In Guards We Trust

Chapter 1 – The siege of the summer of 1792

King Julien III of Montuga seldom varied his daily routine. He would appear like clockwork for breakfast each morning at precisely nine o’clock. After an hour, he would retire from the royal dining room and head for the Chamber of Knights. There, two footmen would ensure that the large double doors were open, allowing for access to the palace’s main balcony. The king enjoyed spending twenty minutes in solitude here to gather his thoughts, to release any built up flatulence, and to reflect upon any decisions his royal duty might require him to make.

Not that the king spent much time agonising over decisions and choices. On the contrary, such was his majesty’s penchant for tradition and convention that his edicts and policies were usually as predictable as was his daily routine. Nor were the services of a clairvoyant required to predict that if change ever threatened to drop in on the tiny kingdom of Montuga, the King would be last in line to embrace it.

But change had come to Montuga. And, on that morning, it again shattered the post-breakfast tranquillity the king had become accustomed to enjoying.

A large crowd of protestors, who were congregated outside the palace gates, had taken to jeering and heckling every time they spotted the king on the balcony. The king ignored their insults and abuse. Instead he aimed a telescope at the high walls comprising the perimeter of the palace grounds without focusing on anything in particular. He was determined to conceal his irritation with an air of indifference.

The king was accustomed to making allowances for the occasional display of unseemly conduct he encountered during his infrequent interactions with poorer commoners in earlier times. As a young prince, he had learned that the peasantry were unused to the rules of etiquette which not only moulded the conduct of the aristocracy, but also regulated the behaviour of those who served them.

Despite the divisions imposed upon the nobility and the peasantry in Montuga by demeanour, attire, position and by birth, everyone had, at least until recently, always been united by a near-instinctive respect for the authority of the monarchy. And so it was hardly surprising that the king found the protestors’ new-found irreverence for royalty to be particularly ominous.

Egalitarian views embraced by leading rebels in neighbouring France had recently found favour amongst a growing number of Montugan peasants. Inspired by these beliefs, and by peasant uprisings in France, local peasants had begun to organise demonstrations of their own. As far as the king was concerned, this served as further proof, as if any were needed, that the popular uprisings against the monarchy in France held nothing good in store for the little kingdom of Montuga.

Mind you, the king did not believe himself to be in any immediate danger. The perimeter wall was high and to boot its walkway was regularly patrolled by royal guards. Other royal guards occupied defensive positions along its ramparts. And in the courtyard below, a squad of mounted guards stood alongside their steeds, facing the crowd. The royal guards were equipped with all that they required to restore unhindered access to the palace - save for that which they needed most – the king’s command.

It was the fourth day of the siege. Most of the protestors, who numbered several thousand, were shielded from the king’s scrutiny by the height of the perimeter wall. The remainder were visible through two massive iron gates set in the lower half of the wall.

Seemingly invigorated by the king’s presence, the crowd started to chant once again.

‘One man!’ a smaller group shouted.

‘One vote!’ the entire crowd roared in response. The thunderous din reverberated around the palace’s cobblestoned courtyard.

The king did not particularly mind the chants, although a wider repertoire would have proved less annoying. He resisted the temptation to embark upon a royal walkabout during which he thought he might introduce himself to the protesters as the one man, appointed by God, to exercise that one vote.

Notwithstanding the siege, officials and servants within the palace continued going about their usual activities. However, the general mood within the palace was anything but normal. Everyone was aware that many demonstrations throughout France had turned violent. Many wondered whether local demonstrators would also resort to violence if their demands were not addressed.

On the first day of the siege the king had received a supposedly confidential report from a royal guardsman that the latter had spotted about a dozen masked gunmen on horseback through his telescope. It took less than an hour before this news became the main topic of conversation throughout every corner of the palace. The ominous riders, who had apparently lurked about the rear of the protesting crowd, did not present themselves again. Their whereabouts remained shrouded in as much mystery as were their intentions.

Most protestors were armed only with picks, shovels and other makeshift weapons. They used these implements to bang on the palace gates, seemingly indifferent to the array of muskets and cannons aimed in their direction.

For the present, each side adhered to an uneasy, unspoken truce in which hostilities were limited only to the threat of violence.

