To Regain a Legacy

By T C Sutton

It is in Paris during France’s pre-revolutionary Ancien Régime when gambler, socialite and renowned swordsman Napier Gerrard enjoys a life of luxury and leisure. However, his comfortable lifestyle is blighted by the troubled memory of a double murder when, as a teenager, he lived in England with his father, a fencing master to a Royal Duke. Worse still, he was falsely accused of the crimes and only escaped with his life by fleeing back to his native France.
Napier, knowing that he will never obtain peace of mind until he has done what he considers to be the right thing by his father’s memory, makes the momentous decision to return to England in search of his father’s resting place. He is aware that, with a large bounty on his head, he could expect betrayal at any time.
Once in England, fate intervenes to keep Napier in danger as a series of events come together to set him on a course that will test his swordsmanship and survival instincts to their very limits.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Oct 29, 2021
• ISBN: 9781528995375

T C Sutton

Born in the town of Nantwich, Cheshire, the author has lived most of his life in the town of Wrexham, North Wales. He was educated at Wrexham Technical College, and his working life involved chemical engineering, construction and aircraft manufacturing. From the age of seventeen he has had a lifelong interest in the sport of Fencing, taking part in competitions for many years, from a teenager to the age of sixty. Nowadays he follows a much gentler hobby, secretary of the Garden Village Residents Association. One of the main functions of the association is the running of the local fete.

Book preview

Foreword

Napier Gerrard – gambler, socialite, renowned swordsman and feared duellist, living in eighteenth century Paris, in the years preceding the French revolution, enjoyed a life of luxury and leisure. However his comfortable existence was blighted by a troubled conscience.

Born a foundling in the slums of London. As a young child, he had left the city to wander the countryside where fate guided his steps to Mulgrave Hall and the protection of a fencing master employed by the duke. This fencing master, who adopted the boy became his father, educated him and taught him to be a highly skilled swordsman. Over the years, Jacques Gerard and the boy became as close as any father and son could be, Napier bearing Jacques’ name. The two, intending to return to Paris; Jacques to retire and Napier to run Jacques fencing school for him.

Fate, however, had other ideas. Jacques quarrelled with the Dulce of Mulgrove, a man with a vicious violent temper. In a fit of rage, the duke blinded the fencing master with a pickle fork. Napier, protecting his father. threw a barrel of brandy, which caught fire, incinerating the duke, and consequently burning down the ball. Napier had no option but to flee for his life leaving, his dead father behind.

Now, despite having made a life for himself in the safety of Paris, Napier was planning to return to England to placate his conscience by seeing that his father had a proper grave. There was a great deal of risk attached to such a trip, for the duke’s son, angered by his failure to hound down Napier, had concocted a tissue of lies denouncing Napier as a robber and a murderer with a substantial bounty upon his head. Capture would mean certain death on the gallows.

Regardless of the risk, Napier was determined to make the trip, expecting to slip across the Channel, find the grave, and return to safety within a few days. Little did he know what the future held. It would be years before he saw his home again. The authorities, wanting to swing him from the gallows, and people, wishing to betray him for the bounty, were minor problems compared to other enemies thirsting for his blood. A certain Alexandrine D’Amblimont pursued him relentlessly. She and Napier had once been lovers until Napier became involved in a duel that killed her father, after which she became his bitter enemy. She and her father were high ranking members of a powerful organisation dedicated to the overthrow of the French monarchy. His death in the duel set back the cause many years – the organisation would not forget or forgive.

All these factors came together to set Napier on a course that would test his swordsmanship and survival instincts to their very limits. He would make good friends and bitter enemies along the way, but always, he would have to fight hardships and adversity if he were to return to the safety of Paris once more.

Chapter One

Back in The Shadow of

The Hangman’s Noose

Brambles and thorns have a tendency to pull threads out of clothes. Moss, on the side of tree trunks, can leave green stains on the finest of cloths. Mud and wet undergrowth can take the shine off the most expensive boots. Therefore, the young man, dressed in finery more suited to the French Court than an English woodland, picked his way carefully along the overgrown ill-defined path, gingerly parting the foliage that impeded his progress. In his mind’s eye, he contemplated the many years that had passed since. As a boy and a youth, he had wandered freely through these trees, never dreaming in those far off days that he would return on such an errand as he now embarked on.

Although it had been many years since he had lived here, the old familiar spots were still recognisable. The ancient gnarled oak he had climbed in order to drop into its hollow core, where he could peer through a knot hole and spy on the creatures of the woodland passing by, all unknowing of his presence. The thick ferns he could crawl into and lay there at his ease, allowing his boyish imagination to run, seeing himself as the hero of countless adventures. All these places were still there and recognisable from a bygone happier era. Now, he had neither the time nor inclination to wallow in nostalgia of a past that could never return.

