Sovay (31 page)

CHAPTER
3
6

‘W
hat do you want with me?’ Sovay turned quickly. ‘I warn you, I have a gun.’

‘I don’t doubt it!’ The man put his hands in the air. ‘You wouldn’t shoot an old friend, would you, Sovay!’

‘Greenwood! What are you doing here?’

Sovay was so relieved to see him that it was all she could do not to throw her arms round him right there in the street.

‘I’ve been following Fitzwilliam. I was just trying to work out a way to get in, thinking that I should have brought young Toby with me – I’m no cracksman – when who do I see turn up bold as you like? I almost thought to warn you when Fitzwilliam came back in a tearing hurry, but reasoned that you and the Yankee could look after yourselves. And I was right, it seems. Nice piece.’ He nodded towards where she had secreted the pistol. ‘Where did you get it?’

‘Virgil gave it to me. I was just about to shoot you with it. Don’t you know better than to creep up on a person like that?’

‘Did you get what you were after?’ Greenwood fell into step beside her.

‘How do you know we were after anything?’

Greenwood gave her a look.

‘Yes, we did.’ Sovay smiled her satisfaction and her large eyes glittered with excitement. She really was remarkably handsome; Greenwood frowned at lost chances.

‘What are you looking so glum about?’ she said, looking up at him.

‘I was cursing myself for being such a gentleman.’ He took her arm. ‘We would have made an excellent pair, Sovay. I should have had my wicked way with you when I could.’

She laughed. ‘Too late now.’

‘How so?’ Greenwood’s grin was mischievous. ‘Who’ve you met?’

‘That’s not what I meant!’ Sovay looked away, glad that it was dark enough to hide her blushes. She quickly changed the subject. ‘What are you doing here, anyway?’

‘Oldfield sent me. I’m working for him now.’

‘Are you mad?’ Sovay stared at him. ‘It’s a wonder you weren’t arrested as soon as you opened your mouth.’

‘I’m an educated man!’ Greenwood looked pained at her implication. ‘I can speak French as well as Fitzwilliam. Beside, I’m travelling as an Irishman. Patrick MacManus of County Monaghan. Oldfield got the papers for me. What was Fitzwilliam carrying?’

‘Letters from Dysart to Robespierre. You can take them back with you, along with the other evidence that we have gathered. There will be enough to discredit him. I’m sure of it.’

‘What will happen to Fitzwilliam? He cannot go back to England.’

‘Oh, no,’ Sovay laughed. ‘Once he’s packed his bags, he’s off to the coast, in one of Virgil’s barrels if need be. From there he’ll be taken to America to be kept out of the way until Dysart’s defeated.’

Greenwood’s tone grew serious. ‘That won’t come too soon for Gabriel and the others.’

‘What is happening to him?’ Sovay asked, seized with guilt that she had been too caught up in the moment to ask for news from home.

‘He’s in Newgate, holding up tolerably well. I do have happier news,’ Greenwood smiled. ‘Lydia is to marry Skidmore, although she will not set a day. She wants you to be there.’

Sovay saw the little church at Compton, all decorated for a wedding, and her throat grew tight with longing.

‘I will be there,’ she pledged. ‘I will be her maid of honour. And Toby, what news of him?’

‘He’s ’prentice to a locksmith in Clerkenwell. A good, honest fellow, a friend of Dick Chapman’s. He should keep him on the straight. He’s still all afire to go to America when his time is up.’

‘I’m glad he does well.’ Sovay smiled at the thought of him, of all of them. ‘I miss them, Greenwood.’

‘Come back with me now, then,’ the Captain urged. ‘Why put yourself in further danger?’

‘No.’ Sovay shook her head. ‘I cannot leave Papa and, besides, I have other business here.’

Greenwood did not press her further. He was wise in the ways of the heart, and from the look on her face, he guessed what that ‘other business’ might be.

In the morning, Greenwood was gone, taking the letters and the documents forged by Lefere. Sovay felt a great sense of relief and exultation. There was enough evidence to discredit Dysart completely. Although they were set about with dangers here, their enemy at home would be soon defeated. She felt a change in her mood, her spirits lifted by the first feelings of hope that she had experienced since arriving in France.

