China by Edward Rutherfurd (historical books to read TXT) 📕

“Where’s that?”

“Here at the Summer Palace.” His old eyes gleamed at me. “When you think about it: Most of the court’s gone. One or two of the old palace ladies are left behind, and a small staff of eunuchs, including me and the gardeners. But that’s all. There’s no business being done here. No entertaining, no concerts. We’ve got the whole park almost to ourselves.”

“I’d like a roof over my head,” I replied.

“You could install yourself on one of the islands. Not the Island of Shrines—there are some priests on it. But most of the islands are deserted. I’d let you know if the gardeners were coming your way. And I can bring you food every day or two. There’s plenty of food.” He smiled at me. “You can live like a scholar hermit for a while. Perhaps it will suit you.”

We discussed the islands. I liked the Apricot Blossom Spring Villa, with its orchard and steep hill; and I could see myself in one of the little villas around the lotus pond on the curious island known as Lianxi’s Wonderland. Both of them were quiet, out-of-the-way places where you could hide. But it was the Peony Terrace, the closest island of all, almost opposite the emperor’s private residence, that we finally decided upon.

“It’s really a spring and summer retreat,” Mr. Ma explained, “and with the emperor away, the gardeners don’t bother with it for the moment.” I also liked the fact it was easy for Mr. Ma to get to, when he wanted to bring me food or news.

So after sharing a little food with me, he led me through the darkness to the Peony Terrace.

I believe the period that followed was one of the happiest of my life. Partly it was the beauty of the place. The peonies had already been trimmed back for autumn by the time I got there, and I must say I was glad it wasn’t summer, since if you were actually living out there, the heady fragrance of some of those rich, double-globed flowers might have been altogether too much of a good thing.

The fact remained, here I was, the sole inhabitant of the emperor’s most gorgeous garden in the paradise of the Yuanmingyuan, in perfect peace and safety. It has to be fate, I thought, that no matter what disasters befall me, I am lifted up and surrounded, time and again, with the finer things of life. The sixth emperor of the Manchu dynasty, the present emperor’s glorious forebear, used to retire to the Peony Terrace to write poetry—for which he had great talent. I wondered whether, had my education proceeded further, I might have done the same. But I’d probably have been too busy smelling the peonies.

—

Each time Mr. Ma came, he’d bring me news. “The barbarians are still camped just to the south,” he told me on the second day. “They say the French are a bit closer, with the British farther behind them, waiting for reinforcements. It’s easy to tell which is which. The French uniforms are blue and the British red. There have been a few skirmishes, nothing more.”

A couple of days later, he explained that the French were angry on account of one of their priests who’d been killed in a skirmish and thrown in the canal.

Meanwhile, Lord Elgin wanted the hostages back and Prince Gong wouldn’t give them up unless Elgin promised to go away. Some days it seemed like a stalemate, but on other days there were signs that the situation couldn’t go on. Our troops were close to mutiny, the old man told me. People were starting to flee the city. I was sure my father wouldn’t be one of them.

I’d been there some time when Mr. Ma turned up chuckling. “I have good news today,” he announced. “You’re dead.”

“I am?” I said.

“Shaking Leaf’s had a couple of palace people making inquiries after you—just to protect himself from Mr. Liu, I should think. When nobody could find you and you never turned up at the Great Wall, one of the searchers told Shaking Leaf that he thought you were dead. I expect he said it because he was bored with looking for you. But Shaking Leaf wants to believe it. So now the word is that you’re dead, and I’ve no doubt that in another day or two Shaking Leaf will believe it himself. You know how these things go.”

“Well,” I replied with a laugh, “it’s better being dead in the Peony Terrace than it ever was being alive in the kitchens.”

Shortly after that, Lord Elgin declared he was going to knock down the walls of the city and destroy it. “I doubt he could do that, Mr. Ma,” I said.

“Perhaps not,” he agreed, “but it’s frightening the inhabitants. Even more of them are leaving.”

One evening, Mr. Ma told me that two of the more important hostages had been transferred to better quarters. “I hear that most of the hostages are in terrible shape after starving with the rats in prison,” Mr. Ma said. “It looks to me as if Prince Gong’s fattening these two up before returning them.”

“It must mean he wants to talk,” I suggested. “Where are the British now?” I asked.

“In the same place.”

“And the French?”

“Wandering about. Bored. Looking for loot, I should think.”

And during all these days, from the emperor and his court north of the Great Wall, we heard not a word.

—

It began so quietly. The first thing I heard, coming from beside the emperor’s residence, was a low voice laughing and another speaking, just like two people having a quiet conversation. I supposed they were gardeners and hoped they wouldn’t discover me. But the sound of their voices retreated, and for a few moments there was silence.

Then there were shouts, farther off. Not angry shouts. More like cries of joy. Next I heard something breaking, quite nearby. It had to be in the emperor’s residence. What could be going