awesome! ! ! !stnylan said:
nothing beats the ability to move as one who is invisible! ! ! -
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nothing beats the ability to move as one who is invisible! ! ! 
So, it seems all my commentatAARs have gone on holiday this weekend? Well, not quite all. As you say GhostWriter, it helps to be able to move unseen, and there is nothing like hiding in plain sight.
Another update after final edit. I'll be updating the Dramatis Personae as well.
Well, not quite all. As you say GhostWriter, it helps to be able to move unseen, and there is nothing like hiding in plain sight. Another update after final edit. I'll be updating the Dramatis Personae as well.
The Past (8th June 1682) - The Next Night
It is a warm night, and I do not really need the cloak that hangs loosely from my shoulders. I am only one of a few to have bothered with such a heavy garment. I stop at an intersection, and look about. I frown, and choose the left-hand road. I do not think I have much further to go, but these streets are still strange and I might be lost. My meandering route has made things more difficult, but it has its rewards. I am not being followed.
Another turn and there is my destination. I duck pause in an alley, and study the Red Lion. I could try to bluff my way in from the common room, but I would not wager on that chance. The roof is accessible and offers access to the windows, but I mistrust the look of the tiles. I spend a moment in further contemplation, remembering all I can from my breakfast with Carlos.
I stride into the yard, and make without hesitation to the kitchen door. From inside the main room come the sounds of a good company winding down, but behind this door there is no sound. Fortune smiles on me, for the door is unlocked. I lift the latch, and sneak in. The kitchen is deserted, the fires damped down ready for the morning. It is hot, and I can feel myself begin to sweat. There are two doorways leading elsewhere, and some stairs leading up. Back home Father had always insisted that a man guard the kitchen during the night. It is the nexus of any large house, and the Red Lion is no exception.
Old Charles should know better than to leave clear such an obvious entrance. Perhaps he has left it unguarded for a reason? Is my good fortune really so perverse that Old Charles might already be entertaining? I shrug. It does not alter anything, I just need to be careful. I draw my cloak tight about me and pull up the hood.
I creep up the stairs, keeping close to the wall. I can hear echoes from the main room. I hope they mask the sounds of my steps. I reach a hallway; it is dark and empty. Closed doors lead off to unknown rooms. I swallow. Now I am acting on faith that an old man does not change his habits. I sidle along the corridor. From inside one room I can hear heavy snoring, and another a giggling. The corridor leads onto a balcony over looking a private courtyard. In the centre is a fountain. I keep to the wall and edge my way down the right side.
I hear a door open and freeze. From below comes the sound of whistling, and a red-haired brute walks to the fountain. I press against the wall, bringing one arm up to cover my face. I leave a slit for my eyes. The man stops, and splashes water on his face and massive chest.
“Charles,” a woman says in English. He looks back from where he came.
“I was just cooling myself down a little,” he replies, looking irritated.
“Do that later. It’s time to kick the wasters out, and I want you there.”
“Alright,” Charles says, and flicks some more water at his face. He stretches, and then walks back out of sight. The door closes.
I continue on my way. Two doors, three doors, four. I stop outside the fourth door. I close my eyes and mutter a quick prayer. I twist the handle. Providence must be on my side tonight as the door opens without a sound. I step inside the room, and close the door behind me. I stand still, listening to the sound of someone breathing in, and then out with a tiny whistling sound. I wait, as my eyes adjust to this even deeper darkness.
What to do? There is only one way I can confirm that I am in the right room. “Sir Charles, I presume,” I say.
There is a grunt. “I take it you do not then intend to kill me,” an irritable voice asks from the covers.
“Nothing could be father from the truth. Might I take a seat?”
“Can I stop you?” The man in the bed sits up, and lights a candle from a bedside table. I pick up a stool, and put it near the end of the bed. “So,” he says, as he holds his candle higher, “why have you disturbed my sleep?” I sit, and lay a long dagger on my lap.
“To make a proposition.” I speak in Genoese-tainted Spanish, like that used at the university there. I hope it suffices.
“And is this entrance meant to impress me?”
“No. It is meant to ensure that we have a little privacy. Let me tell you a story…”
“Bah, I need no night-time tales.” Charles reaches for something I cannot see.
“But, Captain Simmonds, you do.”
He gasps, and stops. “Speak your piece,” he says through clenched teeth.
“Thirty years ago a man and his family came to Spain. They were fleeing, having chosen the losing side in a civil war. They came to Madrid almost destitute. Spurned, and in some fear of his life. The little money he had left would only last a little time. The man was at his wits’ end.
“So he was surprised when a stranger approached him one evening in the poor inn where he was staying. They talked, and it soon become clear that this man knew something of the fugitive’s past. He knew that he was something of a scoundrel, not averse to circumventing or breaking the law if his needs or wants required it. The stranger made a deal with the fugitive that night. He changed his name, and built an alehouse with money the stranger gave him. He carved himself a place in the netherworld of Madrid, playing the part suggested. When Madrid burned and was rebuilt he made a grander establishment. From time to time his benefactor would visit, but made no requests. After a fashion they became friends, of a kind. The stranger has not visited for some time, yet even so the debt still stands, and I have come to claim it.”
“You know my history well,” Old Charles says with narrowed eyes. “And my old friend, does he still live?”
“He does, and you can think of me as his lieutenant. Your name and tale are my credentials.”
Charles rubs his eyes. “What name did my friend go by?”
“Alessandro, he never gave you another.” There is a pause. “You have not changed your bedroom since he last met you either.”
“And what name do you answer to?”
“Giovanni.”
“So, do you need money?”
“If it were only that simple, no. My … employer has other needs. You of the latest misfortunate to befall this lamentable King?” Charles nods. “We need to know what, if anything, the French are scheming, in particular if they hope to press a Bourbon claimant.” I pause. “In time there may be other things, but I would hope our relationship could become mutually beneficial.”
Charles swings his feet over the side of the bed and puts on a nightgown. He looks gnarled like an old oak, but he moves like an athlete a third his age. “Very well. If we are to do business though can you put down that hood, I am sure it has served its purpose.”
I hesitate a moment, and do so. He looks hard at me, but there is no sign he recognises me. “How did you get here?” he asks as we walk out onto the balcony.
“The kitchen,” I explain. “It was unlocked, and I encountered no one on the way here.”
“Mmm.” He leads me to some stairs that go down into the courtyard. “I will nominate someone to be your contact, if that is agreeable.”
“That would be excellent,” I confirm. “Certainly I would not want to go through this charade all the time.”
We stop outside a larger door. He grins at me. “Time to have a little fun.”
He throws the door open. “Second James!” he cries. There is a general confusion of people rising, of seats and tables shifting. Someone falls over. Charles walks forward, and I see about a dozen people in various states of surprise.
A bald man who looks to be about thirty answers, “Yes sir?”
Charles folds his arms across his chest. “You were in charge of security tonight?”
“Yes,” says the man, in the small voice of someone who knows he is in serious trouble.
Several people have started to look at me. I can see the red-haired giant I had seen by the fountain, but he is looking at the bald man with fear. “Then you will be interested to know I have a visitor this evening, who has managed to penetrate our house and find my room, without causing any alarm.” I can see it settle in the expressions in front of me. There is a woman; she looks past childbearing age, look at Charles with something akin to fright. “Fortunately this man is from an old friend, and does not wish me harm.”
