By Jenny Guttridge

Happy birthday Richard!

The setting was supremely suitable for conspiracy and skulduggery. A single storey stone built building that had know far better days now used as a stable. Outside the late afternoon sun shone without warmth casting a single ray of light through the broken doorway, cutting like a knife the gloom within. Half a dozen small horses in assorted dun colours and a single elderly donkey stood in makeshift stalls. Wisps of steam came from their nostrils and rose wraith like from their bodies. The cold air smelled of hay and horse manure.

At the front of the building an old man pushed ineffectually on a broom, a cloud of dust rising around him. He was safely out of earshot and in any case, everyone one in the district knew he was profoundly deaf.

Satisfied, Pierre Molette turned back to his companions. In their dark clothing the three of them were almost invisible in the dark recesses at the back of the building. “He’ll be here” Pierre said with quiet intensity “He promised that he would come”

“Well, he’d better” Marcel de’Vot, as dark as his friend was fair glowered, his thick brows leaning together until they met over the bridge of his nose. “I don’t like us all being together like this” He chaffed his hands together against the cold and shuffled his feet.

“Who’s to see?” Pierre gestured with an open hand “The horses? The old man?”

The third member of the little group, a smaller, thinner, younger man, giggled, an insane light in his pale eyes. The other two glared at him until he quieted.

A shadow fell across the doorway, breaking the sunlight.

“He’s here” Pierre said.

A man stepped into the stable, a big man in a dark cloak with long unbound dark hair and an unfashionable moustache. He glanced briefly at the old man who did not look up from his sweeping and swiftly made his way towards the three that awaited him at the back. He stood head and shoulders above all of them.

“Well?” he demanded, peeling off his gloves and looking from one of them to another “You sent word to me to meet you here. What have you to tell me?”

Pierre looked at Marcel who was scowling again and elected himself spokesman “We found the woman you were looking for. The Countess, Lady Argot, and her child”

The big man immediately became more attentive. He bent his head towards theirs, dark eyes glittering “Where? Where is she?”

“What about our gold, Le Morte?” Marcel asked in a low tone “you promised us gold if we found her”

“You’ll get your gold. On delivery, and not before” The big man, who called himself Death, made an angry gesture “Now say what you have to say so that I can get out of this stinking place!”

Pierre looked round again, carefully. The old man was closer now, still hunched over his broom. Pierre frowned and drew the others closer. “Come with your men to the House La Vere. Come tomorrow, at mid-day, and we will deliver her into your hands”

Something sparkled briefly in Le Morte’s eyes, surprise, anger. He touched his moustache with the knuckle of his forefinger, an unconscious habitual mannerism and gazed at each of the three faces in turn, considering. Molette, thin faced with unkempt fair hair, de’Vot, dark, broad, brooding, and Deriot Autrey, small, scarred and utterly mad.

“Very well” he said slowly “I hope your information is reliable, or it will be the worse for all of you”

“It is reliable” Pierre said tightly “Have I ever failed to keep my promises?”

“No” Le Morte regarded him grimly “Otherwise you would not still be alive” He drew himself up and gathered the folds of his cloak around him. “Tomorrow then. At noon”

“And bring the gold with you” Marcel said quietly.

Le Morte favoured him with a withering glare, turned on his heel and stalked from the building. The old man, knocked aside in his passage, gazed after him with something akin to idiocy.

“That’s it then” Pierre said mater of factly “Lets’ go and make sure our arrangements are in order. We can’t afford for anything to go wrong”

Marcel was still glowering at the old man “What about him?”

Pierre followed his gaze “He’s stupid. And deaf”

“Der could cut his throat, just to be sure”

“Leave him alone” Pulling his coat around him and, avoiding the horse droppings, Pierre headed for the door.

Marcel followed. As he passed the old man he pushed him hard in the chest and sent him stumbling backwards into a stall. Deriot, last in line, giggled.

***

The three men at the table passed the pot bellied bottle of brandy round and each of them poured himself a small glass full. They were sitting in an alcove at the back of the auberge, close enough to the fire to be warm but dark enough to be gloomy. A candle in a pewter holder sat in the middle of the table, the light from its steady flame casting shadows across their faces. The biggest man of the three, his back to the room and the candle light gleaming on his hairless scalp took a sip from his glass, considering carefully what he had just heard. The youngest man gazed from one to the other of his friends, his animated face full of anxiety.

