The old man with short gray hair and the patch over his eye sat on a
bench, watching the shoreline of steamers and incoming. He had been
sitting there since noon, after his business with the seamstress was
complete. A wrinkled smile crossed his face and he coughed and
hacked all morning, when he didn't have his pipe hanging out of his
mouth. He was known to some in this part of town at 'Frulier', the
parson.
A wicked looking prostitute came over and slung her leg and arm over
his lap and shoulders. "Frulier! Oh won't yew save me?" She teased
and kissed his cheek. The old French man laughed and waved her
closer. "I 'ave nuthin' but poor to be a givin' to the likes of
yews" He inhaled a big puff of his pipe, squeezed her hand and
started chanting to the passerbys about God's grace in the
guillotine. "God 'elps those who 'elp themsefs! Bless Madame
Guillotine! Long live our Repub'lic!"
It was sermon's like this that made Blakeney sick to his stomached,
but he gave them anyway. One more crazy man wanting heads to roll
was not going to hurt a single aristocrat. If he did not sit there
safely, trying to see out of one eye only, Blakeney would not be able
to position himself to find out the information he craved. Today, he
watched from a far for five Englishmen dressed as hags to come off
the row of ships. Hopefully they would not come together as an
obvious unit, but after Andrew, Blakeney was not too sure.
Regardless how they came, all would have to walk down the long
pierway and pass him sitting on the bench. With the prostitute now
hanging onto him, sitting in his lap, Blakeney kept spewing out
sermons in French. He puffed on his pipe and scanned the courtyard,
his one keen blue eye set on those entering and exiting town.
***
Armand nodded in response to Axelia. Then, slowly, he stood up from the
table. His face was burning with embarrassment and regret. He stood beside
the table and bowed over Axelia's hand, pressed his lips to her fingertips.
"I will come back in a few days." He looked into her eyes. His eyes
prickled
with tears of regret for leaving her yet again. What if the stalker came
back? 'Don't worry... there are plenty of people here to protect her. And he
wouldn't dare come back so soon... would he...?' Shaking the dread from his
mind, Armand gently kissed Axelia on the cheek. "I'll return soon..." He
said. "I love you...."
And he practically fled to his room.
Once he was in his room, he searched for anything he could use as a
disguise. When he had collected everything he needed, he stuffed them into a
bag. Armand then scribbled a note to Marguerite, which he left under the
door
to her room. He checked to make sure he had money for a charter, then he
went
to the stables. He had the groom saddle two horses (one for him and one for
the groom) and the two rode off to the docks.
Once there, Armand had the groom take the horses back to the manor. "I will
return in a few days," he said, then once the groom was gone, donned his
disguise and paid for passage across the channel.
The craft was a medium sized schooner called the "Rivendell". She was an
older boat, skippered by an old, sea-faring man who hardly ever set foot on
dry land. The old man, who hobbled around the decks with a bent cane, led
Armand to a small cabin where he could stay for the duration of the trip.
"W' should be there i' a couple-a days, we should. If yeh need summat t'
eat, just get yerself to th' galley. Th' head is next to the fo'c'tsle."
Armand was dressed in the oldest, ugliest clothes that he had. The boy
smeared them with dirt, as well as his face. He had an old, floppy hat over
his head, and he'd mussed up his hair and raked dirt and such into it so
that
it had matted. A black, old, dusty cloak was over his shoulders.
Nothing he could do about his lack of height. He just hoped that it would
do. Once in France, he had a tri-color rosette that he would pin to his hat.
He stood idly on the deck of the schooner as the "Rivendell's anchor was
hauled up by the small crew, and the sails - mainsail, staysail, flying jib,
mizzen and mizzen-stay- spilled out over the booms, sheets, shrouds and
railing. A wind from the northeast put the sails at a close haul, and
schooner was soon making excellent time across the stormy English Channel.
As Armand stood on the bow, he could almost envision the rocky coast of
France as the boat crossed the water. He prayed that Helene was safe, and
that he would get there in time to save her from the dreaded blade.
