Desires and Adorations,
Wingèd Persuasions and veiled Destinies,
Splendours, and Glooms, and glimmering Incarnations
Of hopes and fears, and twilight Phantasies;
And Sorrow, with her family of Sighs,
And Pleasure, blind with tears, led by the gleam
Of her own dying smile instead of eyes,
Came in slow pomp.
âPercy Bysshe Shelley
March 20, 1793
The stub of a tallow candle balanced on a ledge of cold stone, its flame casting odd, lively shadows. The smell of burning tallow wasnât a pleasant one, but far more pleasant than the other aromas hanging heavily all around him. Damp, musty air. Thick green fungus growing over rough-hewn stone walls. Rat droppings. Filthy human bodies. Until tonight, Eric had been careful to conserve the tallow, well aware heâd be allowed no more. Tonight there was no need. At dawn heâd face the guillotine.
Eric closed his eyes against the dancing shadows that seemed to mock him, and drew his knees closer to his chest. At the far end of the cell a man coughed in awful spasms. Closer, someone moaned and turned in his sleep. Only Eric sat awake this night. The others would face death, as well, but not tomorrow. He wondered again whether his father had suffered this way in the hours before his appointed time. He wondered whether his mother and younger sister, Jaqueline, had made it across the Channel to safety. Heâd held the bloodthirsty peasants off as long as heâd been able. If the women were safe heâd consider it well worth the sacrifice of his own pathetic life. Heâd never been quite like other people, anyway. Always considered odd. In his own estimation he would not be greatly missed. His thirty-five years had been spent, for the most part, alone.
His stomach convulsed and he bent lower, suppressing a groan. Neither food nor drink had passed his lips in three days. The swill they provided here would kill him more quickly than starvation. Perhaps heâd die before they could behead him. The thought of depriving the bastards of their barbaric entertainment brought a painful upward curve to his parched lips.
The cell door opened with a great groan, but Eric did not look up. Heâd learned better than to draw attention to himself when the guards came looking for a bit of sport. But it wasnât a familiar voice he heard, and it was far too civilized to belong to one of those illiterate pigs.
âLeave us! Iâll call when Iâve finished here.â The tone held authority that commanded obedience. The door closed with a bang, and still Eric didnât move.
Footsteps came nearer and stopped. âCome, Marquand, I havenât all night.â
He tried to swallow, but felt only dry sand in his throat. He lifted his face slowly. The man before him smiled, absently stroking the elaborately knotted silk cravat at his throat. The candlelight made his black hair gleam like a ravenâs wing, but his eyes glowed even darker. âWho are you?â Eric managed. Speaking hurt his throat after so many days without uttering a word, or downing a drop.
âI am Roland. Iâve come to help you, Eric. Get to your feet. There isnât much time.â
âMonsieur, if this is a prankââ
âI assure you, it is no prank.â He reached to grasp Ericâs upper arm, and with a tug that seemed to cost him minimal effort at best, he jerked Eric to his feet.
âYouâyou donât even know me. Why would a stranger wish to help me now? âTwould be a risk to your own freedom. Besides, there is naught to be done. My sentence is passed. I die on the morrow. Keep your head, friend. Leave here now.â
The man called Roland listened to Ericâs hoarse speech, then nodded slowly. âYes, you are a worthy one, arenât you? Speak to me no more, lad. I can see it pains you. Youâd do better to listen. I do know you. Iâve known you from the time you drew your first breath.â
Eric gasped and took a step away from the man. A sense of familiarity niggled at his brain. He fumbled for the candle without taking his eyes from Roland, and when he gripped it, he held it up. âWhat you say is quite impossible, monsieur. Surely you have mistaken me for someone else.â He blinked in the flickering light, still unable to place the man in his memory.
Roland sighed as if in frustration, and blocked the candlelight from his face with one hand. âGet that thing out of my face, man. I tell you I know you. I tell you Iâve come to help and yet you argue. Can it be you are eager to have your head in a basket?â Eric moved the candle away, and Roland lowered the hand and faced him again. âIn your fourth year you fell into the Channel. Nearly drowned, Eric. Have you no memory of the man who pulled you, dripping, from the cold water? The eve of your tenth birthday celebration you were nearly flattened by a runaway carriage. Do you not recall the man who yanked you from the path of those hooves?â