged in his hat was the candle waxed, stamped note that had been securely pinned to the inside rim. Someone would find it, of that he was sure. Once he bolted from behind the alley, tossing the hat into the crowd, it wouldn't take long for the area to be searched. In the event that a commoner found it, Blakeney addressed the note "Citoyen Chauvelin". He even took the liberty to sign the inside scrawling with the new pen name he ventured across.

It was just earlier that day, dreaming of Marguerite and the honeymoon, when one of the flyers passed by his hand. It was the first time he had seen it and the note written by "Helene" brought the Baronet from his sour mood, stifling a laugh with his leather gloved hand. "Mysterious Scarlet Pimpernel." So that is the type of name a little bit of red candle wax and an old family ring got you. It did not sound very threatening. A Blood eagle or Crimson wolf perhaps, but a simple, red scrub of a flower? Oh well. It did represent England in a way, so for that he was secretly proud.

Tensing, Blakeney could see the cart approach about 20 yards away and he knew he could not wait another moment. The perfect set up had fallen into place and the time to move was now. Reaching up for his tan hat, the rogue on horseback sharply plummeted his heals into thick muscle of the steed which directly sent the beast forward, tossing his hat directly into the guards and crowd.

Giving out a thrilling and angry yell, the rogue swore up and down in French about death to the king and the prince. If he sat and thought about it, the son of Sir Algernon would be appalled with the thoughtlessness and lack of decency that he used when slipping into these roles. Caring about the truth in what he said never crossed his mind. His driving energy was to win with an end result and Blakeney would do whatever it took to achieve that goal.

As he charged forward, holding both horses reins in one hand forcing the other horse behind him to move, the seemingly crazed man swung a large machete over his head in his other hand. Some of the guards near froze in awe seeing a Frenchman take such outward action. Other guards smiled and seemed to lift their bayonets higher in approval and Blakeney stole a glance over to see if Andrew and Armand had begun to move. Then, slowly, he turned his head to lock eyes on the Comte that once dinned with his parents, years ago.

It was the cry, the one voice raised above the others, it stuck a terror through the small frame of the young girl. The Comte raised his face to see the man who could create such a noise, and found the man racing towards them, swinging something over head, and staring straight at them. The thought hit him that they would never reach the prisons, they were fated to die here on the street at the hands of that angry man. The Comte placed himself between the devilish rider and his family. In the attempt to keep them from harm, but it seemed to roughen the crowds already surrounding the cart. The only clear place was where the men had moved out of the way of the rider, as if to give permission for the disposal of the family. Suzanne watched wide eyed as stood against the opposite edge of the cart, her full attention on that Frenchman riding at them full speed.

Would there be no mercy in their deaths, at least the guillotine seemed to offer dignity in death. If such a thing existed.

Armand was sweating. All his clothing was plastered to him, and his hair was in his eyes, stuck to his forehead. Frantically, he scrubbed at his face, trying to clear his sight. The crowd seemed to swim before him. He was dizzy. It seemed like there was no noise except for a buzzing noise, which he assumed was the crowd.

Suddenly, the buzzing escalated into a wordless cry, and a hat was hurled into the air. Andrew's horse jumped forward, and Armand froze for a split second. Where was he? What was he doing? Then he had spurred his horse, heading for the cart that held Louise's mother and father. He reached out a hand to them, calling out in French: "Madame! Grab my hand!!!"

He was going to die. They all were! how could they possibly escape from this chaos??? He had to try. To disappoint Percy was worse than death!! It would be worse than death a thousand times over!

The woman's hand caught his, and he hauled her onto the back of his horse, not pausing, barely slowing. Then he had spurred the animal again, galloping as fast as he could for the gate. Armand was half-standing in the stirrups. They reached the gate swiftly, leaving behind a crowd of very angry republicans.

"Hold on!" They jumped the barrier, and, as they hit the ground, Armand heard a shot. Blinding pain coursed through him, starting in his thigh, just above the knee. He cried out in agony, almost slipping off the horse. He clutched the cantle, grimacing. Black spots swam before him, but somehow he stayed on....

He didn't know how far they went, or if Percy and Andrew were safe and had followed.... After what seemed like an eternity, the horse slowed, its sides heaving, and Armand fell off, landing on the wound. He cried out from pain so intense that tears poured down his cheeks, mingling with the sweat on his face.