He had been well aware of the risk he was taking, but he had no choice. He had to make his enquiries. The nearby village was the only place where knowledge of the location of his father’s grave could be found. England was a dangerous place for a man such as him. With a bounty on his head, he risked betrayal by anyone who recognised his face. Without question, the sum offered would be life-changing money for any one of these villagers.

Fortunately, the ravages of time coupled with the stressful life of a duellist, plus a meteoric change in lifestyle and manner, had altered his appearance considerably since. As a callow youth, he had fled the area with a charge of robbery and murder hanging over his head. So, it had been a calculated risk, which he thought worth taking, with a fair chance of remaining unrecognised. Although he began to have doubts when his arrival in the village aroused a great deal of curiosity. Not at all surprising, given the contrast between their rough home-spun clothing and his expensive finery, cut in the French style by the most up to date fashion houses the city of Paris could supply.

Very few of these people had come into close contact with anyone who would be considered Gentry. They had, of course, seen them passing by in their carriages or on horseback, but none stopped to speak, and certainly never to enquire the location of an isolated grave, hidden deep in the forest. Most of them knew of its existence. Some, for a few coins, had been prepared to explain where to find it. For a price, they had even offered to lead him to it. However, much to their surprise, the well-dressed stranger had no need of their guidance. Once he had been told where to find it, he knew exactly where the clearing was – it appeared his knowledge of the forest was equal to their own.

Coming out of the village, trotting down well-worn paths had been easy going for his horse, but as they progressed deeper into the forest, low branches and thick undergrowth became hazards, forcing the rider, for safety’s sake, to dismount and lead the animal on foot. Now, as he parted the foliage and pushed aside the branches, obstructing his free passage, he was able to step into a clearing, formed naturally in the forest. There, in front of him, was the grave he had been seeking.

It came something as a surprise, although quite a pleasant one, to see how well tended it was, with the grass scythed down all around and a bunch of fresh flowers lying before the simple headstone. This was totally unexpected. He had thought to find it overgrown, and had been quite prepared to search the undergrowth to uncover it. Slipping the reins over a branch, he left the horse quietly nibbling away at the fresh grass, oblivious to the fact that its rider, after a long hazardous journey, was now nearing the end of his quest.

The rider, for his part oblivious to what his horse was up to, knelt in front of the headstone, reading the inscription engraved first in French, then in English: Jacques Gerrard, a Great Swordsman and a True Gentleman. The kneeling man felt a lump in his throat. His eyes began to fill with tears. His name was Napier Gerrard and the man buried here had been his adopted father, a Frenchman earning his living in England working as a fencing master. Jacques’ employer, the Fourth Duke of Mulgrove had wanted the fencing master to stay on in his employ until his son had successfully survived his first duel. Jacques, however, had other ideas. He considered his services were no longer necessary and wished to return to his native France, taking Napier with him. During the ensuing argument, the duke, a man with a demonic temper, not at all used to being opposed, drove a pickle fork into the fencing master’s one good eye, leaving him totally blind. Napier, who had witnessed the foul deed, had flung the duke into the fireplace, then smashed a cask of brandy over the mantle, turning the duke into a fire ball and setting the entire Manor on fire. At this point, the duke’s son arrived and attempted to pick up a sword. Napier, in self-defence, smashed his hand with a medieval mace. Jacques, knowing that blinded as he was, he could not escape the duke’s team of Mastiffs. He opted to take his own life, aided by his son, Napier, who realised it was the only way of saving his father from the gallows. Before he left, he had set fire to his father’s quarters with his father’s body in them. With death staring him in the face if he remained, he had little option. He could not give his father a proper funeral, therefore he gave him a Viking funeral instead. Having escaped from the manor, pursued by the duke’s teams of hunting hounds, he spent many months being chased like a wild animal, before finally escaping to France and the safety of Paris. The duke’s son, nursing a right hand smashed beyond repair, and furious that his servants had not been able to capture their quarry, concocted a tissue of lies regarding murder and robbery, making Napier an outlaw with a price upon his head.

Although he was now firmly established as a citizen of Paris, and therefore safely out of the reach of English law, Napier could not get out of his head the image of his father, his untimely death and the guilt he could not erase from his mind at having to leave him behind in order to escape his pursuers. This ate away at his conscience, until he knew that he had no choice. He had to return to see his father’s grave, despite the very real risk he might be recognised, arrested and sent to trial with the absolute certainty of conviction and death on the gallows. The duke and his son were both dead now, but that did not matter. The sworn testimony of a duke, even a dead one, would ensure his place on the gallows without too much consideration being given to anything he might have to say in his own defence. Knowing he would find no peace of mind until he had seen the spot where his father was laid to rest, he threw caution to the winds and embarked for England, leaving his future in the hands of fate. Relying on the fact that his appearance and manner had changed considerately during his years of exile, he took the calculated risk that he would not be recognised when he enquired about the grave in the local village, although he knew the nature of his quest would create suspicion.

