The City in the Autumn Stars Read online

  ‘What’s that?’ Bamboche cupped his hand to his ear. The priest complained about ‘that scallawag’s godlessness’ and was convinced without any doubt I was all Montsorbier said me to be. ‘Is he a wanted outlaw?’

  ‘Aye, Father,’ said Montsorbier politely to one of those whom he had cheerfully sent to the gallows in dozens only a few weeks earlier. ‘He has left a black trail across half the world. In Russia, through most of Europe, even in the Americas. A traitor to Saxony, assassin of crowns, he is Vice personified!’ Montsorbier spoke with unseemly relish. I began to fear that my lady, my new light of existence, should believe him and was close to flinging myself through the shutters and, sword in hand, defending my honour to the death.

  Master Olrik, however, was himself by way of defending my name as he moved on his insteps, a little closer to his prey. ‘You say, Sir, he’s wanted in France? For what? For plots against the King, Sir? For betraying your enemies, the Saxons? I’m only a dim musketeer, Sir, and fail to understand these paradoxes. I’d be obliged, Sir, if ye’d enlighten me.’

  Montsorbier, so used to power and the obedience of others, was again locked into rageful inactivity. His anger did not best him, but he was white-hot by now and his fingers were lost in his fists. ‘I’m bored with this, Sir.’ His words were only audible for a yard or two and I should not have caught them had I not been familiar with his voice. ‘I’ll drop all charges, and continue about my business.’

  ‘Charges? You’ve authority, Sir, here in Vaud?’

  Montsorbier made a movement, little more than a twitch of his arm, and I feared for Master Olrik’s life. As it happened, just then one of Montsorbier’s disguised National Guard led into the yard the Spaniard I had borrowed. Montsorbier was all solicitous attention suddenly. He studied his saddle as if for scratches, noted that his pistols were still holstered and the sabre in place. He looked at his horse’s eyes and teeth, felt her at her joints, reassured himself, in what seemed genuine anxiety, that she was unharmed. Then he put boot to stirrup, seated himself, and stared securely down at Olrik who stood leaning on the shoulder of Bamboche, the pseudo-simpleton. Montsorbier’s eye was colder than all the snows of Switzerland. ‘I greatly hope you gentlemen shall soon find yourself in my part of the world, so that I may return your hospitality.’

  Another figure entered the picture and helped again to break that violent ambiance. Out came the schoolman in his Quaker hat and grey, inky cloak, with strapped, oilskinned books in a thong on his arm. His voice was blurred as if he had overslept. His skin, I noted, was almost as coarse and dirty a grey as his garments. ‘Is that the Lausanne coach?’ says he, indicating my lady’s carriage.

  ‘’Tis the coach of the Duchess of Crete.’ Montsorbier offered a nod and a small smile to his only other potential ally in the gathering.

  The clerkish fellow blinked, saw Milady, removed his hat to display greasy hair dressed in a kind of half-hung plait. He seemed to recognise her, or at least her title. ‘I’m Meister Carl Plattz, your ladyship.’ He was momentarily disturbed by what he understood to be a serious faux pas and stood fidgeting in the mud of the yard.

  Montsorbier was easy-mannered, almost unctuous in his courtesies, as he, too, lifted his heavy bicorne. ‘We’ll gladly ride escort to ye, Marm, until the pass is forwarded.’ He had found a graceful means of extricating himself from his embarrassment.

  To disguise his own confusion, the schoolman shouted rudely at the innkeeper. ‘Not the Lausanne coach! Odd’s fish, why are you all so late? I’ve waited an hour or more in my chamber, packed and ready. Snow will be falling by noon. Look!’

  It was true that white armies of cloud appeared behind the eastern mountains.

  Meister Plattz sighed. ‘What shall I do?’ He readied himself for the plod back to his apartment. But then Milady, who had been speaking quietly to Olrik, called out from her window. ‘How far do you travel, Sir?’

  O, how I wished she had addressed those words to me! My body was consumed with a fresh wave of flame.

  ‘To Lausanne. My post is in Lausanne.’ Plattz was pettish and surly.