“But, Percy!” he hissed “It’s obviously a trap! I don’t care what disguise you use, they’ll be on you the moment you show you face. You don’t have a chance!”

Percival Blakeney, Baronet, Englishman, Georgian gentleman, gazed at him across the table with a measure of concern in his bright blue eyes. “What would you have me do then, my dear Andrew?” He asked quietly “Abandon the Countess and her child to their fate?”

Andrew Ffoulks made a gesture of growing exasperation. “Yes!” If that’s what it takes!” He glanced round anxiously but the drinking house was not crowded and no one was near enough to have heard his outburst. Never the less, he lowered his voice “Percy, half of France is baying to get its’ hands on you, and the other half would sell it’s own mother for the price of a square meal!”

Percy glanced at the third man, who was French, but he had taken no offence at Andrews’ words. “And what is your opinion, Aldemere?”

The big man put his empty glass down carefully on the table. His face was in the deepest shadow but Percy’s quick eyes discerned the troubled look on his broad features. “It would indeed be a hazardous undertaking, my lord. Sir Andrew is right. If you should be taken…”

“But can it be done?”

Aldemere shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I would say that it can. But to get the woman out you would have to walk right into the lions den”

“That’s exactly what I plan to do. The Countess Argot has been posing as a servant in her own house for more than three months. She has shown the most remarkable courage and somehow managed to conceal her identity. Now that they know where she is, our time has run out. It has to be tomorrow”

“Percy..!” Andrew was exasperated.

Percy looked at him calmly “There has been too much killing, Andrew. Too much blood spilled. If I can save them, then I shall”

Aldermere raised his dark, concerned eyes to look directly into Percy’s “What face shall you wear, my lord”

Percy flashed a smile that brightened the darkness “Why, my own. Of course!”

Andrew shook his head, bemused and bewildered “It’s not a game, Percy!”

Percy’s smile faltered for just a second, then “Lord, Andrew. But that’s just what it is. And for deuced high stakes, eh?” He poured himself another drink and passed the bottle on “Now here’s what we’ll do…”

***

Resplendent in a deep green velvet coat and gold brocade waistcoat, with an elaborate cravat of fine lace at his throat, high boots and tall fashionable hat, Percy made his way up the wide colonnaded steps of the House La Vere. He bowed low to a lady on his right, and again to another on his left, smiling pleasantly. It was a pleasant day. The sun was shining brightly and for the first time in a long time there was some strength in it. The light dusting of snow that had fallen overnight had already disappeared and the air had a freshness in it that promised that one day soon it might be spring.

The House La Vere, like many of the grand aristocratic houses in Paris had been taken over by the Revolutionary Council and turned into civic offices. The halls were filled with people and the walls were mostly empty of their artworks.

The people were there to get licences issued, permits stamped, documents examined. The pictures and statuary had gone to grace other walls belonging to those of less than noble birth. ‘The Safe Keeping of the State’ it was called but few were under the illusion that they would ever be seen again.

Percy strolled nonchalantly in through the wide open doors, a look of bored resignation on his carefully shaved and powdered face. Without seeming to, his quick eyes scanned through the faces, sorting types. No beggars and few peasants – the poorest did not travel and avoided contact with authority. No upper classes. The Reign of Terror ensured that those aristos that remained tended to stay in hiding. The rooms were filled mostly with local tradesmen needing to import goods, countrymen wanting to leave the city, and men looking for work, leavened with a scattering of women who needed permits to ply their none too savoury trade, soldiery in their now somewhat shabby blue and white coats, and foreigners, like Percy.

Not far inside Percy saw a face he knew well and sauntered over “Fitzjohn.”

The other man turned, for a moment startled at the sound of his name “Why Blakeney!”

The two Englishmen bowed to each other with elegant formality. Fitzjohn was as tall as Percy, perhaps a year or two younger, lighter haired and his eyes were blue. He wore a strikingly elegant outfit of silver grey. “What brings you here?” he asked in English. He gave a casual motion with a limp hand that spoke eloquently his opinion of the environs.

