Chapter 17
Seventeen
What he could see of the kitchen through the swirling smoke was mottled with black. Coughing through the cloth, he staggered to his feet, unsure which way to go as his sense of direction deserted him completely.
Eyes streaming, he turned round in a full circle before his eyes finally made out the door into the hall. Hurriedly, he took a step forward before suddenly noticing an orange glow around the edges. He couldn’t go that way.
Almost choking now, he stumbled backwards just as flames began licking round the edges of the door.
Seconds later he slammed against the edge of something hard.
Turning, he realised it was the back door.
Sobbing with relief, he fumbled with the catch.
He didn’t know if the bad men were outside – at the moment he didn’t care.
He just knew that if he stayed in the kitchen for one more moment, he would surely die.
At first the latch was stuck, the metal warping slightly as the temperature increased, then abruptly it gave, and yanking the door open, he fell out into the back garden.
Pulling the stinking cloth from around his face, he lay where he’d fallen, drawing in great gulps of air.
For a few stunned moments, he didn’t move, then instinct took over. He had to find Papy.
Lurching to his feet, he looked round frantically but could see no one. Then, turning back towards the house, he recoiled in horror. The entire building was on fire. As he watched, an attic window exploded outwards, flames shooting out of the roof. Where was Tata?
Sobbing openly now, he staggered towards the secret gate and the tree-shrouded shortcut running along the edge of the river. He and Papy always used it when they went into town, although Tata would scold them and warn them about falling into the water.
As he pushed the gate open, he looked back once more, just as the roof collapsed.
It was eerily silent until suddenly three men appeared.
Instinctively, he took a step towards them, thinking they might help.
They didn’t look like bad men. But unexpectedly, they started laughing.
His heart slammed against his ribs. Urgently, he turned back to the open gate, expecting them to spot him any second.
Stepping through, he hurriedly slammed it behind him and then started to run.
Whether he was still disoriented from inhaling too much smoke, or simply misjudged the edge, Tristan suddenly felt his left foot connect with nothing but fresh air.
Arms flailing, he lurched to the side, hovering for a brief moment over the river before tumbling downwards towards the foaming water.
With a panicked scream, he tried to put his hands out in front and ricocheted off the mossy bank, only to flip backwards, landing in the water with a splash.
As he hit the shallow bottom, his head snapped back, straight onto a large rock, and everything went black.
Hours later, the boy came to. He lay on his back in the dark trying to remember how he’d got there, but try as he might, he simply couldn’t remember.
Faces flashed before his eyes, but none of them remained long enough for him to grasp.
Finally, with a low moan, he managed to get onto his hands and knees and then onto his feet.
Wobbling, he splashed towards the bank, where he collapsed again, drifting in and out of consciousness until dawn finally lit up the horizon.
Opening his eyes, the boy felt his stomach contract in hunger.
Slowly sitting up, he looked around, but nothing felt familiar.
He couldn’t even remember his name. His stomach growled again, and in the way of all boys, his hunger overrode everything else.
Ignoring his pounding head and his damp, filthy clothing, he climbed unsteadily to his feet, and went to look for something to eat.
Present day
Without taking his eyes off Tristan, Antoine Barbier tearfully explained that he and his wife Brigitte had been tasked with spiriting him away from the carnage unfolding in the chateau.
At the time, it was believed that the much smaller, secluded house in Pontorson would provide a suitable refuge until it was deemed safe enough for the heir to the Marquisate to return home.
Unfortunately, however, that time never arrived. Just over a year later, whoever had attacked the Estate succeeded in locating their sanctuary, and, evidently determined to put an end to the only legitimate Montclair heir still living, they set the property in Pontorson alight with everyone in it.
Antoine’s wife Brigitte had died in the flames, but Tristan’s body was never found.
‘I thought you were dead, boy,’ Antoine whispered, his voice trembling. ‘I looked everywhere for you, but there was no sign.’ He shook his head, the tears falling unchecked as those around them looked on in silence.
Staring into the old man’s distraught eyes, Tristan felt the first glimmerings of recognition. Pictures flashed up in his head, and this time, he sought to make sense of them.
A house, faces, smoke, a river, wet clothes. A man – this man - smiling at him with pride.
Suddenly, a word sprang into his head out of nowhere. Tristan’s heart thudded as he reached out to take the old man’s bent fingers in his. ‘Papy,’ he whispered, forcing back the lump in his throat…
The atmosphere at the inn that night was one of celebration. No one seemed in any doubt that Tristan was the missing heir, and in truth, the fact that Tris had recognised Antoine Barbier erased the last niggling doubt in Raphael’s mind.
For the rest of the evening, Rafe watched the proceedings with cautious optimism. Rather than emptying as people returned to their homes, the bar gradually filled to bursting with people vying for Tristan’s attention. Clearly, word was spreading of his arrival.
But it wasn’t enough – the agent dared not rest on his laurels. They needed to get to the chateau as soon as possible. To be firmly in situ by the time Fontaine returned.
So he remained seated alone, taking mental notes of the local people’s attitude towards Philippe’s son’s return. So far, everyone had appeared delighted, though Rafe knew that at least some of their euphoria was due to the liberal provision of free alcohol.
The problems would come tomorrow. At the moment, the drunken assumption was that Montclair’s caretaker would be delighted to learn that the heir had returned home.
However, on waking in the cold light of day, there would be many who suspected the truth. They would fall into two categories. Those who would do what they could to protect Philippe de Montclair’s son. And those who would happily profit from his betrayal.
Raphael’s task now was to spot which was which.
Thinking on her grandfather’s words, Henrietta carefully seated herself next to her mother.
The two didn’t speak, but clasped hands tightly, sharing a smile and a promise that the talking would come later.