An evening passed. Their good time slowed when the winds died down, as it
is
common for it to do in the evening, but, near three-thirty, there was
breeze enough to fill the jib and stay, and the "Rivendell" was tugged
slowly, by her foresails, closer to the coast of France.
Armand was awake most of the night, in his cabin, fidgeting with the note
from Percy. Suddenly, he remembered something...
He rose and walked to the railing, Ripping the paper to shreds, he cast it
into the water. In the pale moonlight, which was peering through the fog, he
saw the little scraps of white scatter and float away.
The schooner rocked violently in the swells. 'When the boat doesn't move,
you can certainly feel those waves,' Armand noted. Still
restless, he stood out on the deck, listening to the rigging strike the mast
and the water splash against the hull. The soft breeze that pushed the boat
made his cloak flutter and goose bumps raise on his skin. He shivered and
pulled the cloak tighter around his arms. Armand wondered what Axelia was
doing, if she was all right. He hoped so.
After an hour in the night air, Armand yawned and trudged back to his
cabin.
Careful not to hit his head on the low ceiling, he lay down on the tiny,
cramped bunk and listened to the water sloshing in the bilge below him and
against the body of the slender boat. He fell asleep.
Armand slept until the beginning of the morning watch, at about 8:00 am.
One
of the crew was ringing the bell that was up near the fo'c'stl. He
yawned... time to get up.
He walked out on the deck into a blanket of fog so dense you could hardly
see your nose. Armand wandered aft towards the cockpit, where the skipper
was
hobbling back and forth, cursing.
"...least there's no wind... we'd've been tossed 'gainst the rocks if there
was..." The skipper's head snapped up, and he snarled at Armand, "Whaddya
want?"
"Nuthin'... jus' lookin'," Armand muttered in accented English. He walked
back to his cabin and fell asleep again. So much for getting up.
It seemed like minutes later when he heard a gravely voice calling out
through a loud-hailer, "LAND HO!"
Immediately, Armand bolted upright and immediately hit his head on the
ceiling.
"Damn!" He yelled and lay back down, glowering at the low berth. Then,
after counting to twenty, he stood up slowly and walked outside.
The fog had burned away, off the water at least, and the sun shone
overhead. There was a strong wind from the north, about 15 knots. The sails were out
at
a broad reach, the schooner skimming the water, light and quick. Armand saw
the coast of his homeland about fifteen miles off the port side. Getting
more
excited, Armand couldn;t wait to get to Paris (something he'd thought he
would never be thinking to himself).
Three hours later, the "Rivendell" was finally docked in Calais, and
Armand,
with the rosette pinned to his hat, walked down the gangplank and onto the
shore. No one glanced at him, and that was the way he wanted it. Most people
about wore the same cockade on their person, so it was not a unique trait.
The occasional black-garbed, Republic agent wandered by, making Armand
stiffen. Was one of them that Chauvelin fellow Marguerite had not wanted him
to mention?
Along with the citizens, agents, hags, and soldiers, there were the
prostitutes. The docks were filled with them, propositioning any man who
walked by. It wasn't anything new for Armand to see this, though it still
made him wary. He tried to avoid the prostitutes when able, but it wasn't
entirely sucessful.
He entered the courtyard of the coastal town and headed for a cluster of
benches to sit down and wonder how he was going to get to Paris. Well, not
so
much getting to Paris. That was the easy part; but how the hell was he
suppose
d to find Percy?
As he sat down on one bench, he noted, with digust, and old man with a
young
woman on his lap. She was giggling and kissing his cheek. Shaking his head
slightly at the old man, who was shouting sermons about the Republic to
passerby, Armand leaned back and watched the ships sail in and out of the
harbor.
Blakeney was keeping close watch as the sun coasted its way across
the sky. He grabbed and hugged onto the women in his lap and
continued yelling insane comments about the Republic and the good it
did. Every comment out of his mouth was sarcasm in his soul. "The
Rep'blic will free us all!" he would should and hollar in broken
French. The sad thing was, people passing by would should and join
in.
