The Fallen Angels Read online

  She smiled. “Offense?”

  “I want to stay, but not just to hunt the fox. I would have you know that, my Lady.”

  She sensed the eagerness with which he sought her reassurance, and though his words were undoubtedly too eager, even verging toward insolence, she knew, too, that his actions on the heath road had given him the right to ask for reassurance.

  She smiled. “If my father has asked you, my Lord, then no further invitation is needed.”

  He ignored her evasion. “From you, my Lady, I would ask such an invitation.”

  She guessed from his words that he had not yet asked her father for her hand, though her reply to this question would undoubtedly influence whether or not he did. The music still played. She heard laughter and shouts from the hall. She found herself wishing, suddenly and profoundly, that this conversation was not taking place.

  “My Lady?”

  To say yes, she thought, was to set in motion the pavane that led to marriage. He would ask her father, he would ask her, and what then? Marriage, pregnancy a year from now?

  And why not? Love was only something that fell from the stars to gild the world for fools. Marriage, she had decided, was a compromise, it could be nothing else. And if CL and LC was a happy coincidence pointing to fate’s hand, then how much more was the coincidence of their meeting on the Millett’s End road?

  “My Lady?”

  She stared unseeing at the champagne bottle and, as unbidden and unwelcome as ever, the image of the Gypsy swam before her eyes and she felt an anger at that unworthy attraction. I am not worthy, she thought, not worthy.

  She had known this man just a few weeks, yet the suddenness of their introduction, the horror of the man pawing at her on the heath road had led so swiftly to this question. Marriage, she thought, should be a blaze of glory, not something insidious and relentless, creeping up on her with all the appeal of a winter fog.

  She smiled at that. Marriage, her father had once said, is like buying a horse. Look at the teeth, the legs, and don’t expect a unicorn. She smiled because she knew that somewhere in her life she had been infected with the disease of romance, the expectation of a unicorn. It was unfair on this man, this good man, and she looked at him with her eager, bright, welcoming eyes, and smiled. “Of course, my Lord.”

  What else, she thought despairingly, could she say?

  He took her hand, his eyes still on hers, and raised it close to his mouth. “I am your servant, my Lady.” He kissed her fingers. The moustache pricked at her un-gloved knuckles.

  By such small words, she thought, and tiny, polite deceptions are the courses of our lives fashioned.

  A scream interrupted them, a scream that pierced from the hall. Lord Culloden stood, his hand moving to his sword hilt.

  Campion smiled. “Someone’s drunk, my Lord. Fighting over one of the girls, I expect.” She wiped her fingers on the napkin and stood beside him. “Perhaps if I appear it will calm things down.” Lord Culloden still frowned, and she put her arm into his as they walked toward the Great Hall. “It happens every year.”

  There were shouts now, the crash of breaking plates, and Lord Culloden pushed through the people who crowded the dais to stare at the bedlam on the floor.

  It was a fight, but such a fight as Campion had not seen for many a year. A dozen of the town lads were hammering at each other, while as many of the men were trying to pull them apart. Women screamed while the Reverend Horne Mounter was trying, without success, to shout silence and calm into the melee. Simon Stepper and his musicians, oblivious to it all, were playing the dance Dissembling Love.

  Lord Culloden’s parade ground voice made the musicians pause, but no more. “Stop it! Stop it I say!”

  A boy reeled out of the fight with blood coming from his nose. He staggered, fell, then forced himself upright and charged back into the mill of fists and boots.

  Campion was laughing.

  Two of the town girls were screaming encouragement and she guessed that they had started the fight. The drink was helping it along. Most of the townspeople grinned as they watched. There was nothing for the fighters to damage except themselves, and Christmas at the Castle was hardly Christmas without one good fight to talk about in the coming nights. Why else was all the valuable furniture and china moved from the hall?

  Simon Burroughs, the coachman, bobbed his head at Campion. “You want me and the boys to knock their pates together, my Lady?”

  “What started it?”

  “Cartwright’s boy. Thought someone was taking his girl.”

  “Were they?”