He must have blacked out, because all he could see was black. He came to a few minutes later, and found the energy to inspect the wound. There was no exit wound, only an entry. It was bleeding quite a bit, so he ripped off the garter on his breeches and tie a tourniquet above the wound. Then he passed out again as a wave of pain and nausea washed over him.

Having grabbed Louise's father and placed him on the back of his horse, Andrew took off running, his goal getting outside of Paris before somebody discovered that their prisoner's had escaped. Andrew's thoughts 'spoke' to soon. He heard the gun shot...most likely before Blakeney had, and spurred his horse..that was when he saw Armand up ahead..he seemed to flinch..Dear God, Armand had been hit. Feeling slightly ill, Andrew winced and tried not to think about it..somehow..he had to catch up with him. When he finally managed to get even close to St Just, he found the lad not too far out of Paris- laying unconscious. . and he appeared to be bleeding. Quickly getting off his horse..after giving an authorities glance at his 'captive' to remain silent, and attended to the lad. "Armand.." Andrew whispered quietly. "It's Drew. Can you hear me? ARMAND!" Andrew tried to keep his voice down. Taking off his own shirt, Andrew began to attend to him. He would have to carry him on his own horse..and lead the other..the one that carried Louise's mother...at a slow pace. They could not risk losing Armand...

He moaned, completely delirious from the pain. "I'm sorry, Percy..." he moaned through dry lips. "I didn't mean to... I tried... they'll kill me for sure... They killed Andrew, Percy! He's dead, I know it... I'm sorry... it's all my fault...!" He thrashed, trying to get away from the assailant. The pain from moving made him sick, caused everything to get so bright... so bright....

"Don't kill me... I was just... following... orders..." His leg throbbed, sent pain through every inch of his body. He groaned in agony.

"Armand!" Andrew began to panic..would he..die? "ARMAND! It's Andrew- I'm not dead..shhh...you're going to be fine..I swear it.." Tears built up in his eyes..this was not fair. "I know you were following orders, Percy won't be upset- because Andrew is right here beside you." Andrew gently took the boy in his arms, trying to comfort him.. "ARMAND!" Andrew yelled, no longer caring if anybody heard him. "You CAN'T leave us! You CANT! Think about Marguerite..it would kill her if you died...please...try to hang on..." Andrew thought hard. Where was Percy? "It's going to be alright.." He said, in a much quieter voice...

"Mar.... Marguerite.... she didn't mean... it wasn't her fault... Chauvelin denounced... blackmail...." His eyes strained to stay open. He was so tired, and the light was so bright.... "St. Cyr... Angèle.... they beat me... for love... what is love...? IT'S PAIN!" He sobbed, going on and on about nothing, his mind unable to concentrate on one thing for more than a moment. He began to panic.

"Are they coming for me? Am I dead? Tell them to dig me up! I don't want to be dead anymore! Tell them I'm not dead!" He sat up, frantically. "Did they bury me in a tree? Who are you? Who?" He slumped against Andrew, exhausted. The heat and the wound were really getting to the boy.

"I know it wasn't Marguerite's fault.." Chauvelin? He had DENOUNCED the St Cyrs? Did Percy know? Obviously not- but Armand- even in delirium, wouldn't lie. "No, nobody's coming to hurt you- I won't let them.." Andrew frowned. "You're not dead, Armand- and I agree, love..love is the worst pain there is." He gulped. "I'm Andrew- Andrew Ffoulkes..remember? I'm your brother in law's best friend...shhh..Armand, calm yourself...it's going to be alright." Worried about the boy, Andrew stroked his forehead and tried to calm him down. "And no, they did not bury you in a tree.."

"Andrew the dog!" He spat at him. He looked up. "Ground... where... ground? So far above... high above my feet... Where am I? It's a tomb, it's a tomb! Oh god... Percy, Andrew's dead... they're all dead... I'm sorry... so sorry... oh god... oh god..." He thrashed and his weight fell on his leg. He cried out, a long, agonized scream. "Mama... mama, it hurts... it hurts...! Make it stop... make them stop...! the whips... their hands... everything.... PERCY!!!!"