Relief shows on the woman’s face, and curiosity. She stares at me, and I begin to feel a little uncomfortable under her gaze. “James, you bloody pillock,” the redhead says, more to himself though all hear him.
James looks down at his feet. “So that you learn from your mistake,” Charles continues, “you will sleep in the kitchen every night until I say otherwise, and ensure that if you leave it for whatever reason in the day someone else is there to mind the door.” He stops. A silence develops. The others look anywhere but at their patriarch or his victim. Moments pass. At length James looks up.
His face is completely red, and his cheeks are smudged. Shame, embarrassment, fear, I wonder what other emotions are coursing through him. His mouth opens, but he cannot form a word, so he resorts to just nodding his acceptance. “Good,” Old Charles says. “Red Charles, come with me and my guest into the courtyard. You can let him out after we’ve finished here.”
The fountain is still trickling. The woman follows us out. Old Charles sits down on the edge, and sighs. “I had hoped better of him,” he reflects.
“I told you he was not ready,” the woman says, sitting next to him.
“Yes you did Mary, and you were right. But it is done, and I am still alive.” He pauses, “You probably ought to tell one of his brothers to stay up the night with him, just in case he tries anything stupid.”
Mary snorts. “I’ll wake Catharine instead.”
“As you wish,” Mary stands again, and marches off, closing the door behind him. Old Charles follows her until she is gone.
The redhead is again splashing himself with water. “Giovanni, let me introduce you to one of my grandsons. Red Charles we call him. Charles, Giovanni, who works for a very old friend.”
Red Charles' massive hand crushes mine in a fierce grip.
“We are going to be helping Giovanni here with some business of his, and I think you would be the best contact.”
“What sort of business?” the tall man asks. Old Charles nods in my direction.
“Briefly, I need to find out what the French are up to. We can work out the details later.”
“Simple.” Red Charles says, and then yawns. “Though it might be better to discuss this when I am more awake.” In sympathy I can feel my own mouth try to open. I fight it a moment, but fail in the end.
“I agree. Perhaps tomorrow evening?”
“That’ll be fine. Just come into the common room, I’ll be there.”
Old Charles stands. “Now that is settled I am back to my bed!”
“What you like a cart-ride back?” Red Charles asks.
I smile. “No, though I thank you for the offer.” He takes me back through the Red Lion, and bids me goodnight as I step onto the street.
I return to the Embassy by the same circuitous route, but I do not think Old Charles has me followed.
It is a warm night, and I do not really need the cloak that hangs loosely from my shoulders. I am only one of a few to have bothered with such a heavy garment. I stop at an intersection, and look about. I frown, and choose the left-hand road. I do not think I have much further to go, but these streets are still strange and I might be lost. My meandering route has made things more difficult, but it has its rewards. I am not being followed.
Another turn and there is my destination. I duck pause in an alley, and study the Red Lion. I could try to bluff my way in from the common room, but I would not wager on that chance. The roof is accessible and offers access to the windows, but I mistrust the look of the tiles. I spend a moment in further contemplation, remembering all I can from my breakfast with Carlos.
I stride into the yard, and make without hesitation to the kitchen door. From inside the main room come the sounds of a good company winding down, but behind this door there is no sound. Fortune smiles on me, for the door is unlocked. I lift the latch, and sneak in. The kitchen is deserted, the fires damped down ready for the morning. It is hot, and I can feel myself begin to sweat. There are two doorways leading elsewhere, and some stairs leading up. Back home Father had always insisted that a man guard the kitchen during the night. It is the nexus of any large house, and the Red Lion is no exception.
Old Charles should know better than to leave clear such an obvious entrance. Perhaps he has left it unguarded for a reason? Is my good fortune really so perverse that Old Charles might already be entertaining? I shrug. It does not alter anything, I just need to be careful. I draw my cloak tight about me and pull up the hood.
I creep up the stairs, keeping close to the wall. I can hear echoes from the main room. I hope they mask the sounds of my steps. I reach a hallway; it is dark and empty. Closed doors lead off to unknown rooms. I swallow. Now I am acting on faith that an old man does not change his habits. I sidle along the corridor. From inside one room I can hear heavy snoring, and another a giggling. The corridor leads onto a balcony over looking a private courtyard. In the centre is a fountain. I keep to the wall and edge my way down the right side.
I hear a door open and freeze. From below comes the sound of whistling, and a red-haired brute walks to the fountain. I press against the wall, bringing one arm up to cover my face. I leave a slit for my eyes. The man stops, and splashes water on his face and massive chest.
“Charles,” a woman says in English. He looks back from where he came.
“I was just cooling myself down a little,” he replies, looking irritated.
“Do that later. It’s time to kick the wasters out, and I want you there.”
“Alright,” Charles says, and flicks some more water at his face. He stretches, and then walks back out of sight. The door closes.
I continue on my way. Two doors, three doors, four. I stop outside the fourth door. I close my eyes and mutter a quick prayer. I twist the handle. Providence must be on my side tonight as the door opens without a sound. I step inside the room, and close the door behind me. I stand still, listening to the sound of someone breathing in, and then out with a tiny whistling sound. I wait, as my eyes adjust to this even deeper darkness.
What to do? There is only one way I can confirm that I am in the right room. “Sir Charles, I presume,” I say.
There is a grunt. “I take it you do not then intend to kill me,” an irritable voice asks from the covers.
“Nothing could be father from the truth. Might I take a seat?”
“Can I stop you?” The man in the bed sits up, and lights a candle from a bedside table. I pick up a stool, and put it near the end of the bed. “So,” he says, as he holds his candle higher, “why have you disturbed my sleep?” I sit, and lay a long dagger on my lap.
“To make a proposition.” I speak in Genoese-tainted Spanish, like that used at the university there. I hope it suffices.
“And is this entrance meant to impress me?”
“No. It is meant to ensure that we have a little privacy. Let me tell you a story…”
“Bah, I need no night-time tales.” Charles reaches for something I cannot see.
“But, Captain Simmonds, you do.”
He gasps, and stops. “Speak your piece,” he says through clenched teeth.
“Thirty years ago a man and his family came to Spain. They were fleeing, having chosen the losing side in a civil war. They came to Madrid almost destitute. Spurned, and in some fear of his life. The little money he had left would only last a little time. The man was at his wits’ end.
“So he was surprised when a stranger approached him one evening in the poor inn where he was staying. They talked, and it soon become clear that this man knew something of the fugitive’s past. He knew that he was something of a scoundrel, not averse to circumventing or breaking the law if his needs or wants required it. The stranger made a deal with the fugitive that night. He changed his name, and built an alehouse with money the stranger gave him. He carved himself a place in the netherworld of Madrid, playing the part suggested. When Madrid burned and was rebuilt he made a grander establishment. From time to time his benefactor would visit, but made no requests. After a fashion they became friends, of a kind. The stranger has not visited for some time, yet even so the debt still stands, and I have come to claim it.”
“You know my history well,” Old Charles says with narrowed eyes. “And my old friend, does he still live?”
“He does, and you can think of me as his lieutenant. Your name and tale are my credentials.”
Charles rubs his eyes. “What name did my friend go by?”
“Alessandro, he never gave you another.” There is a pause. “You have not changed your bedroom since he last met you either.”
“And what name do you answer to?”
“Giovanni.”
