The Forbidden Rose

Forty-six

LET’S HOPE THIS WORKS. I AM TRAILING A THUNDERING herd of guesses.

Doyle lined men and women up across the courtyard and down the cloister, touching a shoulder to say “Keep quiet.” Touching an arm to say, “Wait.” They’d be scared, pulled out of sleep in the middle of the night. His lieutenants, three men and one woman, were holding their sections of the line tight and quiet.

Five minutes to go. He pulled the healthy, young ones out of line and moved them up first. These were the ones he could move fastest. The ones who had the best chance.

Two candles stood on the rim of the well. Little lights that wouldn’t be seen on the other side of the wall. Everything else was black. Nobody whispered. Nobody shuffled his feet. Nobody even breathed loud. Guards were patrolling twenty feet away, beyond the wall.

The great danger was a mouton, a spy among the prisoners, who’d give them away. They’d left one tied hand and foot in the cells—the man they all knew about. Now everybody was on the lookout for another, watching the man next to him.

Ladislaus, the Polish forger, carried a watch. The candle gave enough light to read the hands. Midnight.

The bucket was by the well, upside down. They weren’t going to use that tonight. Bucket and chain made an unholy racket. He’d send a scout down, sneaky and quiet. Strong, brown string, the kind gardeners used to tie up plants.

Hawker hadn’t had time to explain. He’d passed over the ball of twine and said, “Get to the well at midnight. We’ll be down in the bottom. Maggie’s taken it into her head she has to be waiting for you.”

He knew Maggie’s plan. Knew it just as if she were standing here telling him the whole thing. He could have sat five hundred years in this lockup without thinking of the quarries. Maggie thought of them right off.

He’d filled a handkerchief with dirt and tied it to the end of the twine. Another handkerchief was tied on, floating out free, making a big white flag. Nothing more useful than handkerchiefs. He walked past men and women, up to the well, and let his bait down over the rim, into the cup of dark. Fishing for a way out. He hoped they were ready, down there, for the crowd he was bringing with him.

He played out a dozen yards, then another ten, keeping track, feeling the rough edges of the well shaft as the bag caught and bounced over the stone. She’s down there right now. I’m sending this down to her.

When he hit the water, he’d bring it back up and try again. They might not be ready yet.

There’s just no end to what could go wrong.

Hand over hand, slow and easy. Then he felt someone take hold of the other end. Felt the twitches that meant somebody working. Then three hard tugs.

He took back his sixty feet of twine, pulled in rope that had been tied to it, then reeled in still heavier cordage. Ladislaus helped him bring up the last of it. It came slowly, bumping awkwardly. What they had was heavy burlap bundles wrapped around big iron hooks. The hook went over the rim of the well. The rope ladder trailed down from that, disappearing into the depth and the dark.

He barely had the hooks secure when he felt the jerks of somebody climbing up. A minute later, a head poked out. Hawker. He came aloft scowling at the line of men and women, disapproving as a cat in a glue factory. A bare whisper of sound. “You lost me ten sous.”

The first man in line was a soldier from the Vendée. A bandit, they called him in Paris. He didn’t need help getting over the rim. He knew how to follow orders and he was fast. A good choice for the first man out.

“Did I now?” He counted off thirty seconds under his breath and tapped the next man. The one after that was a woman. She already had her skirts tied up high over her knees.

Hawker whispered, “I said you’d bring a friend or two. Maybe five. Maybe six.” The woman put her hands on Hawker’s shoulder as he lifted her up to the edge, found a rung for her foot, and started down. “Jean-Paul bet me you’d empty out the whole damn prison.”

“Ah.”

“I told him,” Hawker managed to pack a huge freight of sarcasm into a whisper, “you wouldn’t do anything that stupid.”

“We all make mistakes.” He gave the nod. Hawker put his arm out to help. The next man scrambled over the side.

THEY’D come to about the last of them. A scared girl. Hawker swung her across and prodded her over the edge of the well. She stuck there, holding on and whimpering. Hawker pried her fingers loose from his shirt and stuffed her down the well. It was catch on to the ladder then, or fall, so she grabbed the ladder.

Sister Anne, who was helping them, leaned over to coo and coddle. Pat, pat on the head. Pat the cheek. Whisper. Whisper. “Go, my child. All will be well. They’re waiting for you below. Go now.”

“Move before I hit you,” Hawker said.

Between them, they got the girl started. He motioned Hawker in after the girl. Hawker would get her to the bottom in one piece, if anyone could. It might involve tromping on her fingers to keep her moving, but he’d do it.

It had taken them an hour to get everyone out. Now it was only Father Jérôme and Sister Anne. The other two nuns were inside, too weak to walk. He’d have to leave them behind.

The nun had been useful, helping him move the women along. “Tuck your hem in your waistband, Sister. If your foot gets caught in your skirt, just hold on and kick it free.”

“Oh my, no. I’m not going.”

I don’t have time for this. “There’s no choice, Sister. It’s the only way out. It’s easy once you’re over the rim.”

The prison was too quiet, now that they’d emptied it out. None of the coughing and snoring that went on every night. Pretty soon, one of the guards was going to sense something wrong.

She laid her hand on his arm. “My dear boy, surely you realize I never intended to leave. I can’t.”

Maggie’s down there, and God knows what’s happening to her. “If you stay behind, you’re going to die.”

The priest’s voice came, very calm. “Guillaume, it has already been decided. The sister and I will stay behind.”

“Father, we don’t—”

“The Sister will stay because it is her duty.”

“I could not possibly leave Sister Scholastica and Sister Benedict behind. There is no one to care for them. And they don’t understand what is happening.” A breathy pause. “Someone must be with them when we are taken to the guillotine. They are really too old and frail to face it alone.”

He closed his eyes. “Oh, damn.”

“They have been my sisters for thirty years. Of course we will go together.” She patted him, exactly the way she had patted the terrified girl on the rim of the well. “You must hurry and leave so I can return to them. They wake in the night sometimes, thinking it is Matins, and it frightens them that we’re not in the right place.”

“You can’t—”

“She can and will.” Father Jérôme hitched his steps toward the well. “Her work is here. You have work to do elsewhere and must get on with it.”

“Father . . . You know what I’m trying to do with those papers. Even if it works, it may not work fast enough to save you. They could take you out of here tomorrow.”

“That is now, and always has been, in the hands of God. To be practical, I do not believe even your great strength can play Aeneas and carry me out of Troy. Not with that cracked rib. There are some dozens of men and women at the bottom of this infernal pit. They are your responsibility now. You must go to them.”

“I can carry you. I’m strong enough.”

“We shall not attempt to find out. This is for you.” The box fit into his hands, corners and smoothness and the faint ridges of the inlaid squares. The chessmen. “I am delighted to say there will be no one left for me to pass it to. And it is time for me to return to bed. I am composing an edifying speech to deliver on the scaffold.”

“A man doesn’t throw his life away to make a point.”

“On the contrary. That is exactly what a man does. Put that away safely. You’ll need both hands to climb with.”

“At least send out that silly nun. You can order her to go.”

“But I will not do so.” The priest propped himself against the upright timber of the windlass. “She also will make her final point. Did you think bravery was the sole province of the wise? Go with God, my son.”

There was nothing else for it. He climbed into the well. Put his hands on the rungs. Started down.

Above him, the priest said, “I regret not finishing the last game with you. I would have won.”

Nun and priest were lit by the candles as they leaned over the rim of the well. He could see those candles all the way down. When he reached the bottom, when he was with Maggie, the ladder lifted once, to confirm it was empty. Then it fell, rung and ropes, plummeting into the water, forever concealing the path of their escape.