VERSAILLES 1684
The night’s chill clutched at her bones. Madeline could not draw her cloak tight enough to ward off the dread. Beggars huddled by gutters cursed as carriages splashed mud. Drunken rogues quarrelled on street corners. Madeline hurried past so urgently even the skilled pickpockets hadn’t time to assail her.
She skirted the periphery of L’Hotel du Turannes and looked over her shoulders. It was unlikely that she had been followed. She was dressed in a man’s hooded cloak and trousers, her purse carefully concealed. Still one could never be sure. She knocked three times against the wooden gate, invoking Saint Anne for protection.
A scar faced man cracked open the door wide enough for her to slip in a coin of some value. He examined the currency then allowed her in but not before itching his jaw with the edge of his chipped dagger.
The smell of stale ale and smoke accosted her. Rambunctious men drank frothy slosh and flirted with lacy bar maids. The tavern catered to a morally ambiguous and highly inebriated clientele. It still drew a crowd though it was built two years earlier, when King Louis moved to Versailles.
Madeline whispered in the doorman’s ear and handed him another coin. He nodded and led her to a room with two tables and one lamp.
At the lit table were four men playing cards. At the table shrouded in shadows, a man with a tricorne hat sipped on a drink. From his outline she could make out he was narrowly built and chiselled. He wore an overcoat, breeches and pointy leather boots. She had no view of his belt to ascertain his weaponry. His tumbler was nearly drained.
‘Are you Captain Costa?’ she asked.
The stranger nodded.
‘I was told you have a ship.’ She lowered her hood. ‘Is there some place private to discuss matters of delicacy?’
He motioned to the table across from them. ‘Mi amigas,’ he said. ‘Your secrets are safe here.’
Madeline did not want to negotiate in the open. Only yesterday, Duc de la Rochefien was incarcerated for conspiring against the King. ‘I have no secrets,’ she replied. What did he know?
‘We all have secrets,’ said Costa. ‘Some dirtier than others.’
‘I beg your pardon, I am a natural philosopher not a creature of dirty secrets.’ What was he insinuating? Had he heard? Certainly her deportment and grace had not given her away. She had spent most of her adult life studying and perfecting the tropes of nobility.
The captain shrugged.
Reluctantly, she sat down next to him. ‘I require safe passage to Bengal.’
‘What are you running away from?’ he asked.
Madeline produced a woeful countenance. ‘Alas, my father is unwell. It is for him, this expedition. Bengal’s herbal solutions are renowned. I hope to find something that might cure him. I have been informed that you are familiar with the route?’
Costa nodded.
‘I will pay in gold.’ She produced from her leather purse a promissory note.
A gold tooth sparkled when Costa smiled. ‘I’ll take you to the Subedar in six months.’
Madeline shivered. She had heard of the Mughal Viceroy of Bengal, a fitful despot who lived in Dacca and killed on whim.
As if reading her fears, Costa continued, ‘He’s my mate. We’re like this.’ He crossed two fingers. His nails were untrimmed and grimy, his hand calloused.
Most sea captains Madeline had met were braggarts and liars. ‘It is not Dacca I wish to travel to but the Port of Chatgaon.’
‘Chatgaon?’ said Costa. ‘Nothing there but tigers.’
‘There is a tribe in the hills of Chatgaon with ancient recipes known to cure my father’s affliction.’
‘Dutiful daughter,’ said Captain Costa.
Madeline could not tell if he was being earnest. Her hands perspired inside her gloves. Even if he were to agree to ferry her to Hindustan, how would she possibly survive six months in his scurvied company?
She spoke authoritatively to seal the deal. ‘I offer you 20,000 crowns. Half now and the remaining to be paid upon my safe return to France.’
‘Double that and pay upfront,’ said Costa. ‘That’s what Tavernier paid me.’
‘Monsieur, I do not have the purse of a thief,’ said Madeline.
‘No, just the debts of a liar?’ said Costa.
‘How dare you cast such aspersions!’ said Madeline, blood rising to her face.
