Mr. Darcy's Great Escape (16 page)

“
Monsieur
Bonaparte?”

“I answer to no man but God, Mrs. Maddox,” he said. “And my abbot, the pope, and maybe my brother. But that really is it. Temporal forces do not concern me.”

“Obviously not,” Elizabeth said. “Though you will be concerned by the forces that brought us here.”

“Yes,” Grégoire said, now realizing the oddity of the situation. “Where is my brother? Why is he not with you?”

“He came to the Continent,” Elizabeth said.

“Looking for you,” Caroline added.

“I wrote him—I wrote to Berlin with instructions to forward the message to England. I admit the situation here is a bit desperate, but the army is actually polite to men of the cloth, especially Frenchmen—”

“We received none of your posts,” Elizabeth said, “so he came looking for you.”

“Oh,” Grégoire said, looking a little pale. “Why—what has happened to him?”

“For this, I think, you will need to be sitting,” Caroline suggested, and he followed her suggestion.

Grégoire's Story

“I took an oath,” was Grégoire's reply to the departing brothers and elders of his order. Some were headed to monasteries in Spain, some to safe housing with families, some to Italy. Some were just leaving the cloister for good.

“You took an oath of obedience,” said the abbot. “This abbey is dissolved.”

“I was ordered to protect the saint,” Grégoire replied. “He remains. So I do.”

The abbot, a native Austrian who was heading to Rome to seek some spiritual solace there, shook his head. “I had wished you to go to Rome, Brother Grégoire.”

“I have already been to Rome, Father.”

“And it can teach you nothing now?”

“It is only that I am needed here right now.”

Again, the abbot regarded him sadly as the others gathered their things around them. “Your father was English, was he not?”

The question threw Grégoire off. It was not a secret, but only something he had mentioned in Confession before entering the Order. “Yes.”

“Sebaldus was from England, originally.” To this, the abbot gave no further comment. “When you applied for Brotherhood, I consulted with the saint. I may have nodded off in my vigil, but he told me something.” He leaned over and whispered in Grégoire's ear.

“It cannot be.”

“It will be a heavy burden to bear, if it is true. Nonetheless, will you pray for my soul when I am gone?”

Grégoire bowed. “Always, Father.”

“Then stay with the saint for as long as he asks you to.” He put his hand on Grégoire's shoulders. “Go with God, Brother Grégoire. And remember that humility is the path to holiness.”

“Always, Father.”

***

Nonetheless, a disturbed Grégoire did not sleep well in his cell at nights. He rose early to move the reliquary to safer quarters in the basement below the chapel, and when the looters came, he hid there himself.

Grégoire was too distracted from his prayers by the cries. The voice was too feminine to be Sebaldus. His first instinct, to his surprise, was not to chastise himself for being taken from his contemplations by the voice of a woman, but to respond to a cry for help. But what could he do? “Holy Sebald,” he whispered into the outer layer of the reliquary. “Help me.”

He had no weapon. The church did not spill or touch blood, and for all intents and purposes, he
was
the church, as he seemed to be the only churchman left in this city. He left his sanctuary—and the literal sanctuary—to the streets.

The scene before him was obvious enough. The French soldiers surrounded the woman in question, a woman with her beautiful—
damn it! I shouldn't have thought that!
—dress torn and barely holding up.

“Please, monsieurs,” he said quietly in French, which did get their attention, but they looked at him in disgust. They were bloodied and soiled from battle, their whiskers long, and their tone impatient when they answered him.

“Go home, monk,” said one of the soldiers. “You wouldn't know what to do with her anyway.”

The girl, who apparently did not speak French, just squealed as one of them grabbed her arm.

“No!” Before he knew it, he had run between them and put himself between the girl and the soldier's bayonets, which nearly pierced his robe. “Please. In the name of the Holy Father—”

“Emperor above Pope,” said the soldier. “And His Majesty didn't say anything about spoils of war.”

He pressed his blade, and Grégoire flinched as the bayonet's blade pierced his chest and drew blood.

“Enough!”

The soldiers instantly turned to the man on the horse, approaching from the south. He rode up carefully, obviously a skilled horseman, with one hand on the reins and the other tucked into his jacket. “Halt! Where are my fine soldiers? Who are these rabble?”

