Two Crowns for America, Page 8

  “I shall be calling upon Andrew to do some delicate work for me in the next months,” the Master said. “It will be important that he not be recognized as himself. For a man whom everyone is accustomed to seeing with an eye patch—who makes a flamboyant fashion statement with the variety of his eye patches—seeming to have two good eyes will be a large part of changing others’ perception of him.”

  “It’s—incredibly lifelike,” Justin murmured. “I am—quite taken aback, I must confess.” He closed the box and made the King a bow, remembering his manners. “But I thank Your Majesty, on behalf of the Chevalier Wallace, who will value it far beyond its beauty and utility, for having come from his beloved prince.”

  The King smiled sadly. “Spoken like a true courtier, Mr. Carmichael. ’Tis a grisly reminder, I must admit. And I would far sooner have kept him his own eye at Culloden, if that had been within my power. But since it was not, I make this poor attempt at late amends. Tell the Chevalier—” The King broke off and had to swallow hard to keep back his emotion. “Tell the Chevalier that I value, and will always value, his loyalty and friendship, both then and now; and that I—hope I may see him again, wearing his new eye, before I die.”

  He buried his face in one hand at that, stifling a sob, and Saint-Germain, with a glance that warned Justin not to interfere, gently set his hands on the King’s shoulders and guided him to a soft high-backed chair.

  “Lie back and sleep, my prince,” the Master murmured, easing the silently weeping King into the chair and lightly beginning to stroke the furrowed brow, down the trembling shoulders. “Sleep and forget the sadness. Dream of better Times. Dors, mon cher Charles. Dors bien.…”

  As Justin watched in amazement, straining to catch Saint-Germain’s words, the King’s sobs gradually ceased and he slept. Saint-Germain stood over him silently for several minutes, hands now leaning on the chair arms to either side of him, staring fixedly at the closed eyes, then roused himself and turned to face Justin. The younger man found himself immobilized before that steady gaze, but he could not seem to conjure any fear.

  “Do you understand what you have just seen?” the Master asked quietly. “You may speak,” he added when Justin’s lips parted but no sound came out.

  Justin managed to swallow and found that he could speak.

  “I—have heard of such things from Simon, and from Andrew,” he said softly. “I had never seen it before, or—experienced it.”

  Saint-Germain smiled wearily. “You will recall that I said you were ready to cross the next threshold. I believe this may have been a preparation for that crossing. Not an official part, of course. But true Initiates know that a formal ceremony often but sets a seal on something that has already begun in the candidate. Simon or Andrew will explain it to you. In those sealed letters you carry I have requested that they raise you Master Mason as soon as possible. In terms of our Inner Fraternity, that means a great deal more than it does to the exoteric Lodge—but you shall see all of that, in due course.”

  He glanced at the King, still obliviously asleep in the chair, then returned his attention to Justin.

  “You will not speak of what you have seen in these last few minutes, even to Andrew and Simon. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” Justin whispered.

  “Good. I shall not require you to forget it, for you show good potential, and the knowledge may prove useful in the future, but you will not speak of it. In the outside world there are people enough who think Charles Edward Stuart a drunkard and—well, you cannot be unaware what many of them say. As you may have gathered, much of that image is a front to put off serious attention by his enemies. His interest in and understanding of the situation in the American colonies is prodigious.

  “But he is not a young man. Neither is his health what it might be. Unless the chances of his success are almost guaranteed, I cannot allow him to become involved in another attempt to take back his throne. That will be for his sons to do, or his sons’ sons.”

  “But—” Justin had to concentrate very hard to get the words out, for it was far easier just to drift in the cadence of the Master’s voice. “But he has no sons,” he managed to whisper. “Is the Queen—?”

  “No, the Queen is not with child,” Saint-Germain said quietly. “After three years of marriage, she has not conceived, and his apprehensions grow. I pray God it will not be necessary to put her aside, but he must have a legitimate heir. He has fathered children on several mistresses, and even a son, but the boy lived only six months. That was long ago. Only the Lady Charlotte survives.” He gave Justin a piercing glance. “Does it surprise you to hear me speak of him this way?”

