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

hand. An imposing figure indeed: tall, late fifties probably, although a mite old-fashioned in his full wig and shoes that were a bit too big in the buckle and the heel than was in style these days.

No aide or other officer accompanied him, so they sat down without ceremony and the man inquired, speaking French, if James had been offered anything. A shrewd face, with a laconic eye; not much would pass this man, and everything else would in some way or another amuse him. The first thing to amuse James was when he thought he caught the Irish in the general’s voice, and when James mentioned it, also speaking French, Lacy replied in English, so the Irish really did come through.

‘Aye, even after all these years I still have tongue I was born with. Killeedy, County Limerick, nearer to sixty years ago now than fifty. You have a good ear to pick it up.’

He was another of the Wild Geese.

‘You look surprised,’ he said.

‘There are a lot of us, it would seem,’ said James. ‘Fled the depredations of the ill-natured and unjust regime that sits in London.’

‘I fear the ill nature and injustice I turned my back on long predates yours, chevalier,’ said Lacy, without giving any indication he intended to elaborate. ‘Now to you. Thank you for returning my officers in person, but then we both know you didn’t have any choice.’

James nodded and smiled an acquiescing smile.

‘And well done on your excellent little action. A three-pronged attack in three disparate locations with two entirely different objectives, each executed with determination and timing, and each wholly successful. Too successful, as far as my plan for the outcome went. But then still as fine a piece of cavalry manoeuvre as I’ve seen.’

‘Your plan, sir?’ said James, not understanding, and forgetting to show due deference and modesty for the compliment.

‘Yes. I wanted you to capture that coach load of pen pushers and cartographers. They were a handsome catch, sure, but at this stage of my operations more or less useless to me. Because I wanted to have cause to summon you here. For there are matters I wish to discuss. My major general of horse was a bonus for you. The fool of a man was not supposed to be there. I blame myself, of course. It is what happens when your subordinate officers feel it appropriate to use their initiative. When news of my orders for the coach to trail its coat reached him, he was bright enough to determine that such a foray might tempt your most tiresome dragoons, and decided to set a trap to catch you. Presuming, I imagine, that I would be effusive in my gratitude and admiration once he’d succeeded. Alas, he was not bright enough to inform me first. No matter, the Collegium Militaire will supply me with another quick enough while he goes off to grow potatoes.’

‘I cannot imagine what matter you might wish to discuss with a mere colonel of dragoons, sir,’ said James, trying to imagine all manner of matters, furiously.

‘Chevalier James Lindsay of Branter, formerly in the service of James Francis Edward Stuart, King James the Third of Great Britain … in waiting. Currently a cavalry officer in the army of his king’s wife’s divided nation. Surely such a man of parts as you should have another, more influential role? But no, apparently. The people my staff correspond with inside Danzig – who are friends of M’sieur Stanislas, the future Duke of Lorraine, if only he would listen to reason – tell me you do not discuss affairs of state. Not with him, nor anyone else of import for that matter. Indeed you do not even correspond with the Palazzo del Re in Rome … although on occasion, it has with you. And mightily grumpy they have sounded, I’m told.’ And with that, Lacy gave a laugh, before continuing. ‘No, it would appear soldier of fortune is indeed your only calling up here on the Baltic’s shores. Would you say that was a fair summation of your circumstances?’

For a moment, James contemplated feigning ignorance of any involvement in affairs of state, and then thought better. Not with this man. Wiser just to say as little as politeness dictated.

‘Fair. Yes, I would, sir.’

Lacy smiled at the reply, and then went on. ‘Normally your progress through these concerning times would not concern me, chevalier. But I am not only a soldier, I am also the emissary of her majesty, the Tsarina of all the Russias, and when intelligence of other, graver matters reach me, I must inquire.’

‘Indeed, sir,’ said James, holding fast to his reticence.

‘Although I always take notice of fellow soldiers of our caste, whose mastery of our trade brings them renown,’ he added, eyebrows arched, to see if a compliment would bring his guest out.

‘You are too kind, sir,’ said James.

‘The tsarina would not look with approval on James Stuart putting his name forward as a compromise king for the throne of Poland to end this inconvenient war,’ said Lacy, leaning in slightly to better scrutinise James’ reaction. ‘There. I have said it outright to you, soldier to soldier. What do you intend to reply, or to do with the information?’

Startled, James did not even try to qualify his reply. ‘I would do nothing with it, sir! For I know nothing of compromise kings, sir, nor of anyone who does!’

Which, James knew, was strictly a lie.

The Comte de Valençay and all his insidious implication on that chilly day in Rome; he had been very keen on the idea of James Francis Edward Stuart and the crown of Poland. James found himself wondering – abstractly, with a little quiet smile to himself, that he kept buried deep, down inside – if this had been his first, proper diplomatic untruth; and how easy it had come, and if maybe