The king feared that if he ordered the royal guards to fire on the protestors, it might invite a violent response from sympathetic republicans in France. Despite that the latter were preoccupied with their own efforts to depose the French monarchy, nothing prevented some of them from pausing to assist the Montugan peasants. If French republicans turned up in significant numbers to fight alongside a Montugan peasant army, the king’s five hundred royal guards were unlikely to prevail. The king was determined to avoid playing into the hands of any foreigners who might be plotting his kingdom’s return to French rule.

The protestors, in turn, also shunned violence in the hope it would limit the king’s use of his royal guard to little more than sabre rattling. They also avoided forcing the hand of the king by restricting their siege of the palace to daylight hours.

‘May I join you, your majesty?’ a familiar voice enquired from behind him.

‘Indeed you may, your grace,’ the king replied before turning to face Duke Emile Le Riche. The latter, as commander of the royal guard, enjoyed special leave to enter the king’s presence without announcement and at will. The duke’s shiny new boots squeaked as he stepped onto the balcony. The duke removed his hat and waved it before the king as he bowed. He replaced his hat, which completed his immaculate uniform. Both men were silent for a while as they surveyed the unfolding events.

Years of experience had taught the king that even when his old friend had something pressing on his mind, he would always wait for royalty to open the discussion.

‘You have news?’ the king probed eventually as he considered the shadows cast by the two of them on the marble tiles. It was a splendid Mediterranean morning in the summer of 1792. It piqued him to detect how one shadow reflected a man in good shape for his advanced years whilst the expanded circumference of the other stood in stark contrast to it. At sixty-six, the duke was fourteen years older than the king. Unlike the king, however, the duke still had most of his hair albeit that the ravages of time had turned it white.

‘I regret, bad news, your majesty. The protests in France have become more violent. I have received reports that in certain regions aristocrats have been dragged from their estates and that some of them have even been executed in the streets. Looting is said to be widespread.’

‘And what of Paris?’ the king inquired while fingering a pouch in his robe. He produced his pipe and a sachet containing tobacco.

‘The situation there is tense, but seemingly still under control. Sporadic riots have been subdued. But King Louis’ position remains perilous. Some nobles are believed to have joined the rebels. The loyalty of the lower ranks French army is rumoured to be divided between the king and the revolutionaries. No-one is certain who has majority support. The rebels have convened a National Assembly. King Louis is under pressure to recognise it.’

‘They will end up like the English. With a prime minister,’ king Julien observed glumly. ‘I warned Louis it would only be a matter of time before his support for the Americans and their appalling revolution would backfire on him. However, there is no reasoning with the French if they sense an opportunity for a war with the English.’

‘Your majesty, it is my fear the French monarchy may not survive in any form at all.’ The duke’s tone was respectful. ‘The wars waged by the French monarchy over past decades have impoverished the kingdom. Famine is now commonplace across France. The hungry masses are in no mood to compromise with the privileged. Many in France are calling for the total elimination of the nobility and the monarchy. Moreover, the nobility’s prospects of survival are not aided by an increasing number of pro-republican leaders who consider themselves as infinitely more deserving custodians of the nobility’s considerable wealth.’ The duke paused before adding: ‘And I use the term custodians advisedly.’

‘Peasants who presume to replace a king are mindless fools. A king is a veritable fountain of indispensable, irreplaceable wisdom, accumulated over generations, without which no hope for proper government can exist.’ The king stared aloofly at the crowd as he spoke.

‘My concern, majesty, is King Louis could be deposed or, heaven forbid, executed. Montuga owes its existence to its Treaty with France. Republicans who oppose monarchy on principle are unlikely to remove one monarchy in Paris whilst tolerating another situated on what they will claim is also French territory. If the republicans seize power in France, they will surely renounce the treaty of Montuga.’ Anther pause. ‘I would counsel that we need to be prepared for the consequences of such an eventuality.’

‘Your grace overlooks international convention,’ the king replied.

‘Your majesty?’ The duke’s eyebrows lifted slightly.

‘A treaty is binding on a king’s successors. Ours has been adhered to by France for more than two centuries and cannot simply be flouted now.’ The king gestured in the duke’s direction with the tip of his pipe. ‘And, there is something else, your grace. Montuga enjoys diplomatic relations with most European monarchies. They will take a dim view of any French intervention in Montuga. It could even lead to war. Lord Graveny told me only yesterday that the Prussians and the Austrians are poised to invade France to restore Louis to his rightful position if he should be deposed.’

