truly buried. She had escaped to England with a new biography to pose as a comtesse and work as a French spy. Was the mysterious Palatine part of the plot, too? Was everyone false? I was a puppet with a block of wood for a head.
All we could do is run for the borders.
With exit through the crowd impossible, I crouched and rolled under the curtain at the base of our bench and into the timber framework that held up the viewing stands.
“Monsieur Gage, not that way!” the idiot Nitot cried.
“Halt!” policemen shouted.
It was dark, the music and cheers reverberating as if I were in a drum. People were stamping in celebration. I dropped down through the framing, hit the cathedral floor backstage, and sprinted down the side aisles to the rear of the church, looking for my family.
We must escape before our arrest for the theft of the Crown of Thorns.
We must salvage something, such as the Brazen Head.
Unless that was a lie, too.
CHAPTER 20
I kept to the edges of the cathedral, seeking shadows as I frantically looked for my wife and child. Had they already fled to our agreed rendezvous? Dignitaries were filing into the choir behind the temporary arched throne as the ceremony drew to a close. Pages and altar boys were scurrying on errands, soldiers were being organized to line the departure, and bishops and priests assembled in clusters under stained-glass windows. I wanted to shout Astiza’s name, but remaining furtive was my only chance to get out of this trap.
How deep did the betrayals go? Had Catherine tipped the French as early as our Channel crossing? But why had she bothered with a wastrel like me? Had the gnomish Palatine wanted to sabotage the coronation, or been in on a clever scheme to make it even more spectacular? Did this Brazen Head really exist, or was it an invented goose chase? If Catherine were a traitor, why not murder me at the beginning?
Were we still being maneuvered? Marceau, whoever she really was, had neatly separated me from my family, betrayed our plot with the crown to Napoleon, allowed him to use it to his own advantage, and allowed Pasques to drag off my wife and son.
I really should study insects, or take up falconry.
I couldn’t depart by the main entry because I’d surely be stopped. So a quick circuit of the rear to look for my family, and then a hunt for a side door. I turned . . .
And Pasques blocked me like an obstinate bull. He was dressed in his habitual black and was homelier than usual from swelling on one side of his face. His eye was discolored and cheek bleeding.
“Your wife is a treacherous harridan, American.” So at least I had the satisfaction that Astiza had slugged him and perhaps gotten away. In retaliation, he cocked his arm, his fist as big as a cannonball and signaling like a semaphore.
“Ethan, a word!” came a shout from behind. “I want to know how you did it!” It was Talleyrand, coming from the other direction. “Even if futile, it was clever!” So the foreign minister had known as well that my attempt to sabotage the coronation would become a fiasco, and yet still he had wanted the Brazen Head. So it did exist!
Time for payback.
I prefer to reason with people, but sometimes it’s more effective to emphasize your own opinion. So I slammed my boot into Pasques’s instep, making him howl, and ducked when he swung.
The wind of the blow grazed my scalp, and I heard a crack as it connected behind with Talleyrand’s chin. The grand chamberlain of France went flying, skidding on the stone floor. The policeman staggered, carried by the force of his own blow.
I kicked the side of Pasques’s knee. He almost buckled. “Merde!”
Now the man was angry as a provoked bear. He wrenched around to grapple with me, face tight with pain, and made a stumbling charge, arms out to envelop. I remembered what Talleyrand had entrusted me with and hauled out the hilt of the ancient sword with its stub of a blade. Pasques’s throat ran right onto it.
The policeman’s eyes went wide with shock and fear. I couldn’t thrust deep enough to cut vital arteries, but iron stung and blood flooded. When he lurched back, startled, I yanked the weapon out and kicked him as hard as I could in his cockles. “I really don’t need a police escort.” He toppled like an oak.
I whirled, bent,