"I AM Andrew.." Andrew was growing confused. "ARMAND!" He got such a grip on the boy so that he couldn't move. "Get-a-grip! Andrew did not get shot...I am not going to hurt you, but you will hurt yourself if you do NOT hold still!" Andrew was getting worried- where on earth was Percy? "I will try to make it stop- if you let me help you...please, Armand, you're going to be alright."

"I can't breathe... can't breathe... they have me too tight!" He tried to move, but the other held him too tight. "Let go... let me go, you dog, you cur!" He tried to claw at him, but his arms were pinned. He blinked. "I know you... somewhere..." He looked over to the people they had saved. "I know you too... Are you the angels of death? Are you waiting for me? I'm not dead... not yet... TELL THEM TO DIG ME UP! TELL THEM I'M NOT DEAD, PAPA!" He clung to Andrew, weeping.

"There's blood everywhere... rivers and rivers of it... filling up the holes... it's all over you, dripping down.... filling the gutters... Are they all dead, Papa? Is Percy? Is Andrew? Am I? I don't want to be dead..." He whispered. The blackness settled for he didn't know how long. "Andrew..." He whispered. "...what happened to me?"

Andrew felt himself relax..Armand had finally recognized him. "You were shot, Armand..but you're going to be fine.." Andrew said quietly. "Can you feel your legs, Armand?" Anxiously, Andrew relaxed his grip on Armand and began attending to the wound, now that he was calmer.

"Where am I? Are we home... ahhh! Don't touch it... it hurts! It hurts!!!" He tried to squirm away from Andrew, but he was too weak, too hot. God, it was hot. His clothing was soaked with sweat, and blood down by the wound.

"Can you make it stop, Andrew?" He whimpered when Andrew touched his leg, but he didn't cry out. "Where's Percy, Andrew? Why isn't he here with us?" Armand began to squirm. "He didn't make it, did he? They shot him, didn't they? Oh god, it's all my fault! What will I tell Marguerite?"

It was the cry, the one voice raised above the others, it stuck a terror through the small frame of the young girl. The Comte raised his face to see the man who could create such a noise, and found the man racing towards them, swinging something over head, and staring straight at them. The thought hit him that they would never reach the prisons, they were fated to die here on the street at the hands of that angry man.

The Comte placed himself between the devilish rider and his family. In the attempt to keep them from harm, but it seemed to roughen the crowds already surrounding the cart. The only clear place was where the men had moved out of the way of the rider, as if to give permission for the disposal of the family. Suzanne watched wide eyed as stood against the opposite edge of the cart, her full attention on that Frenchman riding at them full speed.

Would there be no mercy in their deaths, at least the guillotine seemed to offer dignity in death. If such a thing existed.

Averting the gaze slightly, Blakeney honed in on the rope at the end of the cart that held fast the back to the front. You couldn't call it a gate really, but it was where the prisoners entered and exited prior to transportation. With one solid strike of his arm, the crazed Frenchman who still shouted obscenities, plummeted down the machete into the very binding twine that held the back and front together. At the same time, he tossed the free horse’s reins around the back end of the cart and looked into the eyes of the Comte. "Get free!" The phrase was shouted right at the family and then he went right back into absurdities of anger. The plan was for Blakeney to spin the steed about, and come back to grab the rest. Surprise was the element that would make the guards not react soon enough. Surprise, as it came to be, however would interfere with the plan. No sooner had he said the phrase, then Blakeney turned his head to see her. A small girl had been pulling on her parent's hands to see the slaughter. Right as the Pimpernel kicked the ribs to make the beast go faster, the little girl freed herself and ran into the middle of the path. Two sets of eyes met and gasped in horror. The Englishman in disguise and the small girl who was directly in his path. Pulling the reins back, Blakeney lost control trying to stop the tramplement of the child. His horse reared up and tossed off the crazy Frenchman rider.

No sooner had the Comte caught the reins in his hands that he reached around and grabbed his sons hand and pushed him towards the horse. He would have sent both of his children, but Suzanne had backed farther off, instead he bid his wife to join their boy.