  Burroughs shrugged. “Like as not, my Lady. I reckon he came here wanting trouble. You want me to tear his head off?” He asked it eagerly.

  Campion smiled and shook her head. Lazen’s huge head coachman seemed too final a solution for a boy wounded by Cupid’s arrow. “I think they’re calming down, Simon.”

  “Falling down, I think,” Lord Culloden said. Two bodies were flat on the floor, blood on their faces.

  It did seem as if the fight was ending in drunken exhaustion. The older men, who had tried to break it up, began to pull away, brushing their hands and laughing at the bloodied boys who staggered and reeled and swung their fists hopelessly in thin air. Campion smiled. “I think it’s time for a minuet.”

  Then George Cartwright, the son of the man who farmed the slopes of Two Gallows Hill, drew a knife that was hidden within his coat and slashed at the man closest to him. Mercifully, he missed. He was screaming now, all control gone, the spittle showing at his mouth as he spread his anger about the room.

  “Christ!” Simon Burroughs ran forward, shouting in a huge voice, but another man, closer, jumped at the boy. George Cartwright, his eyes mad with jealous passion, turned and sliced at his attacker. The boy was a hugely muscled seventeen year old who spent his days on heavy farm work. The man shouted and staggered back with blood showing on a cut hand.

  The youth was screaming his challenge like a banshee and the knife, a twelve inch flensing blade, made a glittering space about him which none dared invade. Simon Burroughs, frowning, slowed to a prudent walk.

  Campion looked at Culloden. “My Lord?” She did not want an unarmed man to approach the boy. “I think your sword is needed.”

  Lord Culloden did not move. He seemed appalled by the sudden violence.

  “My Lord!”

  The boy saw Burroughs coming, turned, and suddenly ran toward the two girls who had encouraged the fight. He was blind with anger, maddened with jealousy, tormented by those who had mocked his muscled simplicity.

  “My Lord!” Campion pushed Lord Culloden toward the floor.

  There were screams from the women. The knife slashed at a man who tried to trip the boy, the blade whirled in a savage arc that cleared people from his path, and the two girls shrieked in terror as he ran at them. Simon Burroughs could not reach him, the knife went up, Campion flinched.

  And the knife stopped.

  A hand held the boy’s wrist.

  The boy shouted at the man who held him, pulled away with all the strength of his plow-hardened body, but the Gypsy did not move an inch. He seemed, to Campion, to have come from nowhere, to have stepped from the shadows in silence, and now he stood, quite still, gripping the wrist of the boy’s knife hand.

  His hand tightened. The Gypsy, though taller, looked almost frail beside the great barrel chest and thick arms of the youth, yet, with chilling confidence, he waved Simon Burroughs back.

  It was the boy who suddenly looked alarmed. The pain in his wrist seared at him, increased, and he swung his left fist at the Gypsy who simply swayed out of the way and squeezed harder.

  The knife dropped.

  The Gypsy let go of the boy’s wrist, slapped him lightly on the face with his left hand, and, as the boy turned to face that challenge, hit him in the belly with his right hand.

  The boy folded with a grunt, was caught by the black-dressed man who lifted him onto a shoulder and walked over the floor
as though his burden weighed nothing.

  Someone cheered. “Well done, froggie!” The cheer was taken up, spread, turned to clapping, and Campion laughed aloud.

  “My Lady?”

  She looked left and saw the boy’s father. “Mr. Cartwright?”

  The poor man was terrified. His hands were clasped and shaking, his head bobbing. “I apologize, my Lady. I’ll hit the daylights out of that young bugger, so help me God!”

  Someone opened the door for the Gypsy, he paused, then tossed the Cartwright boy out into the gravel. Campion smiled. “Mr. Cartwright, you will stay and enjoy yourself.” She turned to the table, nodded to a servant, and held out her hand. The servant, not quite sure what she wanted, gave her the first thing that came to hand, a glass of wine. She presented it to Cartwright as a public symbol that Lazen held no grudge for him. The liquid shook as he took it. “Thank you, your Ladyship.”