Seeing the short hag sitting next to him, Blakeney smiled inside. If
this was not one of his bounders, it was the worst looking woman he
had ever seen. The height alone gave him up and in his mind, he knew
that was Armand. "The traitous fellow joins the game" the Englishman
thought to himself. Looking over at the clock in the small square,
the old gray man shouted "Viva La Rep'blic!" and he stood with the
girl, his arm drapped across her shoulder.
Andrew felt ridiculous dressed in this gettup, but so far he had
followed Blakeney's instructions by the letter. Sicne that incident
at the ball...and then, their argument at his home back in England...
Andrew grimaced remembering. One thought consoled him. He certainly
wouldn't be recognized!!! Suddenly, Andrew spotted an old man sitting
on a bench and knew without a doubt that it was Blakeney. He walked
slowly over in his direction, not wanting to cause anymore attention
to himself than he had to. Blakeney would kill him if he got caught.
He had to stay in character. 'Maybe I should have taken up
acting'...Andrew mused.
Armand was still sitting on the bench when he noticed a third man coming
towards him, dressed very much in the same fashion Armand was, except for
the
tricolor cockade. Suddenly, and idea struck him: perhaps the man on the
OTHER
bench was PERCY. And if so, why was there a prostitute on his lap? Armand
brushed the wave of anger off as swiftly as it had come, for, if it was
Percy, it was obviously some sort of cover.
It was entirely possible, but, even so, a risky idea.
As Armand kept glancing over at the man, he saw that the eye that was not
hidden by the eye patch was blue... blue, as Percy's eyes were.
Armand kept silent, kept staring at the boats, no longer trying to figur
hw he was going to find Percy in Paris, but how he was going to be able to
speak to Percy.
***
Blakeney was impressed with their garb. Another one approached. It
seemed they had a knack for the small details to take care in
hidding. It was only a test run. Just to see how they would do.
Give them no real instructions, just an outline and watch how they
handled it. So far, so good.
If they recognised him, they hadn't let on yet. He knew his getups
were good, for he had gone undetected so far on his own. If they
realized it was him right away, they would follow. The thought of
being spotted so easily bothered him a bit, but he reminded himself
of words Andrew said and had to back down a bit. He was used to
doing this alone, and they were intelligent men. They might very
well recognize him, for they would be looking for a tall Englishman
dressed in costume.
Leaving the woman to go after Armand, Blakeney limped his way across
the square, heading towards a clock making shop.
Armand groaned inwardly. Percy knew they were there; he could tell. And now
the man had just set the prostitute on him. Before she could touch him,
Armand had stood up and walked in the opposite direction of Blakeney. He
ignored the third man and headed for the dry goods store on the other side
of
the square, for the sole purpose of watching Percy and whoever this other
man
was.
It was Edward, Andrew or Frederick... but which one? Armand didn't know any
of the men well enough to determine which this one was.
He waited at the many-paned window, waiting to see what Blakeney would do,
leaning against a shelf full of bags of salt.
Andrew walked with a limp and actually stumbled. At one point, he saw
a rather ugly old hag- which undboutedly was Blakeney, headed towards
a clock shop. Even though he had figured him out, Andrew didn't let
on. He merely continued on his way. Andrew knew that this was some
sort of test- though Blakeney hadn't let on. After their fight the
morning before....
The angry words exchanged between the pair still bothere Andrew. He
had forgiven Percy though he was unbelievably tense about seeing him
again. Andrew forced the thought out of his mind and concentrated on
his mission. He was here to save innocent lives who would otherwise
be excecuted for treason. Lord Dewhurst hadn't been able to accompany
them on this mission, for he had run off with Yvonne de Kernogan the
night of Percy's ball. Andrew wonderd how the pair was getting along.
Pointing to various clocks in the window, the old greying man turned
and shouted to the passerbys. "Time be a runnin' out! Bettah find
yur friends and soon!"
