“That seems unlikely,” Cassie agreed, concealing her excitement. “Surely there are female servants? After the market, I could drive up there to show my wares.”
“Go at your peril,” Madame Leroux said. “Half the village is ill with influenza—that’s why I’m so quiet here. I hear that most of the castle staff is ill, too. Not the sort of thing that usually kills, but it creates plenty of misery. Best stay away.”
“I may have something for that,” Cassie said. “The Hindu woman who made the perfumes also gave me what she called thieves’ oil. The legend is that during the plague years, thieves used it to stay safe when they robbed the dead. I have tested it myself on this journey, and I haven’t become ill despite the weather.”
The landlady’s gaze sharpened. “I might be interested in that myself.”
Cassie dug into her bag for a sample. “Try this. A few drops in your palm, rub your hands together, then cup them and sniff the scent.”
Madame Leroux followed the instructions, her nostrils flaring as she sniffed the pungent mixture. “Smells like it ought to do something! Does this remedy really work?”
“As one businesswoman to another, I will admit that I’m not sure,” Cassie replied. “But I haven’t had so much as a cough since I started using it.”
Madame Leroux took another sniff. “Perhaps we can trade your oil for my lodging?”
After a brisk bargaining session, agreement was reached and Cassie handed over a larger bottle of thieves’ oil. Madame Leroux chuckled. “If you call at the castle and fall ill with the influenza, at least you’ll know it’s no good.”
“I hope it works,” Cassie said with an answering smile. She now had a good reason to go to the castle, where she could learn if Kirkland’s long-lost friend was really in Durand’s dungeon. “But perhaps I will head on to the next village. This country is new to me. How far to the next village that has lodgings? In summer, I am happy to camp out with my pony, but not in February!”
“Three to four hours’ drive if the weather stays clear.”
“Then I shall move on after the market.” Cassie mopped up the last of the stew with the heel of her bread. “But I shall make sure to stay here if I come this way again.”
Chapter 6
Castle Durand, Summer 1803
By morning’s light Grey saw that the heavy door to his cell had two small trap doors opened from the outside, one at head height, the other near the bottom. “Breakfast, yer lordship,” a sneering voice said as half a loaf of bread and a tankard of tepid minty tea was placed through the lower door. “Return the tankard later or no dinner for you.”
Because he was hungry, he obeyed. The breakfasts were usually bread with drippings smeared on and more of the herb tea. No costly China tea for prisoners.
Dinners were sparse but more varied. There might be a bowl of stew, or perhaps vegetables and a bone with meat on it. Occasionally a boiled egg. The best part was the pewter goblet of wine. It was always a coarse young table wine, but it gave him something to look forward to. He felt occasional fleeting amusement that because this was France, prison food wasn’t quite as dreadful as it might have been.
Apart from meals, Grey’s life was deadly monotony. He always sat in the narrow beam of light filtered down into his cell. That light saved him from madness, but not despair. Having always lived surrounded by people, he hadn’t realized human contact was as essential to his life as air. Now he saw no one, not even his jailers, so he couldn’t use his legendary charm to improve his situation.
He felt like a bird trapped in a small room frantically beating against the walls. But there was nothing, nothing, he could do to escape. The mortar that joined the stones was new and hard and impervious. The slit window that let in the blessed light was too far above his head to reach even when he jumped to try to catch the sill.
All the world was gray stone. The only features of the cell were the pallet with straw and dark blankets and the crude stone table and seat. Sometimes he caught a glimpse of a beefy hand placing the food on the floor and removing the empty bowl and drinking vessel. Occasionally Gaspard would open the upper window in the door to spew insults. Grey knew he was in a bad way when he looked forward to such interludes.
The cell warmed a little as spring turned to summer. When rain fell, the trickle of water down the wall became stronger and he could clean himself a little. He tried not to think of the magnificent new bathing rooms his father had built at the family seat, Summerhill. Tubs full of hot water large enough for a man to sink in to his chin …
No. He daren’t think of home. Like a hibernating animal, he took refuge in sleep, spending most of the hours of the day and night wrapped on his pallet in a dark haze of melancholy. Only meals pulled him from his stupor.
That changed the day Durand visited. Floating between sleep and unwelcome wakefulness, Grey was slow to realize that the door was opening. He was still lying on his pallet when Durand strode into the cell.
“Look at yourself, Wyndham,” Durand said contemptuously. “Three months’ imprisonment have turned you into a filthy, dull-witted pig. What woman would let you touch her now?”
Fury slashed through Grey’s lethargy and he launched himself up from the floor and straight at Durand. Like his classmates at the Westerfield Academy, he had learned the Indian fighting skills called Kalarippayattu from Ashton, his half-Hindu classmate. Surely he could break a middle-aged politician …
Durand slid away with insulting ease, then spun Grey around and forced him to his knees by twisting one arm excruciatingly behind his back. “You’re nothing but a boy, and a weak one at that.” He shoved Grey onto the floor, releasing his grip and stepping back after a parting kick in the belly. “The English are a nation of weaklings. That’s why French victory is inevitable.”
