Two Crowns for America, Page 7

  His utter absorption in his task invited no interruption. As Justin watched in fascination, afraid that any word or movement might break the spell, the man wrote several pages this way, glancing easily from one to the other as his hands moved independently to dip into the ink when required and then resume their separate reckonings, occasionally setting a page aside to draw fresh paper into place.

  Finally, when the graceful hands moved at last in a flamboyant signature at the bottom of two pages simultaneously, Justin looked slightly away, hoping to convey the impression that he had not been staring. His companion affected not to have noticed, but that only tended to confirm Justin’s suspicion that very little passed unobserved in the other’s presence.

  “You will receive your own instructions in the morning, along with other documents already prepared,” the Master said, addressing Justin as he applied blotting paper to his work. “You will stay the night here and start back for France tomorrow. The Prince de Rohanstuart will be found at his father’s estate in Brittany. You will give him Dr. Ramsay’s letter. I believe you will find him a congenial traveling companion.”

  “Sir, may I ask a question?” Justin made bold to ask.

  “Of course.”

  “Has James Ramsay’s action harmed our cause?”

  Justin’s host smiled enigmatically and half rose to tug at a heavy damask bellpull before subsiding into his chair again.

  “I would rather he had not done what he has done, but it can be made to work for us rather than against. I had already determined to send Lucien to the New World on another mission. It will do no harm for him to make a brief visit to Dr. Ramsay and his impatient Bostonians, if that will reassure them that progress is being made. The prince knows what he is to do and say, and you will take him additional instructions when you go to him. Meanwhile, this demonstration of royal interest and support should keep the good Ramsay and his impetuous friends from going off further in directions that might prove truly detrimental to our cause.”

  “But—is our cause not that of restoring His Majesty to his throne?” Justin countered.

  “We have been working toward that goal,” the Master conceded. “However, as you must know, many different factors and factions are at work in the New World. The Master Plan provides for several outcomes that may prove acceptable. This Tracing Board is a complex one. Though many things have been revealed to me, much remains to be understood as other factors take their turn. My work elsewhere does not permit me to devote my full energies to the American colonies just now, but please assure the Chevalier that I shall be available when he has need of me. In all things, we shall meet upon the level and part upon the square. Do you understand?”

  “I—believe so, sir.”

  The other cocked his head at Justin wistfully, and the younger man had the sudden impression that he was being scrutinized with far more than mere vision.

  “Yes, I believe you do,” the Master finally said quietly, “—or will, as you progress in the Work. Yours is a young soul, but you stand well prepared to pass the next threshold. Are you aware of that?”

  Suddenly speechless, Justin could only manage a quick nod, for he had both longed and feared to hear those words. And to hear them from the Master’s lips …

  “I have known what you are feeling now,” the Master said quietly, turning his attention back to the letters on the desk before him and starting to fold one. “ ’Tis both heady and frightening, to be told such a thing. However, I am confident that you will prove—”

  A knock at the door cut him off in midsentence, and he smiled as he glanced at Justin and called, “Kommen Sie.”

  It was the butler, carrying a small lighted oil lamp, which he brought to the little writing table, bowing as he set it down.

  “Danke schön, Rheinhardt,” the Master murmured, continuing his folding. “You anticipate me, comme d’habitude. I am well served.”

  “Thank you, mein Herr. Will you require anything else?”

  “Not at this time, no—except to bring tea to the morning room in about half an hour. Can that be arranged? I should like Mr. Carmichael to meet someone.”

  The butler bowed again. “I understand, mein Herr.”

  “Oh, and Mr. Carmichael will be staying the night, so his baggage will need to be collected. I assume you do have baggage, Mr. Carmichael?”

  “Yes, sir, at the Drei Könige,” Justin replied, a little taken aback. “One trunk.”

  “You travel light,” the Master said with a smile, and followed the observation with a rapid-fire instruction in German, of which Justin caught only the words for “horse” and “please.”

  As the butler left the room and closed the door behind him once more, the Master glanced at Justin bemusedly and gestured for him to come closer as he continued folding paper.

  “I have told Rheinhardt to have your horse taken back to the inn when he has the trunk collected,” he said easily. “He will arrange for a carriage for you in the morning. Meanwhile, we shall reseal the letter from Ramsay. I have informed Lucien that I read it. These that I have just written are for him and for Andrew and Simon, expanding upon instructions already prepared. You will receive those in the morning. Please be so good as to light that sealing wax for me.”

  Next to the lamp the butler had brought, a silver wax jack held a coil of bright vermilion like a tiny, captive snake. A little nervously, Justin moved around to the other side of the writing desk to obey, carefully removing the lamp’s glass chimney and then lighting the wick of the sealing wax.

  While the wax began to melt, the Master produced a gold pocket watch and detached a jet fob from the chain. Diamonds glittered on the fine, graceful hands as he used the fob to imprint a seal in the wax Justin poured onto the overlap of each of the three letters in turn. Justin was not able to make out details of the seal, but he caught a glimpse of the signature on the second letter, just before the man who called himself Francis pressed its folds flat and sealed it.

