The Sanctuary (26 page)

He was di Sangro’s son. The deferential teenager, though, was gone, replaced by a young man who reeked of menace.

St. Germain slid a glance at his coachman, who was looking to him nervously. “Drive, Roger,” he ordered him fiercely, “go through them.”

The coachman yelled and whipped the horse, which burst into a gallop and charged forward. Looking out the window, St. Germain saw the horses blocking their path rear slightly backwards before one of the riders brought up something that glinted ominously in the moonlight. It took a split second for St. Germain to realize it was a crossbow, and before he could shout it down, the rider took aim and fired. The small arrow sliced the air with a sharp whisper and struck the coachman squarely in the chest. He let out a pained moan before slumping to one side and tumbling off the advancing carriage.

The riders spread out and edged forward, yelling and waving their arms at the confused horse that weaved erratically from side to side but kept charging ahead. The carriage rattled down the uneven paving, with St. Germain hanging on to the edge of its window, his mind racing through possible moves just as he glimpsed the rider on di Sangro’s other flank raise another crossbow and fire at the horse.

From the sharp, pained whinny of the horse, St. Germain knew the arrow had buried itself deep into its flesh. The horse reared up, sending the carriage careening sideways unevenly. A wheel must have gotten hooked on the edge of a paving stone because St. Germain found himself hanging onto the window ledge as the light carriage bounced upwards and rolled heavily onto its side, sliding a few yards before grinding to a halt.

St. Germain shook himself back to consciousness and unfolded himself, his senses alert to the movement outside. The street had gone silent, the only noise disturbing the deathly stillness coming from the hooves of his attackers’ horses as they slowly closed in around him. With his back to the blocked door under him, he curled his legs and kicked the opposite door open, then pulled himself out, aching and bruised from the tumble. He dropped to the ground and glanced up the street. The body of his coachman just lay there, immobile. St. Germain felt his anger swell up as he straightened his bruised body and stood up.

Up ahead, the three riders were now joined by di Sangro’s son.
“Bravo, ragazzo mio,”
di Sangro congratulated him.
“Sei stato grande”
—you did well. He then turned to face St. Germain.

The four of them now stood there before him, bearing down on him, backlit by the grim lantern that swayed feebly overhead.

Di Sangro prodded his horse forward a few steps, his eyes locked on his prey. “That’s quite a life you’ve made for yourself,
Marquese.
Paris
will be sad to lose you.”

“And
Paris
’s loss will be
Naples
’s
gain
, is that it?” St. Germain spat back.

Di Sangro smiled and dismounted. “Maybe not all of
Naples
’s, but certainly mine.” His son followed suit, while the other two riders remained on their mounts. The prince stepped closer to St. Germain, scrutinizing him as if for the first time. “You look well,
Marquese
.
Extremely well, in fact.
Could it simply be that this filthy
Paris
air suits you so?”

St. Germain said nothing. His eyes darted tensely from di Sangro to his son and back. The resemblance was strong, especially in the eyes, even more so now that the boy had turned into a man. Di Sangro himself had noticeably aged in the intervening years: heavier, paler, the skin on his face and neck sagging and lined. He cursed himself for not making the connection sooner, for not realizing who the young man was the minute he first laid eyes on him in that café. He’d always expected di Sangro to catch up with him at some point, and he’d had several years of peaceful, if guarded, anonymity. He knew his life in
Paris
was now over, but, more immediately, he needed to do something if he was going to have any chance of setting up another existence.

His mind frantically processed his options, but there weren’t many. A thought, however, blazed through the bleak scenarios like a beacon, a simple realization that colored his reactions in the various confrontations with di Sangro that he’d played out in his mind over the years: Di Sangro needed him alive. The threats of revelation or death were hollow: He knew di Sangro would do his best to keep him alive and use all the methods at his disposal, however grisly and for as long as it took, to wring the truth out of him.