A bar maid stepped into the room and offered them drinks. Madeline declined in a hurry to get on with business. The captain bantered with the girl who in turn laughed and lingered. Madeline glowered, waiting for the tart to leave. Patience, she told herself. She must do this for her father. At long last the bar maid stepped out.
‘You can’t escape your troubles,’ said Costa before she could get in a word. ‘You have to change your way of thinking. That’s what I discovered from my years of wandering. The only escape is to reshape your attitude. Reconsider your foolish mission. The sea is no tame lover. No place for natural philosophers. Nor women.’
‘Women are stronger than you think,’ snapped Madeline.
‘Ain’t that the truth, Mother Mary.’
If this lowly buccaneer wasn’t her last resort, she would have slapped him for his insolence. With icy politeness, she replied, ‘Attack a kitten, its father will run, tail between its legs. Its mother will fight till her last breath.’ She bit her lip. She mustn’t antagonise him. ‘I assure you, I shall be an entirely pleasant travel companion. My father was a sea captain.’
Costa cocked an eyebrow, ‘Your blood father?’
Madeline nodded.
‘Never met a sailor’s gal who pretends to be above her station.’
Irritation flared at Madeline’s finger tips but she faked an angelic smile. ‘200,000 rupees is a most generous offer.’
‘You will need a cabin and constant supervision,’ said Costa.
‘Supervision? I am not a child!’
‘Can you hold your ground against a man?’
‘Indeed, I can fence,’ Madeline retorted. ‘I trained as a child.’
‘Can you hold your ground against twenty men?’ asked Costa.
Madeline hesitated. ‘Should I disguise myself as a man?’
‘You’ve been reading too many adventure books ... Hush!’
‘Excuse me?’ she said, annoyed.
The captain pressed his finger to her lips.
Then Madeline heard it too. The sound of footsteps: boots rushing in their direction. She hid her face under the hood of her cloak and whispered, ‘I’ll pay double upfront!’
In streamed a dozen policemen armed with batons.
‘Where is she?’ demanded the chief of party.
‘She?’ said Captain Costa, knocking over the oil lamp. It crashed on the floor leaving the room in near darkness.
‘Scoundrel! Why did you do that?’ yelled the policeman.
‘Accident, Sir. Beg your pardon.’
‘Have you seen her?’ asked the constable.
‘Who?’ asked Costa.
‘Madeline du Champs, the criminal?’ said the constable.
Madeline held her breath, her heart was a racing stallion.
‘She stole the Duchess of Bourbon’s emeralds,’ said the constable.
‘Just me and my men here,’ said the captain. ‘Care for some grog?’
‘Search the place,’ shouted the constable to his men.
Madeline tried to control her trembling body. French police were known for burning women at the stake under false accusations of witch craft. Sick with fright, she longed to be home with Minaloushe curled in her lap.
‘Go on. Get outta here. We don’t want trouble,’ barked the doorman at the police.
Madeline felt a rush of gratitude. He could have turned her in.
Frustrated with their search, the police were about to depart when the constable noticed Madeline’s purse on the table. ‘Fetch a lantern!’ he ordered. He walked to the chair where Madeline had been sitting and lifted the purse to examine it.
He was so close, Madeline could smell his breath. He had only to turn his shoulder to discover her trembling behind him. Alarmed, she grabbed a pitcher and brought it smashing onto his head.
He screamed, clutched his head and turned to face her in fury. Two shots exploded.
For an instant, Madeline thought she was dead then the constable fell to the ground before her. Behind him stood Costa, a flintlock pistol in each hand, smoke streaming out of the nozzles.
What ensued was too rapid for Madeline to process. Only later did she piece it together. In a blur of action, Costa shot the constable and whistled for his crew. They swarmed in swinging cutlasses and massacred the police men to rescue her.
‘Let’s go!’ shouted Costa. ‘GO! GO! GO!’
Madeline stood stunned, sick to her stomach at the sight of the culling. She might have fainted but Costa grabbed her by the waist and ran, dragging her out of the tavern with him. He hoisted her onto a saddled horse and raced like the wind.
‘Where are we going?’ Madeline screamed.
The captain hollered back, ‘To the wilds of Bengal!’