  She raised her voice. The room was silent. “Your son, on the other hand, Mr. Cartwright, you will send to me on Wednesday. Tell him he will have to apologize, and tell him it will not be a pleasant conversation.”

  The farmer nodded. “Yes, my Lady.” It was rumored that the Lady Campion Lazender had a rare temper when she wished to show it. He looked at the wine that trembled in his hand. He wondered if he was supposed to drink it.

  Campion smiled. “Now, if you will excuse me, Mr. Cartwright, I have to thank our Frenchman.”

  She stepped down from the dais and walked across the floor in silence.

  The whole room watched her.

  She looked superb. The light of a thousand candles touched the pale, pale gold of her twisted, piled hair, flashed from the pearls, the gold, the sapphires, from her large, blue eyes, from the high cheekbones and the full lips. She looked fit to rule an empire, while inside, seeing his face, she felt like a kitten.

  Why the Gypsy did this to her, she did not know, yet seeing those oddly bright eyes, so pale in the dark face, and the savage, handsome features, made her heart jump and the blood tingle in her veins.

  She stopped. She smiled. She spoke in French. “We owe you our thanks, Gitan?” She deliberately made his name a question.

  He shrugged. He smiled, making his face so suddenly brilliant. He ignored the interrogatory that she had inflected on his name. “A small thing, my Lady, not worth a remark.” He bowed to her gracefully and then, straightening, his vivid eyes caught hers again.

  “Two seconds later and there would have been a badly wounded girl.” She smiled. “I think we owe you something.” At least, she thought, by playing the great lady, she hid the turmoil he put within her.

  Gitan smiled again. “Then may I have the temerity to name my reward?”

  For a moment she thought he was going to ask to dance with her and she feared that all this room would see her excitement and guess her shameful secret. She bent her head graciously. “Please.”

  Somehow, without offense, he managed to make his smile personal, as if they were conspirators. “I merely ask your Ladyship’s permission to visit the long room to see the portrait again.”

  She blushed, she knew she blushed. For a desperate, terrible second the thought slipped across her mind that he had seen the naked nymph hidden in the Lely portrait, but she knew that was impossible. Then, with certainty, she knew he was complimenting her, giving her a message that was as forbidden for him to give as she to receive. Yet how could such a simple request, such a modest request, be denied? She nodded. “Of course. I’ll tell Carline. Tomorrow?”

  “Tonight, my Lady.” He spoke humbly. “I leave in the morning.”

  “Christmas Day?”

  “Alas, yes.”

  “Then tonight.” She turned away, sure that the whole room, even if they did not understand the foreign tongue, would still have seen her confusion. Yet no one looked at her oddly, no shocked mouths whispered behind hands, no murmur of rumor sounded in the hall. She waved to Simon Stepper for his musicians to begin playing. Slowly the noise of conversation, of laughter and of dancing began again.

  “An odd looking fellow!” Lord Culloden said.

  “He’s French,” she said, as if it explained everything.

  “Oh!” he said, as if it did. “I thought a sword would be over-egging the pudding, my Lady.”

  She was tempted to say that he could have stopped the boy’s madness without drawing his sword, as the Gypsy had done, but she smiled instead. “I’m sure you’re right, my Lord.”

  He touched the tips of his blond moustache. “I think this is meant to be a minuet. Shall we?”

  She danced with the man whom she had encouraged to approach her father for her hand in marriage and she knew, as she felt his hand on her arm, that the Gypsy’s request had been more than a compliment. It had been an invitation.

  She told herself she would ignore it. She danced. She dazzled the room, she turned, she whirled, she danced. It was Christmas.

  The Castle’s guests who were staying for the season had mostly retired by two o’clock. A few, like Sir George, were staying the course with those townspeople and servants who still danced to the single violinist who had survived the frumenty. Campion herself, kissed on the fingers by Lord Culloden, went to her bedroom a few minutes past the hour.

  Her maid was excited. “It’s such a good ball, my Lady.”

  Campion smiled. “Go back to it, Edna. I’ll undress myself.”