  ‘My destination, too. And Yverdon. Come in, Sir.’ She flung open the coach door, but Plattz hesitated, the fool! ‘You’re welcome,’ said she. ‘The more we are, the snugger we’ll be.’ I understood now that my wonderful ally was striving to draw off every possible enemy. ‘And you, reverend sirs?’ She spoke most sweetly to those silly priests.

  The young novice started forward but old Sebastian held him back. ‘Thank you, my lady. We have our own horses.’ He stared into the blue-and-cream upholstery with considerable regret. ‘However, we’ll ride along with your party, if you’ll agree. For safety.’

  ‘Best check the stables, Father,’ said Olrik, striding off in that direction. ‘The Gallic general here thinks some Dutchy’s stolen an entire herd, as far as I can tell. Why he even claims the horse he rides is taken on the road to Fribourg. Maybe ’tis a magic horse, eh, Sir? That can split itself in twain whenever it’s needed to go in more than one direction?’ He clearly had decided that he had had the best of the encounter with Montsorbier. With a mocking conqueror’s laugh he was gone from the stage before me. I knew I should go soon to meet him, that he was in league with my lady, but I wanted one last look at my vision of perfect womanhood.

  Montsorbier, having lost any habits of common badinage he might once have possessed, could only shout at his men to mount in good order, straighten their hats (which now conspicuously lacked their red, white and blue cockades) and prepare themselves to leave. Yet he wondered, I could tell, as the old musketeer had meant him to wonder, if perhaps I was in truth galloping on a borrowed half-Arab for Fribourg while he (Montsorbier) had committed himself to escorting a pretty gentlewoman to Lausanne: the same blue-blooded, fastidious woman of wit and education whom he would, on his home territory, have thrown into a cart to be summarily beheaded by the merciful machine of sweet natured Dr Joseph-Ignace Guillotin.

  ‘You’ll not desert us, Sir, I hope!’ called out my benefactress, turning those huge, wonderful eyes upon him. I almost swooned. ‘Without your generosity, Sir, we should be in grave danger of encountering brigands. Think what would happen to my maid and I, not to mention this learned gentleman and two of Christ’s servants! Oh, it chills my blood, Sir!’

  I admired her wit and my impulse was still to follow her immediately. The mélange of passions within my breast was near unbearable! When the coachman cracked his long whip and the horses hauled upon their harness I was taken by surprise and all but fell backwards into Olrik’s arms as the coach went off. I was elated with love, with laughter at Montsorbier’s predicament. Ah, how I should have liked to have been within her coach, my head resting upon the bosom of that remarkable and resourceful creature who could not be much past one and twenty, yet bore the maturity and power to command; she had the quick habits of mind, the intelligence of any veteran General. To see Montsorbier dragooned into ensuring the safety of a fair sampling of the very people he regarded as his natural enemies was worth more to me than gold and was ample compensation for the risk of exposure. Olrik shook me, cursing, as I continued to look at the departing party. Montsorbier, to his credit, had accepted the situation with reasonable grace – his sans-culottism was younger than his breeding – betraying neither stupid fawning on the lady nor yet a frown of impatience. And, of course, as I am sure my lady designed it, he was so busy controlling his warring impulses that he did not for a second suspect I might still be at the inn. Olrik and Bamboche had proved themselves good friends. Now the Swiss musketeer was growing vociferously urgent. With one final look at the coach as it took the road for Lausanne, I allowed Olrik to lead me into the yard, where a good chestnut filly stood ready.

  ‘She’s all settled for, my friend. Off you go to wherever you please – but there’s a short road on a higher pass, should you wish to risk it on horseback.’

  ‘To Lausanne?’

  ‘It’ll have ye there in half the time. ’Tis hard in
parts, given to unstable snow and there are sometimes robbers.’

  ‘I’ll cheerfully risk all of that.’ I was determined to get to Lausanne, collect my money from my friend La Harpe and present myself as soon as I could before that inspiration of all poetry, that divine goddess, my guardian angel, the Duchess of Crete.

  Olrik laughed easily. ‘Ye’ve a spirit to ye, little captain, I’ll grant ye!’

  I ignored his insult, affirmed from him the directions to the high pass, and was off at once, thinking of nothing but reunion with my muse, my feminine ideal.

