The Tide Watchers by Lisa Chaplin Read Free Book Online

man without a name had offered to take her home. Would he do as much for her son?

CHAPTER 5
    St. Pancras Church, London, England
    August 19, 1802
    T HE ARCHBISHOP’S GUMS were purple .
    The dentures were the latest innovation for the wealthy, made in porcelain instead of ivory, fixed into his head with gold screws that flashed when he smiled. The ousted Archbishop of Narbonne looked like a Botticelli cherub, with chubby cheeks, a sweet smile, and a halo of white hair, but those teeth—
    â€œYou must be wondering why I asked you to meet me, Commander.”
    Click —the top denture dropped as the archbishop spoke, then clack —it moved back into place. A piece of half-chewed meat stuck above the denture showed every time the teeth dropped . And as for his breath—when Duncan was a child, he’d seen a two-headed goat at a fair. Now, he felt the same horrified wonder mingled with a churning belly.
    â€œCommander, did you hear me?” Narbonne’s voice was cold.
    Caught out mid-run. He forced his gaze up to the old man’s eyes and bowed—a swift, jerking movement, with none of the grace Eddie had taught him. “I beg your pardon, Votre Éminence .” If a man of the archbishop’s exalted status requested a meeting in a tomb-cold church with underpriests stationed outside every entrance on the hottest day of the year, he must have vital news. Moreover, if he wore gentleman’s attire rather than luxurious vestments of gold and purple, especially when inside the church he’d frequented since fleeing France, he must have information he didn’t dare allow anyone else to overhear.
    With a haughty nod, Narbonne forgave him. Duncan’s jaw tightened, and his hands curled into fists. Oblivious, the old man waved his hand at the crypt and nave beyond. “This dates back a thousand years. So-called improvers with their gold leaf and plaster pots are fools.” Click-clack-click. Meat and spittle. “These things tie us to the faith of ages past. In the Revolution, so much beauty was lost to the world.”
    Duncan suppressed a sigh. Elderly people liked to talk, and any informant of his standing expected and deserved a respectful hearing. But he wasn’t saying anything that didn’t happen during the Reformation, the Dissolution, the Wars of the Roses—name a war, or a country.
    The silence stretched thin. It seemed Narbonne wanted an answer. “To lose your bishopric under the terms of the Concordat must have felt like betrayal.”
    An irritable look settled on the archbishop’s face. “Don’t patronize me, boy. You—”
    Duncan’s stomach jerked. You are nothing. You will live up to the name you’ve been given, boy! Even with his eyes open he saw Annersley’s hand lifting, the whip descending . . .
    Halfway to his face, Duncan forced his hand down. The scars had been there so long he mostly forgot they were there.
    The old man sat ramrod straight on the pew: a highbred bird with ruffled feathers, every inch as imperious and easily offended as the old bastard at Mellingham Hall. He knew what Narbonne expected, but damned if he’d grovel. When he’d run from Annersley the last time, he’d sworn never to cringe or bow before any man again.
    Eddie had asked him to display patience. “I will refrain from patronizing you if you do the same for me. If I was a boy, or not from your class, I doubt you’d have agreed to meet me.”
    Unexpectedly, Narbonne’s lips twitched. “ Touché. So which of your names do I use, the oh-so-English Commander Aylsham”— click-clack —“the equally French Monsieur Borchonne, or perhaps I should call you Tidewatcher?”
    Duncan stiffened with the quiet use of his code name, given by the British Alien Office when he was given his first Continental assignment, back in ’93. “Commander Aylsham will do.” He spoke with an edge of