“Sir General—”

“Return to your regiment! Now!” He pulled out his sword, obviously for dramatic effect more than an actual threat.

They did not hesitate. The men departed faster than any of their earlier movements. Grégoire clutched his breast, where some blood had stained his robe, but did not fall over. It was no more than a mild sting compared to what he had suffered in the past, and he felt the woman behind him clasp his shoulders to support him.

“Brother,” said the man, approaching on his horse. “Are you French?”

“Yes, Monsieur Bonaparte.”

“Do you know this woman?”

He looked back. “No.”

“But you would die for her?”

He wasn't sure why he answered so easily, “I would.”

The general sheathed his sword. “Your order?”

“The Order of Saint Benedict, Monsieur.”

“And your abbey?”

“Down the road. But—dissolved now.”

“You'd best take her to it. My men will not violate a church. And Godspeed.” He pulled on the reins and rode off.

Grégoire stood there for some time as the woman behind him wept onto his back. Finally the woman—barely more than a girl—turned him around and asked in German, “Are you all right, Brother?”

“I—I will be fine,” he said, putting an unsteady hand on her shoulder. Yes, she was definitely a woman. A half-dressed woman. “Come. To the church, please.”

“You're hurt.”

“It is nothing.”

They made their way down the abandoned streets and into what was once the monastery, down the pews and through the back chapel, where he guided her down the steps to the basement. “Here.” He had everything that the monastery owned here, what he had managed to bring down, and he gave her a cowl to cover her. “Are you cold?”

“No,” she said. “My name is Bathilda.”

“Grégoire. B-Brother Grégoire,” he stammered.

“And where are your brothers?”

“They are all gone. The abbey is dissolved.”

“And you are still here?”

He shrugged. “I will defend Saint Sebald. This is my charge.”

“The saint?”

Grégoire gestured to the reliquary. “He is here.”

The woman—Bathilda—stared at the box with disbelief, and then at him, and he stepped away. “Please,” she pleaded. “You're hurt.”

“I have some bandages—and an ointment—it was in the herbarium, but I think I brought it down—”

“No,” she grabbed his hand, which had more of an effect on him than if a man had done so, and for all the wrong reasons, he was sure of it. It stopped him in his tracks, even with the light touch of it. “Sit and tell me where it is.”

For some reason, he did exactly what he was told, as he instructed her, and she found the items in a crate and set them upon the ground in front of his mattress. He had taken to sleeping on a mattress beside the saint, in the middle of the room. “Now remove your robe.”

“I—I cannot.”

“Is your clothing that complicated?”

“No,” he said. “Please—Madame, I can minister myself. If you would turn around—”

She huffed but did so, and he removed his cowl and his robe, down to his woolen undergarments. The wound was small, or appeared so, and though it did bleed, he did not see any damage that would not heal itself. But when he pressed the bandage to the wound to stop the bleeding, he grunted, and before he was aware of it, she was turned around and by his side again. “Let me, you obstinate monk. What do you think you are hiding?”

“I am trying—” but he found he could not finish the sentence. It had to end with…
I am trying to keep my vows
, and he did not want to say it. “I—” but she had already put her hand against the bandages and began winding them around him. Even though her flesh technically was not touching his, the experience was… difficult to comprehend. If she noticed he was suddenly speechless, she said nothing of it.

“There,” she said, tying off the bandage. “Now, was that so terrible?”

Not at all
, he thought.

“Stop looking at me like I am the devil incarnate.”

Grégoire turned away. This hardly remedied the situation, because she put her hand over his, which had the reverse effect. “Why did you put your life in front of mine,
herr
?”

“Brother,” he said quietly.

“
Brother
.”

“Because—because—” and he looked at her, and words failed him.
Because I am a poor sinner and my life is worth nothing. Because it was my Christian duty to protect the innocent. Because martyrdom was the foundation of the Church
. There were so many answers on his brain but not his tongue. But he didn't have to answer, because after enough stammering, she kissed him, and he did not pull away. He did not have the mental capabilities, it seemed, to even contemplate pulling away. It was not true that he had never felt a connection to another human being. He had hugged his siblings, his sister-in-law. He tended to wounds. But this was entirely different, entirely beyond the scope of his imagining that it could ever be.

