In Guards We Trust Page 2

  Chapter 2 – The Marquis d’Artois

  As they trudged along the country road, the Marquis d’Artois and his son were stalked by shadows cast by the towering peaks of the Montugan Alps. What little remained of the Marquis’ energy succumbed to the rising incline.

  ‘I think they are making for Genoa, Papa,’ Philippe declared. ‘We’ve lost them at last.’

  ‘On that I do not care to place even a modest wager,’ the Marquis replied. ‘Rarely have I encountered such dogged persistence.’

  As the last of dusk’s redness faded from the mountains, Philippe pointed towards something higher up in the valley.

  ‘Over there. A light!’ the twelve-year old announced.

  The Marquis squinted as he stared into the distant gloom. He spotted a field which appeared to be cultivated. However, the light eluded him.

  ‘Your eyes are better than mine. Best that you lead the way.’

  A moonless night replaced the remnants of twilight and it became increasingly difficult to see as they continued up the Nanoux valley. The light beckoned them towards an isolated farmhouse situated a little to the left of the road. They collided with a dilapidated fence in their search for some form of pathway. They decided to walk alongside the fence, expecting it to give way to a path. Eventually, it did.

  ‘Do you remember what I told you, Philippe?’ the Marquis inquired as they drew near enough to spot a lantern flickering in the window.

  ‘Yes Papa. You will do the talking.’

  The Marquis knocked on the front door. It opened to reveal an elderly man. Although his face was partially concealed by the light from behind, the Marquis could see that he was missing a front tooth. He estimated the man to be in his late sixties. His physique suggested that he was no stranger to regular manual labour.

  ‘Yes?’ The man’s grey eyebrows lifted slightly. The rest of his face remained expressionless as he overtly scrutinised the two of them.

  Perhaps it was customary to be suspicious of strangers in this part of France, the Marquis concluded. Most likely, however, it was simply a sign of the times.

  ‘Good evening, Monsieur. Forgive our intrusion. My name is Jacques Le Roux and this is my son Philippe. We are looking for the mountain pass which leads to border crossing to the kingdom of Montuga. May we trouble you for directions?’

  ‘You’ll be wanting that road.’ The farmer’s courteous, almost friendly tone was at odds with his dour expression. ‘The road you came on. Goes right up the valley, it does. Leads to the mountain path up the ravine to the border….but the Montugan guards won’t let you pass. They have closed the border, you see. You have to go by sea now if you want to go to Montuga. The only way in is through the harbour at Monte Vista.’ The farmer stepped aside and gestured with his hand that they should enter his abode.

  ‘Thank you. But we do not wish to impose or to take up any more of your time.’

  ‘This is the country,’ the farmer responded. A feint smile creased his face. ‘We have time enough.’

  They entered the farmhouse to avoid appearing impolite. The Marquis noticed an elderly lady preparing dinner in the rear of the living area. He presumed that she was the farmer’s wife. Their arrival barely solicited a glance from her and their host did nothing to facilitate any introductions.

  ‘My brother is an officer in the Montugan Royal Guard,’ the Marquis mentioned. ‘He is in charge of the border checkpoint in the Devil’s Orifice. He can arrange a special entry for us’. This was a lie necessitated by the unexpected and alarming news of the closure of the border post. It was too late for them to opt for other escape routes. These were probably all closed off by now. Once at the border post, the Marquis intended to rely upon his nobility and his friendship with the Montugan king in order to bid for entry to the kingdom. But he could not risk mentioning that to the farmer. Of course, the Marquis had been tempted to say nothing at all. But silence would only have aroused suspicion as to their true identity. After all, the farmer had informed them that they were heading for a closed border. The people most likely to ignore such a warning would be desperate nobles hoping to bribe or to beg the Montugan guards to allow them entry to Montuga in order to escape their pursuers.

  ‘I went up that way once. Right up the pass. There’s a sign. Just before the border. Says anyone going past it will be shot, you see. Shoot first; ask questions later, I tell you. Dead you’ll be before you get to speak to your brother.’ The deadpan expression which accompanied the farmer’s advice did nothing to assist the Marquis to determine whether the farmer had bought his hastily concocted explanation.

  ‘How far is the checkpoint from the sign?’

  ‘I’m not so good with distances these days,’ the farmer said. ‘About five hundred yards maybe.’

  ‘And how long does it take to arrive at the border from here?’

  ‘Took me most of the day to get up that steep path. Slipped on several loose rocks. It’s not called the Devil’s Orifice for nothing, you know. Lucky for you it’s not winter. You might do better, being a bit younger, but it’s a fool that tries it at night. You can rest here and join us for supper, if you like.’

  The Marquis hesitated. It was risky to interrupt their journey. But he was exhausted, and the dead of night was no time for hiking up treacherous terrain. So they joined the farmer at an elongated dinner table. It formed the centrepiece of the modestly furnished, yet neat interior.