“So, do you need money?”
“If it were only that simple, no. My … employer has other needs. You of the latest misfortunate to befall this lamentable King?” Charles nods. “We need to know what, if anything, the French are scheming, in particular if they hope to press a Bourbon claimant.” I pause. “In time there may be other things, but I would hope our relationship could become mutually beneficial.”
Charles swings his feet over the side of the bed and puts on a nightgown. He looks gnarled like an old oak, but he moves like an athlete a third his age. “Very well. If we are to do business though can you put down that hood, I am sure it has served its purpose.”
I hesitate a moment, and do so. He looks hard at me, but there is no sign he recognises me. “How did you get here?” he asks as we walk out onto the balcony.
“The kitchen,” I explain. “It was unlocked, and I encountered no one on the way here.”
“Mmm.” He leads me to some stairs that go down into the courtyard. “I will nominate someone to be your contact, if that is agreeable.”
“That would be excellent,” I confirm. “Certainly I would not want to go through this charade all the time.”
We stop outside a larger door. He grins at me. “Time to have a little fun.”
He throws the door open. “Second James!” he cries. There is a general confusion of people rising, of seats and tables shifting. Someone falls over. Charles walks forward, and I see about a dozen people in various states of surprise.
A bald man who looks to be about thirty answers, “Yes sir?”
Charles folds his arms across his chest. “You were in charge of security tonight?”
“Yes,” says the man, in the small voice of someone who knows he is in serious trouble.
Several people have started to look at me. I can see the red-haired giant I had seen by the fountain, but he is looking at the bald man with fear. “Then you will be interested to know I have a visitor this evening, who has managed to penetrate our house and find my room, without causing any alarm.” I can see it settle in the expressions in front of me. There is a woman; she looks past childbearing age, look at Charles with something akin to fright. “Fortunately this man is from an old friend, and does not wish me harm.”
Relief shows on the woman’s face, and curiosity. She stares at me, and I begin to feel a little uncomfortable under her gaze. “James, you bloody pillock,” the redhead says, more to himself though all hear him.
James looks down at his feet. “So that you learn from your mistake,” Charles continues, “you will sleep in the kitchen every night until I say otherwise, and ensure that if you leave it for whatever reason in the day someone else is there to mind the door.” He stops. A silence develops. The others look anywhere but at their patriarch or his victim. Moments pass. At length James looks up.
His face is completely red, and his cheeks are smudged. Shame, embarrassment, fear, I wonder what other emotions are coursing through him. His mouth opens, but he cannot form a word, so he resorts to just nodding his acceptance. “Good,” Old Charles says. “Red Charles, come with me and my guest into the courtyard. You can let him out after we’ve finished here.”
The fountain is still trickling. The woman follows us out. Old Charles sits down on the edge, and sighs. “I had hoped better of him,” he reflects.
“I told you he was not ready,” the woman says, sitting next to him.
“Yes you did Mary, and you were right. But it is done, and I am still alive.” He pauses, “You probably ought to tell one of his brothers to stay up the night with him, just in case he tries anything stupid.”
Mary snorts. “I’ll wake Catharine instead.”
“As you wish,” Mary stands again, and marches off, closing the door behind him. Old Charles follows her until she is gone.
The redhead is again splashing himself with water. “Giovanni, let me introduce you to one of my grandsons. Red Charles we call him. Charles, Giovanni, who works for a very old friend.”
Red Charles' massive hand crushes mine in a fierce grip.
“We are going to be helping Giovanni here with some business of his, and I think you would be the best contact.”
“What sort of business?” the tall man asks. Old Charles nods in my direction.
“Briefly, I need to find out what the French are up to. We can work out the details later.”
“Simple.” Red Charles says, and then yawns. “Though it might be better to discuss this when I am more awake.” In sympathy I can feel my own mouth try to open. I fight it a moment, but fail in the end.
“I agree. Perhaps tomorrow evening?”
“That’ll be fine. Just come into the common room, I’ll be there.”
Old Charles stands. “Now that is settled I am back to my bed!”
“What you like a cart-ride back?” Red Charles asks.
I smile. “No, though I thank you for the offer.” He takes me back through the Red Lion, and bids me goodnight as I step onto the street.
I return to the Embassy by the same circuitous route, but I do not think Old Charles has me followed.
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stnylan: So, it seems all my commentatAARs have gone on holiday this weekend?
perhaps. i haven't tried to get online since my last time here, so i don't know if the fora have been down, or not.
stnylan: As you say GhostWriter, it helps to be able to move unseen, and there is nothing like hiding in plain sight.
so very true!
stnylan: ...“That’ll be fine. Just come into the common room, I’ll be there.”
awesome! ! ! thrilling to read! ! !
perhaps. i haven't tried to get online since my last time here, so i don't know if the fora have been down, or not.
stnylan: As you say GhostWriter, it helps to be able to move unseen, and there is nothing like hiding in plain sight.
so very true!
stnylan: ...“That’ll be fine. Just come into the common room, I’ll be there.”
awesome! ! ! thrilling to read! ! !
After that description I feel I could find my way around the inn with no trouble.
I do wonder that 'Giovanni' allowed so many people to see him, even though he was introduced as the son of an old friend. That sort of heedless behavior can get you remembered.
I can tell you from personal observation - not of my business, I promise you, but rather from watching others - that a tavern can be used as a cover for all sorts of things. Most of the clubs and restaurants that have an association with criminals aren't wanted for their profit, but rather because they can be used for all sorts of covert shipments and money laundering. It seems the Red Lion is no exception.
I do wonder that 'Giovanni' allowed so many people to see him, even though he was introduced as the son of an old friend. That sort of heedless behavior can get you remembered.
I can tell you from personal observation - not of my business, I promise you, but rather from watching others - that a tavern can be used as a cover for all sorts of things. Most of the clubs and restaurants that have an association with criminals aren't wanted for their profit, but rather because they can be used for all sorts of covert shipments and money laundering. It seems the Red Lion is no exception.
I think that Jean had best be careful after this. He may gain a good deal from sneaking into an old man's bedroom, but as Director said...
Jean is quite the illusive shadow at times. This is the second time you've had him sneaking about the place, and he's succeeded both times. More to come, I am sure.
Sorry, Stnylan! Just an update behind. Internet access scarce this weekend!
So, referring to the previous update (I'll get to the newer one tomorrow)...
I find it very interesting (yet, very in character!) that, rather than being someone who POSSESSES pretensions (or whose pretentions possess him!), Jean is one who MARSHALLS pretensions! That is a very good trait for someone in his line.
Ahh... Giovanni! I, too, wonder "who" this new Giovanni is to be!
Great, as always, Stnylan!
Rensslaer
So, referring to the previous update (I'll get to the newer one tomorrow)...
I find it very interesting (yet, very in character!) that, rather than being someone who POSSESSES pretensions (or whose pretentions possess him!), Jean is one who MARSHALLS pretensions! That is a very good trait for someone in his line.
Ahh... Giovanni! I, too, wonder "who" this new Giovanni is to be!
Great, as always, Stnylan!Rensslaer
Charles is certainly an interesting character. He handles a stranger showing up in his room in the middle of the night without getting excited. He then shows remarkable restraint in dealing with the one who fails in handling security. He comes across as a self-assured man confident in his power. I don’t think Jean has to worry about being seen by anyone with Charles. It would be a very tight knit group that is very loyal to Charles. Either by family ties and/or fear?
