The Blue Rose Page 23

  David was woken out of sleep by a loud banging on the door.

  ‘Get up, you lazy dogs!’ a voice shouted. ‘You’re under arrest.’

  The door burst open, and two burly seamen seized him by the arms, dragging him out of his bunk. Dressed only in a loose linen shirt and breeches, he was hustled down the narrow corridor.

  It was late, and the only light was a swinging lantern carried by a man wearing a ferocious horned mask. His hair was covered with a wig made of seaweed.

  Doors crashed open. Sleepy passengers were dragged out in various stages of undress, some laughing, others protesting angrily.

  ‘What is the meaning of this outrage?’ Dr Gillan was puce with anger.

  ‘You’re under arrest, you slimy pollywog!’

  ‘What? On whose orders?’

  ‘On the orders of the Old Sea Dog!’

  ‘It’s the crossing of the line.’ Thomas Hickey stood in his doorway, his red silk dressing-gown on over his clothes. ‘The sailors perform an initiation ceremony for all those who have never sailed over the equator before.’

  ‘Silence!’ the masked man roared.

  Laughing, David allowed himself to be rushed down to the lower deck, where he and the rest of the expedition were pushed into the dark stinking hold.

  The man wearing the mask began to read from a scroll.

  ‘I am Davy Jones, and I am come out of the depths of the sea tonight to summons all you landlubbers who have not yet been initiated into the Supreme Order of the Old Sea Dogs. We of the court of His Oceanic Majesty, King Neptune of the Seven Seas, bring serious indictments against all you that still have the dust of the land on their feet. You shall answer for your crimes! And remember! Sorrow and woe await any who resist or mock His Majesty, the Great Neptune, Ruler of the Seven Seas. So beware!’

  With one last dramatic shake of his fist, Davy Jones retreated and the hatches were slammed shut and battened down.

  There was a loud hum of conversation. The two Chinese priests looked dismayed, while Tom was excited and a little apprehensive. His father – resplendent in a paisley silk dressing-gown over his nightshirt – spoke to him calmly. Herr Hüttner, however, stormed up and down, spitting out German phrases that were all too easily translated.

  Eventually the doors banged open, and buckets of sea water were flung inside, soaking all who were unfortunate enough to be standing near. ‘The court of King Neptune is in session! All those accused of crimes against His Majesty, quick march!’

  A mock courtroom had been set up on the main deck, with a jury of seamen dressed in makeshift costumes – fishing nets as skirts and seaweed as hair, or blackened faces and striped turbans and scimitars made of tin. There was even a man dressed in a bearskin cloak.

  King Neptune sat on a throne, a crown of golden paper askew on his tangled seaweed hair, a trident in one hand. Beside him was a huge tattooed sailor, dressed in a woman’s dress with pumpkins stuffed in his bodice and a face gaudy with rouge and a multitude of patches. He minced about on ludicrously high heels, blowing kisses to the laughing crowd of seamen. There was also a man dressed in medieval costume, with a giant razor and an apron luridly stained with red.

  David saw this only in glimpses, as he and the other men were forced to run the gauntlet through two rows of sailors throwing buckets of slop from the kitchen. Fish guts, potato peelings, tea leaves, onion skins, apple cores, eggshells and vegetable scraps had all been mixed in dirty dishwater, and rained on them from all sides. The smell was awful.

  At last, dripping and adorned with garbage, they were pushed to their knees before King Neptune.

  Sir Erasmus stood to one side, his tricorne hat held against his heart. ‘We welcome you on board the Lion, Your Majesty. It is a great pleasure to have you on board.’

  ‘The displeasure is all mine,’ Neptune growled in answer.

  ‘I beg your pardon most humbly. What may I do to please Your Majesty?’

  ‘Your ship is sorely infested with slimy pollywogs, a situation which my loyal sea dogs plan to correct. We shall turn them into trusty shellbacks, fit for my service!’

  ‘Then I turn over the command of my ship to you for as long as you wish.’ Sir Erasmus bowed, then went to sit down and watch the show.

