Chapter Eleven

T hey stayed in Sedan only four nights, then Ram hired a carriage and off they went to Verdun. In those few days, she and Ram had learned little new. The townsfolk expected a shipment of muskets, but had heard the number was small. A new big shipment was to go to Verdun. Ram and Amber took the gossips at their word.

Their journey was southeast to the city that, like Sedan, sat on the Meuse River. Here they learned their first day that many spoke not only French but also German.

The town was nestled in the rolling eastern hills. As they strolled up to the old tower gates, looking for a place to dine, Ram told her what he knew about the star-shaped citadel of the ancient city of Verdun. At the turn of the last century, Louis XIV's famous old Marshal of France, Vauban, had added to the medieval city wall. Like other fortifications Vauban was famous for constructing throughout France, this here he had built as steep black stone walls struck deep in the wet soil. The ramparts stood so tall that they created narrow, sunless, mean streets smelling of the stagnant water left from countless floods, Vauban ordered hydraulics to push out overflowing water from the Meuse.

"Still, it's a pretty town." Amber noted the half-timbered houses, some with brightly colored family crests carved into the heavy wooden doors and elaborate Gothic windows dotting the second and third stories.

Their accommodations were a set of rooms in a small guest house. The proprietors were a man and his wife who were pink-cheeked, jolly folks. They spoke a mix of German and French that made for interesting misunderstandings among them.

"I wonder," said Amber in poor German to their hostess, Greta Mercier, "if mein Mann and I could have potato cakes?" She turned to Ram, and in French asked, "How do you think one says ‘potato' in German?"

" Kartoffel, " he said. "I know a few words from my friend, Lord Fournier."

"Fournier?" Greta perked up and grinned. "We have many here in the family Fournier. Verstehen Sie? "

But then the woman rambled on about a good-looking young man who, Ram translated, had stayed with them for a full week. "He was very handsome. Tall, white-blond hair, and very polite."

Ram asked her more about this man's looks and concluded she had met his friend and colleague, Diederich Fournier. " Ja , he is my friend, Frau Mercier ."

Ram had left Paris with Dirk, Lord Fournier, weeks ago. They had journeyed together toward the east. In one of the small villages where they stayed in an inn, Dirk had become very ill. Ram and he suspected Dirk had eaten something that was rotten. Ram had accompanied Dirk nearly to Verdun, but when his friend rallied, Ram had left Dirk and went north to track Amber. Dirk had continued onward to his family, who lived in Baden. Ram was surprised Dirk had stayed so long in this city.

"He was very ill," she said, and made a face. "You know," she tried in French, "sick."

"Is that right?" Ram was surprised. Dirk had told him he felt better and persuaded Ram to leave him to go north and do his duty.

Ram had developed that issue to his own advantage. "Perhaps you have met another friend of mine? Tall, hair like my wife here." He made up a name. "Monsieur Lucien Albert?"

The lady thought a moment. "Lucien Albrecht, oui, monsieur. Nicht Albert. Nein. Albrecht. "

" Merci beaucoup, madame. Das ist eine Schande. That's a shame. I had hoped to join him here. He was a friend of the commander of the citadel. He came to visit with him."

The woman frowned. " Nein. Nicht herein . Not here." She rattled on in her mix of two languages. What he got from her discourse was that the French commander of the citadel was too busy to receive guests. He was receiving too many shipments of muskets to pass the time with others in frivolous ways.

When the woman left them to their coffee and apple strudel, Ram could not suppress his grin.

"Now," Amber said, picking up his lightness of being, "that's progress. All we need is more detail."

"Such as the number of muskets."

*

Two mornings later, sitting in a different café closer to the citadel, Ram and Amber were about to leave when he motioned that he wished to remain. Two guards from the citadel had had hard night duty. They grumbled about new shipments that had arrived at two o'clock in the morning. The soldiers had stacked crates of muskets all night long. They were weary and resentful, because the muskets would have to be reloaded into wagon trains soon.

"Sending them off to Baden and Wurttemberg, my captain told me," said one.

"Krauts," added another Frenchman. "Can't trust them."

"I'd not give the bastards one, let alone five hundred," put in the first. "Plus two new cannon."

"Five hundred new muskets and two new cannon," Ram said later, after he had closed the door to their rooms, a grin on his face.

Amber shivered at the mere idea of so many. "Many more than we expected."

Ram took her in his arms. The information had come to them easily.

*

That night, on a veranda facing the flowing Meuse, they dined leisurely on good white wine, veal, potatoes, and sauerkraut. Amber ate, preoccupied with issues that had clouded her mind since they'd begun to get such vital information about weapons in Charleville. She may have come to terms with the fact that her own network was ruined by her departure from Paris, but she knew what they learned now about weapons was very important. Furthermore, such news was crucially vital to Ram and his network. His responsibility to his friend and colleague Lord Ashley remained strong. After all, Ram was doing the work assigned him by protecting her, wasn't he?

She knew it bothered Ram that he had no way to inform Ashley of what they knew about increased manufacture and distribution of muskets. He would not bring up the topic. Yet raising it to him was necessary. She would not shy from it. But she would carefully choose her words.

Amber initiated the topic of the need to leave Verdun. Her past reluctance to travel with him had gone long ago. She would go anywhere with him now. She could even go someplace dangerous…like Paris.

"Talk to me, Amber. You are too silent, and I worry," he said with compassion in his gaze.

"You and I cannot stay here," she said to him, and put down her fork and knife. "I know it. So do you, Ram. We have more information than we ever dreamed. And we must report it." All he did was shake his head, and she had to lead him to the topic. "Do you not have any friends posted elsewhere here in the east? Perhaps in Strasbourg?" That was the next largest city south of them.

"My original duty before I was assigned to find you and protect you was to come here and learn if two British men who were reputedly prisoners here in the citadel were still alive."

