Page 53 of A Fierce Wind

Chapter 13

“And just where do ye think ye are going, little one?” M’sieur Bequel’s gruff voice startled her, staying Zoé’s hand on the door leading from the townhouse to the courtyard where the carriage awaited.

“Out,” she replied, slowly turning around.

The quartermaster stood with his fists on his hips and a scowl on his leathery face making his dark eyes ominous beneath his heavy brows. If she hadn’t known him since she was ten, she might have been frightened. Émile Bequel had a savage look about him. He must have just left the study where he had been confined with her uncle. He wore no coat and his waistcoat of brown leather was only partially buttoned over his linen shirt.

“Just for an hour,” she pleaded. “I have a thought as to how I might learn something more about the Conciergerie.”

His scowl deepened. “The capitaine is meeting with that macaroni, Dordogne, and would not be happy if he discovered ye gone when he’s finished. Ye’d best stay close as he plans to gain entrance to the prison today. ’Sides, the streets of Paris are not safe for one such as ye, even in the daytime.”

“But I must go. Those I intend to call upon might know something others don’t.”

He huffed. “If ye insist on going out, I will go with ye.”

“All right, but be prepared to meet women of pleasure.”

Émile’s mouth dropped open. “And what would ye know of such women, little one?”

“Enough to suspect they service both guards and prisoners and see more than most. When Oncle Jean had the carriage drive by the Conciergerie this morning, I saw women lingering near the front door, smiling at the men going by. I know who they are.”

“We’ll go, but ye’ll not be lingering, or the capitaine will be ordering lashes for me.”

The carriage M’sieur Bequel hailed pulled up several feet from the entrance to the prison. Two women of indeterminate age leaned against the stone wall of the Conciergerie, looking bored. Their faces were painted, their hair long and unkempt and their chemises barely covered their nipples. Zoé had dressed plainly so as not to draw attention. She might have been a nun next to these women.

Bidding Émile to wait by the carriage, which he only reluctantly agreed to do and then with one hand on the pistol shoved into his belt, Zoé approached the two women. “Mesdames,” she said, “might I beg your assistance?”

Their eyes rudely raked her up and down before glancing over her shoulder to where M’sieur Bequel stood wearing a dour expression. “If ye’re lookin’ to ply yer trade here, ma belle, ye might think again. Ye’re pretty enough but these are crowded waters and none too calm.”

“Ye’re too fresh for these men,” said her companion. “Tell yer man watching ye to look elsewhere.”

“Non, vous ne comprenez pas. I do not wish to join you. Mon frère, my brother, is one of the prisoners and I need to see him. Can you tell me when ’tis best to visit so as to gain entrance?”

“Well, now, we can help ye with that,” said the first. “L’après-midi, the afternoon, is best.”

“And why is that, may I ask?”

“The jailor who guards the entrance is a bad sort, but by then, he will be drunken as will the turnkeys below. Les prisonniers will be in the gallery. They won’t hurt ye; it’s the guards ye must be wary of.”

“Them and their dogs,” added the second woman. “One gave me a nasty bite.”

“We’ll be going in ourselves then,” said her friend, “to see our regulars.”

Zoé thanked them and hurried back to M’sieur Bequel and his scowl.

The trial before Fouquier-Tinville went forward amidst crowds of spectators that included the abusive turnkeys. Prostitutes mingled outside the courtroom making Freddie think of a backstreet in London’s St Giles.

The verdict was a foregone conclusion. All were found guilty of being traitors to the revolution and condemned to die, including him and Pax.

In his mind, Freddie heard a door slam.

He had known this was coming but for the boy, it was worse. Freddie had lived some and known a wonderful woman who had given him memories to cherish, but the boy had yet to live. A revolution that devoured its children would not end well.

After the trial, they were shuffled back to the prison and told they would face the guillotine on the morrow.

“What shall we do now?” Pax asked, despondent, his large brown eyes looking up at Freddie as if he alone controlled their choices.

Freddie had been thinking of how to spend their last night and so he was prepared for the question. “How would you like to hear a story of a boy your age who felled a fierce giant?”