Lord Graveny was Britain’s ambassador to Montuga. The king paused, producing a handkerchief into which he coughed.

‘Sooner or later, any new regime in France, if there is to be one, will be obliged to seek international recognition,’ the king explained. ‘In Europe, international recognition comprises of recognition by the European monarchies.’

‘Majesty, a new French government may pay lip service to the treaty for a time. But I fear this will be solely be for the sake of appearances. And it is unlikely to last. Also, French republicans may in any event conspire to undermine Montugan independence by indirect means.’ The duke discretely waved a gloved hand in the direction of the protestors.

‘Surely your grace does not suggest French revolutionaries are behind these protests in Montuga?’

‘At this stage, your majesty, only two things can be said to be certain. Our protests are an undeniable spill-over from those in France. Secondly, and at the very least, these protests surely carry the approval of the republican revolutionaries in France.’

‘I’ll grant you that, your grace. But the difference is our protests have been peaceful.’

‘With respect, majesty, it appears peaceful only because our protestors seem agreed on testing the water by calling only for constitutional monarchy in Montuga. This is good and well for so long as such unity of purpose persists. However, my concern is that the protesting mob includes a pro-republican faction who view constitutional monarchy as the thin edge of the wedge.’

‘How large is this local republican faction?’ The King inquired. ‘Do you know?’

The duke raised his voice slightly in response to a fresh round of chanting. ‘My information is that the Montugan protestors who favour constitutional monarchy are estimated to outnumber the pro-republican protestors by over two to one. For this reason, the republicans are unlikely to mount any challenge against your majesty’s royal guard on their own. Instead, word is they are waiting to see whether the republicans in France succeed in deposing King Louis. If, heaven forbid, they succeed, local republicans are certain to encourage or accept the support of any new republican government which may arise in France. A French invasion is likely follow. Montuga’s small royal guard would be no match for a republican army or navy from France.’

‘Be all that as it may, I will never countenance a republic in Montuga. Unlike Louis, I have not dragged this kingdom into war. Instead, Montuga has prospered and most of my subjects live comfortably and have enough to eat. I have caused Monte Vista to become the leading trading port in Europe. I know not who lurks behind these protests, but I believe the people will soon grow bored and tire of it, and all of this will pass.’ The king grimaced before continuing. ‘Mark my words though, your grace, if the republicans do take power in France, they will destroy it. And the devastation they will leave behind will leave no-one in doubt that what we have here in Montuga is best for everyone.’

‘There are some who say that the British compromise of constitutional monarchy is an effective model of stable government,’ the duke ventured.

‘Stable government?’ The king glared at the duke. But his frown soon gave way to a wicked grin. ‘You could be right. After all, if people choose to be represented by a parliament filled to capacity with horse’s arses, who am I to deny that this would indeed constitute a stable government.’ The king sniggered, and directed a jubilant glance at the duke.

‘My only concern, majesty, is that we should be prepared for all contingencies,’ the duke replied earnestly. ‘We should at least have a strategy in place for the evacuation of the monarchy from Montuga should circumstance demand it.’

‘Such an evacuation is unthinkable. Has the French royal family fled Versailles?’ the king asked.

‘Not as yet, your majesty. But I am aware that King Louis has been counselled that his safety and that of the royal family cannot be guaranteed if they remain in Paris.’ The duke’s expression remained solemn.

‘It would be a disgrace if the Bourbons fled from Versailles. One can only imagine what the rabble would do to that magnificent palace if such an unimaginable event occurred.’ The king coughed again. ‘The Garibaldis have been on this throne for two hundred years. I am not about to bring shame on my family by relinquishing this palace.’ He paused for effect. ‘I am prepared to fight and if necessary, to die to defend the Garibaldi heritage.’ A slight smile creased the king’s face. ‘That is, of course, if ill health does not take me first.’ After puffing on his pipe for several moments he continued. ‘And I will tell you another thing, your grace. I shall not allow the peasants to block the palace gates indefinitely. I treat my subjects fairly. They pay little enough tax to the crown. And this is how I am thanked.’

‘What of Prince Ruan and Princess Renate, your majesty?’