Taking Suzanne's hand and pushing the horse off, he prayed silently and quickly as he jumped from the cart lifting his daughter down. Her feet had only been on the ground for seconds before he, with his daughters hand tightly held in his own, raced off in the opposite direction that his wife and son had gone a top the horse. The screams and cries of the people surrounding the carts got louder as they tried to push past them. Both could feel the hands reaching out to stop them.

Hearing the gasps from the crowd, as they stood in near shock over the horse and the now reaction from the blade of the crazy Frenchman, Blakeney spitted out the dirt and quickly got to his feet. His horse stood by, about as unnerved as he and the girl. Grabbing the horses reins, he pulled it along forward and growled, "Go Damn you!" in English as the steed. A solid slap on the horse's rump headed it back in the direction it had just come. Only standing a moment, the Scarlet Pimpernel looked back to watch his horse head back, and the new horse with two riders come at him.

In that split second, he jumped to the side and out of their path.

The Vicomte directed the horse as best he could around the people in the crowds. He glanced down as he saw the very Frenchman who had freed them from the cart. Where would they go now, still heading off in the direction the horse was facing he gave up on thinking too far in advance. Get out of Paris, that would be the best idea.

The Comte, felt trapped within the crowds. There was no way out, the eyes of the savage people were on them, and they reached out to stop them. The horse came towards the two, a light seemed to have been granted to them, allowing them to know they were not forgotten in their pain. Setting his daughter on the horse, he felt a firm hand grab his shoulder. He slapped the horse and yelled for her to hold tight. Suzanne listened and wrapped her slender arms around the neck of the horse.

Everything seemed to happen too fast and they stood there stumped for a moment or two. Where was the blood that should have been squirting out of a body side or from a severed hand. The crazed Frenchman struck at them, didn't he?

The guards stood there as a steed raced off and reared up in the crowd. A mother's scream was heard and then, just as they began to realize it, two of the prisoners were horseback and heading away. A pair of guards tried to reach out and grab the reins of mother and son, but all they caught was whipping tail of the steed. A few tried in vain to run after them, but on foot it was impossible to catch them.

The guard nearest the cart saw this occur and he lunged forward to grab at a few of the other prisoners trying to escape. Quickly surrounding the back end of the cart, the bayonets were positioned and properly aimed. An old man tried to leap off the side, where it seemed he pushed his daughter onto a horse. The guard tugged back on him and using the knife part of his bayonet, stuck the man in the side.

Like the envision of a bad dream, Blakeney watched two of his freed prisoners ride on by. Turning his head, he could see a band of approaching guards giving chase. "Good Lord...." he breathed under his breath. Giving no other thought save survival, Richmond's Baronet pushed his way through the crowd and clambered upon a row of boxes that had been stored on the outside of an inn.

With cat-like reflexes, he pulled himself up on the wall edge, and then headed onto the roof. Taking a few steps forward, Blakeney heard the gun shot and turned around to see the Comte grabbed from behind. Was he shot? It was too hard to tell. Swearing, his eyes slowly looked towards the girl on horseback. At least Andrew's love should make it.

Men below began to shout and point at his location. Not waiting another moment, Blakeney turned and fled along the rooftops, finding leaping from one building to another in his favor due to the close proximity of each structure.

The Comte went down as they stuck him in vengeance. His vision blurred then blackened in pain. There was no way he could now chase after his daughter, to protect her. The poor defenseless creature.

Suzanne looked back to see her father go down. In fear of her own situation she held tighter to the animal, letting it go in what ever direction it should choose as long as it took her away from that cart, away from the mobs. A gunshot sounded behind her, she had heard gunfire before but so close it stilled her heart, the horse jolted the girl was thrown to the ground. Landing stiff against boxes, she found herself too shocked to move. The horse staggered off a few paces before going down. Had she been hit, she could not tell. Her body was pulsing with pain from the fall. Finally finding her head, she went to stand and found herself face to face with a group of guards.

"Get down you bastard!" The guard that had stabbed the trying escapee snarled and put his foot on the Comte's back, forcing him to the bottom of the cart. Taking a quick aim, his brown eyes locked on the fleeing girl and he pulled the trigger, watching the horse go down and near kill the girl. "Grab her men! Don't let that little b'tch get away!"