“Oh!” Percy gave a small petulant sigh “Just trying to get South to check on some property of mine. With all this damned insurrection, who knows if the place is still standing, even. And now I find I need a damned pass just to get through the gate. And you, sir?”

“Business, you know” Fitzjohn contrived to sound bored “I find half the goods my brother ordered impounded, and the other half eaten by rats!”

The two exchanged polite pleasantries a few moments longer and parted with a another bow.

Percy worked his way deeper into the building. The wanton rape and destruction of the building and its’ treasures offended his sensitivity, but more offensive still was the knowledge of what had happened to the Count, who’s town house it had been and his three tall sons. Percy’s purpose, to rescue the Countess and her one remaining child, a daughter pressed on him.

In some of the side rooms long tables had been lined up along the end wall and behind them weary looking officials sat on fragile gilded chairs that had, it seemed, insufficient strength to bear their weight. In front of the tables lines of people shuffled forward, presenting their papers one by one as they came to the head of the queue. The rooms were stuffy, filled with the sound of voices and the smell of too many bodies crowded together.

Percy selected the shortest line and ignoring the stares and mutterings sauntered directly to the front, tossing a sheaf of ribbon bound papers down in front the startled official that sat there.

The official looked from the papers that had landed almost in his lap, to the man he was supposed to be dealing with, to Percy who had already moved past him to study one of the few pictures that remained on the wall.

“Hurry man, I haven’t all day” Percy snapped at him in flawless French “This is really just too inconvenient”

The official raised his hands “But … Who..?”

As far as Percy was concerned, the truth was sufficient unto the moment “I am Sir Percival Blakeney, and I have the dubious honour of owning property to the North of Troyes.

Which I wish to visit, as soon as you put your damned stamp on the damned paper!” Percy waved his monocle at him “So if you would oblige…”

He returned to his study of the picture. It was no surprise that this particular artwork had failed to be stolen. It was a particularly grisly portrayal of the crucifixion and not to Percy’s taste at all.

The official stared at he bundle of papers, gazed round in vain for someone in higher authority who might be able to deal with this over-powering Englishman, and decided with a sigh that the fastest way to get rid of him was to process the paperwork.

Percy shot a glance sideways and gave an all but imperceptible nod. Aldermere, lining up two tables along, caught his eye and returned the nod. A moment later he let out an incoherent roar of frustration, threw his hat on the floor and proceeded to upturn the table. The queue scattered. The officials shouted. Blue coated soldiers came running. Aldermer let rip with a torrent of gutter French that vented his fury at the long wait. The soldiers grabbed him, intent on ejecting him from the building. Percy slipped unseen through a tall door marked, in French ‘Strictly No Admittance’

The suite of rooms beyond the door were a revelation. They were virtually untouched, their elaborate furnishings and priceless treasures intact. It was as if the family that had lived there had just stepped outside and might at any moment return to fill the rooms with movement and laughter. Percy drew a deep breath. It was quiet here, almost too quiet after the crush of bodies outside, and fresh, as if the rooms had been recently aired. He glanced down at his watch. It was almost noon and he had no time to lose.

In long swift strides he crossed that room and the next, ran quickly down a flight of curved steps and threw open the door of a room at the bottom.

A tableau of motion, frozen in time, met his eyes. A tall handsome woman in a plain blue dress and white apron, her hair wrapped in a white cloth, was struggling with two burly men, one griping each of her arms. A small blonde haired child clung to her skirts. A third man, smaller, younger, with a mass of wild straw coloured hair stood watching, a smile on his twisted face. All their eyes locked on Percy.

The scene held for just an instant. Then the door that Percy had pushed hit the wall.

Percy stepped into the room. Marcel pushed the woman into Pierre’s arms and started to advance, head down, fists clenched. Percy sidestepped and pushed a table in his path. One handed, Marcel threw it aside. Percy backed up, looking round for something to use as a weapon. The room was a kitchen with solid, heavy furniture and a variety of kitchen implements. Unfortunately the knives all appeared to be on the far side of the room. Still backing, Percy’s hand fell on a weighty candlestick. He threw it, underhand, to see it bounce harmlessly off a powerful forearm. Marcel glowered, his fists working. A deep growling sound was coming from somewhere in his chest. Percy came to the abrupt conclusion that he did not want to come within reach of those massive hands.