  It was the name Justin had been expecting, but he had hardly dared to let himself believe it. Francis was the Christian name that Andrew said the writer had borne through several lifetimes, linked with other names like Tudor, Bacon, and Rakoczy.

  But the name he had signed on the letters he had just written—and by which Andrew and Simon sometimes referred to him when not simply as the Master—was the Comte de Saint-Germain.

  Chapter Five

  Saint-Germain was not the only illustrious personage whose acquaintance Justin Carmichael was to make on that August afternoon. After the Master had addressed the letters just sealed, he handed them into Justin’s keeping and then invited the younger man to accompany him to the morning room.

  “As you no doubt have surmised, I am merely a guest in Prince Karl’s house while he is away. But there is a far more important guest temporarily in residence. I should like to make you known to him. I believe you and your family have served him for some years.”

  The Master could be referring to only one man. Justin faltered in midstride as that realization registered, but Saint-Germain was already opening the door to the morning room, stepping aside in the open doorway, gesturing for Justin to precede him.

  Across the room, silhouetted against the late-afternoon light that filtered through a curtained window, an unassuming-looking older man in a powdered wig looked up from a writing desk piled high with books and papers. His coat was a quiet dove-gray, well cut but without embellishment save for silver buttons and some kind of decoration glinting on his left breast. A pale blue riband crossed his ample chest from left to right, a handsbreadth wide, just visible through the opening of his coat. His linen and smallclothes were as snowy white as Saint-Germain’s. He wore wire-rimmed spectacles perched on his nose, but he removed these and laid aside a pen as he glanced at Saint-Germain in question.

  “Majesté,” said Saint-Germain, with a slight inclination of his noble head, “I have the honor to present Mr. Justin Frederick Carmichael, one of your loyal supporter
s from the American colonies. Mr. Carmichael, His Majesty Charles III, de jure King of England and Scotland. Justin is the young man we sent for, Charles. He has come to escort Lucien back to Boston.”

  Justin’s astonishment actually to be entering the presence of Charles Edward Stuart quite overcame his shock that Saint-Germain should presume to address the King by his Christian name. He had heard it said by detractors that the King had grown fat and dissipated in exile, addicted to strong drink; but the man who now smiled and gestured for Justin to approach, though grown old and tired in the pursuit of his rightful crown, yet retained an ample measure of the grace and charisma that had drawn men to follow him thirty years before. Perhaps it was the kindness of the light that melted away some of the years and their disappointments, but for Justin, approaching with awe to drop to one knee and kiss the offered hand, his prince had suffered little in the intervening years.

  “How good you are to honor an old man, Mr. Carmichael,” the King said. His English was fluent, if faintly accented. “Carmichael, Carmichael … The Chevalier Wallace speaks very highly of you. I believe you are related in some fashion?”

  Justin bowed his head, overwhelmed with emotion. “My sister is married to his son, M-majesty.”

  “Ah, then, he is something of a father-in-law, is he not? I make a hobby of studying these obscure family connections.”

  As an amused chuckle escaped the royal lips, Justin dared to lift his head. “I—believe Your Majesty may have discovered a name for the relationship,” he murmured in amazement. “It has always seemed to me that there should be one.”

  The King pushed his chair a little from his table and leaned back in it, gesturing for Justin to get to his feet.

  “You should make a close examination of my family tree sometime, young sir. ’Tis full of second cousins twice removed and half siblings and God knows what all else.” He paused a beat in recollection. “A Mary Carmichael served my ancestress, Mary Queen of Scots—one of the four Maries who accompanied the young Queen to France, on her marriage to Prince Louis. Is it possible that you are related?”

  “I am, sir,” Justin said. “My direct ancestor was a brother to that Mary Carmichael.”

  “Ah, then, the link of service to my House was made long ago,” the King replied. “And you are here to carry on that tradition. I thank you.”

  “It is my honor, sir,” Justin murmured, making him the bow he had meant to make before he had fallen to his knees.

  “But, sit down, Mr. Carmichael. Please, sit, and tell me about America. Rheinhardt is to bring us some lovely tea, even though Francis will never drink any of it with me. Perhaps you will see to it, Francis?”

  This time Justin was taken aback that the King should call Saint-Germain by his Christian name—though the Master himself had told Justin to do so. Even more to his surprise, Saint-Germain made the King a dutiful little bow, if with an indulgent smile on his lips, and went to supervise the tray Rheinhardt was just bringing into the room. The King, however, motioned Justin to come see what was on his writing desk.

  “I follow the events in America with great interest, Mr. Carmichael,” he was saying, putting his spectacles back on and smoothing the page on which he had been writing. “You see? Here I have been extracting an account of the Battle of Lexington from this Salem newspaper. One of my agents delivered it only a few days ago.”

  He indicated the paper from which he had been copying, then turned back several pages in the journal to point out an earlier entry, all of it penned in a fine italic hand.

  “Here is another one, from the New York Gazette—a fairly reliable publication, I am told. This one describes the capture in May of a fort called—Ti-con—Ticonderoga, is it?” He stumbled a little over the unfamiliar name and looked to Justin for confirmation. “I believe it is an Indian name.”