Obeying quickly, the guards surrounded the aristo girl and dragged her to her feet. "You'll die a nice an pretty death." The man nearest to her snarled, reeking of a stench unbefitting a common prison rat. Getting the order somewhat under control, the head guard kicked the Comte down and off the cart, then pointed his bayonet at the older man. "Either get to your feet to run or head into that there prison. I would just as soon shoot you too."

The slow guards seemed to busy themselves with something going on below. Blakeney hoped it was the chaos of the girl getting away. The Comte more than likely did not make it unless he shook himself free. A second gun shot was heard that forced his head to once more look behind him. The roof tops blocked his view and for a moment he hesitated to go back, but knew that would be suicide.

Pulling himself up onto the top of another roof, Blakeney saw two on horseback in the distance, making their way through the main gate. Was it the girl and her father? The shadowy figure in the twilight was too hard to tell. Looking up and seeing the stars, he used them to guide him to the main wall of the city. Not entirely sure, he only guessed he was no longer being chased. Soon all night would overcome and as if still on Sir Algernon's ship, only the sky could guide him to where Andrew and Armand should be waiting with the others.

Struggling to his feet, his vision spotted, head hung to the ground in mute obedience. He would allow himself to be lead away to the prisons. The place they seemed determined to take him. In his mind, he believed his wife and son to be free, for the time being. He shook his head, his poor daughter. He believed her to be shot and being dragged to the prisons. A guard came and seized him roughly, and without a word headed towards the prison.

Her hands and arms held tightly, she cowered and made herself as small as possible as they walked. Where had the rest of her family gone, was she ever going to see her love again.

The father was thrown in by himself under a special cell. The guards muttered something about his family being shot and killed. "We should leave you there to bled to death, but someone will come in and prolong your useless life. Madame Guillotine still wants to be fed by your blood."

As for the daughter, she was taken to the general population prisons. Soon, outside the chaos died down and the chanting of the people demanded their show for the evening. The darkness grew and the town was lit by candles and torches. Some of the guards realized that there were two prisoners short to feeding her Madame, but did not wish to point it out to their superiors.

They had gotten his wife, his two children, he had no reason to remain. He would look forward to his meeting with the guillotine to reunite him with his beloved family. Tending to his own wound as best as his shaky hands would allow he pressed firmly against the wound. Pain raked his body and he lay in the corner of the private cell he was given.

Shoved inside, Suzanne promptly collapsed to the floor. The clanking of metal against metal sounded behind her and she was shut in. Night had drawn its curtains, and the girl unfamiliar with her current surrounding hugged herself tightly and staying there just inside the cell.

The two rode on horse back, unbelievably right out the gates. Stiff from the cart ride, then being flung about atop the horse at a dizzying pace. The Comtess and Vicomte rode silently, neither wanting to ask where it was they were going. Ahead to the side of the road stood two figures, on the ground, two more. These sets of two seemed to transfix their gaze on the one upon the ground. As they neared, the Vicomte slowed the horse. Bidding his mother to stay as she was, he went to see if he might be off assistance. There they were running for their lives, and he wished to help these strangers.

Walking towards the men on the ground he thought over quickly, what if it was a trap... no, no one could have gotten this far ahead of them. "Est-ce que je puis être d'aide, monsieur?" he asked boldly taking care to stand just out of their reach.

Andrew slowly trudged along...it was going to be a hard ride to their destination..what with Armand slumped over his shoulder and him also have taken the lead of the other horse. Surely they had to be there soon. Trying not to think too much about Suzanne...and the fact that they would be meeting up again soon, against her knowledge, Andrew tried to pick up the pace. About after an hour or so, a worn out Drew arrived with a wounded Armand and to prisoners in tow....

The place he instructed Sir Andrew and Armand to take the prisoners were 10 miles out of Paris amongst the woods. On his own, he often took refuge in this place to rest, tend to wounds or allow others to rest and escape. Blakeney had no other place, other than Niven or Fuelier's flats, that he used to stash escaped prisoners. The barn, while drafty and damp, would serve its purpose as a temporary spot.

The next thing he knew, after he fell into unconsciousness, was that he was cold. It was dark, and he was cold. He was not being towed anymore, but he was lying on the ground in a... a... where the hell was he? It looked like a run-down shack or barn of some sort.... then he remembered Percy's instructions.

