Leopard in Exile (14 page)

her clothing put together, and fit her hands with sumptuous sleekness.

She picked up her reticule and hesitated. The small bag would be easy for a thief to steal, and she could

afford to lose neither the letter nor the money. At last, thinking hard, she wrapped the gold coins that

represented all her wealth in one of Louis' handkerchiefs—to muffle them—before tucking money and

letter into the bag. Lifting her skirt, she tied the ridicule's strings carefully to the waistband of her

petticoats, so that the pouch hung down among her skirts.

She could delay no longer. Meriel opened the door and walked from the room.

She was no longer the sheltered girl who had fled her uncle's plots as she would flee the pains of Hell.

With the confidence of much practice she made her way to the Harbormaster's office, and there secured

the direction of the fastest England-bound ship.

A few minutes later, Meriel stood at the foot of the gangplank of the
Jahrtausendfeier Falke
and asked

to see Captain Pendray. Pendray was a Cornish name, and when he appeared on deck, Meriel took the

chance of addressing him in that language.

"
Durdatha why! Fatla genough why
?" Good morning! How are you?

"
Ea, ma Yehes genam
," Captain Pendray said. "I am well. So you are a countrywoman!" His

green-hazel eyes were startlingly pale in his deep-tanned face, and he regarded her with friendly

watchfulness. "You're a long way from home,
Madama wheg
. Are you in trouble?"

The truth was that she was, but Meriel did not want to say so openly. "May I come aboard?" she asked

instead.

Pendray conducted her to his cabin and poured her a glass of wine from a decanter on the sideboard.

The cabin, tucked under the stern, was as well-fitted as if it had been carved to be a giant's jewel box,

and through the open door of the cabin, Meriel could hear the sounds and shouts of the men on deck.

"You're a trusting missy, 'tis truth," the captain said. "To come below deck with a rough seafarer such as

I."

Meriel regarded him steadily. "I am desperate," she said simply. "The Harbormaster said that your ship

sails regularly to England, and that she is fast."

"None faster," Pendray said proudly. "When the tide goes out today, I go with her, and we'll see Bristol

in five weeks—but I'll not involve the
Falke
in any shady doings."

"All I ask is that you carry a letter for me to the Duchess of Wessex, in England. I have written her

direction upon it—her house lies in Wiltshire. She is a friend of mine."

Pendray regarded her skeptically. Meriel knew what he was thinking. Though she was respectably

dressed, she did not look like the sort of person whom Duchesses befriended.

"It is urgent that my message reaches her. I will pay you to carry it, and as much more as will hire a

messenger to bring it to the Duchess."

"And what will keep me from taking your money and tossing your letter over the side as soon as I've

hauled anchor?" Pendray said playfully.

"Your honor," Meriel answered. "
Onen hag Oll. "

"One and all." It was Cornwall's motto, and no more than the simple truth.,

Captain Pendray's face went slowly red. He turned away quickly to cover his contrition. "Aye, missy.

You'll forgive an old sailor for speaking up so freshly to a Cornishwoman. There's them among us that

still remembers what it was to fight for Trelawny."

"I know," Meriel said. Decades and even centuries could not blunt the memory of that great rising, when

forty thousand Cornishmen had marched against the King to save one of their own. That honor was in

their blood, as much as was the wild music of the ocean upon the rocks.

"Give me your letter and I will see it safe," he said roughly.

"You will have to turn your back," Meriel said with relief. When he had done as she had asked she got to

her feet and fumbled beneath her skirts until she had freed the ridicule. She opened it and placed the

letter upon the table.

"I will give you ten guineas if—"

"Nay!" The captain's voice was harsh. "I will do it for the love of hearing the Old Tongue spoken again.

Give me two guineas to pay the messenger at land's end, and I vow your Duchess will have your letter

not six weeks from today."

Though in fact she was no better off than she had been, Meriel left the
Jahrtausendfeier Falke
in better

spirits than she had been since Louis disappeared. She was a victim of powerful forces far beyond her

control, but she would not be a pawn.