A frown creased the king’s forehead as he considered the lot of the crown prince and that of his daughter. Several moments passed before he replied.

‘I am prepared to sacrifice myself. But their situation is another matter. If it should come to the worst, the survival of the next generation of Garibaldis and the monarchy itself must outweigh the defence of the palace.’ The king placed his hand on the duke’s arm. ‘If need be, I shall remain here and shall fight until the end. As sovereign, that is my duty. But I shall look to you, your grace, to ensure that my children are safely evacuated. You are to prepare a contingency plan. I do not know if it is written that I will join my dearly departed wife in the afterlife. But one thing is certain: If heaven is my destiny, and if I arrive there prematurely accompanied by my children, my wife will not be speaking to me.’

Chapter 2 – The Marquis d’Artois

As they trudged along the country road, the Marquis d’Artois and his son were stalked by shadows cast by the towering peaks of the Montugan Alps. What little remained of the Marquis’ energy succumbed to the rising incline.

‘I think they are making for Genoa, Papa,’ Philippe declared. ‘We’ve lost them at last.’

‘On that I do not care to place even a modest wager,’ the Marquis replied. ‘Rarely have I encountered such dogged persistence.’

As the last of dusk’s redness faded from the mountains, Philippe pointed towards something higher up in the valley.

‘Over there. A light!’ the twelve-year old announced.

The Marquis squinted as he stared into the distant gloom. He spotted a field which appeared to be cultivated. However, the light eluded him.

‘Your eyes are better than mine. Best that you lead the way.’

A moonless night replaced the remnants of twilight and it became increasingly difficult to see as they continued up the Nanoux valley. The light beckoned them towards an isolated farmhouse situated a little to the left of the road. They collided with a dilapidated fence in their search for some form of pathway. They decided to walk alongside the fence, expecting it to give way to a path. Eventually, it did.

‘Do you remember what I told you, Philippe?’ the Marquis inquired as they drew near enough to spot a lantern flickering in the window.

‘Yes Papa. You will do the talking.’

The Marquis knocked on the front door. It opened to reveal an elderly man. Although his face was partially concealed by the light from behind, the Marquis could see that he was missing a front tooth. He estimated the man to be in his late sixties. His physique suggested that he was no stranger to regular manual labour.

‘Yes?’ The man’s grey eyebrows lifted slightly. The rest of his face remained expressionless as he overtly scrutinised the two of them.

Perhaps it was customary to be suspicious of strangers in this part of France, the Marquis concluded. Most likely, however, it was simply a sign of the times.

‘Good evening, Monsieur. Forgive our intrusion. My name is Jacques Le Roux and this is my son Philippe. We are looking for the mountain pass which leads to border crossing to the kingdom of Montuga. May we trouble you for directions?’

‘You’ll be wanting that road.’ The farmer’s courteous, almost friendly tone was at odds with his dour expression. ‘The road you came on. Goes right up the valley, it does. Leads to the mountain path up the ravine to the border….but the Montugan guards won’t let you pass. They have closed the border, you see. You have to go by sea now if you want to go to Montuga. The only way in is through the harbour at Monte Vista.’ The farmer stepped aside and gestured with his hand that they should enter his abode.

‘Thank you. But we do not wish to impose or to take up any more of your time.’

‘This is the country,’ the farmer responded. A feint smile creased his face. ‘We have time enough.’

They entered the farmhouse to avoid appearing impolite. The Marquis noticed an elderly lady preparing dinner in the rear of the living area. He presumed that she was the farmer’s wife. Their arrival barely solicited a glance from her and their host did nothing to facilitate any introductions.

‘My brother is an officer in the Montugan Royal Guard,’ the Marquis mentioned. ‘He is in charge of the border checkpoint in the Devil’s Orifice. He can arrange a special entry for us’. This was a lie necessitated by the unexpected and alarming news of the closure of the border post. It was too late for them to opt for other escape routes. These were probably all closed off by now. Once at the border post, the Marquis intended to rely upon his nobility and his friendship with the Montugan king in order to bid for entry to the kingdom. But he could not risk mentioning that to the farmer. Of course, the Marquis had been tempted to say nothing at all. But silence would only have aroused suspicion as to their true identity. After all, the farmer had informed them that they were heading for a closed border. The people most likely to ignore such a warning would be desperate nobles hoping to bribe or to beg the Montugan guards to allow them entry to Montuga in order to escape their pursuers.