Joe
Joe
GhostWriter Glad you liked it.
Director Well he did not really have much choice. He just has to hope that, as Giovanni, he looks and sounds different enough from Jean that people will do the rest of the work for him.
As for the Red Lion, that is very much the idea that I held.
J. Passepartout It was certainly impulsive, but then he who dares...
coz1 Of course, technically this is the first time Jean has tried sneaking But he does seem to have an aptitude.
Rensslaer I look forward to your comment on that update. As for the previous one - an astute point. I had not quite thought of it that way.
Storey My view on Old Charles is that he has grown too old, and seen too much, to waste time and energy on hysterics. I would agree entirely with your assessment. As regards to whether he is loved or feared, I am sure that will become clear in time.
All Just to say I in the next day or two I will be altering the dating of 'The Past' entries, putting in proper dates, to make it easier to keep track of the flow of time.
Director Well he did not really have much choice. He just has to hope that, as Giovanni, he looks and sounds different enough from Jean that people will do the rest of the work for him.
As for the Red Lion, that is very much the idea that I held.
J. Passepartout It was certainly impulsive, but then he who dares...
coz1 Of course, technically this is the first time Jean has tried sneaking
But he does seem to have an aptitude. Rensslaer I look forward to your comment on that update. As for the previous one - an astute point. I had not quite thought of it that way.
Storey My view on Old Charles is that he has grown too old, and seen too much, to waste time and energy on hysterics. I would agree entirely with your assessment. As regards to whether he is loved or feared, I am sure that will become clear in time.
All Just to say I in the next day or two I will be altering the dating of 'The Past' entries, putting in proper dates, to make it easier to keep track of the flow of time.
The Past (9th June 1682) - The next morning
I take a sip of my coffee as I try to decipher the smudgy print of the paper. Around me the coffee-house is doing a brisk trade. There is quite a clamour from the clattering of crockery that punctuates the continual chatter from a dozen conversation. Smoke from many pipes and cigar hangs in the air, billowing into great whorls and hoops as people pass through the haze. A natural philosopher could idle away hours describing the myriad forms and shapes that are produced, but I have no appreciation of such things.
I have a table to myself, set to one side. I am concentrating on the news-rag, shutting out the nearby sounds. There are no reports of the King’s illness. The lead story today is an account of an adultery trial involving several quite prominent nobles. The writer of the article adopts a disapproving tone throughout. He sounds genuinely aggrieved to hear of such moral lapses amongst the brightest and best. Yet he manages to furnish a vast amount of detail. He might fulminate, but is quite careful to make sure his readers know precisely what he is hollering against. I suspect all the denunciations are just for the Censor’s sake.
A shadow falls across the table. I look up to see Carlos standing. He is silhouetted by the light so I cannot see his face, but he sounds amused. “Jean, I had hoped that my invitation to the Red Lion would have convinced you of its delights. It is a very convenient place for the likes of you and me.”
“I agree, but,” I say, raising my voice to make sure he hears me, “it is too English. My stomach is too delicate for what they serve there.”
“You hold the Black Pudding against me?” Carlos laughs. “I take it you would not want us to meet there at other times.”
“I must beg forgiveness for denying you your favourite eatery, the weakness is all in my digestive tract.”
“Well then, for the benefit of your poor stomach I shall not suggest the Red Lion again for at least another ten years!” He stands closer, and the shade reveals his face. He looks tired, and impatient. “Now, shall we be on our way?”
I sip again at my coffee. “Why don’t you take a seat. We can go elsewhere in a little while. It will do you good to relax, and we can talk about ordinary things.”
For a moment I think he is going to decline, but then he waves a waiter over and sits. While he makes his order I finish reading the article. Carlos cranes his neck to see the object of my fascination, but dismisses it with a wave.
“Why do you bother reading that rubbish. The Gazette is far better written – and far better printed.”
I make a show of examining my thumb, which indeed is now stained with ink. “Oh I agree, but the Gazette is so stodgy. The Times is far more scurrilous!” I grin, and he laughs. The waiter returns with a small cup for Carlos.
“So, what ‘ordinary things’ did you wish to talk about,” he asks.
“Well, you.” Carlos grows pensive. “You have me at a disadvantage. You know about my father – everyone does – whereas I know nearly nothing about your father or your family. I was hoping you would be prepared to even the scales a little.”
He leans forward, and so do I, so we can speak without shouting. “Ah Jean, you count a curse what many would call a blessing. Few of us are born into families so ancient, or to father’s with careers so illustrious…”
“Or notorious,” I add.
He frowns a moment. “Famous, however else it is styled. My roots are far humbler, but if it will be of interest to you I will see how much of the family saga I can drag up from my memory.”
He drinks some of his coffee, savouring the taste. “I suppose we better begin with my grandfather,” he starts. “He is an unremarkable man who worked as a clerk in the Shipping Office in Havana. He claims that his great-grandfather was one of Cuba’s first settlers.” He smiles at me. “That might even be true. In any event my father was blessed in that only one of his siblings survived childhood – a sister two or three years older who married young and died giving birth to her third child. This my grandfather’s small wealth was not squandered, and he was able to send my father to study at Salamanca when he was seventeen. He acquitted himself well, taking especially to maths. More importantly he became a companion to the eldest son of the then Duke of Milan.
Carlos pauses, and stretches his hands. “Grandfather had hoped that once his education was complete my father would return to Cuba and enter the Governor’s service. He could have made quite a career for himself out there, but nothing like what he might achieve as a friend of the future Duke of Milan. Thus he entered Imperial Service in the Treasury. He often travelled as part of an investigative team under an Auditor – he crossed the Atlantic over a dozen times by the time he was thirty-five. Then his friend secured for him a position at court. He married, and in due course my sisters and I were born.” He smiles, “I have five sisters.”
“I have three,” I say. “Terrible creatures.”
He laughs. “Indeed, but to continue, when I was seven my father was appointed an Imperial Auditor.” He says it with pride.
“Quite an achievement,” I comment.
Carlos smiles. “He had help of course. The current Duke had by then inherited his title, and was able to wield some influence. Then as now he served on the European Committee, but he had a brother and cousin on the Committee of the Treasury, and they argued my father’s case.
“I spent the next ten years in his company as he travelled to the various parts of the Empire – though never in Europe. It was felt as a Colonial that was where he was best used. In consequence I received a rather hands-on education. Finally he deposited me in the University of Seville for a year and a half to cram in all the things he had left out. About then they made him Chancellor of the University of Salamanca, though he still is an Auditor and sometimes leaves for long journeys. Meanwhile I remain here, hanging on the coattails of his old patron.”
He sits back and empties his coffee-cup, looking far away. “I miss the travelling,” he says leaning forward again. “Those years will probably remain the best in my life. Have you travelled much?”
“A little, though nothing compared to that. After my father … retired, he took my brother and I on a sort of European tour. We went all over, England, Holland, Germany, and Italy. We visited Antwerp, London, Amsterdam, Hamburg and various other German cities, not least Vienna, Venice, Florence, Rome, Naples, and finally Genoa. In Genoa Father sprung a surprise. He told me that I was going to be staying there for a year to enhance my education.” I smile at the sudden memory. “My borther was so jealous. In fact I stayed there for fourteen months. Good months now I remember them. Mostly I was to learn languages there, but I imagine it is like Seville in that you cannot avoid picking up a little bit of finance.” Carlos chuckles at that. “After I finished there I returned home, and did nothing, until I was appointed here.”