Armand could barely hear what Percy was saying... it sounded different...
subtly different... from the other sermons. The boy moved closer to the
door, looked around, pushed it open and walked outside. There, he could hear, now,
what Percy was saying:
He limped over to the middle of the square
and hollared, "The Rep'blic grows strong! Bettah find yur friends
and soon!" Making his way to the opposite side of the square, the
old man yelled the phrase one last time, and then fell back into
regular sermon shouting.
'Find your friends...?' Then it dawned on him, and he almost shouted it
out: FIND YOUR FRIENDS!!! Percy was saying to them, basically, "Follow me".
He was limping off into the dark street alleys, away from the hustle
and bustle of the 18th century seashore town.
Looking around to see if anyone was paying attention to him- they weren;t-
Armand walked nonchalantly after Percy, stopping occasionally to look at
items in windows.
He eventually wound up a few paces from the older man. Surpressing the urge
to shout out the Baronet's name, Armand followed the hobbling man in an
uncomfortable silence.
What would Percy say to him when he came out of character?
Moving into the alleyway, he chanted lower and softer sermons to
himself more than anything. A few townsfolk passerbys greeted him
and/or patted him on the back at the constant struggle with the
limp. "How's the old leg and eye today Fuelier?" they would call
out when they passed. Blakeney had been working for months
making 'Fuelier' and 'Niven' real people in these town folks eyes.
So far, so good.
As he slowly limped along, Blakeney could hear the followers behind
him slowly gaining ground. Slightly glancing about, he did not see
many other "Citoyens" in this alley at the moment. Taking this
opportunity, the sermons near ceased to a mutter under his breath.
Giving a cry, the old greying man stumbled over a missed rock and
fell into a puddle along the road. Groaning in pain, struggling with
his leg, the old man tried and failed to get up on his own.
Startled, Armand started to dart forward to help Percy stand, but he
remembered where he was. Such an act of haste would be noticed here.
Instead,
Armand continued at his normal pace and stopped, seemingly hesitantly, next
to Percy, who was squirming in a puddle at his feet.
The situation was rather comical, Armand had to admit. Nevertheless, Armand
knew that if he didn't help Blakeney to his feet, he might be failing a
test.
It was possible that Percy really HAD fallen, but not so likely as him
pretending to fall. No, Percy would not REALLY fall. He was not clumsy.
Still, Armand had to surpress a grin and a chuckle as he silently paused
and
extended his hand grimly to assist his leader.
"Thank ye, thank ye youngin." The gray patched side of his face
turned and "looked" out at the hag helping him up. "God bless ye and
long live the Rep'blic." In the distance, there were others around,
but only Armand was at his side for the moment. Blakeney remained
speaking in his poor French dialect as "Fuelier" tried in vain to get
up.
"Ahhh... Ohh OW!" The first attempt at standing only found the old
man back into the puddle with another splash. He gave out a soft cry
and leaned forward, grabbing at his ankle. "I think I might 'ave
sprained it, I dew!" He doubled up over himself, making the six foot
odd of tall Englishman look more compact and small.
Armand had to roll his eyes. This was gettung rediculous. What was Percy
trying to prove by falling BACK into the puddle? Still....
This time, Armand offered BOTH hands.
"If you cannot walk, m'sieur, then I will assist you."
Andrew forced himself to look away from Suzanne. She was driving him
crazy. He took a few deep breaths then went back for more bread.
Whenever Andrew got nervous or excited, he always worked up an
appetite. As he payed the man for another slice of bread, Andrew
glanced over and saw an old man sitting in a puddle. Percy. He bit
his tounge to keep from laughing. Who was the other man with him? No
doubt one of the league members.
Andrew made his way towards Percy, exaggerating his limping. As he
continued walking, Andrew (who wasn't paying the slightest bit of
attention) ran SMACK into Suzanne who had apparently crossed the
street the same time as Andrew. "Well, make way, mademoiselle."
Andrew snarled in broken French. He played his part so well that
Suzanne looked a bit frightened at his tone. Good. That meant she
didn't recognize him. "L-long live the r-repu-b-blic." Then he
sauntered on. At least she hadn't knocked him over in their nearly
disastrous collision.