Sarah blinked, coming back to herself as she gazed at the letter. The room was dim, the last rays of the

setting sun shining through the line of trees to the west.

Meriel's words had been written weeks and miles away—what had happened to her in all the long days it

had taken her letter to reach Mooncoign? She might be dead already—or Louis might be—or both of

them…

No. Think, Sarah! Wessex would know the thing most likely to have happened in Baltimore, but he

is not here, the disobliging man. And Meriel's case cannot wait until he is: were I in Bristol at this

very moment, it would be six weeks to America. Three months since Meriel wrote by the time I

reached her…!

Sarah got to her feet and began to pace restlessly, trying to imagine what had happened. Louis was too

careful to have fallen prey to the footpads or press gangs which were an inevitable feature of port cities,

so she dismissed that possibility at once. So he had to have been taken by someone who knew who he

was, for plain Mr. Capet would be of no use to anyone's plots.

But who?

Sarah made a hissing sound of exasperation between her teeth. She could guess until she was sick with it

and be no closer to the truth! She turned back to the writing-table, and hesitated as a realization struck

her.

You can reach Meriel yourself as fast as a letter could. And in
this
Baltimore, the wishes of the

Duchess of Wessex will carry far more weight than those of plain Sarah Cunningham in your own
.

Yes. She would leave a letter for Wessex, but she would start for Baltimore this very night.

Less man two days later, Sarah stood upon the deck of the
Triskelion
, watching the Bristol wharf

dwindle behind her. The
Triskelion
carried the Royal Mail, and passage aboard her was dearly bought,

but with a following wind, she might reach Boston in as little as four weeks. Sarah's trunks contained a

large quantity of coin, and such items of clothing as would allow her to make a grand show, in case

someone might need to be overawed by the apparition of an English Duchess under full sail. She would

travel alone, for the matter was too dangerous to involve an innocent servant in it, and hope a Duchess's

eccentricities would excuse all. But Sarah did not count upon that card trumping all, and so she carried

with her also her most prized possession: a Baker rifle, taken from one of Wessex's enemies on a truly

memorable occasion.

Sarah had learned to shoot almost as soon as she had learned to walk, but, as with most of her fellow

Americans, the weapon she had inherited from her dear papa had been a musket, the same Brown Bess

that most of the British Army still carried in the field today. The Baker was as unlike Brown Bess as a

racehorse was unlike a plowhorse: accurate at more than three times the standard-issue Army musket's

range, and capable of being loaded and fired at the startling rate of three times a minute by an expert

shot. Sarah had made herself just such an expert, and she dared to swear that the Baker would speak as

loudly on her behalf as it did on General Wellesley's.

Now all she could do was wait, and try to figure out what she could possibly do to find Meriel's husband.

Out of hard-learned caution Meriel followed a different path to return to her lodgings, and her steps took

her past the staunch brick and limestone facade of an unfamiliar church. The doors stood open, and

Meriel could smell the familiar scent of incense and see the flickering light of vigil candles flickering within.

She frowned. This was not Our Lady of the Angels, in which she had spent so many anguished hours

beseeching the Blessed Mother to save her husband, yet it was undeniably a church of the Old Religion.

Willing to be curious, Meriel crossed the street and entered.

It was cool and fragrant within. The tall stained-glass windows cast mosaics of brilliantly-colored light

over the pews and the pale stone floor. At the end of the center aisle she could see the High Altar, its

furnishings gleaming, flanked by banks of candles. The church seemed to be empty, but perhaps the

priest was hearing confession, or occupied in the vestry. Meriel advanced to the altar and curtseyed,

crossing herself, and then turned right to enter the Lady Chapel.

The blue-robed statue of the Virgin welcomed her with its outstretched hands and gentle smile. Golden

stars were painted around the hem of the blue mantle, and one bare foot rested in the curve of a crescent

moon half-hidden in the draperies of her robe. Banks of vigil candles burned on either side of the statue.

Meriel knelt and crossed herself, then rose to her feet to light one of the candles. She dropped a

sovereign into the box beside the pile of unlit candles, and after a moment's thought, added six more.