“You do realise,” Carlos says. “that between us we’ve seen nearly all of the civilised world?”
I think on it a moment. “I suppose we have, in a way,” I agree. “Shall we go? Why don’t you show my one of those parks that are so well-known?”
“An excellent suggestion.” He stands. I drain my cup and follow suit, picking up the paper.
“A fine day,” Carlos says, breathing deep.
“For the moment. The Captain of our Guard swears there is a storm coming. In the journey from Paris he was only wrong about the weather once.”
Carlos studies the sky for a few moments as we walk. “I would not wager against him.”
The park is not far away. At this time of day it is mostly. Carlos steers our walk towards some trees. Fallen bark covers the ground. “Let me show you something,” he says, walking to the nearest tree and picking up a piece of bark. “Here, take it. What do you notice?”
The bark is blackened, but not burnt. It breaks with ease. His purpose eludes me “What are you trying to show me?”
“Think Jean. Madrid is one of the largest cities in the world. Granted it is summer, and there are not so many fires burning, but have you ever known a city to be so free of smoke?”
I consider that a moment. It is true that Madrid’s air is remarkably clear. “It is the trees,” Carlos explains. “Somehow they soak all the sooty grime into their bark, that peels away. The King insisted that these be planted all over. People called him mad – which of course he is – but just sometimes he is a raving genius.”
I snort, and look at him full. “Would Enrique Velasco betray his country?” I ask.
“I would not have thought so,” he replies, unsurprised by the change of topic. “Why do you ask.”
I kick at the ground. “My Ambassador has told me to tell you a short tale. You know he had dinner with Velasco a few days ago?” Carlos nods. I recount the Ambassador’s exact words. Afterwards I conclude, “I do not know enough to be able to tell whether truth from fiction. You claimed Velasco and your master have an enmity – would it run so deep?”
Carlos scowls. “I would not like to think so.” He is silent. “I will have to talk to the Duke. He will know better than you or I the depths to which Velasco might sink.”
“Any more news on the King? The rumours are rampant.”
“No. As for the rumours an official announcement is to be made tomorrow, and there will be regular bulletins thereafter. A little late in my opinion.”
We walk a little further. “I should make my way back to the Embassy. De Tallon will doubtless find fault if I tarry too long.” I roll up the paper and hand it to him. He looks at it dubiously. “Take it,” I urge, “the trial is most interesting. Trust me.”
He hesitates a moment, but then accepts the paper. Rolled within in the scroll d’Artois gave me.
“We should arrange a regular meeting,” Carlos says.
“Leave me a message at the Embassy,” I suggest. “We can work it out another time.”
As I walk away from the park I look up again at the sky, and see a lonely cloud drift into view.
I take a sip of my coffee as I try to decipher the smudgy print of the paper. Around me the coffee-house is doing a brisk trade. There is quite a clamour from the clattering of crockery that punctuates the continual chatter from a dozen conversation. Smoke from many pipes and cigar hangs in the air, billowing into great whorls and hoops as people pass through the haze. A natural philosopher could idle away hours describing the myriad forms and shapes that are produced, but I have no appreciation of such things.
I have a table to myself, set to one side. I am concentrating on the news-rag, shutting out the nearby sounds. There are no reports of the King’s illness. The lead story today is an account of an adultery trial involving several quite prominent nobles. The writer of the article adopts a disapproving tone throughout. He sounds genuinely aggrieved to hear of such moral lapses amongst the brightest and best. Yet he manages to furnish a vast amount of detail. He might fulminate, but is quite careful to make sure his readers know precisely what he is hollering against. I suspect all the denunciations are just for the Censor’s sake.
A shadow falls across the table. I look up to see Carlos standing. He is silhouetted by the light so I cannot see his face, but he sounds amused. “Jean, I had hoped that my invitation to the Red Lion would have convinced you of its delights. It is a very convenient place for the likes of you and me.”
“I agree, but,” I say, raising my voice to make sure he hears me, “it is too English. My stomach is too delicate for what they serve there.”
“You hold the Black Pudding against me?” Carlos laughs. “I take it you would not want us to meet there at other times.”
“I must beg forgiveness for denying you your favourite eatery, the weakness is all in my digestive tract.”
“Well then, for the benefit of your poor stomach I shall not suggest the Red Lion again for at least another ten years!” He stands closer, and the shade reveals his face. He looks tired, and impatient. “Now, shall we be on our way?”
I sip again at my coffee. “Why don’t you take a seat. We can go elsewhere in a little while. It will do you good to relax, and we can talk about ordinary things.”
For a moment I think he is going to decline, but then he waves a waiter over and sits. While he makes his order I finish reading the article. Carlos cranes his neck to see the object of my fascination, but dismisses it with a wave.
“Why do you bother reading that rubbish. The Gazette is far better written – and far better printed.”
I make a show of examining my thumb, which indeed is now stained with ink. “Oh I agree, but the Gazette is so stodgy. The Times is far more scurrilous!” I grin, and he laughs. The waiter returns with a small cup for Carlos.
“So, what ‘ordinary things’ did you wish to talk about,” he asks.
“Well, you.” Carlos grows pensive. “You have me at a disadvantage. You know about my father – everyone does – whereas I know nearly nothing about your father or your family. I was hoping you would be prepared to even the scales a little.”
He leans forward, and so do I, so we can speak without shouting. “Ah Jean, you count a curse what many would call a blessing. Few of us are born into families so ancient, or to father’s with careers so illustrious…”
“Or notorious,” I add.
He frowns a moment. “Famous, however else it is styled. My roots are far humbler, but if it will be of interest to you I will see how much of the family saga I can drag up from my memory.”
He drinks some of his coffee, savouring the taste. “I suppose we better begin with my grandfather,” he starts. “He is an unremarkable man who worked as a clerk in the Shipping Office in Havana. He claims that his great-grandfather was one of Cuba’s first settlers.” He smiles at me. “That might even be true. In any event my father was blessed in that only one of his siblings survived childhood – a sister two or three years older who married young and died giving birth to her third child. This my grandfather’s small wealth was not squandered, and he was able to send my father to study at Salamanca when he was seventeen. He acquitted himself well, taking especially to maths. More importantly he became a companion to the eldest son of the then Duke of Milan.
Carlos pauses, and stretches his hands. “Grandfather had hoped that once his education was complete my father would return to Cuba and enter the Governor’s service. He could have made quite a career for himself out there, but nothing like what he might achieve as a friend of the future Duke of Milan. Thus he entered Imperial Service in the Treasury. He often travelled as part of an investigative team under an Auditor – he crossed the Atlantic over a dozen times by the time he was thirty-five. Then his friend secured for him a position at court. He married, and in due course my sisters and I were born.” He smiles, “I have five sisters.”
“I have three,” I say. “Terrible creatures.”
He laughs. “Indeed, but to continue, when I was seven my father was appointed an Imperial Auditor.” He says it with pride.
“Quite an achievement,” I comment.
Carlos smiles. “He had help of course. The current Duke had by then inherited his title, and was able to wield some influence. Then as now he served on the European Committee, but he had a brother and cousin on the Committee of the Treasury, and they argued my father’s case.