Gasping with pain from the kick, Grey panted, “The war has resumed?”
“Naturally. The Truce of Amiens was merely a pause to recruit more men and build more weapons. Within the next months, we will invade England and make ourselves masters of Europe.”
Grey didn’t want to believe that. But it could be true. In Paris, he’d heard that the French were building boats and amassing an army at Boulogne. “Napoleon will have to get by the Royal Navy first,” he spat out in a thin, rusty voice.
“We have plans to take care of your navy,” Durand said confidently. His expression changed. “After the invasion, your family will probably be dead and their fortune confiscated. I wonder if it would be prudent to offer you to them for ransom now? How much would they pay for their son and heir, Wyndham? A hundred thousand pounds? Two hundred thousand?”
Grey’s heart spasmed. Dear God, to be free of this place! His parents would pay any amount to get him back. They would …
They would beggar the family for his sake. His parents, his younger brother and sister—all would pay for Grey’s stupidity. He could not do that to them.
Managing a sneer of his own, he said, “They surely think I’m dead already, and good riddance. Why do you think I spent months in France? I was an expensive, useless son. My father was furious with me and I thought it best to get out of sight. He would have disowned me if he could.” Grey shrugged. “I have a younger brother who is better in all ways. He will make an excellent earl. I’m neither wanted nor needed.”
“A pity,” Durand said with a trace of regret. “But entirely believable. If you were my son, I wouldn’t want you back, either. Then you shall stay here till you rot.”
He spun on his heel and left. The locks on the door were engaged before Grey could stagger to his feet.
Had he thrown away his only chance of leaving this dungeon alive? Hard to say. Durand was a shifty devil and he might have collected a ransom and not freed his captive. Or returned Grey’s dead body to England.
But Durand had been right to sneer. Grey had been wallowing in self-pity and despair, allowing himself to become weak in body and s
pirit. If he’d been in better shape, he might have been able to break Durand’s neck. He’d never have escaped the castle, but it would have been satisfying to kill the mocking bastard.
He’d lost track of time. Three months, Durand had said. He felt as if he’d been here that many years, but from the length of his beard, three months sounded about right. It was summer, probably sometime in August. His twenty-first birthday had just passed.
If he had been home in England, his parents would have thrown a great celebration at the family seat, inviting aristocratic friends as well as all the Costain dependents. Grey would have enjoyed it enormously.
Instead, they were mourning his disappearance and likely death. He loved his family, but he’d always taken them for granted even though one couldn’t have asked for better parents. He was deeply fond of his younger brother and sister, who looked up to him. He’d failed them all. The only thing he could take pride in was discouraging Durand’s ransom demand.
Grey would not—could not—continue in this spineless fashion. First, he must begin an exercise regimen to rebuild his strength.
He studied his cell as he thought about what was possible in the space. He could run in place to build his endurance. Stiffly he began, imagining places he’d been and sights he’d seen so he could mentally leave these ugly walls.
He ran until he had a stitch in his side, then dropped to the floor and pushed himself up with just his arms. Once that would have been easy. Now he could only manage to push himself up half a dozen times before he collapsed, gasping.
Another way to build muscles was by lifting the two stones that served as chair and table. He bent to lift the smaller one. It was heavier than expected. He barely managed to raise it six inches before losing his hold. It crashed to the floor and a chip spun away from the lower edge.
Panting from his exertion, he vowed that he’d lift that damned stone over and over until he was strong enough to carry it around his cell. Then he would tackle the larger block that served as his table.
He could and would exercise every day. What else had he to do?
Perhaps even more important, he must rebuild his mind. He’d always been lazy in his classes, able to get by with little work and the help of an excellent memory. Lady Agnes had seen to it that he learned at the Westerfield Academy, but his years at Oxford had been fairly useless. He’d attended Christchurch College, where gentlemen’s sons like him dabbled in classes between social amusements. Kirkland and Ashton, characteristically, attended Balliol, the college associated with sheer brilliance.
He considered the memorizations required by different masters. How much of Caesar’s Gallic Commentaries could he quote in Latin?
“Gallia est omnis divisa in partes tres.” All Gaul was divided into three parts. He knew the Latin and English, and now he translated the passage into French. Since his voice also was weak from lack of use, he spoke the passage aloud as he exercised until he was too tired to do more.
Shakespeare. He’d studied the Bard and also performed in plays at the homes of friends. Always he was chosen as one of the leads and he learned his speeches easily. “Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day …”
No, not Macbeth, not here and now. What did he remember from Twelfth Night? Yes, that was a much better choice. “If music be the food of love, play on; Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting; The appetite might sicken, and so die.” He liked to sing and had a decent voice, so he could sing as much as he wanted to. Good for the soul and for maintaining his ability to speak.
He must keep track of time, no longer letting the days slide by mindlessly. When he’d dropped the chair stone, a small piece had chipped off. He would designate today as August 15, 1803. Using the stone chip, he scratched that on a head-high stone near the door. Every day would be marked off with a scratch.
