King, Ship, and Sword

trailed off, numb and drained and horrified by how badly her vengeance had gone amiss.

'I speak of God and our souls, mademoiselle,' Clary said with a rasp of anger. 'Mon Dieu, does he intend to shoot at us? Bon!' Clary said, sheathing his sword and standing to attention, chest offered as a target.

'Is she dead, Lewrie?' Guillaume Choundas was cackling and huzzaing. 'Do you suffer now, hawn hawn? Weep, lament! Suffer as I, vous fumier!'

Charitй suddenly felt ill, sick at her stomach and exhausted beyond imagining. Even her long desire to kill Lewrie was gone, flown away, and all she felt was deep sadness, and revulsion to be a part of the deed, and those with whom she had shared it, and at everything-they had failed.

The boat was now over hundred mиtres offshore, and there was nothing to stop it, short of a miracle. It was pitching and swooping wildly, yet Lewrie was still aiming at them? Charitй took one step away from Denis Clary and squared her own shoulders to make herself an open target, and crossed herself for the first time in a long, cynical time, in expiation.

There was a sudden tiny bloom of gunsmoke from the boat's stern-sheets, whipped quickly away by the wind.

'Stupid!' Choundas yelled seaward. 'You always were a hopelessly stupid salaud, Lewrie! Mistaking muscle for brains! See your last hope dashed, and fear for my revenge! I will get you in the end. Suffer, and… Eee!'

Thunk! as lead slammed into flesh and bone! Choundas reeled on his good leg for a moment, looking down at the blood spurting from his chest before toppling forward, turning a clumsy pirouette as he slid down to the beach in a shower of loosed gravel and flinty stones, going over and over, head then feet, before thudding to a stop at the foot of the slope in the deep sand, his cloak spread out like a shroud and his corpse resembling a pile of cast-off laundry.

Major Clary let out a whoosh of relief, agog that anyone could kill with a smooth-bore musket at that range… and delighted that he had not been this Lewrie's mark!

'You see, mademoiselle, there is a judgmental God!' he said in wry delight, beginning to whoop with laughter for a moment. 'We must thank Him for removing that thing from the earth. And pray that we've been allowed to live for a good reason.'

'Denis?' Charitй said, amazed herself, smiling and shuddering to be spared, as well. She reached out a hand to her amour. If Denis was now in good spirits, would he not wish to…?

'Non' Major Clary told her with a sad shake of his head, that good humour vanishing as quickly as the gunsmoke. 'I now bid you adieu, mademoiselle. Au revoir.' With that he turned and began to trudge back to the top of the cliff, summoning Chasseurs to help their injured comrades.

Below on the beach, Matthieu Fourchette lifted his re-loaded musketoon to his shoulder, but gave it up as hopeless after a second of thought. He un-cocked it and handed it to one of the dazed soldiers. There would be Hell to pay when he reported this fiasco to Minister Fouchй. They'd killed a woman yet let the others escape to England, where news of the entire pursuit, Napoleon's involvement, and the murder would enflame British, perhaps world, outrage.

Fourchette heaved a deep sigh, contemplating the utter ruin of his promising career, shrugging and shaking his head sorrowfully, as he turned to face the cliffs, wondering if he should cross over the frontier and lose himself in the Germanies.

'What's that?' he asked a woozy Chasseur, who was aiding one of his mates with a twisted ankle, as he spotted the bundle of clothing.

'That's that hideux fellow, sir,' the Chasseur told him, rather cheerfully. 'Amazing, that shot. Be a trial… to get what's left of him back to the top of the cliffs.'

'Don't bother,' Fourchette told the soldier. 'Leave him here, and let the crabs and gulls have him.' And wondered if he could couch his report to place some of the blame for his failure on Choundas… well, a bit of it!

He went past the corpse, struggling to make his way up through the loose scree slope.

The Chasseurs, more practical and realistic, took a little time to loot Choundas's pockets, though they found little of value; seventy francs, a poor watch, some cigarros, a flint tinder-box, and a decent pistol with all accoutrements. The ogre's cane wasn't even scratched, and it, at least, was of good quality.

Then they walked away from him, too.

BOOK IV

Quid primum deserte querar?

Forlorn, what first shall I lament?

PUBLIUS VERGILIUS MARO,

AENID, U, 677

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Though it was after Easter, in the year of Our Lord 1803, there was still need of a fire in the hearth in the office/library with its many large windows and French doors overlooking the side yards and the gardens. It was a bright day, if still a cool one, so no candles or oil lamp was necessary for Alan Lewrie to read the latest letters that had come, or take pen, ink-pot, and stationery and reply to them. The only sound in the comfortably well-furnished room was the ticking of a mantel clock, and the occasional skritch of his steel-nib pen.

The house itself was quiet, far too quiet and yawningly empty to suit him, with the formal parlour and larger dining room furniture under protective sheeting, Sewallis's and Hugh's bed chambers abovestairs un-used now they were back at their school, and Charlotte the only child still residing at home… though of late she had spent the bulk of her time with his brother-in-law Governour Chiswick and his wife, Millicent, and their children at their estate.

Lewrie felt no need to break his fast, dine, or sup in the big dining room, no call to set foot in that wing of the house; there were no visitors calling who could not be received in the smaller breakfast room, or this office. His world had shrunk to the foyer, the landing and stairs, his office, the kitchens and pantry, and his and… their large bed-chamber. In point of fact, Lewrie preferred to pass most of his days outside, or somewhere else; the stables and barns, on a long ride daily over his 160 acres, or to town and the Olde Ploughman.

Lighting himself up to bed each night with a three-candle lamp, with the last bustling sounds from the kitchen and scullery over, he found that the house in which he once took so much pride felt more like a tomb an eldritch and eerie one. All winter and into the spring since he had brought Caroline home, the house at night let out odd wooden groans or ticks. Latched shutters rattled even in light winds, and there seemed an accusatory empty silence.

Reading in bed far into the night and partaking of perhaps a glass or two of brandy beyond his usual custom, he would look over to see her armoire and her vanity, empty of Caroline's clothing and things, and drawers in the vanity stripped to the last hair-curler or hat-pin, yet… they still stood in place, in what seemed to him to be mute condemnation.

The Plumbs' hired schooner had not sailed for Dover, but for Portsmouth, at Lewrie's request, to shorten