‘I went up that way once. Right up the pass. There’s a sign. Just before the border. Says anyone going past it will be shot, you see. Shoot first; ask questions later, I tell you. Dead you’ll be before you get to speak to your brother.’ The deadpan expression which accompanied the farmer’s advice did nothing to assist the Marquis to determine whether the farmer had bought his hastily concocted explanation.

‘How far is the checkpoint from the sign?’

‘I’m not so good with distances these days,’ the farmer said. ‘About five hundred yards maybe.’

‘And how long does it take to arrive at the border from here?’

‘Took me most of the day to get up that steep path. Slipped on several loose rocks. It’s not called the Devil’s Orifice for nothing, you know. Lucky for you it’s not winter. You might do better, being a bit younger, but it’s a fool that tries it at night. You can rest here and join us for supper, if you like.’

The Marquis hesitated. It was risky to interrupt their journey. But he was exhausted, and the dead of night was no time for hiking up treacherous terrain. So they joined the farmer at an elongated dinner table. It formed the centrepiece of the modestly furnished, yet neat interior.

Dinner comprised of bread rolls and garlic flavoured chicken soup served by the farmer’s wife. She avoided all eye contact. Curiously, she then took her dinner at a smaller table situated against the wall. She maintained her silence throughout the evening. They discovered that the couple had once had two sons, but that both had perished in King Louis’ wars. The farmer explained that his wife had never been the same since. It came as no surprise to learn that their hosts were republicans. In earlier times, and prior to the uprisings, the Marquis had been involved in conscripting young men into the French army. It was fortunate that he had not carried out that duty anywhere near this part of France.

An expression of sadness unexpectedly appeared on the farmer’s face as he noticed, for the first time, that his wife had taken to repeatedly glancing at Philippe.

The Marquis wondered whether there was something about his son’s short black hair, his slim physique or his fine facial features which reminded her of one of her own sons. She looked away self-consciously. An awkward silence followed.

‘So, you are his boy?’ the farmer asked, trying to make conversation.

Philippe ceased dipping his baguette in his soup. He directed an enquiring glance at the Marquis.

‘Yes he is. I thought I mentioned that when we arrived?’ the Marquis quickly intervened.

‘Ah, yes. So you did,’ the farmer responded slowly. ‘It’s my age, you see.’

‘You must forgive, my son. It takes time for him to open up around strangers.’

‘What do you do for a living?’ the farmer asked.

‘I was an assistant winemaker on the estate of a French nobleman who unfortunately no longer possesses his head.’ The Marquis smiled contritely. The latter’s thick lips appeared slightly at odds with his pencil moustache. ‘My son was due to become my apprentice.’

In reality, Philippe had spent a number of years at an elite boarding school in Switzerland, and the Marquis feared that his son’s vocabulary and diction would undermine their cover. To his relief, however, Philippe managed to keep to his promise to say nothing throughout the dinner. This relief was short lived as the Marquis gradually became aware that Philippe had inexplicably acquired one or two barely discernible mannerisms usually encountered only in slightly retarded children. He found the boy’s slight, but repetitive rocking motion and his prolonged avoidance of eye contact to be particularly disturbing. He began to wonder whether Philippe, or maybe both of them, had possibly been poisoned by their hosts. However the boy managed a surreptitious wink which went unnoticed by the farmer. Realising that the farmer was no fool, Philippe had evidently decided that his role required a little improvisation. The Marquis reached across the table and placed a gentle hand on Philippe’s shoulder to stop him from rocking. This had the desired effect. Philippe sat motionlessly and stared into the distance with his mouth slightly ajar.

‘I’m sorry, but he will keep doing it for an age if I don’t stop him. It can become annoying.’ The Marquis shrugged uneasily.

‘It’s the same with my wife,’ the farmer replied with a wry, almost empathetic smile. ‘She also goes into her own world for hours on end.’

Since Philippe’s efforts appeared to have succeeded, the Marquis realised that it was now up to him not to say or do anything to cause raised eyebrows or worse. He had fortunately encountered people from varying walks of life during his former years of service in the French navy. This had proved invaluable on several occasions during the past fortnight when their lives had depended upon his ability to masquerade as someone other than a person of noble birth.

