Part 2 (2/2)

Had he thrown away his only chance of leaving this dungeon alive? Hard to say. Durand was a s.h.i.+fty devil and he might have collected a ransom and not freed his captive. Or returned Grey's dead body to England.

But Durand had been right to sneer. Grey had been wallowing in self-pity and despair, allowing himself to become weak in body and spirit. If he'd been in better shape, he might have been able to break Durand's neck. He'd never have escaped the castle, but it would have been satisfying to kill the mocking b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

He'd lost track of time. Three months, Durand had said. He felt as if he'd been here that many years, but from the length of his beard, three months sounded about right. It was summer, probably sometime in August. His twenty-first birthday had just pa.s.sed.

If he had been home in England, his parents would have thrown a great celebration at the family seat, inviting aristocratic friends as well as all the Costain dependents. Grey would have enjoyed it enormously.

Instead, they were mourning his disappearance and likely death. He loved his family, but he'd always taken them for granted even though one couldn't have asked for better parents. He was deeply fond of his younger brother and sister, who looked up to him. He'd failed them all. The only thing he could take pride in was discouraging Durand's ransom demand.

Grey would not-could not-continue in this spineless fas.h.i.+on. First, he must begin an exercise regimen to rebuild his strength.

He studied his cell as he thought about what was possible in the s.p.a.ce. He could run in place to build his endurance. Stiffly he began, imagining places he'd been and sights he'd seen so he could mentally leave these ugly walls.

He ran until he had a st.i.tch in his side, then dropped to the floor and pushed himself up with just his arms. Once that would have been easy. Now he could only manage to push himself up half a dozen times before he collapsed, gasping.

Another way to build muscles was by lifting the two stones that served as chair and table. He bent to lift the smaller one. It was heavier than expected. He barely managed to raise it six inches before losing his hold. It crashed to the floor and a chip spun away from the lower edge.

Panting from his exertion, he vowed that he'd lift that d.a.m.ned stone over and over until he was strong enough to carry it around his cell. Then he would tackle the larger block that served as his table.

He could and would exercise every day. What else had he to do?

Perhaps even more important, he must rebuild his mind. He'd always been lazy in his cla.s.ses, able to get by with little work and the help of an excellent memory. Lady Agnes had seen to it that he learned at the Westerfield Academy, but his years at Oxford had been fairly useless. He'd attended Christchurch College, where gentlemen's sons like him dabbled in cla.s.ses between social amus.e.m.e.nts. Kirkland and Ashton, characteristically, attended Balliol, the college a.s.sociated with sheer brilliance.

He considered the memorizations required by different masters. How much of Caesar's Gallic Commentaries could he quote in Latin?

”Gallia est omnis divisa in partes tres.” All Gaul was divided into three parts. He knew the Latin and English, and now he translated the pa.s.sage into French. Since his voice also was weak from lack of use, he spoke the pa.s.sage aloud as he exercised until he was too tired to do more.

Shakespeare. He'd studied the Bard and also performed in plays at the homes of friends. Always he was chosen as one of the leads and he learned his speeches easily. ”Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day ...”

No, not Macbeth, not here and now. What did he remember from Twelfth Night? Yes, that was a much better choice. ”If music be the food of love, play on; Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting; The appet.i.te might sicken, and so die.” He liked to sing and had a decent voice, so he could sing as much as he wanted to. Good for the soul and for maintaining his ability to speak.

He must keep track of time, no longer letting the days slide by mindlessly. When he'd dropped the chair stone, a small piece had chipped off. He would designate today as August 15, 1803. Using the stone chip, he scratched that on a head-high stone near the door. Every day would be marked off with a scratch.

He could hear church bells from the village. Careful listening would tell him what days were Sundays, and he should be able to determine major holidays.

From now on, his life would have purpose. He might never have a chance to free himself. But if an opportunity was presented, no matter how small, he'd be ready.

Gradually, Grey's weakened body began to strengthen. So did his mind. He was amazed at how much he remembered of his lessons. He'd always enjoyed reading, so each day he chose a book from his mental library and recalled as much of it as possible.

He didn't talk aloud to himself because doing so made him feel too close to the madmen he'd seen when one of his more rattle-pated friends had taken him to Bedlam Hospital. The friend thought watching deranged patients amusing. Grey had found it deeply disquieting. The memory of those tormented souls haunted him still, especially on those days when he wondered if he was descending into madness.

