By My Sword Alone by David Black (ebook reader ink TXT) 📕

are so keen for you to listen for any mention. Any mention. And then to tell us. It is why King Louis remembers you. Or rather, the men who think his earthly thoughts do. Not for all the services done, but for the one you might yet do.’

James’ head was spinning. When he looked down, he could see de Valençay dangling a full purse. He looked up at the man’s gaunt, unknowable face. ‘You presume to bribe me, m’sieur?’

De Valençay held the purse steady now. ‘The coat I have sent you has deep pockets that need filling. And the float your king will give you, won’t do it.’

‘What kind of man do you take me for? To betray my king … for silver?’

De Valençay sighed, and palmed the purse. ‘A wise young man once wrote, … these kings fall out and kiss and make up again with a gay abandon that shows no interest in the societies of people over whom they hold complete power. That this world should be ordered so, ruled by the whims of creatures selected through random accidents of heredity is an outrage to all justice. Man, by our advanced nature, should be capable of so much more. That is why the pursuit of reason and law, and by way of our intellect, penetration to the very essence of what raises us above the beasts, is now, today, the only worthy goal of humanity …’

‘You read my letters, m’sieur? You read my letters, then taunt me with them?’

‘Do not insult me with your faux outrage, m’sieur. You know I read your letters. Everybody reads everything in that palazzo. And then sells everything. Its entire architecture is designed around douceurs … and not just from your allies. It is well known that Sir Robert Walpole has an open purse, and a deep one too, for the right hand that chooses to dip in. My God, m’sieur. If you ever wondered when your king last sat at stool, why, ask Sir Robert – he’ll even be able to tell you its colour!’

The two men glared at each other, then de Valençay’s face mellowed.

‘And I’d like to point out, m’sieur,’ he said, ‘that I read all of your letter to M’sieur Hume of Edinburgh, and most fascinating it was too. Where you discuss your own future … where you assert that cruel fortune and Hanoverian George have conspired to render you incapable of pursuing the only goals you call worthy … but that he, Mr Hume, must press on in their pursuit, never faltering … while you, in the exile you have been condemned to, not chosen, are left with only one path … to turn your back on the corrupt life of a courtier and become one of the Wild Geese … a soldier of fortune … “I will make my way in this life by my sword alone,” were your words, I believe. Very dramatic, chevalier, and romantic, and noble. I am sure the soldiering bit will come easy to you.’ And with that, de Valençay raised the purse again. ‘But don’t forget the fortune bit. You are so right about the corruption of this world. And to wonder, where is honour? But it takes a man who knows how to look after himself, to assign them their rightful places.’

James couldn’t help the smile that was spreading across his face. He reached out his hand and took the purse. ‘So, you are saying, m’sieur le comte, that the coat and the purse aren’t bribes, but merely there to keep me warm, while I practise my honour?

‘See. As I said. A wise young man … Oh! One more thing,’ and he passed James a slip of paper. ‘A name,’ he said. ‘If you should ever find yourself in need of … guidance up there.’

‘Someone I can trust?’ said James. But de Valençay’s baleful look cut him short.

‘Please. Never utter that word in my presence again,’ he said, with a wry arch of his brow. Then with a little more grace, he added, ‘There is a world of difference in this business, my young chevalier, between accepting guidance, and … that silly word. No, let us just say someone who might be of use. And do please, give her my regards should you chance to meet.’

7

The Road to Poland

What a journey it had been. It felt like he had traversed the entire globe.

Then, suddenly emerging from the dense sea of silver birch, with the land slowly rising before him, there it was. The city of Warsaw, its spires and towers all bathed in late summer light.

The newly-minted Colonel Chevalier James Lindsay had started out from Civitavecchia, the port of Rome, with a servant, two mounts and a pack horse, and sailed aboard a Venetian brig to Marseille, disembarking only to ride the few leagues to the river port of Arles on the River Rhone, then aboard another vessel, a sailing barge, for the long, slow creep up into the belly of Europe. The bargee had complimented him on his timing.

‘You have made it before the end of March, m’sieur, just in time to beat the spring melt. You would not like to see this river in spate with all the snow of the Alps turned to water, rushing south to summer in the sea!’

Up the river to Lyon, and then onto another barge to follow the River Saône to Dijon before he and his little convoy struck east to Colmar and then onto yet another barge to take the Rhine to Mainz. From there it had been a long ride up through the valleys of the Electorate of Hesse.

‘The country is nominally within the sphere of influence of the Holy Roman Emperor,’ a senior secretary at the Palazzo del Re had told him, while stamping and sealing all his passports and letters of introduction, ‘by which we now