The day was warm already, and would undoubtedly grow hotter. She dressed in her lightest gown to prepare herself for the glaring heat of the dusty city streets and resolved to go to the Luxembourg to see if there was any news of her father.

Hugh was accompanying Fernand to the Convention, and Virgil was conducting Fitzwilliam to Le Havre, so she would have to go alone. She pushed open the heavy front door. The courtyard was bright with sunlight. A scrawny yellow cat dozed in the corner under the shade of a fig tree. A tangle of geranium flowers straggled down from pots on a windowsill, their petals scattered over the cobbles, like drops of crimson blood. Sovay stepped out of the street entrance, the door clanging behind her. She had made this journey many times before and set out confidently, cutting through the mass of small streets, but it was easy to get confused in the twists and turns and she found herself on a main thoroughfare that she did not know.

She was met by a throng of people, all going in the same direction. Men, women and children, their faces set and expressionless, apart from a look of stony purpose, as if they were fulfilling some duty set upon them. For such a large crowd, they made almost no noise. There was nothing to distinguish this street from many others: the high walls on either side, the closed gates, the scrawled slogans. It could not be far from where she was living, but Sovay knew she’d never walked down here before. The scene had a strangeness to it, both familiar, yet unfamiliar, like in a dream. There was no clear threat, but she had a strong sense of premonition, enough to make her shiver in the rising heat of the day. She thought to turn back, but it was too late. It was as though she had stepped into a fast-flowing river. The crowd closed round her and took her with them. To turn back would be difficult and when she attempted it, the eyes about her sparked with suspicion.

‘What is the matter, Citizeness?’ one woman asked her. ‘Where is your patriotic duty?’

She was towing a child, a girl of about six or seven years, who eyed Sovay with candid frankness.

Her challenge drew the attention of other women, who scrutinised Sovay with growing hostility. Sovay wondered what was provoking them so, fearing that they could read her nationality in her face and reluctant to speak, in case her accent confirmed their suspicions. They looked one to another, then the boldest swaggered forward, her face set, her curled fists set on hips, ready to challenge her outright.

‘Citizeness!’ a male voice boomed in her ear. ‘Where is your tricolour!’

Sovay looked down in horror. Her tricolour was on the collar of the coat that she’d been wearing the night before. She’d been told never to leave the house without one. People had been torn apart, beaten to death in the streets, for not wearing the emblem of the Revolution.

Powerful male hands seized Sovay from behind and marched her away from the crowd. The women glanced at the National Guardsman and went on their way, satisfied. He took off his hat and she saw it was Léon.

‘You must remember to wear this at all times, Citizeness,’ he said, taking the large red, white and blue cockade from the turned-up brim and attaching it to her shoulder. ‘If you are not to attract the attention of the Revolutionary Committees or get a beating at the hands of the
bonnes républicaines
who were subjecting you to such rude stares. Now, let us complete our patriotic duty.’

He held Sovay tightly by the arm and it was not long before she realised the purpose of this determined pilgrimage. The smell was enough. Rust-red ooze seeped from between the cobbles beneath their feet and the gutters ran with blood. Complaints from each successive resting place, about the blood and the stench, meant that the infamous machine had been moved to the eastern edge of the city, to the barrière du Trône. The place had been renamed Trône-Renversé, the throne reversed, but the great stone pillars that had marked this entrance to the city still soared upwards, monuments to the old regime. There was a new throne now. They were herded into its presence. Set up on a high platform, the angled blade was like a macabre canopy, the collar like a great mouth where the seat should be. The executioner and his attendants looked like butchers, their clothes and smocks drenched with blood.

Tumbrels waited in line, like carts outside a slaughterhouse. Their passengers stood bunched together, held upright by the press of numbers, collars torn away from their shoulders, hands bound behind their backs, shorn heads bowed.

The process was brutally swift, born from the efficiency of long practice. Each victim was loaded onto a board to be delivered to the blade. The head was thrust through a small aperture, known as the peep-hole, the upper part then dropped down to fit round the neck, the lever was pulled and the blade hissed down. The whole process took less than a minute from the prisoner lying down to the executioner holding up the dripping head for the crowd to see. The head was dropped into the basket below, the body tipped into a waiting cart, ready to be taken to a mass grave hastily dug in the grounds of a nearby convent on the Rue de Picpus.