[PUB CRAWL]
"Thank ye. Thank ye youngin'." Grabbing onto both of Armand's
hands, Blakeney pulled himself up and leaned, hanging onto him. He
was half soaked, muddy and coughed while patting down his
clothes. "Where is me pipe? Can ye 'elp me? Did I drop me pipe?"
Favoring his left ankle, he stooped even further over and hacked out
weakly, "To that there corner youngin'. I needs yewr help to that
pub."
Fuelier pointed to a hole in the wall place up the street. The patch
covering his eye began to move off, so Blakeney quickly reached up to
cough again, and settle it back in its proper place.
Supporting the old man on his right shoulder, Armand helped Blakeney hobble
to a small pub just around the alley bend. Blakeney was doing a stunning job
at pretending to be hurt. If Armand wasn't so positive that he was faking,
he would have seriously believed that the old man had twisted his ankle.
They entered the pub like than, and Armand helped him sit down at one of
The tables. Cocking his head at the man, Armand felt like grinning as he asked,
"What's your pleasure, mon ami?"
"I thank ye youngin'." he propped up his ankle on a chair in the
corner by a fire. "Can ye do me a favor? Some ice fo me ankle and
whiskey? A man's gotta drink away the pain." He made eyecontact
with Armand and snuck a wink and quick grin. As soon Blakeney let it
be seen, it vanished as if it never exsited and Fuelier grimaced back
in pain.
Armand didn't let on that he'd seen Blakeney wink. He just nodded, hoping the wink meant that Blakeney was trusting him again, though he doubted just being
a good samaratain would do it.
Glancing around for more hags, Fuelier slapped Armand on the
shoulder. "Me name's Fuelier. Go start up a tab and get whot ever
yew like, eh?" Rubbing his ankle, he wrinkled his face back in pain
and doubled over.
"Pleasure, Fuelier. They call me Jean Rolfe. 'Scuse me." Armand left Percy,
got two whiskeys and some ice for the ankle, and returned after a few
moments.
"Your drink, citoyen, and some ice." Armand placed the whiskey on the table
and held out the ice for Blakeney.
He was in his glory. Alive. Blakeney always felt alive when he went
out on these excursions. Now seeing his friends coming along on the
ride, his ego filled with confidence and he realized this could be a
lot more fun no longer solo.
Armand never once pulled the costume off. Blakeney was not sure how
good of an actor Armand could be, although he knew the chilly reality
of how his sister had pulled it off so far. Two St. Justs in the
family that would dupe him blind? Anything was possible, so he put
himself back in check with a memory.
Taking the cloth filled with brownish ice, he breathed in and out
hard and wrapped it around his ankle. "Thank yew M'm. Won't
yew 'ave a sit next to me? Maybe I can get to thankin' ye more
proh'per?" Blakeney gestured to the chair directly next to him.
Andrew saw Blakeney enter a nearby pub and knew that it was his cue
to
follow. He had to hand it to him. Percy was quite the actor. If he
hadn't known him all his life, Andrew would never have recognized
him.
Andrew took his time getting to his destination. This was going
better
than he'd thought it would. He had completely forgoten about his
argument with Percy and concentrated on the task at hand. His trial
would come soon enough. Somehow, Andrew knew that this was part of
it.
With that thought in mind, Andrew hobbled into the pub, hoping to
find
a place to sit where he wouldn't be too obvious.
Seeing Andrew enter, the adreneline flowed through his veins again.
Two out of five. Tony, Edward and Frederick still were wandering out
there somewhere hopefully. Blakeney remembered seeing Frederick exit
off the boat, and quietly moving around. Maybe he was coming
shortly. No matter. Other matters in the immediate hand.
"Well now... it looks like me lucky day!" Fuelier smiled and
motioned the hag dressed Andrew over to his table. "Won't you two
Mademoiselles join me fo a drink while I wait out the pain?" He
patted the seat to the other side of him for Andrew. The only other
member in the pub at this hour was the barkeep. Blakeney
purposefully had limped over to the far end corner. It was the best
viewpoint to observe those coming in and out and it also provided a
darker shadow to convince any incoming of his garb.
