Bernard Cornwell - Fallen Angels

The horseman sighed. He spoke in patient French. ‘The British Embassy.’

‘All of you?’

The horseman gestured at his companions. Closest to him was a young man with bright red hair. ‘That is Mr Lazender, behind him is Mr Drew, and my name is Pierce. Our names are all listed there.’ He did not bother to introduce the fourth horseman who hung back as if he did not wish to be associated with the three Englishmen. The fourth man was the only one in the group who was armed. At his left hip there hung a long, black-scabbarded sword.

The fat man frowned. The signature seemed genuine, and the seal seemed genuine, and the orders did not seem particularly troublesome. He scratched his cheek, pulled up his trousers, then handed the paper back to the man called Pierce. ‘Who are you looking for?’

‘A woman.’

‘Name?’

‘Lucille de Fauquemberghes. You’ve heard of her?’

The fat man shook his head. ‘Never heard of her.’ He looked at the fourth horseman, a young man dressed entirely in black who, unseen to the three Englishmen, gave the smallest nod to the fat man. The fat man seemed relieved by the signal. He waved carelessly towards the archway. ‘Go on, then!’

The three Englishmen dismounted and gave their reins to the man in black who tethered their horses to a grating beside the archway. His own horse, a superb black mare, he let stand free. He walked to the open prison gates. The gutter that came out of the building was darkly choked, smelly, and busy with flies. A dog, its ribs stark against its matted skin, licked at the black substance that clogged the drain.

The fat man watched the three Englishmen go into the prison. He waited till they had disappeared, then grinned at the man in black and offered his hand. ‘How are you, Gitan?’

‘Thirsty.’

Gitan leaned against the stones of the archway. Even in repose he was an impressive man with a lithe, strong, animal elegance. His face, dark tanned, was thin and handsome. His eyes were light blue, an odd colour for a man with such dark skin and black hair. The contrast made his eyes seem bright and piercing. In any crowd Gitan would be remarkable, but among these sweaty, tired people he was like a thoroughbred among mules. He seemed to look on them with an amused tolerance, as though all that he saw he judged against the unfair measure of his own competence. He was a man whose approval was constantly sought by other men.

Jean Brissot, the fat bellied man, offered a wine bottle. Gitan did not take it at once; instead he fetched a scrap of paper from his pocket, some tobacco, and in Spanish style he twisted himself a small cigar. Another of the red-capped men hurried forward with a tinder box and the black-dressed man leaned forward as though it was the most natural thing in the world for people to be solicitous of him. He blew smoke into the evening air then nodded at the horror inside the courtyard. ‘Been busy, Jean?’ His voice was relaxed, his eyes amused.

‘A hard day, Gitan. You should have been here.’

Gitan said nothing. He wore a gold ring in his left ear. He reached for the wine bottle.

Jean Brissot watched him drink. ‘If you hadn’t been with them I’d have said no.’

Gitan shrugged. ‘The paper’s genuine.’

Brissot laughed. ‘I’m astonished the citizen Minister lets them poke around! Bloody English!’

The smoke from Gitan’s tobacco drifted under the archway. Flies buzzed in the courtyard behind him. He picked a shred of leaf from his lip. ‘They say we don’t want war with the English yet.’ He spoke lazily, as if he did not really care whether there was war or not. His name, Gitan, simply meant ‘Gypsy’. If he had a real name no one used it. He was horse-master to the young redheaded man, described on the paper as ‘Mr Lazender’. Mr Lazender, in truth, was Viscount Werlatton, heir to the Earldom of Lazen, but this was no week to advertise aristocratic birth in Paris.

Two girls came through the archway, laughing, their wooden sabots clattering on the cobbles. They saw the Gypsy and became coy, giggling and nudging each other. ‘Gitan!’ one of them called.

He looked at them with his bright, amused eyes.

The black haired girl jerked her head. ‘You with the foreigners?’

The Gypsy smiled. ‘Which one do you fancy, Terese?’

They all laughed. Jean Brissot, sucking in his belly, looked enviously at the Gypsy. ‘Is there a girl in Paris you don’t know, Gitan?’

‘The Austrian whore.’

That provoked more laughter. Marie Antoinette was imprisoned with her husband, the King.

Terese came close to the Gypsy. He smelt of leather and tobacco. She played with the laces of his black coat. ‘Are you at Laval’s tonight?’

‘No.’

‘Gitan!’

‘I work! I sleep at the stables. If you ask my master he might let you in, but the straw gets everywhere.’ He blew smoke over her head, then cuddled her almost absent-mindedly. Brissot was jealous. The Gypsy, it was said, had a way with women as he did with horses. Now Gitan smiled down at the girl. ‘You’re getting in the way of the bottle. Go on with you.’ He pushed her out into the square where the martins flickered between the dark houses.

Jean Brissot shook his head. ‘How do you do it?’

‘Do what?’

‘The women!’ The plump man laughed. ‘If I had your luck, Gitan, just for one day!’

The Gypsy shrugged. ‘Women are like horses.’

‘You ride them, eh?’

The tall, handsome horse-master smiled. ‘You love them, you let them know who is master, and you always have a spare one.’

‘Gitan! Gitan!’ The voice, peremptory and desperate, shouted from within the prison. ‘Gitan!’

The Gypsy tossed away his paper-wrapped cigar and shrugged. ‘Watch my horse, Jean.’

Pierce, the oldest of the three Englishmen, stood by a flight of steps that led up from the courtyard. His face, always pale, seemed paper white in the fading light. ‘She’s there. Upstairs.’ Pierce looked as if he had been sick.

The Gypsy nodded, climbed the steps and pushed past the men who loitered in the entrance. He climbed more stairs, noting how the still, hot air within the prison buildings seemed to have trapped the stench of blood and death so that it was thick in his nostrils and sour in his throat.

He saw Toby Lazender, Lord Werlatton, at the end of a long landing on the fourth floor. The young, redheaded man was leaning against the wall and he was lit by the last rays of the setting sun that filtered through a barred window and through the cell door. He did not turn as the Gypsy walked towards him, he just stared into the cell.

Gitan stopped by the door. He looked at Toby Lazender. He doubted whether, at this moment, the young Englishman was even aware that he was present. The young face was set harder than stone, the eyes empty of everything. He was utterly still. Beside him, a look of helplessness on his face, was Drew.

The Gypsy looked into the cell.

The sun dazzled him. Something stood on the window ledge.

He stepped slowly into the cell, treading gently as though in a flower bed.

‘Gitan?’ Toby’s voice was low.

The Gypsy crouched and grunted.

The young Englishman’s voice was filled with loathing. ‘Was there anything they didn’t do to her?’

The Gypsy did not reply. There was no need to reply.

Lucille de Fauquemberghes had been twenty, lovely as the night, a creature of joy and love and beauty.

Now what was left of her was in this cell. She looked like cuts of meat, nothing more.

Blood was splashed a yard high on the stones. Flesh clung to bones. It was as if she had been torn apart by wild creatures.

Gitan stepped to one side, out of the sun’s rays, and saw the object on the window sill. It was her severed head. Her hair, long and raven, fell below the sill.