The Barbed Crown Read Free Page B

and spitting Channel salt. I gripped Comtesse Marceau like a wrestler, trying to concentrate on our predicament instead of her form. We men inventory the female shape the way a lepidopterist does butterflies. She shivered and pulled away.
    Phantom had used her anchor to kedge off the beach. The sloop caught the wind with its jib and began to work into the dark. Above us, chalky cliffs rose into gloom.
    “I could have died!”
    “You will die, sooner or later, as will we all,” I snapped. Women usually find me irresistible, or at least don’t keep such wary distance. By thunder, I’ve had Napoleon’s sister, a British aristocrat, and an Indian maiden, so Catherine needn’t pretend I’m a leper. “In the meantime we try to defeat Bonaparte.”
    “Don’t lecture me about the Corsican.”
    “If you’re going to be a spy, you really should learn to swim,” I retorted.
    She lifted her head. “No. I am on French soil now, and don’t intend to leave it again. I will triumph, or be buried.” She crossed her arms, but then they flew apart. “My reticule!”
    “What about it?”
    “Lost in the water. You must find it!”
    The surf was roaring, the Channel black, and the tide wicked. “I’m afraid that’s impossible.”
    “But my money was in there!”
    The lost coins made me hesitate. It was a dark night, but I made a futile grope before a particularly big wave broke, foam swirling against our knees, before admitting it was useless. “An offering to Neptune, I’m afraid.”
    “This is your fault for letting us make that foolish leap!”
    “On the contrary, your fault for not hanging on to your vital possessions. Next time, clutch before you jump, Comtesse.” She shivered miserably, sniffling, so I took pity. “I’ve money enough for both of us.”
    “I do not like being dependent.”
    The woman had never worked a day in her life. “Then swim for your savings.”
    She glanced at the pounding water before replying. “But I will allow you to help me this time.”
    “We’re friends, then?”
    “Allies.”
    “We’d best get beyond the reach of the tide.” I turned toward the cliffs, which appeared impassable, and saw that green lantern again. “There. Either our salvation or our doom.”
    We stumbled up the slippery cobble to a cluster of men in bicorn hats and flapping greatcoats, their lantern hooded once we got near. In the rain the hats formed twin gutters that diverted rainwater from their crown to their shoulders in little rivulets. We were all silhouettes in the dark.
    “Good King Louis,” their leader said. It was the password.
    “By the grace of God may he reign,” the comtesse replied, finishing the code.
    “They wouldn’t ferry you ashore?” the man continued.
    “Our launch was holed. We’ve had storm, gunfire, and a soaking.”
    “I apologize your return to France wasn’t easier. Bonne nuit , I am Captain Emile Butron of the Vendée rebel army.”
    “I thought that force was destroyed by General Bernadotte.”
    He spat tobacco, which soldiers chew nervously before a fight. “Not entirely. We still have a network of safe houses, once we top this bluff. But we must move quickly; there are spies everywhere. The policeman Réal pays a hundred francs for each report of a royalist, and gets three basketfuls of condemnations every morning. The denunciations cost Bonaparte’s government four million francs a year, and they consider it a bargain.”
    “Once in Paris we’ll be hidden among friends,” Catherine said.
    “Alas, we’re hard-pressed in Paris as well, Comtesse. Georges Cadoudal has been arrested.”
    “What?” Catherine’s question was more of a cry. She was having a bad night.
    “After a coach chase through Paris, Georges shot one policeman and tried to blend with the crowd, but someone pointed him out. General Pichegru was seized after fighting a dozen men in his sleeping chamber. General Moreau had already declined to cooperate with our plan—he says he is a