Apart from meals, Grey’s life was deadly monotony. He always sat in the narrow beam of light filtered down into his cell. That light saved him from madness, but not despair. Having always lived surrounded by people, he hadn’t realized human contact was as essential to his life as air. Now he saw no one, not even his jailers, so he couldn’t use his legendary charm to improve his situation.

He felt like a bird trapped in a small room frantically beating against the walls. But there was nothing, nothing, he could do to escape. The mortar that joined the stones was new and hard and impervious. The slit window that let in the blessed light was too far above his head to reach even when he jumped to try to catch the sill.

All the world was gray stone. The only features of the cell were the pallet with straw and dark blankets and the crude stone table and seat. Sometimes he caught a glimpse of a beefy hand placing the food on the floor and removing the empty bowl and drinking vessel. Occasionally Gaspard would open the upper window in the door to spew insults. Grey knew he was in a bad way when he looked forward to such interludes.

The cell warmed a little as spring turned to summer. When rain fell, the trickle of water down the wall became stronger and he could clean himself a little. He tried not to think of the magnificent new bathing rooms his father had built at the family seat, Summerhill. Tubs full of hot water large enough for a man to sink in to his chin …

No. He daren’t think of home. Like a hibernating animal, he took refuge in sleep, spending most of the hours of the day and night wrapped on his pallet in a dark haze of melancholy. Only meals pulled him from his stupor.

That changed the day Durand visited. Floating between sleep and unwelcome wakefulness, Grey was slow to realize that the door was opening. He was still lying on his pallet when Durand strode into the cell.

“Look at yourself, Wyndham,” Durand said contemptuously. “Three months’ imprisonment have turned you into a filthy, dull-witted pig. What woman would let you touch her now?”

Fury slashed through Grey’s lethargy and he launched himself up from the floor and straight at Durand. Like his classmates at the Westerfield Academy, he had learned the Indian fighting skills called Kalarippayattu from Ashton, his half-Hindu classmate. Surely he could break a middle-aged politician …

Durand slid away with insulting ease, then spun Grey around and forced him to his knees by twisting one arm excruciatingly behind his back. “You’re nothing but a boy, and a weak one at that.” He shoved Grey onto the floor, releasing his grip and stepping back after a parting kick in the belly. “The English are a nation of weaklings. That’s why French victory is inevitable.”

Gasping with pain from the kick, Grey panted, “The war has resumed?”

“Naturally. The Truce of Amiens was merely a pause to recruit more men and build more weapons. Within the next months, we will invade England and make ourselves masters of Europe.”

Grey didn’t want to believe that. But it could be true. In Paris, he’d heard that the French were building boats and amassing an army at Boulogne. “Napoleon will have to get by the Royal Navy first,” he spat out in a thin, rusty voice.

“We have plans to take care of your navy,” Durand said confidently. His expression changed. “After the invasion, your family will probably be dead and their fortune confiscated. I wonder if it would be prudent to offer you to them for ransom now? How much would they pay for their son and heir, Wyndham? A hundred thousand pounds? Two hundred thousand?”

Grey’s heart spasmed. Dear God, to be free of this place! His parents would pay any amount to get him back. They would …

They would beggar the family for his sake. His parents, his younger brother and sister—all would pay for Grey’s stupidity. He could not do that to them.

Managing a sneer of his own, he said, “They surely think I’m dead already, and good riddance. Why do you think I spent months in France? I was an expensive, useless son. My father was furious with me and I thought it best to get out of sight. He would have disowned me if he could.” Grey shrugged. “I have a younger brother who is better in all ways. He will make an excellent earl. I’m neither wanted nor needed.”

“A pity,” Durand said with a trace of regret. “But entirely believable. If you were my son, I wouldn’t want you back, either. Then you shall stay here till you rot.”

He spun on his heel and left. The locks on the door were engaged before Grey could stagger to his feet.

Had he thrown away his only chance of leaving this dungeon alive? Hard to say. Durand was a shifty devil and he might have collected a ransom and not freed his captive. Or returned Grey’s dead body to England.

But Durand had been right to sneer. Grey had been wallowing in self-pity and despair, allowing himself to become weak in body and spirit. If he’d been in better shape, he might have been able to break Durand’s neck. He’d never have escaped the castle, but it would have been satisfying to kill the mocking bastard.

He’d lost track of time. Three months, Durand had said. He felt as if he’d been here that many years, but from the length of his beard, three months sounded about right. It was summer, probably sometime in August. His twenty-first birthday had just passed.

If he had been home in England, his parents would have thrown a great celebration at the family seat, inviting aristocratic friends as well as all the Costain dependents. Grey would have enjoyed it enormously.

Instead, they were mourning his disappearance and likely death. He loved his family, but he’d always taken them for granted even though one couldn’t have asked for better parents. He was deeply fond of his younger brother and sister, who looked up to him. He’d failed them all. The only thing he could take pride in was discouraging Durand’s ransom demand.

Grey would not—could not—continue in this spineless fashion. First, he must begin an exercise regimen to rebuild his strength.

He studied his cell as he thought about what was possible in the space. He could run in place to build his endurance. Stiffly he began, imagining places he’d been and sights he’d seen so he could mentally leave these ugly walls.