It was, however, a double-edged sword. Alive was only an attractive option as long as he was free. Captivity, and torture,
were
far less desirable. Especially given the doubts he harbored about how long his resolve would resist.

He was boxed in. The two riders had stationed themselves to either side of their master, blocking both routes of escape. Behind him was the wall of the building, its entrance door beyond shuttered up since sundown. And facing him, behind di Sangro and his
son,
was the low wall and the river.

St. Germain took a deep breath and pulled out his sword. “You know I can’t go with you,” he told di Sangro flatly. “And there is nothing here for you.”

Di Sangro smiled coldly and waved at his men. “I don’t think you have much choice,
Marquese
.” He drew his sword and held it up to St. Germain, as did his son. From the corner of his eye, the count noted that the riders with the crossbows had also reloaded.

St. Germain edged sideways, keeping the prince and his son at bay with the tip of his sword. Much as he felt tired and weary from the burden he had carried across the continents, this wasn’t the release he was looking for. He couldn’t accept the idea of capture, not by this man. He was ready to resist it with his every breath, although he knew that if he died, the secret, as far as he knew, would die with him. He wondered if that would be, on balance, a good thing—or did he owe it to the world to keep the knowledge alive, even if it was in the hands of a maniacal and selfish man such as di Sangro?

No, he had to stay free. He had to stay alive. He wasn’t ready to die. And, he now also realized, he couldn’t keep it to himself anymore. It was too dangerous. If he managed to get away this time and continued with his quest, he had to enlist others, regardless of the dangers involved. He just had to choose better.

A fierce determination raced through his veins, and he lunged ferociously at the two men. As their swords clashed noisily in the deserted street, he noticed that di Sangro had slowed a bit since their last encounter, but his son had more than taken up the slack. The young man was a gifted swordsman. He countered St. Germain’s swings with surgical efficiency and seemed to predict the count’s moves unerringly. The prince edged back, content with acting as a barrier to St. Germain’s escape, as his son took over, lunging and swinging his blade at the count. The son’s cloak had slipped off his head, and in the feeble light of a nearby suspended lantern, the tiger markings streaked across his face now looked positively demonic, heightening the predatory scowl in his eyes and unnerving St. Germain.

The son’s blade was now slicing the air faster and more viciously, with St. Germain struggling to parry and block the onslaught. As they stomped through the central gutter and its filthy slush, St. Germain scuttled to his side to avoid another big swing and his shoe caught on a paving stone, throwing him off-balance. Di Sangro’s son grabbed the opening and bolted forward, lunging at St. Germain. The count recovered his footing and darted to his right, but couldn’t fully avoid the blade, which cut into his left shoulder and sent a burning pain searing through him. He raised his sword back in time to deflect his attacker’s next swing and stepped back to regroup.

They circled each other like jungle cats, their eyes locked on each other, the clanging of their swords now replaced by their labored breathing. A leering smile curled up the sides of the young man’s fine lips, and he slid a glance at his father, who gave him a pleased and approving nod. St. Germain saw an unguarded cockiness in the young man and a mirrored pride in his father as he felt the blood trickling down the inside of his sleeve. The wound was going cold, and with it, the pain would be getting more intense and the muscles would stiffen. He had to move fast, even though he knew he wasn’t going to defeat all four men.

He knew where he had to strike.

He summoned all the energy he could muster and struck out at the prince’s son with renewed vigor, lashing his blade at him from all sides and forcing him back a few steps until he was trudging through the central gutter and its pile of sludge. The young man seemed taken aback by St. Germain’s determined attack, and as he fought back the deluge of demented lunges and swings, he shot a doubting glance at his father, as if looking to him for reassurance. St. Germain saw the split second of weakness and attacked. His blade plunged into the young swordsman’s side, making him howl with pain.

The prince’s son stumbled backwards with a shocked, almost disbelieving look as he touched his wound and brought up his bloodied hand. Di Sangro saw his son stagger through the filth and raced forward to him, calling out his name, “Arturo.” His son shook his pain away and stayed him by holding up his hand and turned to St. Germain. He raised his sword, but his legs faltered as he took a step forward.

