Chapter 16
Sixteen
Looking over at her sleeping son, Catherine de Montclair stilled her rocking and closed the book she’d been reading aloud.
With a tender smile, she climbed to her feet, and after laying the book on the small table next to the child’s bed, she bent down to place a soft kiss on his brow and tuck his blankets around him.
The thick brocade curtains at the window and the fire leaping in the nursery grate ensured the room was warm and cosy, despite the recent snowfall.
Such warmth wouldn’t last for long if the fire was allowed to go out completely.
‘I’m leaving now, Brigitte – please do not get up. Just remember to stoke up the fire and blow out the candles before you get into bed.’
The nursemaid looked up from her chair in front of the fireplace, where she was darning yet another pair of Tristan’s breeches.
‘Bien s?r, Madame la Marquise. I will turn in as soon as I have finished with this pair.’ She smiled and shook her head.
‘Truly, madame, I have no idea how he gets through so many pairs of breeches – he never even has the chance to grow out of them.’
Catherine chuckled as she made her way to the door. ‘His current obsession with pirates is not helping.’
‘At least he didn’t manage to skewer the footman bringing his dinner,’ Bridgitte commented with a grin.
Her mistress winced and sighed. ‘Fortunately, Maurice is used to Tris hiding behind the door, but to be on the safe side, I think we’ll need to ensure only wooden cutlery in the nursery. I’ll speak with Madame Durand. Bonne nuit, Brigitte.’
‘Bonne nuit, madame.’
As the Marquise made her way downstairs, she glanced outside.
The snow was falling steadily, but for some reason the flakes were flickering with light.
Frowning, she stepped closer to the window and looked out over the courtyard to the twisting road beyond.
It took her eyes a few seconds to adjust, and initially she wasn’t entirely sure what she was seeing, but after another moment she recognised what the flickering lights actually were.
Torches – being carried by at least two dozen men. In their other hands, they held muskets.
Struggling to understand, Catherine stood rooted to the spot, until abruptly her paralysis was broken by a shout. ‘Ferme la porte – close the gate. We are under attack.’
With a low moan, Catherine picked up her skirts and hurried down the stairs, where she was met by her husband. ‘What’s happening, Philippe?’ she gasped, gripping his arms. ‘Who are those men?’
The Marquis shook his head. ‘I have no idea. We need to wait and see what they want.
‘If it were anything good, they wouldn’t be carrying arms,’ Catherine insisted. ‘Do you think Claude is with them?’
Philippe took her in his arms. ‘I cannot believe my brother would return bearing arms,’ he insisted.
Catherine pulled away, her frustration vying with desperation. ‘He wants what you have, Philippe. We both know that. And he hates that he can’t have it.’
‘Perhaps I can talk to him,’ Philippe declared, his voice agonised. ‘He might listen to me even now.
‘My love, listen to yourself. You say what you want to believe. But in your heart, you know Claude will never be satisfied with your charity. He wants everything you have. Everything.
‘When you discovered his treachery, you knew in your heart he’d return. We both knew it.’ Her husband closed his eyes, despair washing over him, just as the pounding started on the gate.
Determinedly forcing her fear deep down inside, Catherine gave a small sob. ‘We cannot let him have Tristan,’ she whispered. ‘Whatever happens tonight, our son is Montclair’s future…’ She paused and dashed at her eyes as she heard the gates begin to splinter.
Resting his head against hers, Philippe de Montclair abandoned the pretence that his half-brother meant them no harm.
No matter what he’d done, or how hard he’d tried, the Marquis had never been able change the one thing that had eaten away at Claude from the day he’d discovered the name of his real father.
Claude Fontaine was a bastard – and always would be. Nothing could change that. All the love in the world couldn’t change that.
Philippe had wanted to elevate him. To give him a formal place in his household. But it wasn’t enough. Claude didn’t want to be like Philippe. He wanted to be Philippe.
The final straw had been Tristan’s birth.
Something inside his half-brother had broken when he’d stared at the heir in his crib, and subconsciously, Philippe began to fear for his son’s life.
Until one day his brother simply disappeared.
Despite extensive searches, Claude had seemingly vanished into thin air, and with the Peninsular War raging in both France and Spain, Philippe was finally forced to stop looking.
But in his heart of hearts, the Marquis always suspected that he hadn’t seen the last of his brother and recent revelations had changed what had always been hope to fear. Catherine was right, the only person Claude cared about was himself.
Gripping his wife’s shoulders, he looked deeply into her tear-filled eyes. ‘You must take Tristan and leave now, ma chère. Go to the house in Pontorson and wait there until you hear from me.’
By the time he’d finished, his wife was already shaking her head. ‘I won’t leave you Philippe – and even if I did, Claude would only come after me. If we want Tristan to survive, we must put our trust in others.’
Philippe gritted his teeth, fighting back tears of his own.
‘Tell Brigitte to get the boy dressed. I will find Antoine. The three of them can escape through the tunnels.
‘But we have to be quick. The gates will not hold for much longer, and once they are in the courtyard, there are only the front doors between us and them. Bring Tris and Brigitte to the library. Antoine will meet you there.’
Minutes later, Catherine was feverishly dressing her son while his nursemaid grabbed what she could. Tristan at five years old stood wide-eyed in the candlelight and didn’t object as they bundled him up and rushed back down the stairs.
Minutes later, she and Philippe gave their precious boy one last fierce hug, pressed a bag of coins into Antoine's hands and watched as Tristan was taken into the underground tunnels that were almost as old as Montclair itself.