Sovay had been brought up on a farm and was well used to seeing animals slaughtered, but the gush of blood from the neck, the hot coppery stench of it, was truly shocking. Even harder to bear was the stoical dignity and frail fortitude of the waiting victims: strangers stood shoulder to shoulder, a mother held her weeping daughter, a father clasped his son, a priest administered the last rites, who could stop him now? A nun sang the
Te Deum
in a wavering voice that grew stronger as her time came nearer. The crowd grew quiet and still as the executioner’s assistants printed her white habit with blood. Sovay would have turned away with the pity of it all if Léon had not held her steady. To turn from the scene would be to give herself away, would be seen as unpatriotic.

There was little cheering. The few desultory cries of triumph from the claque, who were paid to applaud as each head was held up, were not taken up by the rest of the crowd

‘Why would they cheer?’ Léon said. ‘The aristocrats are all dead, or fled. These poor devils are shopkeepers, printers, locksmiths, lacemakers, waiters, servants, poor priests, sisters dragged from their convents. Enemies to somebody: a vindictive neighbour, a member of their local Revolutionary Committee, or deemed guilty by association with a relative or friend who has come to the attention of Robespierre and the Committee of Public Safety. Ordinary people. Like them. Perhaps they begin to feel the icy kiss of the blade on their own necks.’

‘If they do not hate them, then why do they come?’

‘Who knows?’ Léon shrugged. ‘Some are curious. Fascinated by the actual moment of death. For others, it is a kind of relief. It is not their turn today, even though it could be tomorrow. For me. For you. We are none of us safe. Enough,’ he said abruptly and began to lead her away. ‘The show will be over soon, anyway.’

A row of women occupied a stand of benches, needles clicking. Their attention, at least, was avid. Léon’s eyes flicked towards them.

‘The notorious
tricoteuses
. Do not look too closely at them. They are here each day, knitting liberty caps, or stockings for their menfolk fighting in the wars. Who knows what they knit, or why? Perhaps they are like Penelope and unravel at night what they knit up during the day. Perhaps they are like the Fates and when they stop, so will this madness. Either that, or the last thread will be snapped and we’ll all be dead.’ He looked at her, suddenly noticing how pale she’d grown. ‘Are you all right?’

Sovay nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She did not want to show weakness, but the scenes at the guillotine, the heat of the day, the stench of the blood, threatened to overwhelm her senses. He led her down a quiet side street and found shade under spreading plane trees that surrounded a small square. Sunlight fell through the leaves, making dappled patterns across the cobbles. They stopped at a small café and sat at a rickety table. Léon ordered wine. A woman’s voice called out, pots clattered in the kitchen. There was a smell of herbs, thyme and rosemary, from the pots by the door. Sovay found solace in the very ordinariness of the scene. The horror was still going on, along with other crimes, small and large, across the beleaguered city, but here life continued as it always had done, as it would do again. The wine came with a basket of bread. Léon poured a glass for her, urged her to drink.

‘It did not begin like this,’ he said after a while. ‘Dealing death to ordinary people. We did not start the Revolution to make war on our fellow citizens. For you to react like that –’

‘I’m sorry,’ Sovay apologised for allowing herself to be overcome.

‘Not at all! It shows how far we have come that we tolerate such barbarism.’ He shook his head. ‘The things I have seen. The things I have done. In the Vendée, in Lyon. All in the name of that same Revolution.’ He passed a hand over his eyes as if to wipe away the memory that existed inside. ‘The slaughter you have just witnessed. Civilized compared with it. People blown to pieces by cannon fire, tied in long lines and fired upon with rifles, bound together naked and thrown into rivers, sent out in boats drilled full of holes. All done in the name of the Republic . . .’ His voice tailed away and he looked up, his green eyes dull and full of suffering, whether for himself, or for the victims, it was hard to tell. ‘There’s blood on my hands, too, Sovay.’ He looked away from her, down at his long fingers spread on the table. ‘I am a soldier. I follow orders, or that’s what I told myself. I no longer have a God from whom I can beg forgiveness. All I can do is hope to make reparation. That, one day, the people will forgive their misguided son.’