  One by one the men were brought forward, ordered to kneel before Neptune, and accused of various crimes. Dr Gillan was accused of being a witchdoctor, and forced to swallow something out of a large black bottle. From the look on his face, it tasted very nasty. Lord Macartney was accused of eating too well, and was forced to munch on some ship biscuits. He did so with great good humour, pretending to pull maggots out first.

  Sir George was accused of being too serious, and was ordered to dance the hornpipe, which he did with surprising vigour and enthusiasm. His son Tom laughed and clapped loudly. Then it was his turn. The boy was accused of spending far too much time studying, and was ordered to drink some rum and gamble on the throw of some dice. He did both eagerly, though the rum made him choke.

  The young artist William Alexander was accused of spending too much time combing his hair, and the Barber shaved it all off. William did his best to pretend to take it in good part, but it was clear he was mortified.

  Lord Macartney’s valet, Aeneas Anderson, was ordered to bark and wag his tail and lick his master’s hand before being declared a proper sea dog. He refused to do so, with great dignity, and so was forced to run the gauntlet as he was pelted with raw eggs and flour and sugar syrup, while the Barber cut open pillows with his razor and tossed feathers all over him. He did not look pleased.

  David and John – being gardeners – were dunked overboard ‘to wash the land lubber dust off their feet’.

  It was terrifying dropping down the great length of the hull and into the vast green ocean. David clung tightly to the rope, afraid that his missing finger might weaken his hold.

  ‘I hope there are no sea monsters lurking below!’ he shouted to John.

  ‘Or sharks!’ he bellowed back.

  David plunged deep into the water but was hauled back on deck again straightaway, dripping and exhilarated.

  ‘We declare you a landlubber no longer!’ Davy Jones yelled.

  Then the two Chinese priests were pushed forward. Both looked pale and frightened, not understanding the raucous horseplay. The Barber flourished a harsh-bristled scrubbing brush and cried, ‘You two are accused of being dirty heathens so we’ll scrub you white.’

  The priests were grabbed and thrust headfirst into barrels of soapy water, then the Barber and Davy Jones and the other men began to scour them roughly. Flailing and gasping, they tried to resist but were shoved back and forth to the shouts and jeers of the crowd.

  Father Li slipped in the soap and fell to his knees, raising his arms above his head imploringly. His cheek was red raw.

  Tom Staunton ran forward and grabbed the Barber’s arm. ‘No! Stop! It’s not fair. He cannot help the colour of his skin … Please! Father, you must make them stop.’

  Sir George hesitated, looking about him. The huge tattooed sailor in the woman’s gown bellowed, ‘Anyone who speaks up against the court of His Oceanic Majesty, King Neptune of the Seven Seas, shall be flung into the hold to fester forever!’

  David could not bear the look of terror on the young priest’s face. It reminded him vividly of Viviane’s fear, the day her father came back. He stepped forward, putting down a hand to help Father Li to his feet. ‘If my grandfather was here,’ he said to the grinning sailors, ‘he would bid you remember that you will be judged in the same way that you judge others, and with the measure you use, it will be measured to you.’

  The men’s eyes fell. The Barber lowered his scrubbing-brush.

  ‘Amen,’ Father Li said, and bowed to David in thanks.

  21

  On Trial

  11–25 December 1792

  The king was playing ninepins with his son when they came for him.

  Rain lashed against the barred window, and the room wa
s so cold that the officers’ breath frosted the air when they spoke.

  Viviane could not hear what they said. She was on her hands and knees, scrubbing the stairwell. She could only catch a glimpse through the narrow chink where the door had been left ajar.

  She saw that the two officers made no motion to remove their hats and that this discourtesy pained the king. Louis-Charles clung to his father’s leg, and one of the officers jerked him away roughly. The toy spaniel leapt up, barking. The officer kicked the puppy, who yelped and ran away, tail tucked between her legs. Louis-Charles wept and struggled to be free.

  Viviane rose to her feet, clutching the dripping scrubbing brush close. She wanted to rush in and comfort the little boy, but dared not.

  One of the officers opened the door. ‘Citoyenne, take this boy to his mother!’

  ‘Yes, citoyen,’ she murmured and dropped the brush back in her bucket, wiping her cold damp hands on her apron. Louis-Charles struggled against the officer’s hold, calling, ‘Papa-Roi, Papa-Roi.’