  She had doubtless slipped some gold to Olrik, for my horse was thoroughly equipped and my own saddlebags were at my back. Upon my saddle was a scabbarded Bavarian hunting gun almost as good as Olrik’s English muskets. My own Georgian flintlocks were also holstered there, together with a pouch of shot, a horn of powder, gun cotton – everything I should need upon my journey. I began to suspect my lady a sorceress – or at very least a seeress, invested with a most convenient second sight.

  The tall mountains rose before me on the narrow trail and I drew my old coaching coat about me, glad of its protection against the threatening snow. Yet within I was warm and knew great happiness. Soon I must see my heart’s desire once more!

  Chapter Three

  In which brigands are encountered and skills at musketry are tested. Nature, disturbed, responds dramatically to our sport. As a result I meet with a traveller whose skills, history and name are all equally unlikely.

  AS THE AIR grew colder and the landscape wilder I had little to do but reflect on my fortune, good and bad. Was all to be put down to coincidence? It seemed odd to me that Montsorbier should pursue me with such dedicated vigour and that an unknown lady should take such pains to help me. I wondered if, somehow, Montsorbier believed I had betrayed him in betraying his Cause. I did not consider myself a traitor. On the contrary I had remained true to my own ideals. I wondered if Montsorbier recalled me from the old gatherings of novice Illuminati? I had sampled several such brotherhoods, including the Rosey Cross and the Orange Lodge, during the period in which I examined the Supernatural and found it not merely uninstructive but damnably dull, its members possessing nothing in the way of individual imagination and a great need to seek confirmation in numbers for the merits of miserable little madnesses. Most clubs, even the Jacobins, had their share of spineless creatures looking for reflections of their now morbid souls in the crazed faces of like-minded lunatics. But surely this was not Montsorbier? Such people as a rule were lonely, confounded misfits, attempting to alter the surrounding evidence of Nature by inventing abstractions to explain why common facts were false and ordinary reality a poor illusion.

  It was impossible to guess what monstrous dreams lingered in the skull of that dedicated Revolutionist. Perhaps he saw the Revolution as a practical means to a spiritual end? There was no more dangerous kind of madman than one who devoted a good brain and a courageous heart to unhealthy ambitions. Prejudice took the place of study and what might have begun as an investigation or debate, a genuine search for knowledge through an experimental scientific society, could soon become a coven of wretched fear-alls, too shy, too unhappy and too cowardly to question its own creed. An unquestioned creed is a noose about the throat of Reason, said Cloots to me once. And now he’s dead because he insisted on clinging to a useless and discredited cause. Perhaps, by refusing that noose, I refused, in Montsorbier’s eyes, to recognise the validity of the dream for which he had sold his own soul?

  My horse climbed through massive corridors of pine and monstrous snow-clad rocks, through gorges winding between sheer cliffs, and sometimes I heard the hardened snow overhead creak and shift, threatening to fall and engulf me. I was careless of potential danger: increasingly Montsorbier was forgotten and I thought only of Libussa, Duchess of Crete. Her name was unusual while her title had the ring of something notional, such as the Pope or the Holy Roman Emperor were used to dispensing. Crete itself, I was fairly certain, lay now under the domination of the Ottomans. Yet the title could be rightfully inherited, for certain families (particularly those with roots in the Balkan kingdoms) went back to a time before Christ when their ancestors had been lords of half-barbaric tribes, the priests of dark and loveless religions. Perhaps she bore African blood, even? The blood of those forgotten and mysterious civilisations which had risen and fallen in the years preceding and during the age of the Egyptian Empire… That would explain, I thought, any gift for second sight she might possess.

  Because of the might of Nature all around me, the solitariness of my situation, my mind grew fanciful until I was forced to take control of myself and remember the realities which presently affected me. Yet this exercise proved harder than the reader might suppose. For some great while, as the road had wound into wooded hills, I had been unconscious of the wildness of the weather, since the unsettled gathering of clouds mirrored so accurately that tumult within me: that mighty and unruly tide of emotions which, conflicting, drowned all logic with their din and offered to re-create me as a creature daemonically possessed. By the time the sky had darkened so as to seem almost nocturnal and the sleet transformed into whistling snow (making me blind even while I remained uncaring of my chilly bones) I was hard-pressed to keep my horse moving forward, let alone able to mark the way!