  “It is, sir,” Justin replied.

  “I thought as much. Fascinating creatures, your Red Indians. And here is news of another American victory, at a place called Crown Point.”

  His gesture not only invited but almost commanded Justin’s closer perusal of the pages. The younger man turned them in wonder as the King continued to recount details that only a colonist should be expected to know well. Page after page had been filled with the inimitable italic script—and there were maps as well, sprawling layers of them, spread on another table nearer the window.

  “You see? I have these of Mexico and the West Indies, so I may follow the overall naval strategies,” the King said, plucking at Justin’s sleeve and urging him to look. “These of New York and Philadelphia and Williamsburg are useful as well. And I understand that a great deal is happening in Philadelphia.”

  “It is, indeed, Sire,” Justin managed to murmur. “The Continental Congress meets there.”

  “The Continental Congress.” The King savored each syllable of the name. “They are like a—a parliament for the colonies?”

  “After a fashion,” Justin agreed. “Each colony sends delegates to represent it. Late in June they adopted the Massachusetts militia units surrounding Boston and commissioned General George Washington as Commander in Chief of a new Continental Army. I was there. He arrived in Cambridge a few days before I left, to take up his command.”

  “Ah, Cambridge—Boston,” the King replied, pulling out another map. “I have a very good map of Boston—perhaps the best of all. But tell me of your General Washington, and what he plans to do there.”

  Concerning Washington, Justin could relate only what he had picked up from Simon, for his own exposure to the General was limited to admiration from afar. But over bowls of tea that Saint-Germain presented, he conveyed the more recent news of Breed’s Hill to the King. He had no firsthand knowledge of that battle, for he had been in Philadelphia with Simon and Andrew, but he had talked to dozens of people who had.

  Talk of Breed’s Hill led inevitably to discussion of specific American losses, with news of the death of Joseph Warren eliciting particular consternation—for the King, though he kept a neutral public face concerning the Craft, was an avid student of Freemasonry and knew of Warren’s standing in the Craft. At his obvious distress—and Saint-Germain’s warning glance—Justin abandoned any thought of mentioning the visitation Andrew had received from Warren the night after the battle, but he did assure the King of Washington’s intention to find the body of the slain patriot leader, once they drove the British from Breed’s Hill, and eventually give him a proper Masonic funeral.

  “The Grand Master of Massachusetts,” the King whispered when Justin had finished, tears welling in the brown eyes. “We are none of us immune, are we? And many more brethren will fall before this conflict is resolved—just as they did thirty years ago.”

  “Charles, don’t,” Saint-Germain said quietly from his chair across the room. “You cannot change the past.”

  The King braced his shoulders and raised his head, seeming to gather his dignity around him with the breath he inhaled.

  “I know. You are right. But this time the outcome will be different, God willing. ’Tis a different land, but the basic cause remains the same: a just struggle against an illegitimate monarch. The Elector of Hanover must not be allowed to perpetuate his error in the New World as well as the Old.”

  “He shall not, Sire!” Justin said eagerly. “The offer you received from James Ramsay and his associates may have been premature, but it reflects the dreams of all of us who work in your behalf. God grant that the day soon will come when Charlie may, indeed, come into his own again!”

  The last alluded to a line from a ballad popular immediately after the Forty-Five, and Justin pronounced the name in the Highland manner, “Tearlach,” which non-Gaelic speakers had anglicized to “Charlie.” Recoiling almost as if from a blow, Charles Edward Stuart bowed his head, suddenly an old and weary man once more.

  “Pray, do not feed my hopes and dreams on ancient fantasies, my dear young friend,” he whispered. “Believe that I treasure your loyalty, and that of dozens like
you, but I am well aware of the obstacles to be overcome. It may well be that a crown shall come to me before I die—and I yet have hope of an heir—but I begin to fear that time is running out for me.” Again he drew a deep, steadying breath, lifting his head so that, in the failing light, Justin caught yet another glimpse of the dashing prince of thirty years before.

  “Meanwhile, your struggle is here and now, young sir, and Francis tells me that those who have served me in the past can serve me now by serving the cause aborning in the New World.” He rose and dug deep into a pocket in the tail of his coat to extract a small leather-bound jeweler’s box.

  “This is for the Chevalier Wallace,” he said, handing it to Justin, who also had stood. “Many years ago, as a mark of my gratitude for his service and friendship, I gave him the Order of the Thistle. It is the premier Scottish Order, but I think that this may be far more useful to him. Go ahead. Have a look. It replaces one he gave me at Culloden. Francis suggested that I have it made.”

  After glancing at Saint-Germain for confirmation, and fumbling at the catch on the box, Justin eased it open.

  “Careful, don’t drop it!” the King said. “It’s Venetian glass.”

  It was, indeed, Venetian glass—the finest glass eye that Justin had ever seen. Had he not been warned that it was not flesh, he might have mistaken it for a real eye nestled in the wool that padded the inside of the box. As it was, he turned it to the light in wonder, not even looking up as Saint-Germain peered over his shoulder.