Chapter 62
Sixty-Two
Marguerite, dressed in her stolen national guard uniform, sat astride a very different mount, a bay mare, her body still vibrating from three days of lovemaking, blinking in sunlight that seemed impossibly bright after the inky darkness of the tunnels.
Her eyes kept fixing on colors as if seeing them for the first time: the golden limestone facade of a house on the narrow street, the red scarf in the hair of a maid they rode past, a basket full of glaringly orange carrots slung over her arm.
Sound, too, had taken on a new dimension.
The clopping of their horses’ hooves, the jangle of their bits, the clatter of wagon wheels, carriage wheels, carts and half a dozen conversations were like an untuned, but wildly enthusiastic orchestra.
She glanced at Marcus, or his back and the rump of his horse, since he was riding several lengths ahead, and wondered if he was feeling the same.
“Are you certain this is going to work?” she murmured.
Andre riding beside her, also dressed in a stolen national guard’s uniform, shrugged. “When you’re following one of his plans…” He cocked his chin in the direction of Marcus’s brown clad back. “Odds are always better.”
Some of the fear knotting her stomach eased. Good odds. Her gaze wove through the crowd ahead, fixing on the broad shoulders filling out the sober clerk’s coat. Those shoulders rose suddenly, leaning forward as his horse broke into a trot.
They were off.
The crowd began to part, voices rising in protest at this breach in traffic etiquette. She dug her heels into the mare’s sides. She and Andre began to ride faster.
“Hey, you!” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a man in shirt sleeves raise a meaty fist, then freeze as he registered the blue and white uniforms.
I’m a guard. She pressed her knees tighter against the mare’s flanks. Out of my way. Assuming the arrogance she’d seen in the guards who’d arrested her, she ignored the flailing limbs and curses of the people forced to move out of her way.
Marcus was still ahead of them, fast approaching the square, three-story tax office with its distinctive columns and arches.
Its broken windows and fire-blackened walls remained unrepaired since the early days of the Revolution.
Marguerite knew that beyond the building lay the gates.
But she couldn’t see them; the view was blocked by a pea green Berlin, squatting like an ancient toad in the muddy road.
It was surrounded by an obstacle course of battered furniture.
She leaned forward, bridging her reins, her hands on either side of the horse’s neck.
The mare’s mane whipped her cheeks. She focused on controlling the unfamiliar horse; she already knew the way through.
She’d memorized it: Marcus impressing the order and placement of each piece of furniture with kisses on her belly and breasts: Table, chair, table, table, chair...
“See, I’ve got my papers.” David was standing beside a high-backed chair, waving the documents she’d watched Marcus prepare, working deliciously half-naked in the flickering lantern light
“I’m David Corbet. This coach used to belong to some aristocrat.
He has no use for it now. I use it as a hackney cab—see, here’s the paper for that.
But today, I’m using it to take this furniture to my brother-in-law, Jacques Dubois.
Lives in Darnétal, you’ll see I’ve got papers to travel there.
He’s going to repair it, and we’re going to sell it. ”
Table. Marguerite readied herself for the first jump.
The guards surrounding the gate were too busy arguing with David to notice the approaching horses.
“You’ve been blocking the gate for nearly an hour,” one of them shouted.
“I just have to finish repacking my goods.”
“You didn’t have to unpack them in the first place.” The guard fanned his sweat-soaked hair and begrimed face with his hat.
“I’m a patriot, me. And do you know what good patriots do?
They set an example for their fellow citizens.
Inspections are a pain in the ass, yes, but they’re the price of liberty.
A big coach like this, you shouldn’t just wave it through.
Think of how the late king, God curse his name, almost escaped.
Why, I could be hiding an entire family of aristocrats. Inspect away, citizens!”
Marguerite could see the details of the table now, a heavily carved console. She heard Andre, riding behind her. They’d agreed he’d come to her aid if anyone tried to stop her.
“See,” David swung open the coach door and an enormous brindle dog jumped out, barking enthusiastically.
She was prepared for the dog; had watched with amusement as the three men had coaxed the beast into the Berlin with a mixture of encouragement and beef bones. The guard, however, was not. He backed up, waving hands and hat, and screaming, “Get him off me,” as the dog leapt forward.
Another guard, who’d been leaning on his rifle while his companion had been arguing with David, stepped forward, lifted his gun and aimed it at the dog.
David, catching sight of the rifle’s turn, screamed “No!” Lunging forward, he wrapped his massive arms around the dog’s belly. He, dog and guard went crashing down, into a rolling, yelping, yelling heap, just outside the gate.
Marcus’s horse, a dappled grey, sailed over the console.
“Stop them!” A third guard man who’d been sitting on the stairs of the grant house, rose to his feet, his attention turning from the tangle with the dog, to them. “Stop that man in brown.”
“He’s ours,” Marguerite shouted.
Andre, passing her on the right, held his saber aloft, and yelled, “Out of our way, out of our way, he’s the Rouen assassin.”
As her horse leapt over the console, she could see Marcus’s horse clearing a chair.
Andre followed, then pulled ahead, a flash of blue, white and bay gelding as his horse’s flying hooves toppled a chair.
One less for me. The mare’s muscles bunched and stretched; they soared over it, too.
The guard who’d been aiming at the dog, swung his gun around, pointing it at Marcus.
“No!” she screamed.
Marcus didn’t turn, didn’t slow. He rode straight at the man, reins in one hand.
He swung his other arm out, grabbed the weapon, then shoved back hard, sending the man sprawling backwards into the mud.
Even before the man hit the ground, Marcus cleared another table, the gray thundering past towards the gate.
A guard stumbled towards them, desperately trying to run, pour powder, and load shot.
“Out of my way!” Andre slashed the weapon from him with his saber. Gunpowder flew sparkling into the air. “He’s ours. Rouen’s!”
Marguerite crouched over her horse’s neck, knees tight, mane whipping her face, as she flew over the last hurdle, an absurdly delicate rosewood tea table, and towards the open gate.
Marcus and Andre had almost reached it. David, the dog, and the guard who’d been inspecting his papers, still were struggling to untangle their flailing limbs.
As she neared them, another guard ran past. Stopped.
Shouldered his weapon, the barrel aimed at Marcus.
“Gun!” The word came out in a guttural roar.
She didn’t know if it was the sound of her voice, or the bang of the gun, that made him turn as his horse carried him through the gate.
Only that she could have sworn his eyes met hers, those severe yet sensuous lips curving in a smile—as his hand flew to his chest and he was obscured by a mist of red.
Pain shot through her, as if the ball had torn through her own body. Her horse still galloping forward, Marguerite watched helplessly as Marcus’s body sagged over the neck of his horse. The gray did not stop, clearly terrified, as it raced down the road towards freedom.
She urged her horse to go faster, past the coach, the tangle of men, through the gate. The explosion of blood, like a lingering nightmare, tinting her vision red. She thought of Marisol, of the maybe-vicomtesse, of all the rest she’d met in prison, their heads sliced from their bodies.
So much blood.
Marcus was still riding. Andre was still riding. She knew David must be getting back into the coach. Driving it through the gate, through the chaos, blocking their pursuers. Just as Marcus had planned.
He couldn’t be dead.
She had to keep moving, no matter what happened. That’s what Marcus had said. Everything depended on each of them sticking to their assigned roles.
So she kept riding, even when, through the dust and the shimmering heat of the June sun, she saw Marcus tumble from the horse. He hit the ground, limbs splayed, his body still.