He ran until he had a stitch in his side, then dropped to the floor and pushed himself up with just his arms. Once that would have been easy. Now he could only manage to push himself up half a dozen times before he collapsed, gasping.

Another way to build muscles was by lifting the two stones that served as chair and table. He bent to lift the smaller one. It was heavier than expected. He barely managed to raise it six inches before losing his hold. It crashed to the floor and a chip spun away from the lower edge.

Panting from his exertion, he vowed that he’d lift that damned stone over and over until he was strong enough to carry it around his cell. Then he would tackle the larger block that served as his table.

He could and would exercise every day. What else had he to do?

Perhaps even more important, he must rebuild his mind. He’d always been lazy in his classes, able to get by with little work and the help of an excellent memory. Lady Agnes had seen to it that he learned at the Westerfield Academy, but his years at Oxford had been fairly useless. He’d attended Christchurch College, where gentlemen’s sons like him dabbled in classes between social amusements. Kirkland and Ashton, characteristically, attended Balliol, the college associated with sheer brilliance.

He considered the memorizations required by different masters. How much of Caesar’s Gallic Commentaries could he quote in Latin?

“Gallia est omnis divisa in partes tres.” All Gaul was divided into three parts. He knew the Latin and English, and now he translated the passage into French. Since his voice also was weak from lack of use, he spoke the passage aloud as he exercised until he was too tired to do more.

Shakespeare. He’d studied the Bard and also performed in plays at the homes of friends. Always he was chosen as one of the leads and he learned his speeches easily. “Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day …”

No, not Macbeth, not here and now. What did he remember from Twelfth Night? Yes, that was a much better choice. “If music be the food of love, play on; Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting; The appetite might sicken, and so die.” He liked to sing and had a decent voice, so he could sing as much as he wanted to. Good for the soul and for maintaining his ability to speak.

He must keep track of time, no longer letting the days slide by mindlessly. When he’d dropped the chair stone, a small piece had chipped off. He would designate today as August 15, 1803. Using the stone chip, he scratched that on a head-high stone near the door. Every day would be marked off with a scratch.

He could hear church bells from the village. Careful listening would tell him what days were Sundays, and he should be able to determine major holidays.

From now on, his life would have purpose. He might never have a chance to free himself. But if an opportunity was presented, no matter how small, he’d be ready.

Gradually, Grey’s weakened body began to strengthen. So did his mind. He was amazed at how much he remembered of his lessons. He’d always enjoyed reading, so each day he chose a book from his mental library and recalled as much of it as possible.

He didn’t talk aloud to himself because doing so made him feel too close to the madmen he’d seen when one of his more rattle-pated friends had taken him to Bedlam Hospital. The friend thought watching deranged patients amusing. Grey had found it deeply disquieting. The memory of those tormented souls haunted him still, especially on those days when he wondered if he was descending into madness.

But an unexpected blessing appeared not long after Durand’s visit. Though he didn’t talk aloud, he had no compunctions about singing. Every day he sang several songs, and he enjoyed both the music and the way his voice was returning to normal after three months of disuse.

He’d just finished a rousing rendition of an English drinking song when a young female voice whispered in French from the slit window above, “Bonjour, monsieur. Is it true that you are an English milord?”

Grey leaped to his feet in excitement. Another human! And a female at that. “I was once, mamselle, but now I am a prisoner, of no importance.”

The girl giggled. “A real milord! I’ve never met a goddam. How did you come to be here?”

“I misbehaved,” he said solemnly. She giggled again and they had a brief conversation through the window, which was a foot or so above ground level. She was a castle maid and called herself Nicolette, though he suspected it wasn’t her real name.

She couldn’t stay long because the housekeeper was a dragon and Nicolette feared for her position if she was caught. But after that she visited once or twice a week, often with one of her friends.

Some of the girls were deliciously scandalized at the chance to talk to an imprisoned English milord. Nicolette was a kind girl with some interest in Grey as an individual. Occasionally she dropped an apple or other fruit between the bars. He devoured her offerings, amazed that he’d ever taken apples for granted.

Nicolette told him of her sweetheart and bid him a fond farewell when she left the castle to marry. He gave her his blessing, for he had nothing else to give.

None of the other maids visited as much, but he still had occasional visitors. For a time there was a boisterous young ostler from the stables who taught Grey highly obscene French drinking songs until the man was fired for drunkenness.

Grey treasured those moments of normality. They helped keep him sane.


Chapter 7

France, 1813

Madame Leroux was right, and Cassie did a brisk business at the small market in the village square. She rather enjoyed being a peddler. Since she didn’t depend on selling to support herself, she could be flexible on prices. It was a pleasure to be able to sell a pretty ribbon to a girl who had never owned anything pretty.

The thieves’ oil was popular, too. With winter illnesses rampant, buyers would try anything that might help. Customers were also interested in news, as isolated villagers always were. Yes, the news from Russia was bad, but the emperor had escaped safely, and wouldn’t this length of lace look lovely on your daughter’s wedding dress?

By noon there were no more customers, so it was time for the castle. Cassie ate a bowl of thick bean soup at La Liberté, thanked Madame Leroux for her help, and left St. Just du Sarthe. Instead of heading for the next village, she drove up to the castle. The narrow road was bleak and windy, and the castle was equally bleak when she reached it.