  Dinner comprised of bread rolls and garlic flavoured chicken soup served by the farmer’s wife. She avoided all eye contact. Curiously, she then took her dinner at a smaller table situated against the wall. She maintained her silence throughout the evening. They discovered that the couple had once had two sons, but that both had perished in King Louis’ wars. The farmer explained that his wife had never been the same since. It came as no surprise to learn that their hosts were republicans. In earlier times, and prior to the uprisings, the Marquis had been involved in conscripting young men into the French army. It was fortunate that he had not carried out that duty anywhere near this part of France.

  An expression of sadness unexpectedly appeared on the farmer’s face as he noticed, for the first time, that his wife had taken to repeatedly glancing at Philippe.

  The Marquis wondered whether there was something about his son’s short black hair, his slim physique or his fine facial features which reminded her of one of her own sons. She looked away self-consciously. An awkward silence followed.

  ‘So, you are his boy?’ the farmer asked, trying to make conversation.

  Philippe ceased dipping his baguette in his soup. He directed an enquiring glance at the Marquis.

  ‘Yes he is. I thought I mentioned that when we arrived?’ the Marquis quickly intervened.

  ‘Ah, yes. So you did,’ the farmer responded slowly. ‘It’s my age, you see.’

  ‘You must forgive, my son. It takes time for him to open up around strangers.’

  ‘What do you do for a living?’ the farmer asked.

  ‘I was an assistant winemaker on the estate of a French nobleman who unfortunately no longer possesses his head.’ The Marquis smiled contritely. The latter’s thick lips appeared slightly at odds with his pencil moustache. ‘My son was due to become my apprentice.’

  In reality, Philippe had spent a number of years at an elite boarding school in Switzerland, and the Marquis feared that his son’s vocabulary and diction would undermine their cover. To his relief, however, Philippe managed to keep to his promise to say nothing throughout the dinner. This relief was short lived as the Marquis gradually became aware that Philippe had inexplicably acquired one or two barely discernible mannerisms usually encountered only in slightly retarded children. He found the boy’s slight, but repetitive rocking motion and his prolonged avoidance of eye contact to be particularly disturbing. He began to wonder whether Philippe, or maybe both of them, had possibly been poisoned by their hosts. However the boy managed a surreptitious wink which went unnoticed b
y the farmer. Realising that the farmer was no fool, Philippe had evidently decided that his role required a little improvisation. The Marquis reached across the table and placed a gentle hand on Philippe’s shoulder to stop him from rocking. This had the desired effect. Philippe sat motionlessly and stared into the distance with his mouth slightly ajar.

  ‘I’m sorry, but he will keep doing it for an age if I don’t stop him. It can become annoying.’ The Marquis shrugged uneasily.

  ‘It’s the same with my wife,’ the farmer replied with a wry, almost empathetic smile. ‘She also goes into her own world for hours on end.’

  Since Philippe’s efforts appeared to have succeeded, the Marquis realised that it was now up to him not to say or do anything to cause raised eyebrows or worse. He had fortunately encountered people from varying walks of life during his former years of service in the French navy. This had proved invaluable on several occasions during the past fortnight when their lives had depended upon his ability to masquerade as someone other than a person of noble birth.

  ‘What brings you here then? Was there was no place for you on the farm? A man of your experience! Why should republicans not also enjoy wine? Not so?’

  The Marquis could not determine whether or not the questions were motivated by genuine curiosity.

  ‘Fighting broke out about who would have control of the estates which once belonged to the nobles in our valley.’ Although the Marquis was usually fairly softly spoken, his confident, measured manner of delivery more than compensated for it. This evening, however, he made a point of speaking in a slightly louder, brasher tone. ‘A cooperative I tried to join placed no value at all on my experience. After violence broke out between two groups, I decided it would be safer to move to Montuga with my son and to try to find employment there. My late spouse is from Montuga, and we have some family there.’ The subject of Philippe’s mother had not yet come up and, given that the wounds relating to the actual story were still raw, it was with reluctance that the Marquis brought up the topic at all. He only did so because it was inevitable that the farmer was likely to wish to satisfy his curiosity about why the two of them were heading to Montuga without the wife and mother of the family. The Marquis made a point of lowering his voice and glancing obliquely in his son’s direction as he uttered the words ‘late spouse.’ He hoped that this would create the impression that the topic was a sensitive one for the boy.

  The farmer nodded knowingly. He changed the subject.

  ‘We are lucky here. We have not had much violence. Only a few executions of a handful of nobles who had it coming. Republicans are now in control in this area. I can tell you that our citizens look out for each other. Farmers like me are valued, you see. Once I battled to pay my rent to the nobility. Now I will own this vegetable farm. From now I will pay a quarter of what I grow to the town committee. This is much fairer than high rentals I used to pay. Rent which stayed the same even when the crops failed.’