  The officer cuffed him across the ear. ‘There is no king anymore. We are all equal citizens of the republic of France.’

  ‘Please do not hurt him,’ the king said unhappily. ‘He is only a little boy.’

  ‘I don’t want to go! I want to stay with you!’ Louis-Charles held out his arms imploringly to his father.

  The king looked at the officers. ‘May he not stay with me for just a little longer? He does not understand …’

  ‘If he stays with you, he shall not see his mother again,’ the officer said brutally.

  The king’s shoulders slumped. ‘I am sorry, mon petit, but your mother could not bear to be separated from you. You must go to her and reassure her that all will be well.’

  The officer passed the weeping child to Viviane, kicked the dog out, then shut the door in her face.

  She sat for a moment on one of the steps, rocking Louis-Charles back and forth. The spaniel whimpered and put its paws up on her leg, and she lifted the puppy in the little boy’s arms so that he could bury his face in her silky coat.

  The only light came in through a narrow slit of a window, and the air smelt of damp and mould. The Temple, where the royal family had been confined, was a forbidding medieval tower that had once been the fortress of the Templar knights. It was surrounded by a putrid-smelling moat, and its walls were nine feet thick.

  At least, Viviane thought, she was free to leave every day and go out into the streets for a while.

  Unlike the king and his family.

  When Viviane had been released from La Force prison, she had not known where to go or what to do. She had nothing but the filthy clothes she stood up in. She had limped back to the Tuileries, which lay in bloody shambles still. Everything of value had been broken or stolen. Rummaging through her rooms, she found some old clothes. Hiding behind a door, she hastily stripped off her ruined muslin, and pulled a grey wool dress over her head. It hung loosely on her, for she was thin from the weeks of prison rations. She washed her face and hands, and tidied her hair as best she could with a broken comb.

  Looking for anything else that might be useful, she discovered the miniature of her mother kicked under a chair. The glass was cracked, but the painting undamaged. Hot tears rushed to her eyes. She kissed it, then hid it in her pocket.

  As Viviane crept down the grand marble staircase, she caught a glimpse of herself in a tall silver mirror that hung high on the wall. She scarcely recognised herself. So thin and pale, with haunted dark eyes and a sombre mouth, and plain clothes like a peasant might wear.

  I am no longer the Duchesse de Savageaux, she realised. And I am not Mademoiselle de Ravoisier anymore either.

  She could be anyone she wanted.

  Viviane stood still for a while, thinking about this, feeling a strange mad rush of excitement and liberation.

  I can do anything, go anywhere, be anyone I want!

  But then came a wave of desolation.

  Viviane had not a single sou in her pocket, nor any means of earning any. And Paris was in a state of siege. Even if she could afford it, Viviane could not hire a carriage to take her back to Belisima, or pay for a berth on a ship to the New World. The new National Convention had closed all the gates of Paris and posted guards on the bridges and quays to prevent the escape of any aristocrats.

  She had no friends or family in Paris to help her. Her father had abandoned her without a second’s hesitation. Pierrick had taken Luna and melted away into the night, and she did not know where to find them.

  The queen will help me, Viviane thought, and then remembered that she was queen no longer. Citoyenne Capet, everyone was calling her jeeringly. And Marie-Antoinette and her husband and children were in prison themselves.

  Viviane began to walk slowly once more. The thought came to her: Perhaps I can work for the queen once more. Perhaps I can help.

  She remembered Marie-Thérèse’s pale face, and how she had said so bitterly, ‘I thought you said no harm can come to the innocent.’ She thought of Louis-Charles, hugging his puppy, his thumb in his mouth, his blue eyes blank with horror.

  Her footsteps quickened.

  The Temple rose high above the crowded rooftops of Paris, making it easy to find. It had a thick central tower, with four small turrets on each corner. Each tower was topped with a spire shaped like a dunce’s cap. A garden at its base was protected by high walls, with a large courtyard in front surrounded on all sides with buildings. The only way was through a gatehouse, secured at all times.