“I spent the next ten years in his company as he travelled to the various parts of the Empire – though never in Europe. It was felt as a Colonial that was where he was best used. In consequence I received a rather hands-on education. Finally he deposited me in the University of Seville for a year and a half to cram in all the things he had left out. About then they made him Chancellor of the University of Salamanca, though he still is an Auditor and sometimes leaves for long journeys. Meanwhile I remain here, hanging on the coattails of his old patron.”
He sits back and empties his coffee-cup, looking far away. “I miss the travelling,” he says leaning forward again. “Those years will probably remain the best in my life. Have you travelled much?”
“A little, though nothing compared to that. After my father … retired, he took my brother and I on a sort of European tour. We went all over, England, Holland, Germany, and Italy. We visited Antwerp, London, Amsterdam, Hamburg and various other German cities, not least Vienna, Venice, Florence, Rome, Naples, and finally Genoa. In Genoa Father sprung a surprise. He told me that I was going to be staying there for a year to enhance my education.” I smile at the sudden memory. “My borther was so jealous. In fact I stayed there for fourteen months. Good months now I remember them. Mostly I was to learn languages there, but I imagine it is like Seville in that you cannot avoid picking up a little bit of finance.” Carlos chuckles at that. “After I finished there I returned home, and did nothing, until I was appointed here.”
“You do realise,” Carlos says. “that between us we’ve seen nearly all of the civilised world?”
I think on it a moment. “I suppose we have, in a way,” I agree. “Shall we go? Why don’t you show my one of those parks that are so well-known?”
“An excellent suggestion.” He stands. I drain my cup and follow suit, picking up the paper.
“A fine day,” Carlos says, breathing deep.
“For the moment. The Captain of our Guard swears there is a storm coming. In the journey from Paris he was only wrong about the weather once.”
Carlos studies the sky for a few moments as we walk. “I would not wager against him.”
The park is not far away. At this time of day it is mostly. Carlos steers our walk towards some trees. Fallen bark covers the ground. “Let me show you something,” he says, walking to the nearest tree and picking up a piece of bark. “Here, take it. What do you notice?”
The bark is blackened, but not burnt. It breaks with ease. His purpose eludes me “What are you trying to show me?”
“Think Jean. Madrid is one of the largest cities in the world. Granted it is summer, and there are not so many fires burning, but have you ever known a city to be so free of smoke?”
I consider that a moment. It is true that Madrid’s air is remarkably clear. “It is the trees,” Carlos explains. “Somehow they soak all the sooty grime into their bark, that peels away. The King insisted that these be planted all over. People called him mad – which of course he is – but just sometimes he is a raving genius.”
I snort, and look at him full. “Would Enrique Velasco betray his country?” I ask.
“I would not have thought so,” he replies, unsurprised by the change of topic. “Why do you ask.”
I kick at the ground. “My Ambassador has told me to tell you a short tale. You know he had dinner with Velasco a few days ago?” Carlos nods. I recount the Ambassador’s exact words. Afterwards I conclude, “I do not know enough to be able to tell whether truth from fiction. You claimed Velasco and your master have an enmity – would it run so deep?”
Carlos scowls. “I would not like to think so.” He is silent. “I will have to talk to the Duke. He will know better than you or I the depths to which Velasco might sink.”
“Any more news on the King? The rumours are rampant.”
“No. As for the rumours an official announcement is to be made tomorrow, and there will be regular bulletins thereafter. A little late in my opinion.”
We walk a little further. “I should make my way back to the Embassy. De Tallon will doubtless find fault if I tarry too long.” I roll up the paper and hand it to him. He looks at it dubiously. “Take it,” I urge, “the trial is most interesting. Trust me.”
He hesitates a moment, but then accepts the paper. Rolled within in the scroll d’Artois gave me.
“We should arrange a regular meeting,” Carlos says.
“Leave me a message at the Embassy,” I suggest. “We can work it out another time.”
As I walk away from the park I look up again at the sky, and see a lonely cloud drift into view.
Well... I am embarrassed to see that I am STILL behind by an update, as of just a few minutes ago!stnylan said:
But I did find that last a very interesting scene. Jean and his family have quite a colorful past, it seems!
And I enjoyed his sneaking about. Well told, and intriguing, as I wonder how he came by these skills. Quite a streetwise young noble... as nobles go!
And Old Charles and his clan seem quite interesting. By Second James, I will pose an educated guess that he was second-officer on his ship, once upon a time?
Thank you again, Stnylan, for some fine entertainment!
Rensslaer
The Captain predicts a storm, and it seems that a storm we shall have!stnylan said:
Foreboding....
Great and atmospheric (no pun intended) as always, Stnylan!
Rensslaer
Look at Jean playing spy games. Too bad the Frenchman can't deal with hearty English food, eh?
Synylan, you have done a masterful job setting up different factions and intrigues, making even routine business seem Byzantine; so when a genuine crisis occurs there's no telling who is going to be on whose side.
I have to admit that Jean's violence during "the present" era is hard to square with his character back in the innocent days of 1682. I wonder what will happen that will so badly color his views of such people as Bertrand.
Best wishes as you continue this wonderful tale.
I have to admit that Jean's violence during "the present" era is hard to square with his character back in the innocent
days of 1682. I wonder what will happen that will so badly color his views of such people as Bertrand.Best wishes as you continue this wonderful tale.
A wonderfully descriptive post stnylan. I'm a sucker for a visually intensive story and you’ve create a great one here.
Joe
Joe
Rensslaer It's a good guess, but I have to say in this case that it's wrong. Jean's family (or leastways his father) is certainly colourful, perhaps even unconventional, and that perhaps explains some of Jean's skills. Besides, who is to say what else he learnt in Genoa?
J. Passepartout Thanks
coz1 Spy games - otherwise known as the fine art of diplomacy, or something similar. As for food, he is but a delicate Frenchman accustomed to finer gastric fair
GhostWriter
jwolf That is high praise from someone who currently has people randomly guessing countries and fixating over the number 24! I wanted to make this younger version of Jean, well, younger. Less certain than the older version. More 'innocent' even. Hopefully the journey will be worth this slightly extending setting up.
Storey High praise again Joe. Thank you.
All Sorry for the delay, been distracted by my brother's birthday. The poor boy is 22 on Tuesday, and feeling dreadfully old. It is really quite amusing. Anyway, there should be an update once I've done a final edit, unless I fall asleep first in which case there will be one tomorrow.
J. Passepartout Thanks
coz1 Spy games - otherwise known as the fine art of diplomacy, or something similar. As for food, he is but a delicate Frenchman accustomed to finer gastric fair
GhostWriter
jwolf That is high praise from someone who currently has people randomly guessing countries and fixating over the number 24!
I wanted to make this younger version of Jean, well, younger. Less certain than the older version. More 'innocent' even. Hopefully the journey will be worth this slightly extending setting up. Storey High praise again Joe. Thank you.
All Sorry for the delay, been distracted by my brother's birthday. The poor boy is 22 on Tuesday, and feeling dreadfully old. It is really quite amusing. Anyway, there should be an update once I've done a final edit, unless I fall asleep first in which case there will be one tomorrow.