Di Sangro yelled out,
“Prendetelo,”
to his men—
get
him—and rushed to his son’s aid. St. Germain watched as the two riders dismounted and converged on him, cutting off both ends of the street. Their crossbows blinked at him through the darkness. He looked behind him—the low wall edging the lane was within reach. He bolted and, reaching it, flung his sword over and clambered onto it. Flames of pain shot through his shoulder as he pulled himself onto the ledge. He righted himself and stood up.

Below him was the
Seine
, cold and littered with detritus, only this time, the water, flowing slowly and shimmering under the moonlight, wasn’t comforting. It made him dizzy. He sucked in some night air and turned back to face the street. Di Sangro saw him standing there. Their eyes locked for a brief moment, and St. Germain saw the pain, the anger, and the utter desperation radiating from di Sangro, who then yelled out, “Don’t be foolish,
Marquese
—”

But before the prince could do or say anything else, St. Germain just turned away, closed his eyes, and stepped off the ledge, letting himself drop into the river.

He hit the water hard and sank deep into its murky darkness. Tumbling over himself, he was momentarily disoriented and couldn’t tell which way was up. His arms flailed as he spun over himself aimlessly, his ears throbbing from the changing pressure, his lungs aching for air. He tried to calm himself, but the cold was biting into him and he could feel his head going woolly. As he spiraled down, he caught a glimpse of what he thought could be a reflection on the surface and decided to head for it, but the weight of his clothes was pulling him down. He reached down and managed to pull off his sodden shoes, but his clothes were locked in place by rows of buttons, layer upon layer of the finest material, breeches, shirt, cravat, waistcoat, and justaucorps that now clung tightly to his skin and inhibited his movements.

He felt as if the devil himself were reaching up and dragging him down to his death, and in that brief moment, he felt a perverse relief at ending it all, here and now, but something made him fight to stay alive and he thrashed away with his limbs, pushing against the water desperately until he made it back to the surface.

He broke through and found himself floating down the
Seine
among scattered pieces of timber and rotten fruit. He had drifted away from the Île de la Cité and was in the middle of the river, moving slowly back in the direction of the Tuileries. He fought against the tide, swallowing up big gulps of filthy water and coughing it up, his drenched clothes still weighing him down, his arms hitting blindly against floating debris and garbage. He fought as he’d never fought before, struggling to stay alive, to stay afloat, all the time trying to edge closer to the right bank, to dry land. Inch by inch, the bonfires of the homeless, scattered along the quays to his right, drew nearer, and by the time he grabbed a rusted iron ring that stuck out from the stone pier along the riverbank, he’d lost all track of time.

He dragged himself out of the water and lay on his back, sucking in grateful gulps of air, letting his drained body regain some semblance of life. He didn’t know if it was minutes or hours later, but it was still dark when he heard a voice he thought he recognized calling out to him. He thought he was dreaming when, moments later, Thérésia’s angelic face came beaming down at him from among the stars, muttering words that he couldn’t quite comprehend.

He felt his battered body being lifted under the shoulders by a man, and aided by Thérésia, he soon found himself wrapped in a thick blanket and ensconced in the cushioned comfort of a great carriage that whisked him away from the rats and the brigands and burrowed into the dark streets of the city of light.

AS THEY DROVE to Thérésia’s apartment, questions swamped St. Germain, and his confused mind struggled to process the answers she gave him.

She told him that she had noticed that something seemed to have unnerved him at the ball, and that as he had headed out of the palace, she had spotted a man dressed as a tiger shadowing him. She had left the ball soon after them, having lost interest, and her coachman had told her that the man had indeed followed the count out and trailed his carriage. She had headed off after them, sensing trouble, and had witnessed the fight from the bridge, too afraid to intercede. After St. Germain had jumped into the river, she’d thought he had drowned. Her coachman had spotted him floating down the middle of the river and, ultimately, brought her to him.