As they were served dinner, Henri divided her time between carefully observing both Raphael and Roseanna.
She had no doubt that her cousin was delighted at Tristan’s effusive welcome.
However, Henrietta knew Rosie better than most and could clearly see the hint of worry in her eyes – likely down to an erroneous fear that once he was acknowledged as a marquis, he would no longer want to leg shackle himself to an introverted country miss.
Of course, everyone who knew Tristan also knew such a concern was ridiculous.
The old Henrietta would have simply told her cousin not to be so deuced bacon-brained, but the recent conversation with her grandfather had caused Henri to think twice before making such sweeping statements.
Indeed, the more she considered her own conduct, the more she realised what a peagoose she’d been.
Raphael Augustin was first and foremost an agent of the King. He was a spy who’d spent his entire adult life operating in the shadows. Why the devil would he even consider sharing vital information with a chit of a girl - no matter how astute he thought her?
Rafe had never tried to hide his ruthless, single-mindedness – and no one could argue that secretly putting his own man on board the Fortune had been both.
Everyone in their party might well have been outraged at what they saw as his betrayal, but if the agent had shared his actions with her father, and one of Fortune’s long-time crew members had been unmasked as a traitor…
In truth, Henri herself had been concerned about Roan Carew’s ability to remain impartial when it came to his men.
And despite his anger, her father realised it too.
She didn’t know whether she and Raphael had any future at all, but she finally acknowledged that now wasn’t the time to question it – no matter how much she wanted to.
Talk to him her grandfather had advised, and Henrietta fully intended to do so – as soon as the whole havey cavey business was over.
They ate breakfast early the following morning. Rafe remained aloof from the rest of the party, his eyes constantly on the road outside, openly anxious about Fontaine’s return.
News of Tristan’s sudden appearance had travelled faster than expected and by lunchtime, the inn was again filled with local people seeking to take a look at the so-called lost heir. However, as Raphael had predicted, there was much more scepticism in the cold light of day.
Antoine Barbier spoke very little about their flight from Montclair on the night of the attack, preferring to talk about their time in Pontorson.
Rafe had the feeling that he and his wife had been happy there.
For much of the time, the old man sat close to Tristan, as if to reassure himself that he wasn’t imagining things.
Raphael was acutely aware that they needed to be inside the Chateau before dark. Fontaine would likely return by noon on the morrow, and they had to make sure that Tristan was firmly ensconced before then.
Over lunch they decided that Rafe, Roan, Gabriel, Faith and Hope would accompany Tristan, while Henrietta and Roseanna remained at the inn with the Reverend, Percy, Dougal and Finn.
While Raphael had initially been in favour of all the ladies remaining in the inn, both Faith and Hope had argued that their presence would add to the illusion that they were here merely as a favour to the new Marquis with no hidden agenda at all.
Faced with a possible mutiny, Rafe explained it was imperative they didn’t all become trapped within the Chateau if they found themselves in the suds – a possibility that certainly couldn’t be discounted.
‘Well, I’m not rightly sure where you think the reinforcements are going to come from,’ the Reverend declared matter-of-factly. ‘You’re not exactly knee-deep in military types here.’
‘Ye speak fer yersel’, Augustus Shackleford.
We Scots be made o’ sterner stuff than ye pigeon livered Sassenachs.
’ He stood up, fished out his bonnet and, plonking it on his head, launched into the opening bars of Loch Lomond.
It would actually have been quite moving if Dougal hadn’t had the voice of a strangled cat.
‘Aye, anybodie wad hae tae be daft tae abide an’ listen tae that noise. It be terrible,’ Finn winced.
‘Finn Noon, I believe you owe Dougal an apology,’ Percy interjected sternly before an argument could ensue.
‘It nae be ma fault Dougal cannae sing,’ the boy protested.
‘We will not be relying on you to provide the reinforcements,’ Raphael countered through gritted teeth.
Truly, he was dealing with idiots. ‘You’ll need to get yourselves back to the Fortune and tell Spalding.
He will know what to do…’ The agent paused and picked up his wine before adding, ‘While there are no guarantees, it’s always been my hope that Fontaine will see the futility of responding with violence when he discovers Tristan has reclaimed the Chateau.
His punishment from those above him will be swift and brutal if he becomes involved in anything so public.
My guess is they’ll do nothing until the furore of Tristan’s return has died down. ’
‘So, will this never end?’ Roseanna asked, her voice trembling. ‘Is Tris always going to be at the mercy of these men?’
Rafe shook his head decisively. ‘We will bring them down. At the very least, Fontaine will know he is treading on very thin ice. My hope is that he’ll realise his time is done. Whatever happens, he’ll have failed – and those above him will not easily forgive that. I think he will try to negotiate.’
‘So, will there be no retribution at all?’ Tristan grated. ‘This bastard had my parents murdered.’ Roseanna laid her hand over her fiancé’s, and he gripped it tightly.
Raphael looked at his countryman in sympathy.
‘I cannot promise you Fontaine, my lord, but then he was never the one orchestrating your parents’ death.
He was simply the tool, and the truth is that we may well need to sacrifice the smaller fish to get at the bigger.
But if Fontaine goes rogue, he’ll have to give up those at the top, otherwise, he’ll live the rest of his life looking over his shoulder. ’
‘Exactly like me then,’ Tristan retorted bitterly.
Rafe grimaced and finished his wine. ‘You are in an impossible position, yes, but I must remind you that it is not only you who stands to suffer if we do not catch these batards. God knows what plans and schemes they have in the works. They could destabilise not only the monarchy but also put our two countries back at war.’
After a brief silence, Tristan nodded his head slowly. ‘You’re right, my friend. Thank you for the timely reminder.’ He gave a rueful grin before adding, ‘I was well on the way to sucking my thumb there…’