Page 17 of A Night of Secret Surrender
‘It is safe for a while—’
He interrupted her.
‘Who were they? Those who took me?’
‘Les Chevaliers. They report directly to the more shadowy members of Napoleon’s staff.’
‘The knights? And you are a part of that?’
When she did not answer he tried to sit up, holding his head in his hands as he came to his knees.
‘The bearded man in the dungeon...?’
‘Guy Bernard. He was my husband.’
Shay was breathing fast and she could feel his warmth from where she stood, a good three feet away. She even liked the shock on his face when he was not quick enough to hide it. The sickness, she supposed, since she could not imagine a man like Major Shayborne showing her anything that he did not wish her to see.
‘I married him after Papa died because Paris is a dangerous place to be alone.’
‘And he kept you safe?’
‘For a while.’
‘And then...’
‘You saw what he was like.’
‘Hell.’ The word was sharp and angry.
‘I made a mistake with the Dubois family and it was a warning.’
‘Iniquity in the den of thieves?’
She frowned because he did not mince his words or cover the horror of it with easy excuses. She remembered that about him from before, the honesty and the humour.
‘James McPherson said there was a rumour that it was the English who killed your father.’
‘He was wrong. Papa ran foul of a faction of Frenchmen who did not wish for the Emperor to rule at all. He was fervent about the hope of victory, you see, so fervent he became careless.’
‘And you paid the price for it? McPherson named you as the White Dove. An agent who was kind enough to bring him succour when he was laid low last winter.’
She held up her left hand, the ring on her third finger glinting in the light. ‘The myths of war are things that sustain those who might otherwise suffer doubt. Surely you of all people should know the nonsense of that?’
* * *
Her words had him turning away. His friend Guillermo Garcia was dead. Lying face down in the grove of the dwarf oaks on the ridge outside Idanha a Nova where they had been caught unawares by French dragoons in the grey drizzle of an early May morning.
It was sheer bad luck that the French patrol had come around the corner just as he and Guille had broken through the cordon. His own insistence on wearing uniform had saved him from instant death, but the partisan clothes of his friend had had the opposite result.
The myths of war that sustain those who might otherwise suffer doubt.
Celeste’s words were dragged from the depths of truth. He remembered the dragoon lifting Guillermo’s head and cutting his neck open with a single brutal slice.
With only a similar small mistake he’d be in the hands of the French again, facing the very same punishment, and no myths could save him here in the beating heart of the Empire.
‘You still wear your wedding ring?’
‘It adds protection. Why would I not?’
