David Dickinson - Goodnight Sweet Prince

The woman by the fountain sang him a last goodbye.

Powerscourt raced off down the street. The music came to a great crescendo. Two gunshots rang out into the night, filling the silence left by the last chords.

He woke up.

William Leith wouldn’t approve of mail trains as a means of transport, Powerscourt said to himself the following morning. It was hard to see the elegant figure of Lord Rosebery crouching in the dark, surrounded by black sacks of Italian post. Dawn came in slivers through the slits of the carriages, the countryside slowly lit up in stripes outside. There was no glass. The wind whistled in and rushed around the sacks and the three people surrounding them, Powerscourt and his police escort, two very serious men with thin moustaches and long black gloves.

‘They will come with you to Paris,’ Ferrante had said, pressing a small heavy package into Powerscourt’s pocket as they left. ‘The gun. It is loaded. Just in case, my friend. Just in case.’

They embraced again, in the cold of Assisi station, guards patrolling the length of the train, smoke rising from the front.

In Rome the escort changed into uniform, splendid hats giving extra authority to the dark blue of their jackets and the shiny black of their trousers. Only one of them spoke English. Powerscourt and he had strange conversations on the journey, about the man’s family, about his grandfather who had marched with Garibaldi and his grandmother who had never forgiven him for leaving home for such a long time. All these marches, she said, they’re a waste of time, if you ask me. It’ll be just the same if there is a king as it was before, everything costing too much in the shops. Powerscourt told him about Lady Lucy and the fact they were going to get married. He got very excited about that, Giulio, translating rapidly for his friend outside in the corridor, endlessly watching the doors, his hand clutching something heavy in his pocket. Giulio wanted to know if he would ask Queen Victoria to his wedding. Somehow Powerscourt didn’t think so. He didn’t think he’d be inviting any members of the Royal Family.

If he lived long enough to get married.

Always they watched, north from Rome through the mountains, into the plains of Lombardy. They watched as they crossed the Alps in the dark. They watched as the train made its way north along the banks of the Rhone in the sunlight. They watched as they drew near to Paris, eyes never resting, every stranger who passed by their compartment inspected like smugglers’ luggage at the customs point.

They came with him to Calais, even though their orders said to leave him in Paris. ‘You cannot imagine the Capitano Ferrante when he is cross,’ Giulio had said. ‘It is very frightful. He say, see you safe to England. So, Lord Powerscourt, we see you safe to England.’

They watched across the flat expanses of northern France, the church steeples the only relief from the monotony of the plains. They watched him on to the boat. They inspected all the other passengers. They watched as the boat drew out, waving vigorously to Powerscourt as he stood on the deck.

‘ Arrivederci! Ciao! ’ they shouted from the shore. They watched until the boat had gone almost out of sight, ears straining for pistol shots or screams. They watched until there was nothing left to see, except the dark grey waters of the English Channel.

Lady Rosalind herself opened the front door of her house in St James’s Square.

‘Francis, Francis, you are back. At last. Thank God you are safe. Come and sit down.’

‘Why should I not be safe, Rosalind?’ said Powerscourt, relieved that the curtains in the drawing-room were still intact.

‘Francis, it’s Lord Johnny, Lord Johnny Fitzgerald. He’s been shot.’

‘Christ,’ said Powerscourt. Christ in heaven. Great waves of anger rushed through him. ‘When was he shot? Is he all right? Is he dead?’

‘No, he’s not dead. But it’s a miracle he’s still alive. He’s going to pull through. I went to see him yesterday in Rokesley.’

‘He’s in Rokesley?’

‘Yes, he went there two days ago. He said he was tired of waiting for you to come back to London. He said you must have wandered off to look at some bloody frescoes or something. He wanted to go and look at the birds.’ Rosalind spoke very softly now. ‘He’d gone out for a walk towards Fotheringhay. He said he’d seen a pair of kestrels. He heard shooting. He thought it was just an ordinary shooting party. He turned suddenly because he thought he saw one of these birds off to one side. Somebody fired. The bullet went into his chest on the right-hand side. If he hadn’t turned it would have gone right through his heart.’

The bastards, thought Powerscourt. The bastards.

‘A farmer found him and brought him back to the house. The doctors say he can’t be moved. I’m afraid there was a great deal of blood all over your hall and up into your bed. They said it would be the best place for him. He’s very weak. He’s lost a lot of blood. But he’ll get better.

‘The point is this, Francis.’ Rosalind looked at him as if he had come back from another world. ‘He was wearing your big green cape. On his walk. The one you always wear when you are in Rokesley. Lord Johnny told me before he passed out again. He didn’t think they meant to kill him. They meant to kill you.’

‘I must go to him, Rosalind. I must go at once.’

Powerscourt went to the window and pulled the precious curtain back a fraction. He peered outside into the square. He waited until his eyes got used to the dark.

‘Rosalind, can you see anyone out there? Anyone who might be watching the house?’

Together they stared into the wet London night. There was nothing suspicious. A policeman patrolled round the gardens in the middle. A couple of cabs delivered their passengers. A stray dog barked for its lost people.

What was that, down in the corner? Was that a coat, ducking into the shadows?

Powerscourt waited. The shadows refused to give up their secrets. You couldn’t tell. He sat down and wrote some letters. To William McKenzie, requesting his immediate presence at Rokesley. To Lady Lucy, telling her about Fitzgerald’s injury. To Rosebery, asking for an urgent meeting. To William Burke, saying that he wished to ask his advice at the earliest possible opportunity.

Outlines of a plan were forming in Powerscourt’s mind, a plan that might keep him alive, alive to marry Lady Lucy and to welcome the flowers of spring, a plan that required the presence of William Burke, financier, man of business, director of Finch’s amp; Co. in the final scene of the last act.

Powerscourt took a cab from Oundle station to his house. Normally he would have walked. Not tonight, he thought, as they rattled past the dormitories and playing fields of Oundle School, not tonight.

He thought of Johnny Fitzgerald lying on the road a couple of miles away, his life saved by a passing kestrel. He thought of him being bumped along the road back to the house, probably unconscious. I’m like one of those animals in the pictures now, he thought, the Powerscourt at Bay, waiting for a sudden explosion, the rattle of a pistol in the dark.

Rokesley Hall is under siege, the enemy disguised as shooting parties, scouring the countryside by daylight, looking for big green capes along the road. Strangers with rifles are lurking in the forest, able to pick a man out at five hundred yards distance. Wait for the knock at the door, opening into the perfect target for a gunman firing across the fields.

Men went from my house to fight at Agincourt and Crecy, he reminded himself. Perhaps we can summon their ghosts to stand sentry on the roof, deadly arrows waiting to defend their master, crossbows to the rescue.