‘What brings you here then? Was there was no place for you on the farm? A man of your experience! Why should republicans not also enjoy wine? Not so?’

The Marquis could not determine whether or not the questions were motivated by genuine curiosity.

‘Fighting broke out about who would have control of the estates which once belonged to the nobles in our valley.’ Although the Marquis was usually fairly softly spoken, his confident, measured manner of delivery more than compensated for it. This evening, however, he made a point of speaking in a slightly louder, brasher tone. ‘A cooperative I tried to join placed no value at all on my experience. After violence broke out between two groups, I decided it would be safer to move to Montuga with my son and to try to find employment there. My late spouse is from Montuga, and we have some family there.’ The subject of Philippe’s mother had not yet come up and, given that the wounds relating to the actual story were still raw, it was with reluctance that the Marquis brought up the topic at all. He only did so because it was inevitable that the farmer was likely to wish to satisfy his curiosity about why the two of them were heading to Montuga without the wife and mother of the family. The Marquis made a point of lowering his voice and glancing obliquely in his son’s direction as he uttered the words ‘late spouse.’ He hoped that this would create the impression that the topic was a sensitive one for the boy.

The farmer nodded knowingly. He changed the subject.

‘We are lucky here. We have not had much violence. Only a few executions of a handful of nobles who had it coming. Republicans are now in control in this area. I can tell you that our citizens look out for each other. Farmers like me are valued, you see. Once I battled to pay my rent to the nobility. Now I will own this vegetable farm. From now I will pay a quarter of what I grow to the town committee. This is much fairer than high rentals I used to pay. Rent which stayed the same even when the crops failed.’

The farmer paused for several moments. His forehead creased while posing a question to the Marquis.

‘What news, if any, do you bring of the uprising against the king in Paris?’ He paused. ‘I ask, because everything here could change at the drop of hat if the king and the aristocracy were to prevail. I would lose the farm. Many of us could pay for our uprising here with our lives.’

‘It’s really difficult to tell. There are many contradictory reports.’ The Marquis wiped his mouth with a cloth. ‘My conclusion, for what it’s worth, is that the king’s position is severely compromised.’

‘Compromised? What do you mean?’

‘I suppose I mean that I doubt the king will be able to retain absolute power.’

‘So you think that the rule of the king will end and that we republicans will take over?’

‘That is one possibility?’

‘It would be about time.’ The farmer grinned and rubbed his hands. After a moment he posed another question. ‘You said one possibility. There is another?’

‘Yes. Some say that there could be an agreement that power could be shared between the king and a people’s assembly.’

‘I don’t like the sound of that,’ the farmer grunted. He stared into the distance for a while. ‘In our area, our leaders condemn the king and everything he stands for. Our leaders say that we Republicans are like the Americans. They dared to tell their English king to go to hell. And in the end they won their freedom.’

After the meal, the farmer showed the Marquis and Philippe to an old wooden shed situated behind the farmhouse.

‘First or second shift?’ the Marquis asked quietly once they were alone.

‘Aw, do we have to Papa? What are the chances of them finding us here?’

‘That road is the only way to Montuga. If they realise that we have given them the slip our true destination will dawn on them quickly enough. There is no other house this far up the valley. If they do come looking for us, you would do better to ask what the chances might be of them not finding us.’ The Marquis paused as he re-arranged a few piles of straw to form makeshift beds. ‘You take the first one and a half hour’s watch and I will do the next two hours. I doubt they will travel in the early hours, so we can both sleep from two until first light.’

Philippe rose to leave the shed in favour of a suitable vantage point.

‘You must also warn me at once if anyone leaves the farmhouse to come to this shed or if anyone heads off towards town,’ the Marquis said.

‘Do you not trust the farmer, Papa?’ As he spoke the boy slipped his father’s pistol into his belt.

‘No. You heard the man. He is a republican. I think he believes our story, but I cannot be certain. But, if he suspects that we are not what we claim to be, he could sneak away tonight to report us to the committee in the nearest town.’

‘Okay,’ Philippe responded. His brow furrowed. ‘What about the border, Papa? The farmer said that we cannot enter through the pass. Did you know about that?’

‘I did not. But I doubt this applies to the nobility. It must be that the closure is only intended to prevent revolutionaries from entering Montuga.’ The Marquis avoided direct eye contact.