  Justin’s mind seemed to be working far too slowly. All he could think was that he had not known that Charles Edward Stuart had once had a son.

  “No, sir,” he said carefully. “I had—gathered that you—were aware of many things to which others are not privy.”

  Saint-Germain chuckled with even a little real mirth. “I am impressed, Justin Carmichael. Even under my sway you have mind enough to be diplomatic. The skill should serve you well in the future.” He glanced again at the King, then set his arm around Justin’s shoulders and began walking him toward the door, also reaching into a pocket.

  “One further matter, before I have you seen to your rooms. Give me your hand.”

  As Justin obeyed, Saint-Germain pressed a small brown leather pouch into the proffered hand and closed his own around it. From the pouch dangled a long leather thong, which he looped around the younger man’s neck.

  “What now resides within your keeping is precious beyond any worldly riches,” he said quietly, pulling Justin slightly closer by the thong to gaze deeply into his eyes. “I require you to give it directly to Andrew and no other. After tonight, once you leave this house, you will carry it this way, but underneath your clothing. You will not remove it, even when you sleep; you will not look inside it; and you will die rather than allow it to be taken from you. Are my instructions clear?”

  It was all Justin could do to summon the will to nod.

  Saint-Germain breathed a tiny sigh as his hand tightened around Justin’s over the pouch, and he broke eye contact for just an instant.

  “Excellent. In truth, I would not normally entrust this to someone of your level of training, except that I have no other means for conveying it where it needs to be. This is not meant as any slight on your abilities or your trustworthiness, but merely states a fact. You have the potential to bear it safely one day, but your talent is yet untrained. If you disobey my orders, I cannot answer for the consequences. Do you understand?”

  Even without the power behind the soft, penetrating eyes, Justin would not have thought of arguing.

  “I understand,” he whispered.

  “Excellent.” Saint-Germain tucked the pouch inside Justin’s shirt, then tugged at a bellpull by the door. “You will go with Rheinhardt when he comes. He will show you to a room and bring you a light supper. After eating you will bathe and retire. You will sleep soundly through the night.

  “In the morning, after you have broken your fast, Rheinhardt will deliver additional letters into your keeping. One of them will be addressed to you, but you will not open it until you are on your way. A post chaise will collect you at nine o’clock precisely. The driver will be instructed to take you all the way to the prince’s estate at Kilvala, and to arrange for appropriate accommodations en route. Once you are under way, you will read the letter addressed to you, commit its instructions to memory, and destroy it. Do you understand?”

  Justin nodded drowsily. “Yes.”

  “Bon. You should reach Kilvala well within a fortnight. There Prince Lucien should be awaiting your arrival. I suggest that you rely upon his knowledge of local conditions in determining how best to proceed back to Boston. A French ship will probably be best, perhaps from Brest.”

  At the faint rap on the door, Saint-Germain opened it himself, guiding Justin easily into Rheinhardt’s hands. �
��Mr. Carmichael is very tired, Rheinhardt. He will wish to retire as soon as he has had a good supper and a bath. Please see to it.”

  “Sehr gut, mein Herr,” the butler said, with a bow and a click of his heels.

  “Good night, then, Mr. Carmichael,” the Master said. “I shall not see you in the morning, but I wish you a pleasant night and a safe journey. Au revoir.”

  Justin did not remember following Rheinhardt to the room prepared for him, or eating or bathing, but he awoke refreshed the next morning, quite confident of what was expected of him. He read his letter as soon as the post chaise had left the vicinity of Leipzig, easily assimilating its contents and then tearing it into tiny bits, which he scattered randomly all along the road south.

  It was not until midafternoon that he realized he had not once thought to ask Saint-Germain about Washington and his most unusual dream. Nor had Saint-Germain mentioned it, though Justin was sure Simon’s letter about it had been among those he’d delivered to the Master.