Seconds later, the front door caved in.
May 1807
‘Tristan de Montclair, what on earth would your mother say if she saw the state of your knees. School is for learning to read and write, not for fighting.’ Brigitte stared at her charge in exasperation.
‘I didn’t start it,’ Tris replied sullenly.
‘Did you end it though, lad?’ Antoine asked, hiding a grin.
‘Oui, Papy, I put him straight on his backside.’
‘Good lad.’ Antoine gripped the boy's shoulder, ignoring his wife’s disapproving look.
‘The last thing we need is for Tristan to draw attention to himself,’ Brigette scolded.
Antoine sighed at the familiar argument. ‘We’ve been here over a year now, and there’s been no sign of anyone sniffing around. He’s a six-year-old boy. We can’t wrap him in swaddling clothes.’
To his surprise, this time, Brigette didn’t argue. ‘I know,’ she murmured. ‘But I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to him.’
‘Nothing will happen,’ Antoine soothed. ‘The attackers were likely sans-culottes chancing their luck, and the chateau’s been empty for months. If they were interested in Tristan, they’d have tracked him down long before now.’
Brigitte sighed and nodded, pulling her apron off its hook and putting it over her head.
‘Do you want anything from the market?’ Antoine asked, relieved to change the subject.
His wife nodded, fishing a list out of her pocket. ‘Take Tristan with you,’ she suggested.
‘I’d rather stay here,’ the boy responded in a small voice. Brigitte looked at him narrowly. Clearly, it wasn’t just his knees that were painful. Waving her husband off, she asked the lad if he wanted a glass of milk and a Madelaine.
Half an hour later, Tristan was licking his fingers after finishing off three of the small sponges and a large glass of milk.
There were no other staff in the house. After the attack on Montclair, the only coin they had was the bag given to them just before they escaped.
With care, Brigitte believed it would last them five years or so.
But one of those years had passed already. ..
A sudden noise had Brigitte frowning. It couldn’t be Antoine back already. It had sounded like glass smashing. Heart thudding, the former nursemaid told Tristan to stay put and ran out into the hall.
Seconds later, she reappeared, slamming the door behind her. For a second she didn’t move, fear rendering her immobile. They’d been found.
Tristan stared at her in confusion. ‘What’s wrong, Tata?’ he stuttered.
Without answering, Brigitte hurried to the window, moving to the side so she couldn’t be seen.
Lifting the curtain, she peered outside.
Four men were standing between the house and the front gate.
Biting her lip, she turned back to the now frightened boy.
She realised they were trapped. There was no doubt the men were here to ensure that Philippe de Montclair’s son did not live to claim his inheritance.
Taking a deep breath, she walked calmly back to the table, crouching down in front of her charge.
‘These are bad men, mon c?ur,’ she told him gravely, ‘so we have to make sure they don’t find you.’ She held his shoulders gently. ‘You’re going to hide in the small space at the back of the larder – you know, the one you always go to when we play hide and seek?’
Tristan stared back at her solemnly before giving a small nod.
‘It’s important that you stay there until I come for you,’ she continued, fighting a sob gathering in the back of her throat.
‘If anyone calls for you other than me or Papy, you don’t answer.
You stay where you are, and you keep quiet. Do you understand, mon ange?’
Again, the boy nodded. ‘Where are you going?’ he added in a small voice as she pulled him to his feet.
‘I will lead them away,’ she responded with more confidence than she felt. ‘Come, there’s no time to waste. They will be here in moments.’
Seconds later, she gently but firmly pushed Tristan into the small cubbyhole at the very back of the larder where there was just enough room for him to sit.
Watching her fearfully, he drew up his knees as she put her finger to her lips before shutting the small door.
As darkness completely descended, he could hear her moving the large cask of salt in front to hide the opening.
Resting his head on his knees, rocking backwards and forwards, Tristan allowed the tears to fall silently. He heard faint shouting, crashing and then a short scream. He pushed his fist against his mouth, stifling a whimper. Then closer, a door opening and closing. More shouting… then nothing.
He didn’t know how long he crouched there, but he knew it was a long time as he couldn’t stop himself from peeing in his breeches. He hoped Tata wouldn’t be too angry with him. Surely, she and Papy would come back soon?
And then he had the faintest whiff of smoke. With a low sob, he curled up into a ball on his side and somehow fell asleep.
Only to wake sometime later struggling to breathe, the air fetid and thick. Coughing, Tristan covered his nose and mouth with his arm. He was only six, but he knew he dared wait for Tata and Pape no longer. He had to get out.
Groaning with pain, the boy somehow manoeuvred himself onto his knees, then, with what remaining strength he had, he pushed at the door. At first it didn’t move, then slowly, inch by inch, the cask of salt shifted, until finally, the opening was big enough for him to squeeze through.
The larder was filled with smoke, with the only relatively clear space directly above the floor.
Crawling forward, Tristan pulled a cloth from around a wheel of cheese and, despite almost retching at the pungent stink, wrapped the material around his nose and mouth.
Then, keeping his forehead on the relatively cool stone, he crawled on until his head finally hit the larder door.
Tears streaming from smoke and fear, Tris slid his hand upwards, feeling for the latch. It seemed to take hours, but eventually his fingers found it. Whimpering, he pushed at the bar until it lifted enough to unlatch the door.
As it swung open, without hesitating, Tristan crawled forward into hell.