‘You will bathe and be shaved before you meet … the escort commander.’
It was extraordinary. Surely it would suit their purposes to have him arrive in the capital ragged and dirty, a thief-like object?
Only when he’d been set to rights and made presentable did he discover the reason.
Moreau appeared, splendid in a magnificent uniform, gleaming boots and ostrich-feathered helmet. ‘You are to be presented to the Prince de Pontecorvo, who desires he should see you before beginning the journey.’
Kydd blinked. A prince to be his escort? This was absurd.
They paused before a pair of double doors. They were flung wide and Moreau stepped forward hesitantly. ‘Your Highness, the state criminal Sir Thomas Kydd.’
A figure standing at the window turned abruptly. Tall, handsome and with a dark intensity, he was arrayed in a black velvet uniform with intricately worked gold adornments and a broad sash, also in gold.
‘Sir Thomas, this is His Highness the Prince de Pontecorvo, His Excellency Jean-Baptiste Bernadotte, Marechal de France.’
The ingratiating voice held real fear. This was none other than Marshal Bernadotte, commander of the army corps that lay to the south of Denmark and in the French Empire ranking only a little down from Napoleon Bonaparte himself.
Stiffly he bowed, unsure of what the situation meant.
The gesture was returned courteously and the man regarded him for long moments with unsettling severity. ‘Leave us,’ he ordered Moreau, who hesitated. ‘Get out, man! And you pair. Do you think I need guarding against an unarmed man?’
The voice was hard, accustomed to command, and they scuttled out.
‘Do sit, Sir Thomas,’ he said evenly, indicating a carved chair, taking another opposite.
Kydd did so elegantly, holding to himself that not so very long before he had been entertained by the King of England.
Bernadotte looked at him thoughtfully, stroking his chin. ‘There are certain tides of events that make mockery of man’s striving, don’t you agree?’
‘In my situation I do have my views you’ll believe, sir.’
Bernadotte smiled thinly. ‘Quite. Do understand that your trial and execution is abhorrent to me, a fervent admirer of la Republique in all its humanity.’
Kydd allowed a twisted smile.
‘Which is why I am here, in all my glory as Marshal of France, pondering a course of action that requires the understanding of a Briton, a sworn enemy of my country.’ A glimmer of humour showed in his eyes but there was wariness as well, coiled tension.
‘An understanding?’
‘Of my position. Why I must do as I must.’ The expression was now speculative, considering.
‘Sir, I’m at a loss-’
‘Things will be made clear in due course. For now, allow that our conversation is private and unrecorded, deniable by both.’
‘As you say.’
‘Then you shall know my dilemma.’ He hesitated as though weighing distasteful alternatives. ‘It is that … the Emperor Napoleon is sometimes given to hasty and ill-considered acts of a nature that can only redound upon the honour and virtue of France.’
Was he hearing right? What did this near-treasonous admission mean, coming from one so high-placed? Was it simply an apology for Kydd’s eventual fate?
‘It places me in a painful situation indeed when I know the consequences to be both avoidable and undesirable.’
Unsure and wary, Kydd kept his silence.
‘The kidnapping and conveying to Paris for trial is repugnant in itself, but when it involves one noted and respected by the world, the effect is disastrous and the opposite to that intended.’
‘Just so,’ Kydd said, with feeling.
‘Oh, I didn’t mean to refer to your own good self,’ Bernadotte said, with embarrassment. ‘One in far higher station.’
‘Please do tell,’ Kydd said woodenly, suddenly tired of the game.
‘Sir Thomas, I’ve been made aware of an intention by the Emperor that causes me much unease, not to say alarm. You’re aware that, following our success in east Prussia, an accord with Tsar Alexander was reached at Tilsit.’
‘I am.’
‘Then it’s with sorrow I have to tell you that plans are in train to seize the person of no less than Louis Xavier, Count of Provence, now residing in Courland. That is to say, in Russian Latvia beyond the Neman. The assumption is that the Tsar, at this delicate stage of negotiation with the Emperor, will not dispute it.’
‘Sir,’ Kydd said heavily, ‘I cannot possibly see how this can bear upon my situation.’
‘Do forgive me. It will have more meaning for you when I say that the count in exile is the brother of the late King Louis the Sixteenth of France, put to the guillotine by the will of the people. Should Napoleon Bonaparte suffer catastrophic reverses – which God forbid – then the Bourbons will be restored and the Count of Provence will be placed on the throne as Louis the Eighteenth, King of France.’
Kydd fought off a sense of creeping unreality. What did this talk of kings and emperors have to do with him?
‘Any attempt on the person of a notional future king is madness. All the royal houses of Europe would turn against us. That an emperor would stoop to such underhanded scheming in the cause of personal insecurity would as well rock the foundations of the Republic. It cannot be allowed to happen.’
‘A problem indeed,’ Kydd said caustically, ‘which you will solve, no doubt.’
‘I’m too late. I find a party has already left to accomplish this, which in this season of rains would be very difficult to overtake.’
At Kydd’s ironic smile, he smacked the arm of his chair and shot to his feet. ‘A lost cause, you say? True enough – but there is yet one person who may prevent it happening.’
‘Oh?’
‘Why, you, sir!’
Kydd recoiled in shock.
‘I am powerless to move on the matter, however many divisions I command. First, it would be seen as an open defiance of the Emperor, and second, as I’ve mentioned, the many hundreds of miles to Courland would take weeks and would see the count spirited away before we arrive. A fast passage by ship would answer but, sadly, your navy objects to our presence on their sea. This is why, when I heard of the success of the plot to lure you ashore, it seemed too good to be true – here is a way my object may be achieved with discretion and dispatch.
‘Sir Thomas, I have an offer to make. It is within my power to throw off your chains and set you on the deck of your ship once more. In return I ask only that you swear you will instantly set sail for Riga to secure the Count of Provence and convey him to a place of safety. If you do this now in your fine ship you will undoubtedly overtake the party and be in time. Will you do it?’
Would he rescue the King of France? Kydd looked directly at Bernadotte; the man’s face gave no indication of deceit. He drew himself up. ‘On reflection I think it possible, yes, sir.’
‘Not overlooking the other laudable end that the people in Paris may be spared yet another gaudy trial. Then, sir, we may proceed with the details. Moreau is put out that I have assumed personal command, but it is my decision, given your importance. Your escort will be my men whom I trust completely, as they do myself. They will be told that your “escape” – to be blamed on the Stralsund Patriots – is for a secret purpose, such as the purveying of false information at a high level to the British. In the nature of things your capture has not been announced. The sudden triumphant production of your person in the capital for all to see is the usual form. Therefore your disappearance will be quietly forgotten. On the larger issue I will not be implicated, and matters will be handled with a pleasing discretion.
‘Sir Thomas, it will be expected that you travel with me in my coach, the others to follow in due course. The rest you may leave to me.’
Kydd tried to find words.
Bernadotte gave a dry smile. ‘At this point I should ask you to so swear, but that would be a trifle pointless, wouldn’t you agree? Once out of sight you will be free to do as you desire. In our short acquaintance, however, I fancy my trust is not misplaced. Shall we go now, sir?’