  Soon I was forced to swing down off my saddle, grip my reins in one hand and use the other to brush back the snow which formed little drifts upon my face. Keeping thus to the Lausanne trail by instinct rather than observation, I pressed on. I had come to the idea that my lady was putting me to a test: that I must not only play her game through, I must also guess at the game’s nature. Truthfully, I became alarmed at my own obsession, sensing something unwholesome in it. I had no great taste for abstractions of any kind, yet here was I apparently in the grip of an insensible dream. Even when I was forced to pause and shelter for a while, in a ruined hut beside the path, I took my travelling ink and quill from their case in my saddlebag and began to write, in bad light, attempting to organise my thoughts. But, now I look at what remains of those pages, I see that I was already departed from Sanity. I was bent on equipping myself with logic to explain the madness which had overtaken me, willing to drag in any old, unkempt speculation as evidence: Man fühlt tief, hier ist nichts Willkürliches, alles ist langsam bewegendes, ewiges Gesetz. (Goethe’s ever useful in such exercises. My journal’s surviving fragments do not give me Befriedige deine natürlichen Begierden und geniesse so viel Vergnügen, als du kannst, but doubtless it was there once.) Much I neither recall nor properly recorded, for the pages have a tendency to run like tangled roots; the ciphers meaningless. However, as I grew more weary and colder, all seemed of the deepest, not to say most painful, significance.

  What dreadful form of idealism, erotomania, curiosity, fascination had filled me up so swiftly after I had called upon cynicism to armour me against the anguish of Lost Hope? It was not enough to claim this for the work of Cupid alone. I must suppose the horrors of the enragés, the fear of capture, the decline of my beliefs, all helped contribute to my state of mind. Rather than protect myself, it seemed I had made myself more vulnerable than ever! I was close to that state of insanity whereby I was fully conscious of the folly, the perversion, the danger of my actions, could catalogue it all (the journal proves it) and make the most perceptive and lucid commentaries, yet still drive on towards the brink above the gulf of uncontrollable lunacy.

  Why was I so possessed? I asked myself. In those freezing mountains everything became sinister. I began to think that demons truly prowled the ancient woods where my own ancestors carved idols from the living trees and worshipped them with horrid, pagan ritual, pouring sacrificial blood into the dark earth so that they might commission or placate some grinning godling! And were those of us who thought ourselves most shielded from such ancient sorceries actually the easiest prey of all? Reason checked this questioning of mine and murmured ‘metaphor’; though a metaphor could sometimes be a map, recognis
ed yet not understood.

  The snow passed and I was able, with some difficulty, to continue. Sunshine came suddenly as I waded around a slab of ice-adorned granite, but still I could not easily ride. The snow was now glittering, threatening to blind me. As the shadows lengthened against the white and the green, I detected the tracks of a heavy vehicle. I was astonished to discover such a sign in this apparently uninhabited country. Could it, I thought, be Milady’s own coach, taking an ill-considered shortcut? I dismissed this with what little reason remained to me, shrugged and refused further speculation.

  The deep cart-tracks through the snow continued to mark my way ahead. Now the covering was sparser, melting in the heat of an afternoon sun. Ahead of me the Alpine peaks were sharp against the blue sky. I was thankful no further clouds gathered and became more cheerful in my disposition as I mounted, my steed’s hoofs took steadier purchase and our speed increased. Around me the trees sparkled with moisture. My breath was a ragged plume floating across my shoulder. Ahead of me were massive spurs of rock, marking the pass. I ascended still higher. Here the snow was crisp and long since fallen. There appeared to be few signs of a storm. The tracks were sharper. I detected only two horses and possibly one driver, for there were signs where a man had climbed down in order to coax the beasts upwards.

  I had begun to feel the pangs of hunger and a search in my saddlebags revealed some slices of beef, a piece of roasted pork, some mutton, black bread and those little sweetcakes the Swiss have a fondness for. Eating as I rode, my spirits soon lifted (thanks, too, to the flask of wine provided by the same mysterious hand) and I began to plan my lady’s courtship. I was whistling by the time the pass loomed and the track narrowed, winding high above a rushing river on one side and with a great wall of lichen-covered granite on the other. Again I thought it prudent to dismount, so replaced my provisions in the pouch and clambered down.