  He concluded that it must be none of his business, at least for now, and that Saint-Germain had answered what needed to be said in one of his letters to Simon or Andrew. In the ensuing fortnight, as the post chaise bounced along the miles across Germany and into France and Brittany, he put the American Commander in Chief largely out of mind and found himself daydreaming more than once about the glory of the Stuart cause, and the thought of a Stuart restoration in the New World.

  Chapter Six

  The carriage conveying Justin Carmichael to Kilvala crossed into Brittany during the first week in September, continuing westward past Rennes and gradually threading its way along increasingly narrower roads toward the coastal town of Roscoff.

  The journey itself was uneventful to the point of tedium. Justin had found the foreign scenery interesting at first, but the novelty soon began to pall in the continuing heat and the repetition of day upon day of dusty travel in the swaying post chaise. On the road from just past dawn until nearly dark each day, Justin spent a great deal of time reading or dozing—though today promised release from the monotony at last, for his driver had informed him this morning that, barring unforeseen mishap, they would reach Kilvala sometime that afternoon.

  He had been starting to anticipate their arrival since their stop to change horses at noon. As the post chaise rattled through a set of imposing gates to enter a tree-lined avenue, he closed the volume of Cavalier poetry that had occupied his last hour and leaned out the window to peer ahead, finally thumping on the roof of the coach with the hilt of his sword to get the driver’s attention.

  “Eh, monsieur, ici c’est Kilvala?” he shouted.

  “Oui, monsieur.”

  “Ah, c’est bon. Merci.”

  So. Kilvala at last. Justin had no idea how large the prince’s estate might be, but it looked to be passing prosperous. In the fields to the left, farmworkers were harvesting a fine crop of wheat. The dust from their labors hung on the still air in a golden haze, shimmering in the late-summer heat. In the fields to the right, new-mown hay lay drying in the sun, some of it already gathered into neat haystacks in preparation for winter.

  After a mile or so the carriage slowed to pass through a small village—probably where the estate workers lived, Justin guessed—then rattled across a fine stone and timber bridge. Ahead, the avenue ran straight as a string toward an impressive château, beautifully sited on a gentle hill. Its stone gleamed white and silver and starkly shadowed in the late-afternoon sun.

  A groom and a footman seemed to materialize out of nowhere as the post chaise pulled up before the broad front entrance, the former moving to the horses’ heads as the latter opened the carriage door and swung down the folding steps. The two were simply clad in breeches and shirts rather than livery, perhaps as concession to the heat, but they carried out their duties to the new arrival with precision and courtesy. The haughty-looking majordomo who appeared at the top of the stairs was in livery, and looked uncomfortable in it, but he became all deference as Justin disembarked from the post chaise and donned his hat with its white cockade.

  “Bonjour, seigneur, que désirez-vous?” the man said, making Justin a respectful bow.

  Justin favored the man with a polite nod, answering him in impeccable French.

  “Je m’appelle Justin Carmichael, de Boston. Je porte une lettre pour le Prince Lucien de Rohanstuart. Il est ici?”

  The man blinked. “Vous venez de Boston, monsieur? Suivez-moi, s’il vous plaît.”

  Justin followed, reflecting that the mention of Boston seemed to have provided his entrée, rather than any recognition of his name—not that anyone in the prince’s household necessarily would have known what name to expect. Whether the prince himself was actually at home remained to be seen. The majordomo had not answered that question; nor would Justin have expected him to.

  Another footman dutifully took his hat and sword just inside the front door, and Justin tugged at a cuff as he followed the majordomo through a stately entry hall toward a carved and gilded door. The room beyond proved to be a large and very ornate baroque drawing room, all cream and crystal and gilt, with large and airy windows looking out onto a vast formal lawn and garden that eventually gave onto a breathtaking view of the sea.

  “S’il vous plaît, monsieur, restez ici,” the majordomo said, ushering Justin in and then closing the door behind him.