Captain Pendray's unexpected generosity had left her with more money than she had anticipated, and it

seemed greedy to keep it. There were others far worse off than she, even in this darkest hour of her life.

Only keep Louis safe, Blessed Mother! He is your dutiful son who kept God in his heart even when

all of France descended into the madness of atheism. Help him now. Help me.

She knelt again before the statue, her senses lulled by the flickering lights and comforting surroundings.

She shook her rosary out of her sleeve and began to say her prayers, the beads slipping easily through

her gloved fingers. Slowly the panicky fear for Louis' safety, the terrible uncertainty about her own fate,

stilled beneath the eternal reassurance of the ancient words.

She had reached that moment every supplicant knows, when the contemplation of the Mysteries opens

the gate to the Eternal, when she became aware of the light shining through her closed eyelids.

It was not a sudden jarring apparition. The light appeared so slowly that it was several minutes before

Meriel realized it was there. When she opened her eyes, it was with mild curiosity, not sudden fear.

BE NOT AFRAID.

A glorious Being of light stood where the statue had stood just a moment before. Though the light was

intense, somehow Meriel could see the figure clearly. It was barefoot, draped in pure white robes, and it

carried a gleaming sword that shone brighter than the sun. The shadow of great wings mantled the Being's

back.

BE NOT AFRAID, it said again, and somehow she was not. Goodness radiated from this Being along

with the light, and Meriel knew that she had been called to witness a glorious miracle. This was one of

God's own holy angels. Tears of joy welled up in her eyes.

"Have you—Why have you come?" she corrected herself, stumbling over the words. Angels were

messengers, and she both desired and dreaded this one's tidings.

The angel smiled, and Meriel felt a wave of good humor and kindness touch her like a loving parent's

caress. FEAR NOT FOR YOUR HUSBAND. THOSE WHO HOLD HIM WILL BECOME HIS

GUARDIANS, THOUGH AS YET THEY KNOW IT NOT. I COME TO ASK SOMETHING

OTHER OF YOU.

"Anything!" Meriel answered instantly.

IT WILL BE A HARD ROAD, the angel warned her. WITH DIFFICULTIES YOU CAN NOT YET

IMAGINE. I WILL ASK YOU AGAIN. THINK CAREFULLY BEFORE YOU ANSWER.

"I will do anything you ask," Meriel answered. Her heart beat faster with the angel's warning. Why did it

caution her? It was a holy messenger of God—how could she refuse to do what it asked of her?

A moment of terrible doubt struck her. What if it hesitated because it knew she would fail? Suppose this

creature asked more of her than she could do? The angels were greater than Man, but only Holy God

was omnipotent.

"If you ask for my help I will give it, as much and as well as I can," she answered, her voice quivering

with fear.

The angel smiled at her. BE AT PEACE, LITTLE SISTER. I ASK FOR YOUR SACRIFICE, BUT

NOT YOUR FAILURE. SEE WHAT I HOLD IN MY HAND.

Meriel looked, and though it had not been there before, she now saw that the angel held a great Cup, like

that into which the good father poured the water and the wine at Mass. But this was not a cup of gold or

silver. Instead, this cup seemed to be carved whole out of one enormous emerald. From the rim to the

base golden letters were carved in a long spiral, flaring star-bright against the rich green of the Cup.

"It is the Grail…" Meriel whispered.

THOSE IN WHOSE CARE IT WAS PLACED LONG AGO CAN GUARD IT NO LONGER.

NOW YOU MUST SEEK IT WHERE IT WAITS, LEST IT FALL INTO THE HANDS OF EVIL.

SEEK IT WESTWARD, OVER WATER, AND YOU WILL NOT FAIL TO FIND IT. FARE YOU

WELL, DAUGHTER OF EVE.

As it spoke the brightness and the form both seemed to fade, though Meriel could not say, if she had

thought about it, at what moment it had begun to fade and at what moment it vanished. She only knew

that at some moment she found herself alone in the Lady Chapel, staring up at the painted statue of the