But an unexpected blessing appeared not long after Durand's visit. Though he didn't talk aloud, he had no compunctions about singing. Every day he sang several songs, and he enjoyed both the music and the way his voice was returning to normal after three months of disuse.

He'd just finished a rousing rendition of an English drinking song when a young female voice whispered in French from the slit window above, ”Bonjour, monsieur. Is it true that you are an English milord?”

Grey leaped to his feet in excitement. Another human! And a female at that. ”I was once, mamselle, but now I am a prisoner, of no importance.”

The girl giggled. ”A real milord! I've never met a G.o.ddam. How did you come to be here?”

”I misbehaved,” he said solemnly. She giggled again and they had a brief conversation through the window, which was a foot or so above ground level. She was a castle maid and called herself Nicolette, though he suspected it wasn't her real name.

She couldn't stay long because the housekeeper was a dragon and Nicolette feared for her position if she was caught. But after that she visited once or twice a week, often with one of her friends.

Some of the girls were deliciously scandalized at the chance to talk to an imprisoned English milord. Nicolette was a kind girl with some interest in Grey as an individual. Occasionally she dropped an apple or other fruit between the bars. He devoured her offerings, amazed that he'd ever taken apples for granted.

Nicolette told him of her sweetheart and bid him a fond farewell when she left the castle to marry. He gave her his blessing, for he had nothing else to give.

None of the other maids visited as much, but he still had occasional visitors. For a time there was a boisterous young ostler from the stables who taught Grey highly obscene French drinking songs until the man was fired for drunkenness.

Grey treasured those moments of normality. They helped keep him sane.

Chapter 7.

France, 1813 Madame Leroux was right, and Ca.s.sie did a brisk business at the small market in the village square. She rather enjoyed being a peddler. Since she didn't depend on selling to support herself, she could be flexible on prices. It was a pleasure to be able to sell a pretty ribbon to a girl who had never owned anything pretty.

The thieves' oil was popular, too. With winter illnesses rampant, buyers would try anything that might help. Customers were also interested in news, as isolated villagers always were. Yes, the news from Russia was bad, but the emperor had escaped safely, and wouldn't this length of lace look lovely on your daughter's wedding dress?

By noon there were no more customers, so it was time for the castle. Ca.s.sie ate a bowl of thick bean soup at La Liberte, thanked Madame Leroux for her help, and left St. Just du Sarthe. Instead of heading for the next village, she drove up to the castle. The narrow road was bleak and windy, and the castle was equally bleak when she reached it.

The castle proper was surrounded by a looming wall that had never been mined for stone. The ma.s.sive gates stood open so people and vehicles could come and go easily, but the gates looked as if they could still be closed in an emergency.

She drove through the gates unchallenged. The walls cut the bitter wind once she was inside. Not seeing anyone, she drove around to the back of the castle and left pony and cart within the shelter of the mostly empty stables. Then she slung her peddler's bag over one shoulder and went hunting for the entrance to the servants' area.

After two locked doors, she found one that opened under her hand into a short pa.s.sage leading into the castle kitchen. The long room was warm and there were pleasant smells, but there was no one in sight. Ca.s.sie called, ”Hallooo! Is anyone here?”

A hoa.r.s.e woman's voice replied, ”What do you want?”

A heavy-set woman pulled herself from a wooden chair by the fire and limped toward Ca.s.sie. Her round face looked designed for smiles, but she was wrapped in shawls and coughed every few steps.

”I'm Madame Renard, a peddler, and I see that you're a candidate for some of my throat lozenges. Here, a sample.” Ca.s.sie fished a packet of honey and lemon lozenges from her bag. They tasted good and did help soothe a cough.

”Don't mind if I do.” The woman removed a lozenge from the packet, then sank onto a bench. ”Merci. I'm the cook, Madame Bertin.”

”I was told most of the people here at the castle were ill.” Ca.s.sie glanced around the kitchen. A pot hung on the hob by a fire that had burned down to embers. ”You look like you could use some help. Shall I build up the fire for you?”

”I'd be most grateful,” the cook said. ”There's chicken broth in the pot there. Could you get me some?” She coughed wrenchingly. ”Everyone is sick in bed, can't even manage stairs. I've got hot food for anyone who wants it, but no one has made it this far and 'tisn't my job to wait on other servants.” More coughing.

”I hope no one is dangerously ill?” A ladle hung by the fire, so Ca.s.sie scooped warm broth into a porringer on a nearby table.

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