  The farmer paused for several moments. His forehead creased while posing a question to the Marquis.

  ‘What news, if any, do you bring of the uprising against the king in Paris?’ He paused. ‘I ask, because everything here could change at the drop of hat if the king and the aristocracy were to prevail. I would lose the farm. Many of us could pay for our uprising here with our lives.’

  ‘It’s really difficult to tell. There are many contradictory reports.’ The Marquis wiped his mouth with a cloth. ‘My conclusion, for what it’s worth, is that the king’s position is severely compromised.’

  ‘Compromised? What do you mean?’

  ‘I suppose I mean that I doubt the king will be able to retain absolute power.’

  ‘So you think that the rule of the king will end and that we republicans will take over?’

  ‘That is one possibility?’

  ‘It would be about time.’ The farmer grinned and rubbed his hands. After a moment he posed another question. ‘You said one possibility. There is another?’

  ‘Yes. Some say that there could be an agreement that power could be shared between the king and a people’s assembly.’

  ‘I don’t like the sound of that,’ the farmer grunted. He stared into the distance for a while. ‘In our area, our leaders condemn the king and everything he stands for. Our leaders say that we Republicans are like the Americans. They dared to tell their English king to go to hell. And in the end they won their freedom.’

  After the meal, the farmer showed the Marquis and Philippe to an old wooden shed situated behind the farmhouse.

  ‘First or second shift?’ the Marquis asked quietly once they were alone.

  ‘Aw, do we have to Papa? What are the chances of them finding us here?’

  ‘That road is the only way to Montuga. If they realise that we have given them the slip our true destination will dawn on them quickly enough. There is no other house this far up the valley. If they do come looking for us, you would do better to ask what the chances might be of them not finding us.’ The Marquis paused as he re-arranged a few piles of straw to form makeshift beds. ‘You take the first one and a half hour’s watch and I will do the next two hours. I doubt they will travel in the early hours, so we can both sleep from two until first light.’

  Philippe rose to leave the shed in favour of a suitable vantage point.

  ‘You must also warn me at once if anyone leaves the farmhouse to come to this shed or if anyone heads off towards town,’ the Marquis said.

  ‘Do you not trust the farmer, Papa?’ As he spoke the boy slipped his father’s pistol into his belt.

  ‘No. You heard the man. He is a republican. I think he believes our story, but I cannot be certain. But, if he suspects that we are not what we claim to be, he could sneak away tonight to report us to the committee in the nearest town.’

  ‘Okay,’ Philippe responded. His brow furrowed. ‘What about the border, Papa? The farmer said that we cannot enter through the pass. Did you know about that?’

  ‘I did not. But I doubt this applies to the nobility. It must be that the closure is only intended to prevent revolutionaries from entering Montuga.’ The Marquis avoided direct eye contact.

  ‘And you are king Julien’s friend. That will help too, will it not Papa? If you mention it to the guards at the border?’

  ‘Of course it will,’ the Marquis replied with as much conviction as he could muster. ‘By the way,’ he added, changing the subject. ‘That was quite a performance. It seems that your father is not the only aspiring thespian in the family.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ the boy replied with a bewildered expression. He stared at the Marquis blankly for a few moments before his face broke into a grin.

  A few hours later, the Marquis awoke with a start and sat upright. Philippe was tugging at this shirt.

  ‘It’s only me,’ the boy whispered.

  ‘All quiet?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Now get some sleep. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.’ With that the Marquis rose, stretched and left the shed. He found a suitable slightly elevated vantage point near the side of the darkened farmhouse. The building was virtually invisible in the blackness. It was a windless evening which ensured that he would hear anything that moved. The Marquis hoped that the cool night air would prevent him from drifting off. It did not. He awoke with a jolt to the sound of rustling in the bushes somewhere behind him. He reached for his dagger. He could feel his heart thumping furiously. He relaxed a little as realised that the source of the noise was most likely an animal. His relief was short lived as a large shape approached out of the gloom. It was either a wolf or a large dog. The animal approached cautiously. Its posture was not aggressive, however. A soft whimper confirmed this.

  ‘Come,’ whispered the Marquis in his certainty that it was a dog. It approached cautiously until it was close enough for the Marquis to reach out towards it. He permitted the dog to smell his hand. After doing so the dog licked it and sat down next to the M
arquis. As he patted the dog, the Marquis wistfully reflected on his own dogs, which they had been compelled to leave behind in Lyon in their rush to escape their republican attackers. The aching sadness which had become a constant feature of most of his waking hours over the past fortnight returned with a vengeance as his thoughts inevitably turned to his wife and his younger son, both of whom had perished during the attack on their Chateau.