Seconds later, she gently but firmly pushed Tristan into the small cubbyhole at the very back of the larder where there was just enough room for him to sit. Watching her fearfully, he drew up his knees as she put her finger to her lips before shutting thesmall door. As darkness completely descended, he could hear her moving the large cask of salt in front to hide the opening.
Resting his head on his knees, rocking backwards and forwards, Tristan allowed the tears to fall silently. He heard faint shouting, crashing and then a short scream. He pushed his fist against his mouth, stifling a whimper. Then closer, a door opening and closing. More shouting… then nothing.
He didn’t know how long he crouched there, but he knew it was a long time as he couldn’t stop himself from peeing in his breeches. He hoped Tata wouldn’t be too angry with him. Surely, she and Papy would come back soon?
And then he had the faintest whiff of smoke. With a low sob, he curled up into a ball on his side and somehow fell asleep.
Only to wake sometime later struggling to breathe, the air fetid and thick. Coughing, Tristan covered his nose and mouth with his arm. He was only six, but he knew he dared wait for Tata and Pape no longer. He had to get out.
Groaning with pain, the boy somehow manoeuvred himself onto his knees, then, with what remaining strength he had, he pushed at the door. At first it didn’t move, then slowly, inch by inch, the cask of salt shifted, until finally, the opening was big enough for him to squeeze through.
The larder was filled with smoke, with the only relatively clear space directly above the floor. Crawling forward, Tristan pulled a cloth from around a wheel of cheese and, despite almost retching at the pungent stink, wrapped the material around his nose and mouth. Then, keeping his forehead on the relatively cool stone, he crawled on until his head finally hit the larder door.
Tears streaming from smoke and fear, Tris slid his hand upwards, feeling for the latch. It seemed to take hours, but eventually his fingers found it. Whimpering, he pushed at the bar until it lifted enough to unlatch the door.
As it swung open, without hesitating, Tristan crawled forward into hell.
Seventeen
May 1807
What he could see of the kitchen through the swirling smoke was mottled with black. Coughing through the cloth, he staggered to his feet, unsure which way to go as his sense of direction deserted him completely.
Eyes streaming, he turned round in a full circle before his eyes finally made out the door into the hall. Hurriedly, he took a step forward before suddenly noticing an orange glow around the edges. He couldn’t go that way.
Almost choking now, he stumbled backwards just as flames began licking round the edges of the door. Seconds later he slammed against the edge of something hard. Turning, he realised it was the back door. Sobbing with relief, he fumbled with the catch. He didn’t know if the bad men were outside – at the moment he didn’t care. He just knew that if he stayed in the kitchen for one more moment, he would surely die.
At first the latch was stuck, the metal warping slightly as the temperature increased, then abruptly it gave, and yanking thedoor open, he fell out into the back garden. Pulling the stinking cloth from around his face, he lay where he’d fallen, drawing in great gulps of air. For a few stunned moments, he didn’t move, then instinct took over. He had to find Papy.
Lurching to his feet, he looked round frantically but could see no one. Then, turning back towards the house, he recoiled in horror. The entire building was on fire. As he watched, an attic window exploded outwards, flames shooting out of the roof. Where was Tata?
Sobbing openly now, he staggered towards the secret gate and the tree-shrouded shortcut running along the edge of the river. He and Papy always used it when they went into town, although Tata would scold them and warn them about falling into the water.
As he pushed the gate open, he looked back once more, just as the roof collapsed. It was eerily silent until suddenly three men appeared. Instinctively, he took a step towards them, thinking they might help. They didn’t look like bad men. But unexpectedly, they started laughing. His heart slammed against his ribs. Urgently, he turned back to the open gate, expecting them to spot him any second.
Stepping through, he hurriedly slammed it behind him and then started to run.
Whether he was still disoriented from inhaling too much smoke, or simply misjudged the edge, Tristan suddenly felt his left foot connect with nothing but fresh air. Arms flailing, he lurched to the side, hovering for a brief moment over the river before tumbling downwards towards the foaming water. With a panicked scream, he tried to put his hands out in front and ricocheted off the mossy bank, only to flip backwards, landing inthe water with a splash. As he hit the shallow bottom, his head snapped back, straight onto a large rock, and everything went black.
Hours later, the boy came to. He lay on his back in the dark trying to remember how he’d got there, but try as he might, he simply couldn’t remember. Faces flashed before his eyes, but none of them remained long enough for him to grasp. Finally, with a low moan, he managed to get onto his hands and knees and then onto his feet. Wobbling, he splashed towards the bank, where he collapsed again, drifting in and out of consciousness until dawn finally lit up the horizon.
Opening his eyes, the boy felt his stomach contract in hunger. Slowly sitting up, he looked around, but nothing felt familiar. He couldn’t even remember his name. His stomach growled again, and in the way of all boys, his hunger overrode everything else. Ignoring his pounding head and his damp, filthy clothing, he climbed unsteadily to his feet, and went to look for something to eat.
Present day
Without taking his eyes off Tristan, Antoine Barbier tearfully explained that he and his wife Brigitte had been tasked with spiriting him away from the carnage unfolding in the chateau. At the time, it was believed that the much smaller, secluded house in Pontorson would provide a suitable refuge until it was deemed safe enough for the heir to the Marquisate to return home.
Unfortunately, however, that time never arrived. Just over a year later, whoever had attacked the Estate succeeded in locating their sanctuary, and, evidently determined to put anend to the only legitimate Montclair heir still living, they set the property in Pontorson alight with everyone in it.
Antoine’s wife Brigitte had died in the flames, but Tristan’s body was never found.
‘I thought you were dead, boy,’ Antoine whispered, his voice trembling. ‘I looked everywhere for you, but there was no sign.’ He shook his head, the tears falling unchecked as those around them looked on in silence.
Staring into the old man’s distraught eyes, Tristan felt the first glimmerings of recognition. Pictures flashed up in his head, and this time, he sought to make sense of them.
A house, faces, smoke, a river, wet clothes. A man –thisman - smiling at him with pride.
Suddenly, a word sprang into his head out of nowhere. Tristan’s heart thudded as he reached out to take the old man’s bent fingers in his. ‘Papy,’ he whispered, forcing back the lump in his throat…