  “I wouldn’t hear of it, my Lady! And that Frenchie?” Edna giggled. “They’re ever so handsome, aren’t they?”

  Jealousy stabbed at Campion. She was shocked by it, ashamed by it. She took Edna by the shoulders, turned her, and pushed her toward the door. “Go back. Enjoy yourself. Maybe you’ll find your Frenchman!”

  She waited till the girl had gone, till the corridor was quiet, and then she locked the bedroom door. She crossed to the far side and unlocked the door that led to the gallery.

  Her heart pounded as though she faced death.

  She should not do this. This was wrong. This was more wrong than anything she could imagine, yet nothing would stop her. It seemed she did this thing with a volition that was not her own.

  The door swung open.

  She walked into the Long Gallery. She was doing the single most exciting and dangerous thing of her life. She went to the gallery because she thought that in the Gypsy’s polite request had been more than a desire to see the Lely portrait. There had been a statement that he would be there and she could meet him. Now, by some impulse of seething delight, and against all common sense, she went into the gallery.

  A single candle burned at the western end, its flame unwavering in the still air, its light showing nothing.

  Nothing but the furniture, the glass of the windows, the great painting on the wall. He was not there.

  She felt a surge of relief. It had been three hours since she had told Carline to let the Gypsy up here, ordering a candelabra to be given him. He had come here and he had gone, leaving a single candle to light his way out. He had gone.

  She stood in the light that came from her bedroom and she stared at the single candle in the Long Gallery. It was cold here, the fires dead since the afternoon. She felt the relief that he had gone. She felt the sadness that he had gone. She was astonished at the mingling of her feelings. The shame that on this night a lord had virtually asked for her hand, she had accepted, and then she had hoped for a clandestine meeting with a servant. Mixed with that was a terrible disappointment that the Gypsy was not waiting in the light of the single flame that burned so still at the gallery’s western end. She turned back to her room.

  She walked slowly into her bedroom. She closed the door, leaving only the single candle in the Long Gallery. There was the sound of her key turning in the lock, then silence.

  A man who breaks horses must know patience. He must know when to bridle a colt, and when to do nothing. The Gypsy, in the darkness of the gallery’s eastern end, watched her and thought she was the most lovely woman he had seen, more desirable t
han loneliness could dream of, more beautiful than danger itself. For a second he was tempted to call out, to walk toward her, but he stayed silent. There was a time and there was a season, but the time and season for the Lady Campion were not now.

  Gitan had waited at the dark end of the gallery for a message. He would have waited all night. The message had been given. She had come. She would come again.

  On silent feet he went downstairs. He walked through the frost bright night to the stables, to the room he used when he was in Lazen. He slept on the floor, covered with a cloak and blanket, and beside him, pale in the night, was a naked sword. By Christmas Day’s cold dawn he was gone.

  7

  I t was a miserable Christmas in Paris, a cold and hungry Christmas, its only solace the good news from the war against the Prussians and Austrians. The armies of France had repelled the northern invaders and were poised to take the war to the enemy lands. Indeed, to all lands, for the French government had decreed that they would help any and all countries to throw off the chains of superstition and monarchy. The grim jest in Paris was that France merely wished to send its hunger and poverty abroad.

  The new year brought cold rains. The people of Paris hunched into the foul weather and dreamed of a time when shops were filled with warm, fragrant bread. Yet on one January day there was joy in the city, a great celebration that let the citizens forget their cold and hunger.

  It was a Sunday. It rained.

  It was a bitter, sleety rain that slanted in needle slashes through the thick smoke that lay in a tattered layer above the rooftops of Paris. Everything seemed grimy. Everything seemed touched by the greasy, dirty slime of winter. The Seine was like the River Styx. The bodies of dogs and dead cats floated in the gray, pocked water to the far off sea.

  The great days of the summer seemed long ago, the days when the people had stormed the Tuileries and ransacked the great rooms and hunted the King’s guard to squalid deaths in the sun drenched courtyards. Today the palace was still empty, its windows still being repaired, its plaster ceilings still chipped by the bullets of summer.