He could hear church bells from the village. Careful listening would tell him what days were Sundays, and he should be able to determine major holidays.
From now on, his life would have purpose. He might never have a chance to free himself. But if an opportunity was presented, no matter how small, he’d be ready.
Gradually, Grey’s weakened body began to strengthen. So did his mind. He was amazed at how much he remembered of his lessons. He’d always enjoyed reading, so each day he chose a book from his mental library and recalled as much of it as possible.
He didn’t talk aloud to himself because doing so made him feel too close to the madmen he’d seen when one of his more rattle-pated friends had taken him to Bedlam Hospital. The friend thought watching deranged patients amusing. Grey had found it deeply disquieting. The memory of those tormented souls haunted him still, especially on those days when he wondered if he was descending into madness.
But an unexpected blessing appeared not long after Durand’s visit. Though he didn’t talk aloud, he had no compunctions about singing. Every day he sang several songs, and he enjoyed both the music and the way his voice was returning to normal after three months of disuse.
He’d just finished a rousing rendition of an English drinking song when a young female voice whispered in French from the slit window above, “Bonjour, monsieur. Is it true that you are an English milord?”
Grey leaped to his feet in excitement. Another human! And a female at that. “I was once, mamselle, but now I am a prisoner, of no importance.”
The girl giggled. “A real milord! I’ve never met a goddam. How did you come to be here?”
“I misbehaved,” he said solemnly. She giggled again and they had a brief conversation through the window, which was a foot or so above ground level. She was a castle maid and called herself Nicolette, though he suspected it wasn’t her real name.
She couldn’t stay long because the housekeeper was a dragon and Nicolette feared for her position if she was caught. But after that she visited once or twice a week, often with one of her friends.
Some of the girls were deliciously scandalized at the chance to talk to an imprisoned English milord. Nicolette was a kind girl with some interest in Grey as an individual. Occasionally she dropped an apple or other fruit between the bars. He devoured her offerings, amazed that he’d ever taken apples for granted.
Nicolette told him of her sweetheart and bid him a fond farewell when she left the castle to marry. He gave her his blessing, for he had nothing else to give.
None of the other maids visited as much, but he still had occasional visitors. For a time there was a boisterous young ostler from the stables who taught Grey highly obscene French drinking songs until the man was fired for drunkenness.
Grey treasured those moments of normality. They helped keep him sane.
Chapter 7
France, 1813
Madame Leroux was right, and Cassie did a brisk business at the small market in the village square. She rather enjoyed being a peddler. Since she didn’t depend on selling to support herself, she could be flexible on prices. It was a pleasure to be able to sell a pretty ribbon to a girl who had never owned anything pretty.
The thieves’ oil was popular, too. With winter illnesses rampant, buyers would try anything that might help. Customers were also interested in news, as isolated villagers always were. Yes, the news from Russia was bad, but the emperor had escaped safely, and wouldn’t this length of lace look lovely on your daughter’s wedding dress?
By noon there were no more customers, so it was time for the castle. Cassie ate a bowl of thick bean soup at La Liberté, thanked Madame Leroux for her help, and left St. Just du Sarthe. Instead of heading for the next village, she drove up to the castle. The narrow road was bleak and windy, and the castle was equally bleak when she reached it.
The castle proper was surrounded by a looming wall that had never been mined for stone. The massive gates stood open so people and vehicles could come and go easily, but the gates looked as if they could still be closed in an emergency.
She drove through the gates unchallenged. The walls cut the bitter wind once she was inside. Not seeing anyone, she drove around to the back of the castle and left pony and cart within the shelter of the mostly empty stables. Then she slung her peddler’s bag over one shoulder and went hunting for the entrance to the servants’ area.
After two locked doors, she found one that opened under her hand into a short passage leading into the castle kitchen. The long room was warm and there were pleasant smells, but there was no one in sight. Cassie called, “Hallooo! Is anyone here?”
A hoarse woman’s voice replied, “What do you want?”
A heavy-set woman pulled herself from a wooden chair by the fire and limped toward Cassie. Her round face looked designed for smiles, but she was wrapped in shawls and coughed every few steps.
“I’m Madame Renard, a peddler, and I see that you’re a candidate for some of my throat lozenges. Here, a sample.” Cassie fished a packet of honey and lemon lozenges from her bag. They tasted good and did help soothe a cough.
“Don’t mind if I do.” The woman removed a lozenge from the packet, then sank onto a bench. “Merci. I’m the cook, Madame Bertin.”
“I was told most of the people here at the castle were ill.” Cassie glanced around the kitchen. A pot hung on the hob by a fire that had burned down to embers. “You look like you could use some help. Shall I build up the fire for you?”
“I’d be most grateful,” the cook said. “There’s chicken broth in the pot there. Could you get me some?” She coughed wrenchingly. “Everyone is sick in bed, can’t even manage stairs. I’ve got hot food for anyone who wants it, but no one has made it this far and ’tisn’t my job to wait on other servants.” More coughing.
“I hope no one is dangerously ill?” A ladle hung by the fire, so Cassie scooped warm broth into a porringer on a nearby table.