He heard no one, saw not a soul. Maybe his eyes were still closed. He touched his face. No, they were open. He felt his eyelashes brush his fingertips.

Had Andrew carried him here? He must have. In the dark, Armand touched his leg and winced. Pulled his hand away. It was wet all over with blood. His breeches were crusted with dried blood, and his jacket was stiff. Armand shivered. Licked his lips. Where was everyone?

He couldn't move, so he sat up on one elbow. "Hello? Is anyone there...? Andrew...? Percy...?" Quietly, the boy began to sob. "Mama..."

The good part over an hour passed and threatened for another one to do the same when Blakeney finally made his way on foot from the city to the barn. Out of routine, he did a crawl around the entire barn to ensure his mental safety. When all seemed in order, the Baronet crawled in through a loose slate in the back. It did not dawn on him that Andrew and Armand would have used the front doors to the barn, and equally, it he did not think he would hear voices calling out for someone he had not thought about in a while.

Hearing the soft voice calling his mother, or at least, in his mind that is who he pictured first, Blakeney immediately thought it was the Vicomte and panicked. What happened to his mother that he would be crying? Making his way over, he shook the figure slightly, only to recognize the voice. "Armand?"

He felt someone touch him, and he gasped, slightly pained when his body was moved. Then he realized... "Percy?" He struggled to sit up, clutching at his brother in law.

The way the young man moved, the wetness that seemed to smear across his hand where Armand grabbed him, the Baronet's mind raced with the worst of thoughts. "God have mercy! Armand! What happened?" He kept his voice low. Across on the other side of the barn, in near another room, he swore he could hear low voices that must belong to Sir Andrew and the escapes.

"I... I don't remember, really... I heard a gun shot... I think I was hit... god, it hurts so bad, Percy...oh god, what will I tell Marguerite?" He leaned against the other man, breathing heavily, trying not to cry. "Did we do it, Percy? I remember getting the mother... what happened?"

Running his hand along Armand's side, in the darkness it was not to hard to find where Sir Andrew wrapped cloth just above the wound. At first Percy thought it was the bullet hole itself that was covered, but his moving fingers soon found the tear in the pants where his index finger slipped in and touched the exposed flesh.

He choked back a cry. "What are you doing?" He gasped. He tried to crawl away from Percy, tried to push him away, but that shot needles through his body. It was like crawling on knives.

He kept his grip tight on the younger man and lowered his breath. "Armand, listen to me..." slowly the sights and sounds re-entered his head. "There were two shots fired.... two... where else does it hurt?" Using his hands in the darkness, Blakeney felt the other side of Armand's leg, only to find no exit wound. As he continued to ask, he patted along Armand's back. If he killed the boy....

"EVERYWHERE..." he groaned. "I only heard one shot... I have no idea if I was hit twice.... Andrew would have said something... Just don't touch me..." His breathing came in quick, shallow gasps.

Being sympathetic to his brother's situation, it only made his face wretch for the very thing Armand asked for, Blakeney could not do. "Armand, listen, you have a bullet lodged in your leg." He himself had never been shot before, and he could only guess that pain the young man felt.

"I have to get it free Armand. If it stays in your leg..." The stories he heard from the one armed or peg legged sailors filled his mind. 'The Gangrene' did this to me little fellah. I gots meself shot up long ago...' It would be very hard to tell Armand he could lose a limb if Blakeney didn't do something. Besides, in the back of his mind, since Armand mentioned her, it would be quite a thing to explain to Marguerite. Feeling in his jacket, his fingers found the three tools he would need to perform this properly. If only he could find a large enough stick.

He felt a chill run through him. "Percy... what are you going to do?" He whispered through dry lips. "You're not...? Oh merde!" The boy began cursing a blue streak in French, cursing the revolution, cursing the guards, cursing Percy... a few words came out in English. He wasn't yelling. He couldn't. He was dehydrated and hoarse. 'Brave,' He thought. He managed to shut up. "I don't suppose you could knock me out or anything?"

He pulled out three things. A small match box, a knife and his flask filled with brandy. Fumbling around in the dirt, he found no straw nearby which he could light a flame. Digging into the innermost seam of his coat, Blakeney brought forth half a red candle... one of the many he used when he needed to write a note and seal it with the flower. He took to making a dim light so he could see and glanced at Armand's sweaty and pained face.