  As soon as Viviane arrived, she knew she had made a mistake. It was guarded by half-a-dozen men, all slovenly and uncouth, drinking from dusty bottles and smoking foul-smelling pipes, their feet up on stools, red revolutionary caps crammed on their heads. They were, nonetheless, well equipped with bayonets affixed to their muskets, and pistols slung from their belts. Her resolve faltered, and her step with it.

  One guard had spied her, though, and called out to her.

  ‘Hello there, citoyenne, what are you doing here?’

  She did not know how to answer.

  They got to their feet, circling her, plucking at her sleeves and her bodice. ‘So clean and nice you are,’ they jeered. ‘Are you an aristo in disguise?’

  Viviane was so frightened, she could scarcely breathe.

  For some reason she thought of Pierrick. Last time she had seen him, he had been dressed in baggy striped trousers and a red cap, just like these men. He had put aside his white powdered wig and livery without a moment’s thought.

  She pulled her arm free. ‘Mind my fine feathers, citoyens,’ she said, mimicking Pierrick’s accent. ‘I’m in search of work, and can’t afford turning up dirty.’

  They made a few lewd jokes about making her dirtier. Viviane turned red, and wished she had expressed herself in different words. She tried to step away, but they pressed closer, their hands rough on her arm and waist. ‘Let me go!’ she cried.

  A young man dressed in a big white apron, a white cap on his head, and a belt stuck with knives had been passing by, a string of fish in one hand. He turned his head at the sound of her accent.

  ‘Are you from Bretagne?’ he asked.

  Her stomach flipped, but she nodded.

  He said in the Breton patois, ‘Are you all right? Are they bothering you?’

  ‘Ya,’ she answered rapidly, the Breton term for ‘yes’. ‘Please help me.’

  ‘You looking for work? Can you scrub?’ His quick glance took in her fine, white fingers.

  She nodded. ‘Yes, I can scrub, I can scrub anything,’ she babbled.

  He smiled suddenly. ‘Good.’ He turned to the guards, and switched effortlessly into French once more. ‘Unhand my new scullery maid, citoyens, else you’ll be scrubbing the floors and emptying the chamberpots yourself!’

  The guards all laughed, and relinquished their hold on Viviane’s arm. He jerked his head at her to follow.

  ‘We Bretons must stick together,’ he said. ‘Where are you from?�
��

  Improvising, Viviane told him she had worked in the kitchen and stillroom of a château in Bretagne, but had handed in her notice and come to Paris so she could be part of the revolution. He nodded, but a faint frown creased his face.

  The kitchen – along with pantries, butteries and sculleries – took up most of the ground floor of the old fortress. It was a dark, gloomy room, paved with huge uneven flagstones, and lit only by the glare of fires at either end, and tallow candles on the tables and mantelpiece. Men were busy stirring sauces and soups, kneading bread, or stripping herbs from their stems. A huge leg of mutton was being turned on a spit in one cavernous fireplace by a boy with a grubby face.

  ‘What’s your name then?’ the Breton chef asked, as he showed her around.

  Viviane thought fast. ‘Rozenn Cazotte,’ she answered, taking Pierrick’s surname as her own and using her middle name, which was a good Breton name.

  She could not say she was the daughter of the Marquis de Valaine.

  ‘I’m Ivo Sezvec, from Saint-Malon-sur-Mel.’

  ‘Why, that’s not far from me!’ Viviane cried, before she thought.

  At once Ivo wanted to know where she had lived, and she was too tired and hungry to think fast enough. ‘Near Paimpont Forest,’ she said.

  ‘So you must have worked at Belisima-sur-le-lac? That is the only château near there.’

  ‘Yes,’ she admitted.

  ‘Was it not burned down?’

  ‘Yes. That is why I came to Paris. There was no work there anymore.’

  ‘So you were there when it burned down?’

  ‘Yes,’ she lied, finding herself drawn deeper and deeper into falsehood with every word.

  ‘Was it true it was burned down by a madman who danced as he lit the fires?’

  She nodded, and hoped he would be satisfied, but Ivo perched on a stool and questioned her eagerly. Viviane had no choice but to weave him a tale from all that Pierrick had told her. It upset her, talking about the fire, and she had to stop and try to steady herself.