‘And you are king Julien’s friend. That will help too, will it not Papa? If you mention it to the guards at the border?’

‘Of course it will,’ the Marquis replied with as much conviction as he could muster. ‘By the way,’ he added, changing the subject. ‘That was quite a performance. It seems that your father is not the only aspiring thespian in the family.’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ the boy replied with a bewildered expression. He stared at the Marquis blankly for a few moments before his face broke into a grin.

A few hours later, the Marquis awoke with a start and sat upright. Philippe was tugging at this shirt.

‘It’s only me,’ the boy whispered.

‘All quiet?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Now get some sleep. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.’ With that the Marquis rose, stretched and left the shed. He found a suitable slightly elevated vantage point near the side of the darkened farmhouse. The building was virtually invisible in the blackness. It was a windless evening which ensured that he would hear anything that moved. The Marquis hoped that the cool night air would prevent him from drifting off. It did not. He awoke with a jolt to the sound of rustling in the bushes somewhere behind him. He reached for his dagger. He could feel his heart thumping furiously. He relaxed a little as realised that the source of the noise was most likely an animal. His relief was short lived as a large shape approached out of the gloom. It was either a wolf or a large dog. The animal approached cautiously. Its posture was not aggressive, however. A soft whimper confirmed this.

‘Come,’ whispered the Marquis in his certainty that it was a dog. It approached cautiously until it was close enough for the Marquis to reach out towards it. He permitted the dog to smell his hand. After doing so the dog licked it and sat down next to the Marquis. As he patted the dog, the Marquis wistfully reflected on his own dogs, which they had been compelled to leave behind in Lyon in their rush to escape their republican attackers. The aching sadness which had become a constant feature of most of his waking hours over the past fortnight returned with a vengeance as his thoughts inevitably turned to his wife and his younger son, both of whom had perished during the attack on their Chateau.

Chapter 3 – The Devil’s Orifice

They were woken by the farmer early the next morning. It had been an uneventful night. The dog, which had accompanied the Marquis to the shed in the early hours, was nowhere to be seen. The farmer insisted that they join him in the farmhouse for a rudimentary breakfast. Afterwards the Marquis rose to resume their journey. He thought he glimpsed the farmer slip his hand into his knapsack. The Marquis had not let it out of his sight since their arrival. It contained what was left of the family fortune.

‘I have put some bread in your bag for you – for the road. You won’t need water. There are enough mountain streams along the footpath.’

The Marquis thanked the farmer for his kindness. Despite suspecting that the farmer may have taken something from his knapsack, he chose not to make an issue of it. None of the items it contained was as valuable as their lives. All that mattered was that they succeeded in fleeing from France before their pursuers caught up with them. A confrontation with the farmer could easily result in a report about them to the local authorities. The ascent up the path would be challenging enough without their needing to look over their shoulders.

The path from the cottage to the road appeared shorter in the light of day. Once at the road, Philippe glanced down the valley, scanning the miles they had travelled the previous evening.

‘Do you see anyone?’ asked the Marquis.

‘Nothing.’

‘Check regularly. If you see anyone on horseback heading up the valley we will have to take to the forest or to the cliffs for cover, unless we can make it to the pass in time.’

After a few miles they arrived at the foot of the mountain, where the road tapered into a foot path. They traversed the constricted mountain path as it ascended past ravines and slopes, with no end in sight. It was as narrow and as arduous as the farmer had predicted. They stopped briefly at midday to rest. Philippe listened carefully to hear if he could detect any pursuers further down the path. His eyes glazed over as he concentrated.

‘We are being followed,’ the boy concluded in a matter of fact tone.

‘Are you sure? How close? Can you tell how many?’ The Marquis reached for his pistol and checked it. He also felt for his dagger. ‘We should get going.’

‘One,’ Philippe replied with a grin. ‘Very close. It won’t be long now.’

The Marquis stared down the path expectantly. His panic subsided in response to the bemused look on his son’s face. As predicted, their pursuer revealed himself. He began to run as he spotted the two of them. He barked as he drew near, his tail wagging furiously. It was a sheepdog. The Marquis realised it was the one from the previous evening.

‘Is he alone?’ the Marquis asked suddenly.