"No, I'm not going to cause you more pain than I need to already. Here, drink this. Drink a lot of this, you are going to need it." Moving over, Blakeney rested Armand's head against his knee and offered the open flask. As Armand drank, the Baronet glanced up and over to where the others were. Andrew must know Armand's condition, but what of the woman in the group? At best, he must do this act as privately as possible. It was going to be a gruesome sight and Blakeney had only heard storied of how men removed bullets and such things. All he could remind himself was the most important thing: Whatever you do, do not hit a main vein.

The boy gulped down almost half the flask, ignoring the fiery taste the liquid had. His hand was shaking, and the flask slipped more than once, spilling a little on his hands. His throat burned. He needed water, not fire. But he forced himself to drink more, trying to forget how sick he was going to be later. Brandy, straight alcohol.... it made him nauseous just thinking about it.

"H-how are you going t-to d-do it?" He asked, leaning against Percy. He felt around on the ground for something to bite, so he didn't cry out. He knew he couldn't do that, not with Drew and the others so close.

The Baronet had long made his face stoic. He did not want to worry Armand and make him think he was not in control, nor that he had no idea how he was going to do this. In answer to Armand's question, Percy answered, "The normal way. Turn over." Rubbing a semi-thick stick on his pants, he put it in front of Armand's mouth. "Bite down on this. Be as quiet as possible so you don't spook the women or draw attention in case anyone lurks outside."

What he was asking, he knew, was a cruel and awful thing. He was no doctor and no matter how much alcohol Armand drank, he was going to feel this. Pushing some straw near, Blakeney took the candle to the small patch and let it burn away brightly. Running his blade over the flame until it threatened to turn black, he took a silent deep breath and put the fire out. Using the candle light, he leaned in and inspected the hole in the back of Armand's leg. So far, all he could see was meat-like flesh.

This was going to be bad.... very bad. He clenched his teeth on the stick, scared as all hell. He watched, shaking, as Percy burned the blade of the knife. He trusted his brother in law more than anyone. If anyone would do this, and do it right, it would be Percy.

Before he cut, Armand unclenched his teeth long enough to ask, "Percy... what in god's name are we going to tell my sister?" and take another swig of the brandy.

"I'll think of something. Now lie still and bite down." He took the flask from Armand, and checked it to make sure there was enough left. Good that the boy drank over half of it, and also good there was enough left for what he needed to do. Turning Armand's shoulder more into the ground, away from seeing this and putting the wound more directly in the light, Blakeney poured the brandy straight onto the wound.

Once Armand stopped twitching, Percy took a deep breath and moved the tip of the knife about with one hand, and with the other, moved the candle flame about back and forth. When a child on the sea, at night they would use the flame to reflect against the water. What he was looking for, he finally found, a dull reflection deep into the muscle of the leg. Putting the knife tip against the bullet, as if to hold his place like a book mark, Blakeney set the candle down it a pool of its own wax to let it remain upright of its own power. Leaning down and in, he squinted in to see as best as possible and then began the gruely process of cutting around the bullet until it began to bleed freely and finally, allowed the knife to wiggle it out. This process took at least a good ten minutes, for this had never been done before by the 'doctor'.

It was like slow torture. The alcohol had dulled his senses, but for a very short time. He could feel everything, and each movement of the knife became a sharper pain. His face twisted in a grimace, and he felt the blood run down his leg. He was just thankful he wasn't Percy.

He cringed as the blade cut his flesh, gnawing on the stick vigorously. It snapped. He couldn't find it, so he clamped his teeth on his thumb, ignoring the dull pain that blossomed in his hand.

When the bullet finally fell to the dirt, Blakeney took a hold of Armand’s leg and doused the now heavily bleeding wound with brandy. He had no clean wraps, so he stripped the bottom of his shirt and pressed wadded it up to press against Armand's leg. Upon that, he placed some straw, being hopeful that it would absorb and clot the bleeding in case the first line of cloth failed. Pressing it into place, Percy slowly undid Andrew's work and moved the twisted layers of shirt downward where he retied it to hold the makeshift bandage in place.