When she finally released him—and he was very much at her mercy—he pulled away to the extent of standing up. She did not follow him. “What?”

“I took a vow,” he said, with what little strength he could muster. He did not have to refer to the nature of it.

“Did you take it knowingly?”

“I cannot honestly say that I did,” he said. “I came to the church when I was very young. But that does not change it.”

She stood up, and he stepped farther away. “Am I that frightening?”

“No,” he said. “No, no. I would never insult—I could never insult—” But when he put out his hand, she grabbed it. “Why—why do you keep doing that?”

“Because you're so adorable when you blush,” she said. He hadn't been aware that he'd been blushing. “You saved my life.”

“I—there was nothing—” but he was cut off by another kiss. A little voice in his head told him to flee, but that voice was barely heard over the pounding in his ears.

“Tell me,” she said between breaths, “am I beautiful?”

“Yes,” he said without question. He did not see her disheveled hair, her torn clothing, or the filthy monk's cowl that protected her modesty. He did not see the strain of war and terror on her face. She was an angel. And her touch—he needed more of it. He was tired of doing without, if this was what he was missing.

His senses returned to him sometime when they were on his mattress. He had very little clothing to remove, and hers was not particularly vexing. “The saint,” he said.

“What?”

“Saint Sebald,” he insisted with what little control he had left, and gestured with his head to the box at the head of the mattress.

“I have news for you, monk,” she said, tickling his chest, bare except for the bandages. “He's been dead for a long time.”

“He is the patron saint of Bavaria. I cannot—”

She groaned and pulled herself away long enough to pick up a broken piece of what had once been the wall to the confession booth and put it up against the reliquary. “There. Now the bones cannot see us. Satisfied?”

He had to reply that he was. Or he did not care enough to put up further objection.

***

Everything was new and wonderful, even the strong desire for sleep and the morning light that came when he woke. Grégoire had not seen such a beautiful morning light coming through the tiny window high on the basement wall, at least that he could remember.

“Does it hurt?”

Bathilda was awake next to him, and it took his sleep-addled brain a moment to realize she was referring to the wound on his chest, which had stopped bleeding the night before, sometime that he could not remember, because he was not concerned with it in the least. “No.”

“You have had worse.”

He sighed. She must have, at some point, seen his back. “Yes.”

“Is the Church so terrible to you?”

“No.” He flipped over so he could properly face her. “No, I chose this life for myself. Foolishly, at times. But on the whole, I do not regret it.”

“But they have abandoned you.”

“They fled, yes, but God has not abandoned me, and the saint has not abandoned me. Or I have not abandoned him, and I never shall.” He kissed her. “If there is a child—”

“So you are aware of the facts of the human condition!” she said in mock surprise.

“I do have a married brother who made sure to enlighten me,” he said. “No matter how little I wanted to hear. The point stands. If there is a child, I have… ways of providing.” He had also been advised by the very same brother not to reveal his assets unless absolutely necessary.

“How very noble of you.”

“Well, I am a monk.”

They giggled. Only the noises of movement upstairs distracted them.

***

Grégoire finished his story. He hadn't told it quite as it happened, not altering it as much as making a few exemptions for discretion. When he looked up, it was Lord Matlock who seemed to be staring at him the hardest.

“You really mean to tell me that you just—
talked
—to Napoleon?”

He shrugged, staring at the fire. “He is just a man like all of us.” He added, almost confused, “Except for the women.”

“At least now you know the difference,” Elizabeth said, and then buried her face in her hands to hide her guilty grin as she and Caroline burst into giggles.

“And to think,” Fitzwilliam whispered as he leaned in to a blushing Grégoire, “these women were once the worst of enemies.”

“Why would they be?”

“Ah, that is a long story about a young, handsome, and eligible Darcy who could inspire the jealousy of
many
women. And it seems to run in the family.”

When Grégoire finally understood, he blushed.

As quietly as they could, Fitzwilliam and Grégoire loaded the reliquary and a bag of other assorted belongings into the wagon.