Before them lay the harbor city of Bordeaux, then in its prime. Unlike Eden, it was not arranged according to any general plan, but had sprung up according to chance. The streets were narrow, and the buildings often only a few feet apart. The architecture was not trite, though it seemed so when compared to that of Eden. The buildings were mostly of brick or rough stone, and the poor houses of wood. The roofs were flat with an open space on top, forming a small porch. The wealth of a man added to the height of his house, and therefore to the position his upper deck took in proportion to the others: the upper, middle, and lower classes.
The streets were crowded with citizens, and even if they had been pursued they could have easily disappeared into the tumult. Patrick led them in the rowboat and onto shore. From the docks they had to pass through a long customs house; it was there that Leggitt took the lead. He passed the soldiers with a confident wave and the young officer on duty did not stop to question him.
“He is well-received, indeed,” Patrick whispered to de Garcia.
“Yes, but do not worry, for we are in France. Gylain has no power here and Leggitt is wise enough to choose where we will seek refuge.” Then, to Leggitt, he continued, “Where will you take us, friend?”
“To the home of an acquaintance. He is a man of power, who can supply us as we need; but he is not powerful enough to know of our situation.”
“He served Gylain with you?” Patrick asked.
“No, for he is Hibernian.”
Patrick’s face clouded over. “Indeed? A man of authority?”
“Somewhat, but all authority is under another. His position would mean little to an English peasant, as you claim to be.”
“Let us not feud,” de Garcia broke in, “Will peace leave us suspicious, where slavery left us amiable?”
“You are right,” Leggitt said, and his face was impermeable. “I do not suspect Patrick – how could a man of my background? But having been so long in a position of authority under Gylain, I have heard many things in connection with the name Patrick McConnell. To tell the truth, I had a great respect for your actions.” He paused, then continued with a sigh. “Your conscience led you to action, while mine led me to treason, to spying.”
Patrick sighed as well, “My conscience did not lead me, but my heart and my pride.”
“You both speak riddles in my ear,” de Garcia said, “For I have been imprisoned these last nine years, and when I last walked free Patrick was but a boy. Who are you?”
“No one,” he replied. “I have been a lover and a warrior, and now I am an exile.”
“Then you are not unlike me, for my youth was spent in passion as well.”
“And strength,” Leggitt answered. “You underestimate my memory, de Garcia, if you think I do not remember your martial greatness. I am a man of the sword, and I cannot but honor your skill with one.”
De Garcia sighed and looked to the sky. “It is my turn to be ashamed,” he said. “For skill with the sword is an unfortunate talent.”
With that, the three men fell silent, unable to escape their memories as easily as they had escaped their prison. Such is the way of life.
Chapter 50
The three escaped prisoners walked the crowded streets of Bordeaux: Leggitt on the right, de Garcia on the left, and Patrick in the middle. On either side the simple buildings crowded over the road, leaving little space for pedestrians. Still, the passers-by made room for the three men to pass, for they had the carriage of warriors.
“You should reconsider your disgust of women, Patrick,” said de Garcia. “They are fickle, perhaps, but that is their charm.”
“A charm for some,” replied the latter, “But can one love the dust, which is thrown about with every gust of wind?”
Leggitt smiled, “I feel the airs of a rejected man.”
“Rejected, betrayed – does it matter?”
“Not in time, and you are young,” de Garcia looked into the sky. “When I was young, I was the same.”
“As was I,” Leggitt said, “But for now, there is the house we seek.”
He pointed to a large mansion that stood at the intersection between three roads, about a mile from the harbor. The harbor itself was segregated from the rest of the city by a row of buildings, the walls of which served as fences or barriers. These surrounded the entire harbor, pushing outward until culminating in the customs house: the only thoroughfare between the harbor and the upper city, as it was called. From the customs house one main road led to the upper city. It split when it reached the outskirts of the palace district, and the mansion rested right in this branch, and thereby overlooked all who came and went from Bordeaux via the ocean. It was for this reason that Leggitt’s friend – an agent of the Hibernian King – kept a place in Bordeaux. During the season that the king spent there, the man could spy without discomfort.
The mansion was surrounded on all sides by a garden, and beyond that by two rows of houses. Its second floor tapered as it grew taller until it became a single tower. Because of the taper, it was not a perpendicular fall from the tower, but a forty-five degree incline. At this time in history, Atilta had been trading with Japan and the Far East for many years. There had been a certain degree of influence on the architecture of Europe, therefore, and this mansion was modeled after a pagoda. Its roof was made of a slippery tile from inland China, its edge bent sharply upward at the edges to prevent water from flowing over the side. They were, in effect, ramps the water could not cross.
A figure could be seen looking out of the tower. Only Patrick was able to see it. He stumbled and came to a stop in the center of the lane, until de Garcia turned to him with a questioning look. Then he mumbled something incoherent and ran up to the others. Yet his face remained dazed, as if he had been struck over the head with surprise.
In a moment, they reached the house. Leggitt led them through the dense garden – cultivated to separate the mansion from the lane – and up a flight of stairs to a doorway that stood ten feet from the ground. He knocked three times and the door was opened by a servant.
“Yes, monsieur?” he said, and his graying eyebrows rose slightly.
“I am searching for the Chevalier de Braunign, de Casanova.”
Upon hearing his comrade speak, Patrick’s face lost what little color it had. He stepped back faintly, hiding behind de Garcia.
“This is his residence,” the servant said, “But he is not in Bordeaux at the moment.”
“Yes, he is,” answered Leggitt. His eyes flashed with impatience.
“No, sir, he is not. I must remind you that I am his butler, not yourself.”
A voice from the inner hallway interrupted him. “Brovil, what is the matter?”
A moment later another man appeared in the doorway and the servant stepped aside. A column blocked de Garcia’s face from the newcomer’s eyes; Patrick was hidden behind de Garcia.
“Leggitt,” he said, “I did not know you were in France. Gylain is indeed busy, if he has both you and Nicholas Montague here.” He paused. “The King of Hibernia knows nothing of your missions, however, and I was surprised when Montague did not stop to debrief me.”
“His mission was too urgent. I was sent for that purpose, de Casanova,” he gave the man a close look, and it was returned with double intensity.
After a pause, the man replied, “Very well, come in.” He disappeared into the house and beckoned them to follow him, though in his haste he did look at either de Garcia or Patrick.
Leggitt and de Garcia entered behind de Casanova, but Patrick hesitated for a moment on the threshold. He looked at the tower and whispered to himself, “I will have my revenge!”