‘Yes, Papa, I’m certain of it.’ He tried to calm the excited dog in order to listen once more. The dog immediately sat quietly, without moving muscle. ‘I don’t hear anyone else,’ Philippe said eventually before his attention returned to the dog. ‘Can we keep him?’

The Marquis was moved as he noticed a childlike quality in his son’s face that he had not seen for several weeks. It was an expression which he had feared had been permanently extinguished by their recent ordeals.

‘I suppose that will be up to him. He looks like he was properly cared for until recently. He probably belonged to a nobleman I should not wonder.’

The dog followed them as they continued their sojourn. The narrowness of most of the route shielded it from much direct sunlight and, despite their exertions, it remained pleasantly cool throughout their ascent. Several species of fern dominated the vegetation which grew between embedded rocks situated on either side of the path. The farmer’s prediction that water would be plentiful proved accurate. A few streams emanated from the high peaks, one of which still bore a small snow cap. The water was icy, but delicious. It was late afternoon as they reached a flatter section of the path, some three quarters of the way up the mountain. This was as high as they were likely to go, the Marquis concluded. The path wound its way around one side of a deep gorge before it straightened. The signboard the farmer had mentioned came into view. It was preceded by a painted red line across the path. The sign not only warned of certain death in French, English, and Italian, but it also displayed a skull and crossbones so that the literate and the illiterate alike could understand it. A stone hut rested alongside the path some distance away. Its doors and windows were closed.

A flagpole stood on the Montugan side of the red line. It bore a flag depicting the insignia of the Montugan royal family. The entire area seemed strangely deserted. Only the sound of water trickling nearby challenged the prevailing silence. The Marquis considered crossing the red line but thought better of it. A movement from above caught Philippe’s eye. The Marquis looked up, without noticing anything significant. However, Philippe’s shrewd eyes, capable of spotting foxes in thickets during the most difficult of hunts – immediately detected the source of the movement.

‘See, Papa.’ Philippe pointed to several well-concealed emplacements cut out of the rock face above them. The mouths of three cannons protruded from each position. The Marquis could only see the heads of some of the occupants.

The Marquis was uncertain about whether he was more amazed by his son’s powers of observation or by the sheer ingenuity of the cannon emplacements. Carving them out of the rock would have been difficult, but worth it since any soldiers attempting to enter Montuga through the narrow path along the Devil's Orifice could easily be picked off in single file. Any invader would be hard pressed to fire a musket up to that height, or to climb the treacherous mountain slope to remove the guards. Holding this border would be a simple matter.

‘Hey, can you hear me?’ the Marquis shouted in French. ‘I am a fugitive from the revolution in France and I require to speak to someone in charge about access to Montuga for my son and myself!’ After his words echoed through the ravine, he awaited a response. There was none. He repeated his request more slowly. Then he waited again.

‘They are taking a long time, Papa,’ Philippe observed. ‘Do you think they heard us?’

‘They must have. I suspect that they are awaiting instructions from their commanding officer.’

Nothing moved as more time elapsed. The persistent silence became eerier as twilight weaved its expanding tapestry of shadows. The absence of any birds or bird calls compounded the unnerving atmosphere. The Marquis’s patience eventually failed him. He approached the painted red line. He hesitated in front of it. No warning was issued. After glancing at Philippe, he crossed the line. A few seconds later a shot rang out from above. The projectile whizzed a little over an inch above his head.

‘Stay on the French side,’ shouted a voice from above. It reverberated off the cliffs like a declaration from God himself.

As it happened, the instruction proved to be completely unnecessary. The shot alone had provided sufficient incentive to encourage the Marquis to make his way back to the French side of the line in no uncertain fashion.

‘Will someone come to talk to me? I am the Marquis d’Artois. I am a personal friend of your king. I am a refugee from my country seeking sanctuary in yours. I have my son with me. He is only twelve. We cannot return to France. We have no option but to enter Montuga. If you murder us for entering you will have to answer to your own conscience, to your god and to your king.’ As he spoke, the Marquis remained indecisive about whether he would actually cross the line again. He hoped that his threats might have desired effect. Mention of his friendship with Montugan king would hopefully also do their cause no harm. A few seconds passed.

‘I can almost hear them thinking,’ Philippe remarked with a mischievous grin.

The Marquis considered his son for a moment as he waited for a response. He