She sat back, shocked. "You never told me that."

"You did not need to know."

"Why not? I could help you. My French, darling man, is much better than yours. And I know the lie of the land."

"You do, sweetheart. But I have asked around. I hear nothing of any of our men detained in that monstrosity of a building." He nodded toward the tower of dark green and black stones.

She smiled at him. "Well, I am glad of that. One good thing done."

He reached over to pour more white wine into her glass, and she smiled.

Then she froze in her chair. Four men who had just arrived took a table closer to the café's entrance. Three were dressed in well-cut street clothes, and the fourth was attired in military garb. By his insignia, he was a captain in artillery blues.

"Ram, we must leave. Quickly. Please." She fished in her reticule for a handkerchief and wished to heavens it were larger.

"Of course." He got to his feet, a hand to her elbow. "You're pale."

"Please. Pay for our meal. I am ill." She put the handkerchief to her mouth and slumped, pretending illness.

The proprietor expressed his sorrow that madame had taken a poor turn. Might he do anything to help?

Ram assured him his lady needed to rest. With an arm around her shoulders, he led her down the lane to their auberge.

Within minutes, they were back in the safety of their rooms.

"Tell me what happened there," Ram urged her.

Amber paced the floor. "I had to leave. I know those four men who came to sit at the other table. The three in street clothes are Vaillancourt's men. I have often seen them with the fourth one, the captain. He is Armand Galhard, an aide-de-camp who brags he is an expert in muskets and cannon manufacture. He is young, ambitious, and the son of an influential Paris banker. His duty is to inspect factories when they finish making certain armaments, then to visit depots when they are to receive supplies. He must count the deliveries and report back to Paris that they have arrived in the right numbers and on time."

Ram was wide eyed with the thrill of her news. "Bonaparte keeps his military plans very secret. Only he and his generals, usually engineers and artillery, know real plans. For the Italian campaigns and later, we know that Bonaparte was always careful and never revealed his tactics by supplying a city or town with too much of any item all at once."

"He delays delivery of necessary supplies?"

"Yes, it is all a ruse, Ram said. "Bonaparte tells only those who need to know well in advance, like the engineers and the artillery, what he requires. Aides-de-camp are used as couriers of information from certain cities, and they never know the entire plan of supply. Nor do they know the plan of attack."

"They don't have to," she concluded. She sank in misery to sit on the bed.

"No. They report only what they see. That young aide can ride back to Paris tomorrow morning and inform his general that two cannon recently came to Verdun, plus muskets." Ram paused and frowned. "Tell me about the men in regular clothes."

"I have seen them with Vaillancourt. I do not know their names. Somehow they must know the aide-de-camp from Paris." She put a hand to her throat, terrified. "I don't know if they remember me, but I remember them. Oh, Ram. They might be looking for me."

Ram sank to the edge of the bed and reached to embrace her. "I wouldn't be surprised."

She felt the prick of fear. But she knew what they must do. "Looking for me is not so important as the knowledge that Bonaparte increases the number of armaments and puts them in the border forts."

"It is important, but not as important as your life."

"I cannot look away and ignore it!" She looked up into his brooding eyes. She did not like what she had to say, but do it she must. "We must return to Paris."

"No."

*

"He prepares for war, Ram."

"Yes. Against Austria. Which means Bonaparte's attempt to pry German princes from their bond to the Austrian empire will have teeth. He gives them guns to protect themselves."

"And to fight for him." She raised his hand and put it to her cheek. Tears gathered in her lovely eyes. "Godfrey DuClare, listen to me—I will not be the cause of your failure to perform your duty."

He kissed her hand and rose. This time it was he who paced the floor. "I had thought I must send someone to present the news to Ashley. But I know no one I can trust. We are too deep into France, far from Paris. I know Ashley has more men and women arriving to help us gather intelligence, but I know not who they are. Or if any are here in Verdun."

"Darling Ram, I have taken you far from the center of your network."

He returned to stand before her and ran his hands up into the wealth of her curls. Silken red waves tangled in his fingers. Her hair had grown from the shorter crop she had when he found her in Reims to frame her face around her ears and throat. "You are my work. You! And now, yes, you and I will take a short trip to Paris to inform Ashley. But we will do it carefully."

She hugged him, her cheek to his firm stomach. She was proud of him. So proud. He was her stalwart protector, her finest lover, her everything. This man she would not lose. "Paris is a big city, my darling. I know it well. I will do all I can to help you do what you should."

"You must agree that you will stay hidden. Not go anywhere."

"Ram, please. Do not stay my hand. You have done so much for me. I want to help."

"You will help me by staying hidden." He brushed his thumbs over the rise of her plump cheeks. "You are too precious to me to ever lose you. You are my finest work, darling woman."

She kissed his fingers. "What if I promise to be careful? Hmm? Stay out of the streets and disguise myself when we must go out?"

He snorted. "You'd need to cut your off your hair. Wear clothes that disguise all this beauty." He waved a hand down her torso. "In other words, no."

"Ram, please. Ashley needs to know this information."

He damned his lack of choices. This news was too important to send in any letter. But he must let Ashley know, without question. If he failed to report this then Parliament would howl with outrage. The army, the navy, had to know what Bonaparte planned. The Treaty of Amiens had been a plan of little value to Britain. Clearly, the Little Corporal from Corsica valued the treaty even less than paper it was written on.

"Ram, listen to me. Any help you need, I will provide."

"What I need you to provide, my sweet, is your kiss." He cupped her face and bent to take her mouth. Amber had convinced him. "I will tell Madame Mercier you are ill. We will remain here and plan well our trip by diversion, lest anyone try to follow. But I will go out into town to assess if the four we saw tonight have gone. Only then will we leave."