The Privateer's Revenge(53)

D'Auvergne had brought back some of the colour and grandeur, particularly in the part of the edifice he occupied, the Corbelled Tower, now an impressive receiving place past the four outer gates and a higgledy-piggledy final spiral staircase.

The rest of the castle was an eccentric accretion of bluff towers and quaint gateways that led to open battlements at the top. There, stretching over two-thirds of the eastern horizon, was the coast of France—the ancient enemy of England.

D'Auvergne gave Renzi a pensive look. "I like to think I am its castellan of modern times and I'm rather fond of it. 'Time has mouldered into beauty many a grim tower,' it's been said. 'And where rich banners once displayed, now only waves a flower . . .' Sad, for there's myriad tales untold here, I'm persuaded."

He collected himself. "You shall bed in the Principal Yeoman Warder's room. Don't concern yourself on his behalf, pray—the last he had need of it was in 1641."

Renzi found it hard to avoid being affected by the atmosphere; the musty stonework of the upper floors had some life and light but other places lurking below in the dark and unfathomable depths of the fortress made him shiver.

D'Auvergne continued, "There is a small staff. I have had the kitchens removed to this level, else it plays the devil with keeping the food hot. The gate porter you'll find in St George Tower—be sure to address him as the maréchal—his lodgings are found by the King's Receiver and he may claim one gallon of imported wine and a cabot of salt for his pains."

At length they returned to d'Auvergne's apartment, where he sat behind a Gothic desk, set before diamond-mullioned windows, and steepled his fingers. "So. You have the measure of my little kingdom, Mr Renzi. What do you think?"

It was impossible to do justice to the sense of awe and unease that this lonely sea-frontier redoubt had brought to him so Renzi murmured, "Quite of another age, sir."

"Just so. Er, at this point, perhaps I should introduce myself a little more formally. You see at the recent demise of Léopold, Duke of Bouillon, I have succeeded to that principality and am thus entitled to be addressed as, His Serene Highness, the Prince of Bouillon.'"

Renzi sat back in astonishment, remembering just in time a civil bow of his head.

"You will, no doubt, be more comfortable with the usual naval titles at which I will be satisfied. However, I do insist on the style of prince in my correspondence."

"Sir."

"You might remark on it that since my lands are at the moment in occupation by Bonaparte's soldiers, and as the great hall of the castle of Navarre is unavailable to me, I must rest content with Mont Orgueil. This I cannot deny, sir, and it does explain my ready sympathy with the royalist émigré, don't you think?"

"It—it must do, sir."

"Then let us pass on to other matters. Such as yourself, Mr Renzi."

"Er?" Renzi said uncertainly.

"Quite. I do now require my curiosity to be satisfied as to why such an evidently well-educated patrician comes to me in the character of the ship's clerk of a brig-sloop—if, indeed, this be so—seeking a form of employment with me. You may speak freely, sir." He regarded Renzi dispassionately.

"And I, sir," Renzi said, firmly now, "am in a state of some wonder as to why you have seen fit to offer me a position without the least comprehension of my circumstances."

D'Auvergne smiled thinly. "I believe myself a tolerable judge of men and in your case I do not feel I am mistaken. Your story, sir, if you please."

To Renzi's own ears it seemed so implausible. Going to sea as a foremast hand in a form of self-imposed exile as expiation for what he considered a sin committed by his family, later to find its stern realities strongly appealing after the softness of the land. Finding a friend such as Kydd and their adventuring together, which had ended with Renzi's own near-mortal fever—but then the revelation of a life's calling in the pursuit of a theory of natural philosophy that in its rooting in the real world could only be realised by taking ship for distant parts, in Kydd's command, to be his clerk as a device to be aboard. "And unfortunately he has been, er, superseded and at the moment is without a ship," Renzi added. There was no need to dwell on the circumstances.

D'Auvergne did not reply for a moment and Renzi began to think he was disbelieved. Then, with a warm smile, the man said, "A remarkable history, sir. I was not wrong in my estimation—and I would like to hear more of you, sir. One evening, perhaps."

The chophouse was busy, noisy and welcoming after Kydd's morning exertions walking the streets in search of clues regarding his situation. He drew his grego clear of the sawdust floor and eased himself into one of the communal tables, nodding to slight acquaintances. "Bean Jar, is it, then?" a waiter asked, swiftly disposing of the remains of a meal in the empty place next to him. His customary order of the local dish of lentils and pork, along with bread and beer, would be his only hot meal of the day.