The King's Evil

Chapter Thirteen

Christopher Redmayne was an indifferent sailor and it was only the necessity of reaching Paris which made him cross the Channel with any enthusiasm. He marvelled at the fearless way in which the crew handled the ship, especially when it came out from the shelter of the estuary to be met by stronger winds and more purposeful waves. His queasy stomach eventually settled down and drowsiness soon took over. The salt spray which so many found bracing had the opposite effect on Christopher and he spent most of the time below deck, huddled in a corner, drifting in and out of sleep, rocked like a baby in a giant cradle. Food and drink were never even considered. How long he slumbered he did not know, but he came awake to the sound of yelling voices above his head, the cry of gulls and the distant chiming of church bells.

When he ventured up on deck again, he saw that they were about to enter the harbour at Calais. The prospect of dry land and his intense curiosity spared him any further discomfort and he was able to remain at the bulwark throughout. He scanned the harbour but was disappointed to find no sign of the Marie Louise among the assorted vessels moored there even though Calais had been its designated port of call. When he disembarked, he made enquiries at the quayside and learned that he had arrived too late. Having taken a cargo of wine on board, the Marie Louise had sailed back to England and must therefore have passed Christopher's own craft in the night. It was galling.

He was glad that England was finally at peace with France, albeit an uneasy one. It turned him from a nominal foe into a welcome friend and his command of the language drew approving smiles from everyone he met and set him apart from most of the other English passengers who stepped off the ship on to French soil.

Paris still lay a long way off and he elected to travel most of the way by coach, withstanding the noisy conversation and the bad breath of his companions in return for a journey of relative comfort and assured safety. Fond thoughts of Penelope Northcott filled his mind throughout the first day on the road and he wondered how she would react when she learned of George Strype's bold but failed attempt to retrieve the letters from him during what Christopher was certain was a visit unauthorised by her. At the inn where he spent the night, he fell asleep with the contentment of a man who had helped to sow discord between the engaged couple.

Awake at cockcrow, he tried to picture the moment of discovery when Penelope prised open her father's desk. To a sensitive young lady, the disillusion must have been searing as all her certainties about her father were ripped asunder. Christopher was bound to speculate on the motives which drove her to institute the search in the first place and to take it upon herself to break into a locked drawer. Another thing puzzled him. Given the nature of the letters, why had Sir Ambrose Northcott kept them at Priestfield Place and not in his possession? It was almost as if he wanted them to be found.

As the coach rumbled off again, Christopher realised that he was following a trail which Sir Ambrose himself must have taken many times. It meandered gently through the enchanting landscape of Picardy and provided scenery to divert the most jaded travellers. Trees were in full bloom, grass was green and lush, sheep and cattle grazed in the sunshine, hedgerows were fringed with pert wild- flowers and a playful breeze turned the sails of the occasional windmill. Yet Christopher took no pleasure from the journey. Eager for action, he was instead surrounded by rural tranquillity. Anxious to reach Paris, he was forced to sit in a stuffy coach with gaping passengers as it kept up a steady speed.

They passed through Amiens early on the third day and the sight of its magnificent cathedral did tear him away from his preoccupations and make him admire it afresh. Christopher believed that it was an even finer piece of ecclesiastical architecture than Notre Dame and its ornate detail bewitched him long after the coach had driven out of the town. When they reached Beauvais, he decided to abandon the coach and complete the last leg of the journey alone. Shortly after dawn on the next day, he was cantering on a hired horse along the road to Paris.

What lay before him he did not know, but he was spurred on by memories of what he had left behind. Two murders and a series of unpleasant revelations had trapped him in a kind of labyrinth. He was hoping that Marie Louise Oilier might somehow teach him the way out.

He knew Paris well and it always struck him as a strange mixture of beauty and ugliness, of effortless splendour rooted in filthy streets. When he eventually reached the French capital, what first greeted him was the high wall which encircled the city and which was in turn ringed by an earth dyke. He entered through the Porte de St-Ouen and plunged into its narrow, congested streets, dwarfed by the endless churches, colleges and religious houses built with a grey stone which was stained by time. The city's characteristic stink rose up to attack his nostrils and he put a hand to his face as he picked his way through the milling crowd.

The sense of being lost in a labyrinth became stronger than ever.