  Justin moved on into the center of the room and cast his gaze around it. His first impression was one of opulence, with pale silk hangings on the walls and cut-crystal chandeliers suspended from the ceiling bosses; but closer inspection suggested that the room had been rather more grand some years before. Most of the furnishings were of good quality, undoubtedly quite costly when new, and some of the paintings and gilt-framed mirrors and candle sconces were as fine as Justin had seen anywhere.

  But the furniture was sparse, and several empty spaces on the walls betokened paintings removed, probably for conversion to needed cash. In short, it appeared that the fortunes of the present occupants of the house had been affected just as adversely as those of other formerly well-off supporters of the Stuart cause, who had stood by their liege at Culloden and elsewhere.

  Turning away from his perusal of the room, Justin strolled over to the windows overlooking the gardens, his tread silent on a silk carpet adorning the polished wooden floor. Off to the right, on a grassy parterre, two men dressed all in white were engaged in a spirited passage des armes presided over by a third white-clad man, perhaps a fencing master. Justin watched them for a moment or two, nodding approval at the apparent skill of both combatants, then returned his attention to the room, wandering over to a baroque bookcase set into the wall nearer the door.

  He had not expected to find the variety of books he had seen on Saint-Germain’s desk, so he was not disappointed. The volumes appeared to be primarily French and Italian, mainly of a pious religious nature, but a few titles in English caught his eye—some Shakespeare and Marlowe, Spenser’s Faerie Queen, Tom Jones, and even a rather dog-eared copy of one of Dr. Franklin’s famous almanacs.

  This time, however, he did not make the mistake of picking up any of the books, contenting himself with merely scanning the titles on the spines. Consequently, he had only to turn as the door into the drawing room opened and a tallish white-clad man entered, wiping his face and neck with a linen towel draped over one shoulder.

  He appeared to be one of the fencers Justin had been watching out on the lawn, perhaps as old as thirty, with a gingery mustache, a mane of sweat-darkened hair tied back with a black silk ribbon, and his immaculate white shirt open at the throat. He was not classically handsome, but the brown eyes were lively, the jawline strong and symmetrical. His well-proportioned body moved with the grace one might expect of either of the men Justin had seen fencing. The man smiled as he spotted Justin, heading toward him with right hand extended.

  “My dear Mr. Carmichael,” he said, in slightly accented English, giving Justin a firm handshake. “Joinville tells me
that you have come from Boston, and that you have a letter for me.”

  At once Justin found himself ever so slightly on guard, for though the man seemed to be presenting himself as Prince Lucien, Justin had not expected so informal a first encounter. He also was remembering Saint-Germain’s instructions regarding caution.

  “I have business with the Prince Lucien de Rohanstuart, sir,” he said carefully. “Are you that gentleman?”

  The man laughed aloud and wiped his face again with his towel. “I assure you that I am, sir,” he said, glancing wistfully at the gold signet ring on his left little finger, “though I cannot fault you for wondering, the way I am dressed. You have found me at my exercice d’escrime—my swordplay. Perhaps I should have donned more formal attire before I came to you.

  “But I can tell you that the letter you bear will have come from the Bostonian Party, and I will guess that they have sent you as my escort back to Boston, where I am to speak to them on behalf of my royal cousin, Charles Edward Stuart.”

  All but convinced, Justin gave the man a formal inclination of his head. “You reassure me, sir,” he said with an answering smile as he reached into his coat pocket. “In fact, I bear three letters. Two are from—the Chevalier Weldon.”

  Justin had substituted one of the Master’s aliases at the last instant, as a final test that the man was who he said he was. The brown eyes widened slightly above the ruffled white shirt, but the aristocratic lips only repeated the name. “The Chevalier Weldon. Ah.”

  “Who is?” Justin insisted.

  “Why, the Comte de Saint-Germain, of course.”

  Without further hesitation Justin took out the letters and handed them to the prince.

  “You will find that Saint-Germain has resealed the letter from Boston,” Justin pointed out as the prince examined the seals on all three letters and glanced at him curiously. “I was sent first to him, after my superiors learned of the offer made to the King last winter. I take it that you are familiar with the background of the situation?”