Armand grinned inwardly as he sat down. The other hag was another one of
Percy's men! Why else would he be asking the other to join them? Armand
picked up his drink and swallowed a mouthful of the fiery liquid. Never
really fond of alcohol, a forced himself not to grimace. 'I hope he knows
what he's doing,' Armand thought cynically. He leaned back a little and
watched Percy to see what to do next.
Andrew was thoroughly enjoying himself at his part in the 'game.' He
tried to imagine Blakeney's thoughts running through his head at the
speed of lightening. It was hard to fathom. "Of course, monsieur."
Andrew slurred. "I am in need of company!" He spoke in a broken
French accent and was hard to understand. Andrew tried to sit down on
the wooden stool, but he slipped right off and landed in a heap on
the floor. Percy bent down to help him up. Andrew wasn't used to
wearing ladies garments and they were uncomfortable. Particuarlly the
shoes. "God bless you, citoyen.." Andrew croaked out in his slurred
tone of voice. He sat back down and THIS time managed to STAY on the
stool. He was normally not so clumsy. Andrew decided to continue his
stunt of being really drunk. He could pull it off- easily.
When Percy asked for help, Armand gulped half his drink(regretting it
instantly) and stood to assist Percy in standing. The older man leaned on
the boy's shoulder, as well as the other of Percy's band. Where would they go?
No
doubt, Percy had a place to go, some little rat-infested French flat. But
they certainly wouldn't get there like this, would they?
'Whatever it takes to make him trust me, I shall do,' Armand though.
"Where to, citoyen?" He asked. He swayed slightly on his feet. The whiskey
certainly hadn't done HIM good.
Blakeney leaned on Armand and stretched. "I think me leg's feeling
awroight by now. Yew two wont go fo a stroll?" He limped still but
moved on ahead of them, out of the pub. They would have to come up
with a better plan that this garb to find out where Helene was kept.
In fact, prison might be the best way to find out information. He
had always phathomed the idea of getting himself arrested to learn
from the inside, but how would he escape? A dangerous ploy, that
would not be discussed anytime soon. First things first.
"This way ladies." Fuelier gave a small laugh and limped his way
towards the sea shore's town square.
Cursing himself a thousand times over, Blakeney hobbled down, across
town, glancing behind him several times to make sure he was not
followed or seen. In fact, so paranoid was the man, that he circled
a few different areas numerously to ensure his safety. He was not
being followed.
Like the small hideaway on England's sea shore, Blakeney had a hole
in the wall place in France. It was not much. Rat infested.
Smelly. Boarded up windows. A complete true hole. There was a
makeshift closet and a mattress on the floor. No more. No less. Just
how he liked it.
Tossing down the heavy growing pile of clothes in a corner, Blakeney
flopped himself back on the mattress and stared up at the ceiling.
Too many questions popped up and around in his head. Not a single
one even held a small hopeful or comforting answer.
He took off his mask and wig, placing them at his side. Reaching up,
Blakeney shook out the sweaty, matted-down blonde locks. Vainly he
ran his fingers through the hair to make an attempt at straightening
it out.
For now the thought of having a chance to save a life like Helene, to
begin to make up for St. Cyrs, filled his cranium. His driving goal
as a child had been to learn. His driving goal as an adult was to be
the perfect English gentlemen. When all that bored him, he came up
with this adventure that tied in his two previous educations. Save
the Aristos in France.
As he laid there, his mind selfishly kept thinking back to his
wife. How could 7 weeks of wonder with his Maeve turn into this
living hell? Did God himself want the Aristos punished? Was he
interfering with God's plans and that is why everywhere he turned, he
was faced with anger and betrayal?
Turning on his side, Blakeney coughed as the dust and dirt of the
shabby French hole entered his pure breed lungs. He closed his eyes
for a small nap. It was still early. Time would come to him no
matter what he did or how he spent it. He almost did not want to
meet the others to find out he would be further fooled. As he
napped, he took comfort only in his heart, as he did not believe God
wanted this foreign slaughter.