‘Good grief, laddie! Why? And to where?’ exclaimed Crawford. Dillon, however, was staring at James with a queer intensity.
James flung out his chest. ‘I must join the king, at Rome!’
‘Well, that is all of a sudden,’ said Dillon, not looking at James, but quizzically at Crawford. ‘Has the good Lord sent you a vision?’
Crawford helped James to a cup of steaming coffee, and gestured for him to drink. And as James did, his chest collapsed and he let out a sigh as deep as a death rattle. When finally he raised his bowed head, he said, ‘The Comtesse de Boufflers. I cannot stay another moment. She …’
Dillon, with a paternal smile, reached out and patted the back of James’ hand. ‘We are all men of the world here, Jaimie lad. You need not explain another word. There is, I take it, no hope of any … reconciliation?’ When he saw the look on James’ face, he stopped. ‘No, obviously not.’
James collected himself, ‘It has long been my wish to one day resume my journey to join my brother at Madrid, as you know. And that was where I intended to strike out for this very night … until I remembered what you told me, Mr Crawford, when you were dishing my chances of ever securing the necessary passports. You also said, should the comtesse wish to hinder me … she had the powerful friends to do so. Well, let us say my parting from her was not amicable. I have only the briefest of head starts on her fury, so I’m sure you will agree it is only sensible for me to believe she is already moving to thwart my plans. She will suspect Spain, but I fear it is not only on the road to Spain that will be looked for … it will be at the ports to the west, and the border with the low countries too ... obvious alternative routes to my final destination. But she has never heard a word from me of loyalty or support for James Stuart. And that is the sort of thing she will remember. So if I strike east, I have a chance. It will not occur to her that I might head for Rome, and King James’ court in exile. Even though it is the only destination in that direction where I am likely to receive a welcome.’
Crawford and Dillon weren’t looking at James as he made his declaration; they were studying each other, as if silently coming to a decision. ‘Well, Mr Crawford, “many things prove to me that the gods take part in the affairs of man”, eh? What do you think?’ said Dillon.
‘Herodotus,’ said James, head hung, despondent. ‘Why should you wish to quote Herodotus? Is this really a time to show off your erudition, Mr Dillon, or are you just practising on me?’
‘You are right to think you will be detained,’ said Dillon, brushing aside James’ question and talking to him with a great intensity. ‘I have told you all about King Louis’ fervent wish not to antagonise the wee German lairdie any more than he has to. Especially when it comes to harbouring fugitive Jacobites. But you, living under de Boufflers’ roof, have been granted many indulgences, not least the right to remain in France … not to mention the commission in his own guards. Without the comtesse’s protection however, my Lord Stair will feel free to report to London another renegado. So of course, you are right. You would be detained. Which means you must indeed get out of the country, and sooner rather than later.’
‘I have not come without ideas on this,’ said James, reaching into his sabretache and producing several sheets of writing vellum, each one carrying the regimental seal of the Chevau-Légers de la Garde. ‘It is here, where the criminality I referred to comes into play, gentlemen. Mr Dillon, in your capacity as an ambassador, you will know the form of writing, and Mr Crawford, as a man of business, you will have the hand of a scrivener. I am proposing we forge a laissez-passer … a deed I know will place us all in peril, but could well be the only thing that might save me.’
Crawford and Dillon grinned at each other. ‘You are a canny lad, Mr Lindsay,’ said Crawford.
‘We must repair immediately to my rooms,’ said Dillon. ‘There is much to be done before they shut the city’s eastern gate. And you Mr Lindsay. We have some news to impart on the way that, with the blessing, will result in it being you who will be doing us the favour tonight. Us, and your king.’
*
James was used to the press of people in Paris these days, but it still vaguely discomfited him how thronged the streets could still be even this late in the evening. He was picking his way through the eastern district of Faubourg Saint-Antoine. It was a rough, labourers’ slum where the tenements sat hugger-mugger, the streets were narrower and the stench even greater than the crush of the Rue de Quincampoix, where he’d had his first lodgings. He sought the eastern gate on the King Louis XIII wall, or ‘le mur des fossés jaunes’, as it was known locally. The wall was more of a ditch and glacis topped with a stone revetment, than the imposing bastion its name suggested, and the gate was a mere toll booth for collecting taxes from merchants trading in the city. Trade done, the booth shut at night, usually about 10 o’ clock, but if whoever was guarding it got bored, or too drunk to remain at his post, it closed earlier. The
