He’d been sworn not to produce the damn thing this side of the border, as it would draw too much attention. But all he could do was look at that damn gate, which would’ve been shut and barred by now, if the sergeant’s men had not become so distracted by the amusing little drama now going on with this high and mighty guards officer.
‘And sooner or later, someone higher up, much higher up,’ continued James, ‘will demand to know why a royal guards officer, carrying a dispatch with this seal … you recognise the seal, sergeant? Don’t you …?’
The sergeant didn’t need to look twice.
‘Will be demanding to know urgently in fact, why this officer has been subjected to an entirely pointless and insubordinate delay. And by whom. Or you can simply acknowledge what you see before your eyes, and let me damn well pass! Now!’
The sergeant, who as a younger soldier, had felt the lash for far less, stepped back and called to his men, ‘Clear a passage for his excellency!’
*
He spent his first, short, night’s sleep in a warm bed in one of the many inns along the route. Before he went to bed he sat down and wrote a letter to his commanding officer back at Versailles, Colonel Flahaut, a man who had always treated him fairly and like gentleman. In his brief billet, he resigned his commission, apologising for the abruptness of his departure which he put down to ‘matters of the heart gone awry’, and hoped he’d understand that he did it to spare the regiment any scandal. He also asked if the regiment might look after Sophie, and attached a note saying where she was and reassigning ownership
Another horse he had to part with. He did not like parting with a horse, he decided, and hoped it might never happen again.
As he’d been assured, his laissez-passer allowed him to sign army chits for new mounts along the route, so after entrusting his letter to the innkeeper for posting, he mounted up, and rode on. If la comtesse had raised a hue and cry, no alarm had out-ridden him on this road.
The remainder of his ride to Metz was uneventful. Beyond the fortress city he burned the first laissez-passer and unfolded the second. At the border, he was dismayed to see a large number of soldiers present. He toyed with turning back and trying another crossing point, but with the evening sun behind him, coming down a long straight road, the guards had obviously seen him and his uniform. To have wheeled his horse would have excited more than curiosity. It was only as he rode closer that the tightness in his chest relaxed. The soldiers wore the uniform of King Louis’ Irish Brigade. He stopped at the post for a chat, as any Scotsman in the king’s service would.
Brandy flasks were passed to and fro. ‘I remember many a warm conversation with your fellow countrymen in the service of the King of Spain, at Glenshiel,’ James had let drop.
‘Officers with Don Nicolas Bolano’s regiment? The Galicians?’ one of the Irishmen had barked.
‘There very same,’ said James, and the next thing his shoulders were being hugged and he was surrounded by a great hubbub. ‘Aylward’s my name, sir,’ one of them was saying, ‘and sure, one of them there that day must have been an Alyward too! My cousin, a James like you ... he’s been in King Philip’s service since the year eight.’
James said, ‘Yes! Indeed he was!’ while beaming; and all the while not having any memory whatsoever, of any name from among those fine Irish gentlemen – only remembering their generosity and their soldierly bearing.
When his new Irish officer friends heard where he was bound and why, no-one asked for further proof of his journey, and no demand was made to see the sachet. They understood he must press on immediately. But he must swear to call on them on his return journey. The Brigade was billeted at Strasbourg … not even a day out of his way. James swore, and felt guilty about his deception.
It was only after he crossed the Rhine and entered the town of Karlsruhe in the Margraviate of Baden that he decided it was time to use some of the substantial purse Dillon had handed him, and buy a horse. In fact, he bought two to carry him the further sixty leagues into the Austrian alps and Innsbruck. He even bought a suit of civilian clothes, but then thought better of changing out of his French uniform. A French guards officer in full regalia, carrying a dispatch in a sachet that was openly addressed to the ambassador of a friendly court and sealed with the French royal household seal, along with an official laissez-passer, was unlikely be mistaken for a spy. A strange civilian with a strange accent might be.
He kept up a steady pace now, through the breathtakingly beautiful and bountiful countryside, letting one horse regain its wind while he led it, and riding the other until it too, ran out of puff.
Onward he went, to the rescue of his king’s future bride.
5
The Polish Princess
James was practically being bundled up the narrow tunnel of the inn’s wooden staircase. The two Austrian officers, in their crisp white and gold braided uniform coats obviously thought they were doing him a favour, expediting his visit. Alas, James still had not the remotest idea of what he was going to say when he got to the top and had to