He came up against a hard edge that abruptly halted his retreat. The great iron cooking range that all but filled one wall of the room. One handed Percy snatched up a massive iron pot that sat on the range. His fingers scorched. He hurled the contents of the pot at the approaching behemoth. Drenched in boiling stew Marcel stopped and shook his head. He let out a grunt that was either of pain or rage. Percy hit him hard on the head with the pot and he dropped.

Pierre let go of the woman, pushing her behind him towards Deriot. Snarling he stepped forward, picking up a large bladed butchers’ knife from his side of the kitchen. Percy didn’t give him the chance to use it. He leapt forward, jumping over Marcels unmoving bulk and snatched a handful of salt from an open bowl on the table. In the same movement he hurled it upwards into Pierre’s eyes. Blinded, Pierre threw up his hands. From behind the woman hit him over the head with a wooden meat mallet.

Percy gave her a quick smile.

She opened the door to what was apparently a small storeroom. Percy picked Pierre up by the scruff and applied his boot to the backside. Pierre flew, and Percy shut and bolted the door behind him. Turning, he found himself face to face with Deriot. The little man was still laughing, the bright blade of his knife flicking from side to side just two inches from Percy’s eyes.

Percy drew a long breath, filling his lungs and steadying himself. He made himself look beyond the glittering edge of the knife into the eyes of the man who held it. They were pale washed out eyes set in a face cris-crossed with old scars, and they were quite, quite mad. Deriot was giggling insanely as his knife danced its’ bright, evil dance.

Percy was taller by head and shoulders, and Deriot had made the mistake of coming too close. Percy held his gaze and brought his knee up hard. Deriot doubled. Percy drove his fingers into the throat. Deriot choked as his windpipe filled with blood, dropping the knife. Moving behind him Percy wrapped a long arm round his neck and jerked. There was a wet snap. The laughter and the life faded from Deriot’s eyes. For a moment time itself stood still. Then Percy let go the body and allowed it to slide loosely to the floor.

Just a little breathless, he turned to the woman “Are you hurt? Is the child?”

She took a deep breath and tore her eyes away from the body on the floor, meeting Percy’s gaze directly “No. We’re all right”

“You are the Countess Mirrian Argot?”

“I am, sir. This is my daughter Marie. My only surviving child.” She gathered the little girl to her side “And you are..?”

“A friend”

The countess’ fair brows narrowed “Are you …” His pseudonym trembled on her lips.

He nodded “I’ve come to take you to safety”

Some of the tension went out of her. She smiled and the smile lit her face.

Percy retrieved his fallen hat and examined his lace cuffs for signs of stew. The Countess pulled off her apron and picked up the child, ready to leave at once without a backwards glance. With a hand on her elbow Percy guided her out of the disrupted kitchen, up the steps and through the opulent rooms above. Here he led the way, and she followed, looking neither to right nor left. The life she had led here as lady and mistress was a thing of the past and a part of another existence. At this moment she was staking her future and her very life, and more preciously those of her child, on the abilities of this tall Englishman.

At the tall doors Percy hesitated, drawing the woman in close beside him. He could feel the tension growing in her again, and he heard Andrew’s words again ‘It’s not a game, Percy’

He opened the door just a crack and peered through. Then he eased the woman through and followed, closing the door quietly behind them.

Order had been more or less restored. The tables were back in place with their bored officials and their shuffling lines of resigned people. There were more blue coats in evidence than before but the soldiers appeared disinterested in the proceedings, in any event, fortuitously they were all looking the other way as the two joined the milling mass of people in the centre of the room.

Without seeming to hurry Percy guided the woman towards the open door and the hallway beyond. By the single clock that remained in the room it was exactly twelve o’clock.

The hall was packed with people, and as they entered it at one end there was a sudden commotion at the other, by the street door. Another squad of soldiers was pushing their way in and among them, towering above them was a giant of a man, tall and broad, wrapped in a great black cloak. A great mane of dark hair flew about his head and his blunt featured face was ornamented by a raggedly trimmed moustache.

Le Mort’s glittering dark eyes scanned over the heads of the crows and his gaze lighted at once on Percy and the woman. Without troubling to look behind him Percy knew that their retreat was cut off. Abruptly there was nowhere to go. He pushed the woman and her child behind him, instinctively shielding them with his body as Le Morte cut his was rapidly through the throng.