Placing the bloody bullet in his pocket for now, Percy sighed and began to put away his tools. His adrenalin became less intense and his lazy blue eyes never wavered from watching Armand's back leg. It seemed to not bleed through, proving his trial work here to be useful. He had not noticed an abundance of bleeding, as if he had severed a vein and said a silent prayer that his brother-in-law would heal from this without too much difficulty.

"Rest Armand. It is done." The voice he used was low like he tended to speak when talking to a spooked horse. His mind slowly drifted to Armand's other concern. Marguerite. Lifting his head upward, Blakeney looked in the direction of where the four De Tournays, Louise's parents and Andrew must be. His mind raced in plot.

His eyelids were heavy as Percy spoke. He had lost a lot of blood in one day, and his face was pale as he lay there, watching Percy. His green eyes, usually so glittery, were dull and gray almost. His lips were cracked and dry, his mouth tasted like he had eaten a handful of dirt. His face was caked with sweat and dust, his clothing crusted with blood.

This was quite the contradiction to the night when the Prince had come for dinner, and Percy, the perfect picture of gentlemanly finery, had antagonized the boy's every move. Now they were both dirty and bloody, uncomfortable, and a long way from home. "W-wa... water... is there any, Percy?" He couldn't stand it anymore.

Nodding, he stood and wiped Armand's blood onto his own burlap like pants. For a moment, he looked down and watched the suffering that went on and how the Frenchman seemed barely alive. Turning, he slipped out the back and headed down to the old well. Finishing off the last of his brandy, Blakeney returned with the container now containing water.

"Armand, here. Drink this. Rest." He handed the flask to Armand, and glanced up. Perhaps he should make an appearance, or perhaps not. He had no wig to hid his identity today and Blakeney was not sure how much he wanted himself to be revealed.

"Merci..." he gulped the water, which cleared his mind a little. It also sharpened the pain in his body, but he ignored that as best he could. He drank all the water, which was the only other liquid he'd had since that morning. It cooled his throat and the flask slipped out of his hand as his eyes did close now, and the boy slept quietly.

Watching Armand near finish the flask, he took it from the fallen boy's hands. Blakeney waited a little and then slowly moved away. Armand was asleep at peace finally. Slowly, quietly, he made his way around towards the other room like structure to look in on the others. He expected to see the family of four De Tournays, Louise's parents and Sir Andrew.

He supposed by now, all were settling down from the excitement. Keeping to the shadows, unbeknownst to him they had been exposing their real names, he called out, "Oye. Matie?" He did not remove himself from where he stood cloaked in darkness, however he used his voice so Andrew would recognize him.

Suddenly hearing Percy, Andrew jumped. He hadn't expected him back so soon! Slightly startled, Andrew attempted to calm himself. "Aye!" Andrew said, repairing into the semi darkness of the barn. Finally, he came face to face with his leader. He suddenly realized that something was wrong.."Where are the de Tournays?" Andrew asked in a quiet, hushed voice...."I thought.."

"I departed with them along the part where I gave up my horse and took to the roof tops like a cat. I saw a pair begin to ride away and only hoped the four met up with you or fled from the city towards England where we can hopefully track them down again. Tell me, do you have the parents here?" Blakeney whispered quietly and took a swallow of the water that now filled his flask.

Not waiting for an answer, his mind filled with questions, he continued, "I removed the bullet from Armand, it was wise of you to tie it so. He's in pain, as you already know, but now he's sleeping. Who else got shot? Are you alright?" Blakeney wiped his brow and tried to look past Andrew to see who was in the other room. He saw Louise's parents, but did not see any of the De Tournay family as of yet.

"Nobody, as far as I know." Andrew whispered, looking around. Then he was simply confused. "I'm fine..." Even as he spoke, Andrew's hands appeared to be shaking. "Just shaken is all.." Andrew frowned. "I just thought that you were getting the de Tournay's out of Paris..I would have done so myself, but you wouldn't let me." Andrew said with a tone of accusation in his voice. "I've no idea where they are. We- or, I at least- lost track trying to get Armand to safety. Will he be alright?" He asked anxiously, before his thoughts switched back to Suzanne..."Suzanne!" He whispered quietly. "I've got to get her out of there...please, Percy.." Andrew voice dropped even lower. "It would kill me if..anything ever happened to her.."

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