The Past (9th June 1682) - That Evening
There is a howl as a gust of wind rushes past my window. It buffets the shutters, which rattle the glass. The draft around my feet swirls a moment, and quietens as the gust continues its way down the avenue to torment another mansion. I wrap my cloak tight around me, and walk along the corridor and down the stairs from my room. The Long Hall – a passage that runs along the back of embassy – is deserted. Portraits of former Kings and Ambassadors look down on me as I pass. I stop at the stairwell. I hear the tread of descending steps. I scuttle back around the door frame, and wait. I do not want to explain myself to either de Tallon, or the Comte.
The walker proceeds down the stairs. I glance around the wall, and in the flickering lamplight see the clerk, Bertrand, just before he disappears from view. I pause. What is Bertrand doing here? I look up the stairs that lead to the Comte’s quarters. I wait a little longer, until I am sure the way is clear, and then hurry down to meet Gunter.
He is waiting for me by the postern’s inner door. “The Captain says he does not think you ought to be abroad tonight, sir.”
“I know – he has told me himself. Tell Captain Bernhardt I trust the weather will hold long enough for me to get to where I am going. I shall not return until the storm breaks.” Gunter looks unhappy, but leads me down the short corridor to the outside door.
“Gunter,” I ask, “for whom does Bertrand work?”
His brow creases. “The Rose Trading House, I think.”
“Thank you.” He unlocks the door. “If de Tallon asks for my whereabouts the Captain can tell him I’ve gone to a whorehouse.”
He nods. “Be careful sir.”
I smile at him, and leave. I walk straight to the Red Lion tonight. There is no need to disguise the route, for there are no human shadows to mark my passing. Only a very few are out, all scurrying to take advantage of this lull in the rain before the true storm begins. The streets are already wet from an earlier shower, and the sky is coffee-black. The street lanterns offer an ineffectual light, and some have already been blown out. I reach a cross-section and my cloak whips around me as it is caught by the intemperate wind. I hear a distant rumble, and increase my pace.
The rain catches me about three hundred yards away from shelter. At first there are just a few light drops – a gentle patter that grows and becomes insistent. The wind is strengthening, and blowing down the street. I have to learn forward. My legs pump hard. It is like wading through a bog. The rain is heavier, and falls with greater force, pummelling the streets and buildings in a vigorous assault. Rivers form in the drains, torrents turning into floods. I am soaked, but the Red Lion is now in sight. The water descends in great, grey sheets. I splash my way across the street. My cloak feels like a lead weight as I struggle with the door handle.
I stagger into the Red Lion, my teeth chattering. There is cursing as a blast of cold air sweeps around the common room. A large man helps me slam the portal shut. It is Red Charles.
“Giovanni – you’re soaked!” he exclaims as I start to shake out my clothes. He grabs my cloak. “I’ll take that – you get yourself by the fire.” He hustles me towards the roaring hearth. Another man draws up a chair, and Red Charles pushes me into the seat. A woman – the same older woman from the night before – brings me a mug full of hot liquid. I taste it, burning my lips. Tea.
Red Charles returns, and pulls up his own chair. “I was wondering if I could stay the night,” I say with a weak smile, remembering the Genoese accent.
“Of course! I had wondered if you might put me off until tomorrow, but Grandfather said that you are a stubborn sort. He is usually right about such things.” I glance at the twenty or so others in the room, all apparently intent on their own business. Charles follows my gaze. “Don’t worry – only family down here now. Our few guests have already gone to bed – unless we get any other poor sods like you.”
The woman returns with a platter of some bread, cheese, and bowl of some hot broth. “Idiot,” she pronounces as she sees me shiver. “Charles, get his boots off. Get this inside you. Can’t have you catching a chill.”
“Yes Mary,” Charles answers, and kneels, working free one of my boots. He waves away my help. “A towel perhaps?” he says to the woman.
Mary scowls, but does as asked and returns with two cloths that Charles wraps around my feet. I munch some bread, and taste the broth. Honest and unimaginative, I feel warmth spreading through me. “Thank you,” I say between spoonfuls.
The platter is soon empty. “I think you were hungry,” Charles chuckles. “More?” I shake my head, and pat myself down. I am almost dry. “Come on,” Charles. “Let’s go to a side room.”
He leads me to a room similar to the one Carlos and I had breakfast in. “Actually in some respects it is quite fortunate there is a storm tonight. Now that James is guarding the kitchens it might be better that you use that entrance regularly. Less conspicuous.” I must look confused, for he explains, “The authorities usually have a few informers in the regular crowd. We know who most of them are, but…” he shrugs. “Beer?”
I could really do with some spiced wine, but I know how the English love their beer so I agree. He pours two large beakers from a cask. “So Giovanni, the French?”
I take a swig of the beer and grimace at its bitter taste. “Do you follow politics?” I ask.
“Of necessity. There’s plenty of rumours at the moment, with the King taken ill.”
“I know.” I lick my lips, and choose one of several possible ploys. “We think someone is going to take advantage of this uncertainty to create some turmoil. We are not certain, but it is quite possible that there is the intention to engineer a war between France and Spain. This is something we wish to avoid.”
“We?”
I wait a moment before answering. “Those whom I represent.”
Charles recognises the rebuff with good grace. He frowns. “Why would the French be involved in such a scheme. A war against Spain would amount to suicide.”
I laugh. “Charles, Charles, you must remember that most Frenchmen of influence do not quite see the same world we do. They believe the people of France – from the Rhine to the Pyrenees – will mount a general rising should a war break out, and that Bavaria, England, Denmark, and Austria would join their cause in overthrowing the hated Spanish tyrants.”
He looks at me, incredulous. “Is there any chance of that?” he asks.
“I suppose all things are possible,” I say, and drink more beer. It is not so bad this time.
He shakes his head. “How can they be so blind?”
I shrug. I would like to know the answer myself. “I do not know. However, others are certainly prepared to use them to their own ends. A war between France and Spain – and the crisis such a war is likely to provoke in Spain itself – is against our interests. And your family’s, I would wager, from what I know.”
Charles snorts. “My grandfather speaks for the family, but I doubt he would disagree.” He shakes his head again. “Would do you want us to do?”
“You know, of course, of the Rose Trading House. There is a clerk who works for them called Bertrand. He has some dealings with the French Ambassador, the Comte d’Artois. It may be that those dealings are entirely innocent, but I have my doubts.”
Charles considers this. “Well, it should be a simple matter to have his movements tracked to see if there is anything unusual. However, have this habit of not doing very much.”
I grimace. “With this one I think you might be right. Have him watched for the moment.” I take another gulp of beer, a little too much as some spills down the side of my face. I make to pick up a cloth, remember myself, and alter the action to wipe my sleeve across my chin. “Can you kidnap him?”
“Easily.” Charles leans back. “Also there would be no problem in laying several false trails. You think more direct questioning would be necessary?”
“I suspect ultimately we will have to – either Bertrand or someone else. I would like firmer information before such an action. Still, that is a step to take at another time.” I drain the beaker, and hold it up. Red Charles laughs, and refills both his and mine.
“Well that should be easy enough. Now, why don’t we go back to the main room and get pleasantly drunk? It’s not like there will be anything else worthwhile to do today.”
I feel myself relax. “Charles, that is an excellent idea.”
As I sit, drink, and laugh, surrounded by strangers, and as a stranger to myself, I feel the tension of the last few days start to dissolve, if only for a little while.