The two confronted one another at about an even height, though Le Morte had almost twice Percy’s bulk. Percy lifted his chin and gazed at him down the length of his aristocratic nose.

“If you will excuse me, sir, you appear to be standing in my way”

Le Mort smiled with his lips but the smile came nowhere near his eyes “I intend do more than stand in your way, sir”

Percy drew a careful breath and tried again “The lady is feeling unwell and has requested me to escort her outside”

Le Mort’s smile broadened “The ‘lady’ is of no importance. She will get all the fresh air she needs on the way to the guillotine. I know well who she is, sir, and I know who you are!” He leaned back on his heels and considered Percy, up and down, his knuckle pressed against his upper lip. “I think we can safely say that this encounter will put an end to your escapades”

Percy was very much aware of the blue coated soldiery surrounding him, and also of the woman backing away. For a moment he entertained a vague hope that she and the child might yet be able to slip away.

Le Mort spoke again, enjoying Percy’s discomfort “I have known the identity of the Countess for a long time. She was no more than the bait in my trap. As much a part of my plan as the old man in the stable and the three fools you have, no doubt already dispatched. I knew that you would come for her”

The smile finally reached his eyes “And now, sir, if you will step this way…”

Percy tried just one more bluff, playing as much for time as for anything else “And just who is it that you think I am?”

Le Mort’s voice hissed with triumph “I know that you are none other than the infamous Scarlet Pimpernel!”

A flash caught Percy’s eye. Across the room the woman had unbound her hair and it fell in a conspicuous flow of bright gold over her shoulders. She was clinging to the arm of Arlon Fitzjohn and he was guiding her – or rather she, him – towards the street door.

Percy’s lightening quick mind grasped what the Countess was trying to do. At that moment his very life depended on just how much Le Mort knew. “I believe, sir” he said, precisely “That you have the wrong man”

Le Mort turned, following his gaze. His breath caught and his brows closed in a frown. What he saw was the Countess Argot and her child making good their escape with a tall, well dressed, aristocratic Englishman. He looked back at Percy, who regarded him with disdain. One of these cursed Aristos was the Pimpernel, but which one?! The one before him was making no attempt to escape and indeed seemed a bumbling and inept fool, while the other was getting away. Le Mort made up his mind.

“Stop him! There!” He waved an arm over the heads over the heads of the now confused and panicking crowd.

In an effort to obey the soldiers did an abrupt about turn, falling over the citizenry and getting in each others’ way. Percy doffed his tall hat and hunched down, effectively losing a foot off his height. While the soldiers hastened to apprehend Fitzjohn Percy slipped round the back of the crowd to the door. Moving swiftly he reached it at the same time as the Countess, snatching her arm and pulling her away at the same moment that hands grasped Fitzjohn.

He had no conscience whatever about implicating Fitzjohn. There was no doubt that the young man, given a little time, could easily prove who he was, or rather, who he was not. A little time was just what Percy needed.

Andrew was waiting at the end of the path with a carriage, the door already opened. His hat in one hand, Percy bundled the Countess and her child in with the other and followed close behind. Andrew came last, slamming the door and with a clatter of hooves and iron shod wheel rims the carriage made away down the street.

***

The old man led a horse from the gloom of the stable into the bright afternoon sunlight that filled the cobbled yard. Not one of the small shaggy brown horses but a tall black gelding with a shiny coat and fire in it’s eye. Percy, in striped riding breeches and long black coat took the reins from him and handed him a small bag. The bag clinked with a goodly weight of gold.

“You will have to leave Paris, now” Percy told him “Le Mort will be searching for you. There is nowhere in the city that you will be safe”

The old man weighed the little bag in his hand and a slow smile cracked his face “Don’t worry, my lord. I shall be gone long before nightfall and there is enough here to keep me in comfort for a very long time”

Percy swung into the saddle and gathered the reins, bringing the black horse under expert control “Take good care then, my friend, and farewell”

The old man bowed “Farewell, my lord”

Percy smiled, turned the horse and cantered away.

N.B The character of the Scarlet Pimpernel is the creation and sole property of Baroness Emmuska Orczy and this text is intended in no way to infringe upon her copyright or that of her heirs or descendants.

Potters Bar 2000