Beckwith Castle

A man dressed as a sort of gypsy fortune teller approached with a conspiratorial air. "The alchemist is the only person who knows the true history of the twins! His name is Simbaldo and he lives in a tower! Which will be the landing above the stairs."

"No, no, no, stop! This is madness!" Daubigny exclaimed. "What are you all doing? Hasn't anyone tried to escape? What do you do all day? You can't spend all your time rehearsing a play, surely! There's a war going on out there!"

"Oh, we keep very busy," one of the men said. "We make things to sell on our market days - every Tuesday and Friday we have market here - and we try to grow vegetables and things, and you cannot imagine how much work is involved with cooking and cleaning without servants. And we're allowed into Wyckhouse, the village, where we can buy food or even go to the tavern, and many of us give lessons in dancing and French and the sort. But it's not all work. We have to enjoy ourselves sometime."

"Tavern?" Daubigny repeated, all thought of escape now having vanished from his mind. Within ten minutes they were sitting in the village pub, conveniently located immediately next to the one-mile stone marker of their parole limitations.

In a secluded corner sat a languid figure, reclining against the wall and smoking a cigar.

"New, are you?" he asked as Daubigny and Blanchard sat down. "Take my advice, and avoid the beer. It is perfectly disgusting."

Daubigny blinked at him in surprise. "Thank you." He looked around at the locals, all of whom were drinking beer. "What do you recommend instead, then?"

"I find the water from the horsetrough round the back is fairly passable."

The figure smiled, showing a set of strong white teeth, before taking another drag from his cigar.

Was everyone at Beckwith Castle unhinged? Daubigny nodded politely and then turned back to the bar. "One beer, please."

The man watched Daubigny order his drink, then sit down again with the foaming glass.

"Marius Dégreville, by the way," he said; his sole effort at an introduction.

Daubigny could not tell if the man was trying to be friendly or not. He seemed to give off a disagreeable air of superiority as he sat there smoking. So smug and confident as if he owned the place. And yet, if he felt himself above everyone else, why did the man keep speaking to him?

"Nicolas Daubigny," the lieutenant replied, nodding curtly before moving away to find a seat next to the fire. There was no need of company if one had a drink and a fire. He felt himself thaw for the first time in many days. At least someone in this desolate country understood the need for warmth.

"Charmed, I am sure," Dégreville replied, an airy wave of the hand that held his cigar, trailing a thin curl of smoke. He raised his pot of ale to the two men.

"Your very good health, gentlemen."

"And yours." So the man did want to engage in conversation. Well, it wouldn't hurt to make friends with a fellow prisoner. "So... army or navy?"

"Army, nominally," the young man sighed, inspecting his fingernails. "Engineering and artillery, to be precise. And I was a major too; you'll probably want to know that next, I expect."

He flashed Daubigny another of his smiles.

"Let me guess - one navy, one army?"

Daubigny looked over his shoulder to where Blanchard had returned to the bar, trying to ascertain whether or not he had been given the correct change for his money. He turned back to Dégreville and nodded. "That's right. I'm a lieutenant in the navy, recently of the frigate Néréide." He would let Blanchard introduce himself if he so pleased, if ever he sat down. "We've just arrived today," he added. "Have you been here long? I mean, at the... at Beckwith Castle?"

"Too long."

The young man sighed again, running the tip of one long finger around the rim of his tankard.

"It is a frightfully dull place to be. I assume that they were rehearsing their silly play this morning? I thought as much. Tried to get me to participate; but I am not in the habit of flaunting myself before the public in a skirt."

Daubigny smiled awkwardly, hoping that Blanchard wasn't listening. "So what do you do to fill the time? Have you..." He looked around and then leaned forward, speaking quietly. "Have you ever tried to escape?"

Dégreville raised one eyebrow; his light brown eyes fixing on Daubigny's, and it was clear that the young major was gifted with an unnerving gaze.

"That is not a word that it is wise to use around here," he said, his voice only bearing a hint of the mocking tone beforehand. "You forget, monsieur, for all you are a sailor, that we are on an island. A large island it may be; but one still surrounded by water, as tends to be the nature of islands."

He gave a humourless smile.

"You may run, but there is not very much anywhere to run to."

Daubigny frowned, and then looked around again before speaking in an even more hushed tone. "Yes, but have you ever tried it? Or has it been done by anyone? Successfully, I mean?

His attempt at persuading the barman to return what he believed to be owed for his beer was a failure, but he managed to step away from the bar with a second glass. A small consolation prize and the man he'd taken it from would never notice, drunk as he was.

"Are you still so intent on running away?" Blanchard asked boredly as he rejoined the other two men.

Daubigny stared at them both in semi-disbelief. "Yes, of course! Why aren't you? Why isn't everyone else? There's a war going on out there, and we're stuck here! Doesn't that bother you?"

Blanchard shrugged and sipped at his beer. "For a Navy man, you are remarkably poor at considering navigational difficulties. Do you, for example, even know where we are? Any sort of attempt to escape would require that to begin with."

"I am not poor at considering navigational difficulties," Daubigny countered, bristling. "But I won't let them stand in my way. Difficult is not impossible." He sniffed with disdain and took a sip of his beer. "So where are we, then?"

"Indeed," Blanchard dead-panned. He couldn't help a slight smirk. "We are, as near as I can gather from listening to our escorts, somewhere in Northumberland. I shall leave further efforts at determining our position to you, sir, as you are so confident."

His smirk broadened.

"Well why don't you want to escape? Surely you're not glad to be out of the war."

Shrugging, Blanchard set his mug down. "Hm. Let us simply say that life is different for men of the Navy. You may keep your zeal to run back to your service, Daubigny. I would prefer to keep my reasons for not sharing that same zeal to myself."