There is a howl as a gust of wind rushes past my window. It buffets the shutters, which rattle the glass. The draft around my feet swirls a moment, and quietens as the gust continues its way down the avenue to torment another mansion. I wrap my cloak tight around me, and walk along the corridor and down the stairs from my room. The Long Hall – a passage that runs along the back of embassy – is deserted. Portraits of former Kings and Ambassadors look down on me as I pass. I stop at the stairwell. I hear the tread of descending steps. I scuttle back around the door frame, and wait. I do not want to explain myself to either de Tallon, or the Comte.
The walker proceeds down the stairs. I glance around the wall, and in the flickering lamplight see the clerk, Bertrand, just before he disappears from view. I pause. What is Bertrand doing here? I look up the stairs that lead to the Comte’s quarters. I wait a little longer, until I am sure the way is clear, and then hurry down to meet Gunter.
He is waiting for me by the postern’s inner door. “The Captain says he does not think you ought to be abroad tonight, sir.”
“I know – he has told me himself. Tell Captain Bernhardt I trust the weather will hold long enough for me to get to where I am going. I shall not return until the storm breaks.” Gunter looks unhappy, but leads me down the short corridor to the outside door.
“Gunter,” I ask, “for whom does Bertrand work?”
His brow creases. “The Rose Trading House, I think.”
“Thank you.” He unlocks the door. “If de Tallon asks for my whereabouts the Captain can tell him I’ve gone to a whorehouse.”
He nods. “Be careful sir.”
I smile at him, and leave. I walk straight to the Red Lion tonight. There is no need to disguise the route, for there are no human shadows to mark my passing. Only a very few are out, all scurrying to take advantage of this lull in the rain before the true storm begins. The streets are already wet from an earlier shower, and the sky is coffee-black. The street lanterns offer an ineffectual light, and some have already been blown out. I reach a cross-section and my cloak whips around me as it is caught by the intemperate wind. I hear a distant rumble, and increase my pace.
The rain catches me about three hundred yards away from shelter. At first there are just a few light drops – a gentle patter that grows and becomes insistent. The wind is strengthening, and blowing down the street. I have to learn forward. My legs pump hard. It is like wading through a bog. The rain is heavier, and falls with greater force, pummelling the streets and buildings in a vigorous assault. Rivers form in the drains, torrents turning into floods. I am soaked, but the Red Lion is now in sight. The water descends in great, grey sheets. I splash my way across the street. My cloak feels like a lead weight as I struggle with the door handle.
I stagger into the Red Lion, my teeth chattering. There is cursing as a blast of cold air sweeps around the common room. A large man helps me slam the portal shut. It is Red Charles.
“Giovanni – you’re soaked!” he exclaims as I start to shake out my clothes. He grabs my cloak. “I’ll take that – you get yourself by the fire.” He hustles me towards the roaring hearth. Another man draws up a chair, and Red Charles pushes me into the seat. A woman – the same older woman from the night before – brings me a mug full of hot liquid. I taste it, burning my lips. Tea.
Red Charles returns, and pulls up his own chair. “I was wondering if I could stay the night,” I say with a weak smile, remembering the Genoese accent.
“Of course! I had wondered if you might put me off until tomorrow, but Grandfather said that you are a stubborn sort. He is usually right about such things.” I glance at the twenty or so others in the room, all apparently intent on their own business. Charles follows my gaze. “Don’t worry – only family down here now. Our few guests have already gone to bed – unless we get any other poor sods like you.”
The woman returns with a platter of some bread, cheese, and bowl of some hot broth. “Idiot,” she pronounces as she sees me shiver. “Charles, get his boots off. Get this inside you. Can’t have you catching a chill.”
“Yes Mary,” Charles answers, and kneels, working free one of my boots. He waves away my help. “A towel perhaps?” he says to the woman.
Mary scowls, but does as asked and returns with two cloths that Charles wraps around my feet. I munch some bread, and taste the broth. Honest and unimaginative, I feel warmth spreading through me. “Thank you,” I say between spoonfuls.
The platter is soon empty. “I think you were hungry,” Charles chuckles. “More?” I shake my head, and pat myself down. I am almost dry. “Come on,” Charles. “Let’s go to a side room.”
He leads me to a room similar to the one Carlos and I had breakfast in. “Actually in some respects it is quite fortunate there is a storm tonight. Now that James is guarding the kitchens it might be better that you use that entrance regularly. Less conspicuous.” I must look confused, for he explains, “The authorities usually have a few informers in the regular crowd. We know who most of them are, but…” he shrugs. “Beer?”
I could really do with some spiced wine, but I know how the English love their beer so I agree. He pours two large beakers from a cask. “So Giovanni, the French?”
I take a swig of the beer and grimace at its bitter taste. “Do you follow politics?” I ask.
“Of necessity. There’s plenty of rumours at the moment, with the King taken ill.”
“I know.” I lick my lips, and choose one of several possible ploys. “We think someone is going to take advantage of this uncertainty to create some turmoil. We are not certain, but it is quite possible that there is the intention to engineer a war between France and Spain. This is something we wish to avoid.”
“We?”
I wait a moment before answering. “Those whom I represent.”
Charles recognises the rebuff with good grace. He frowns. “Why would the French be involved in such a scheme. A war against Spain would amount to suicide.”
I laugh. “Charles, Charles, you must remember that most Frenchmen of influence do not quite see the same world we do. They believe the people of France – from the Rhine to the Pyrenees – will mount a general rising should a war break out, and that Bavaria, England, Denmark, and Austria would join their cause in overthrowing the hated Spanish tyrants.”
He looks at me, incredulous. “Is there any chance of that?” he asks.
“I suppose all things are possible,” I say, and drink more beer. It is not so bad this time.
He shakes his head. “How can they be so blind?”
I shrug. I would like to know the answer myself. “I do not know. However, others are certainly prepared to use them to their own ends. A war between France and Spain – and the crisis such a war is likely to provoke in Spain itself – is against our interests. And your family’s, I would wager, from what I know.”
Charles snorts. “My grandfather speaks for the family, but I doubt he would disagree.” He shakes his head again. “Would do you want us to do?”
“You know, of course, of the Rose Trading House. There is a clerk who works for them called Bertrand. He has some dealings with the French Ambassador, the Comte d’Artois. It may be that those dealings are entirely innocent, but I have my doubts.”
Charles considers this. “Well, it should be a simple matter to have his movements tracked to see if there is anything unusual. However, have this habit of not doing very much.”
I grimace. “With this one I think you might be right. Have him watched for the moment.” I take another gulp of beer, a little too much as some spills down the side of my face. I make to pick up a cloth, remember myself, and alter the action to wipe my sleeve across my chin. “Can you kidnap him?”
“Easily.” Charles leans back. “Also there would be no problem in laying several false trails. You think more direct questioning would be necessary?”
“I suspect ultimately we will have to – either Bertrand or someone else. I would like firmer information before such an action. Still, that is a step to take at another time.” I drain the beaker, and hold it up. Red Charles laughs, and refills both his and mine.
“Well that should be easy enough. Now, why don’t we go back to the main room and get pleasantly drunk? It’s not like there will be anything else worthwhile to do today.”
I feel myself relax. “Charles, that is an excellent idea.”
As I sit, drink, and laugh, surrounded by strangers, and as a stranger to myself, I feel the tension of the last few days start to dissolve, if only for a little while.