“Follow that coach!” Dubois ordered, pointing. “Sir Henry’s inside. He’s probably bound for the docks. Find out what ship he’s sailing on and report back to me.”
Red Dog nodded, and within moments the carriage was whirling down the street in pursuit. Dubois climbed into the other carriage.
“The Archbishop’s residence,” Dubois told the driver. “And don’t spare the horses!”
Inside his coach, Sir Henry Wallace roused Alcazar from his fainting fit with a couple of smacks across the face.
Alcazar sat up and looked around. “Are we safe?”
“Yes, my love, thanks to your alluring charms,” said Sir Henry Wallace, laughing.
He was in an excellent mood. He thought back to Captain de Guichen coming gallantly to the “count’s” aid, helping him escape. Sir Henry leaned back in the seat and roared with mirth. Alcazar came near fainting again at the dreadful sound, but Sir Henry reassured him.
“Be merry, my friend. We are now on our way to your brother’s ship.”
Alcazar realized with a start they weren’t alone in the coach. Two people shrouded in black cloaks were seated opposite him. He shrank back into the cushions.
“Who are they?”
“The woman’s name is Brianna. She is a friend of mine. Brianna say hello.”
“Hello,” said the woman.
“The man is known as the ‘Duke.’ ” He is, of course, not a duke at all, but he looks well in evening attire.”
“Why are they here?” Alcazar asked, quivering.
He noticed, as they passed under a streetlamp, that the man and woman were dressed in the same clothes he and Sir Henry were wearing.
“Because I never leave anything to chance,” said Sir Henry. “And don’t start whining, or I’ll smack you again.”
He glanced out the rear window. He did not see anyone following them, but that didn’t mean much. Dubois’ agents were good at their jobs. Almost as good as his.
Henry sat back in the seat. He put his fingertips together, tapping them, thinking. When he arrived in Freya, he would hand over Alcazar to Mr. Sloan with orders to take the journeyman straight to the armory. Henry would travel to court, report the joyful news to his queen, and receive her praise and thanks. He would then go to his wife. She would be devastated over the loss of the manor house, but he would be able to assure her he would build her a new one, far grander than any other manor house in Freya.
He was thinking these pleasant thoughts; the rocking motion of the coach sending him into a half-doze, when he was awakened by a cannon’s boom.
Sir Henry sat straight up. He listened to the echoes of that single cannon shot dying away in the night and swore.
“What is wrong now?” Alcazar asked fearfully. “Is it war?”
Sir Henry Wallace sank back in the seat of the coach that was now taking him rapidly nowhere.
“The port of Westfirth has just been closed,” Sir Henry explained in dire tones. “From this moment, no ships can sail in. No ships can sail out.”
“Then we’re trapped!” Alcazar cried.
“So it would seem,” said Sir Henry.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Confusion, misdirection, greed, bright penny blindness-the art of the confidence man.
DUBOIS’ CAB SPED FROM THE FRACAS AT THE Blue Parrot straight to the Old Fort, the residence of the archbishop. In his morning meeting, Dubois had told the archbishop as much as he deemed the man should know about Sir Henry Wallace and the threat he posed. He had warned the archbishop that if Wallace eluded capture, the port would have to be closed. The archbishop had scoffed at such an idea.
“Nonsense,” said the archbishop. “His Holiness can’t be serious!”
The archbishop had heard rumors about Dubois, knew him to be the grand bishop’s trusted and confidential agent, but had never met him. The archbishop was at first unimpressed by the common, shabby little man. Dubois was used to creating such a deplorable first impression. Indeed, he fostered such impressions. He liked being underestimated, forgotten. He found it easier to slip up on his victim unawares.
Having been confident he would capture Sir Henry, Dubois had said nothing more at the time. Now the man had once more escaped him. Dubois found the archbishop hosting a private musical evening for several wealthy gentlemen of the city, hoping to be able to persuade them to donate to the building of the cathedral. The archbishop was not pleased at being summoned away from the concert to meet with Dubois, who was waiting in the shadows of a balcony outside the salon.
“Well, what is it?” the archbishop demanded. He could hear, in the distance, the soprano singing one of his favorite arias.
Dubois explained briefly that Wallace had managed to escape.
“You must act now, Your Reverence,” Dubois concluded. “Close the port before this extremely dangerous man can flee to Freya.”
“Out of the question,” said the archbishop brusquely. “People will view this as a prelude to war with Freya. Does His Majesty know about this?”
“The bishop will handle His Majesty,” said Dubois. “As you are aware, I have here the bishop’s letter giving me full power to make this demand.”
The archbishop was well aware of the letter. He knew it was genuine. He could see and touch the grand bishop’s own personal seal that was affixed to it. But the archbishop was still not convinced. The idea that he was about to unofficially declare war on Freya by closing the port was appalling. He could envision the hordes of angry ship owners descending on him, howling about lost money. And, the truth be told, he was worried about the funding for his magnificent cathedral. In the event of war, that funding might dry up and so would his legacy.
“The Royal Navy would have to be informed-”
“I’ve already done that,” said Dubois coolly.
The archbishop flushed in anger. “You had no right-”
“I have every right,” said Dubois. “I refer you, once again, to the grand bishop’s letter.”
The archbishop thought this over. The grand bishop’s letter gave Dubois power to deal with any crisis in general. The grand bishop did not say anything specific about the closing of the port.
“I would feel more comfortable if I had a letter in the grand bishop’s own hand stating that he was responsible for issuing the decree,” said the archbishop. “As you know, I am but his humble servant. I could send a messenger to Evreux by griffin. He would be back by morning two days hence.”
“By which time, Sir Henry Wallace will be well on his way to Freya bearing Rosia’s doom,” said Dubois.
“Hardly my fault,” said the archbishop with a telling glance at Dubois. “You are the one who lost him.”
Dubois would have liked to wring the neck of the grand bishop’s humble servant. He restrained himself, however. He was thinking he was going to have to get tough with this man, threaten to reveal a certain sordid incident in the archbishop’s past which Dubois had taken care to discover, just in case. He did not want to resort to such a drastic measure. Not yet. Not if there was an easier way.
“If you will excuse me,” said the archbishop, “I am going to return to my guests.”
Dubois gazed, frowning, into the night. Hearing voices drifting up from down below, he glanced down over the edge of the balcony.
Silhouetted against the lambent light of stars and half moon, three men were walking the battlements at a