Now, alarm bells were beginning to ring in his head. He had expected problems in finding the grave. Given the circumstances of his death, it would have been reasonable to assume the burial would be in a pauper’s or felon’s plot, hidden away, overgrown and forgotten by all involved. This situation, however, gave rise to much speculation. As far as the authorities were concerned, Jacques Gerrard was a thief and a murderer, and as such, would expect to be buried in a forgotten grave. Whoever it was who tended this grave obviously thought differently, and was prepared to risk the wrath of a Dukedom in order to prove the point.

A combination of his emotions on finding the grave, his surprise on finding it cared for and well-tended had made him careless. He had dropped his guard, failing to notice he was no longer alone in the clearing. Showing all the wariness and survival instincts of the hunted felon, his hand shot to the hilt of his sword. He spun around, reacting to the sound of a woman’s voice behind him, like a ringing bell through the quiet of the forest: Napier Gerrard, of all people. You have changed Napier. I would never have recognised you if l had not received word from the village that a French gentleman was asking directions to find the grave of Jacques Gerrard. I would have passed you by in the street and not known you. However, I put two and two together, and knew instantly that it was you.

Napier looked across at the slim figure of the woman, standing on the edge of the clearing, her hand resting lightly on the trunk of a tree. The other hand thrust deep into a side pocket of the grey nuns habit she wore. He recognised her instantly, despite the unusual garb. Why, your grace, I had never expected to meet you here, he managed to say, while recovering from his surprise enough to make a formal bow.

At the same time, his brain was racing with doubts and questions. Was she alone? Did she have anyone with her? Were they, at this moment, creeping through the trees, trying to surround him and cut off his escape? However, the woman appeared to read his mind, anticipating his unspoken questions with her next remark: Put away your sword, Napier. I am not your enemy. Do not look so worried. I am not here to arrest you, and I am no longer your grace. I gave up the title, the Duchess of Mulgrove, after the duel that killed my son. Napier could feel his face redden a little on hearing this, for he knew only too well who the other combatant in that particular duel had been. The woman appeared not to notice, carrying on with her tale without a pause: My son rebuilt Mulgrove Manor after the fire, but when his body returned from France, I had no need for a title or a manor house, so I turned it into a priory and I became its prioress. As you can see from my apparel, I now live a simple life, devoted to prayer.

Napier, not knowing quite what to say, yet at the same time feeling that somehow he needed to justify his past actions to this woman whose family he was solely responsible for destroying, began to blurt out an explanation justifying his innocence. Before he could speak, the Lady Prioress silenced him with a wave of her band: I know what you are about to say Napier. Your words would be wasted on me. I knew both you and your father very well. You were both decent honest honourable men. Neither of you would be capable of the things they accused you of. Over the years, I have pieced together the facts and unearthed the complete story. That is why I had Jacques’ body buried here, and paid some of the villagers whom I trusted to maintain the grave. Napier nodded; that at least answered the question he had speculated on, Thank you, my lady. That was very kind. I am most grateful to you. The Prioress smiled, I liked your father. He was a kind man. To see that he had a decent burial was the least I could do for him. I understand why you came here, Napier, and it is all due credit to you, but you took an appalling risk in coming here. Do you not realise that the bounty on your head is sufficient to tempt half of England to hunt you down? To add to the risk, you come wearing that sword. It identifies you as clearly as if you were to have your name emblazoned across your forehead.

Napier laid his hand on the hilt of his sword, a unique weapon, the envy of all who laid eyes upon it. It was the only legacy his father had been able to bequeath him. He valued it more than anything he owned and would gladly give his life to prevent it being taken from him. The answer he gave was typical of how he felt about it, I have no illusions about the risk I take in coming here, but it was something I had to do. As for the sword, wherever I go it goes. To do anything else would be to betray my father, who always carried it with honour.

The lady smiled wryly at this comment, Yes, honour. Neither my husband nor my son knew much about that. I was under no illusions regarding the duke’s character. He was an evil man with a viscous temper, and my son was exactly the same. However, he was my son for all that, and you killed him, Napier. Oh, I know it was a fair duel. If you had not killed him, he would have killed you, but he was my son and you took his life, and no mother will thank you for it. Because of that, you are not welcome here. It does not, however, mean that I bear you any ill will. I have no wish to see you caught and hanged for crimes you did not commit. That is why I am here to warn you that already runners have been sent from the village to inform the authorities of your presence. You must go quickly head for the nearest port, where you can ship for France, riders may already be on your tail.

The prioress gestured with her hand to someone behind her. There was a rustling of leaves and a man stepped out of trees, where he had been concealed. Now that he was out into the open, it could be seen that by his dress he was a forester. On his belt, to the left-hand side, hung a hunting horn. To the right, he wore a large knife of the type favoured by most men working in woodlands. Diagonally across his chest was slung a longbow and a quiver, containing some lethal-looking arrows. The very sight of this weaponry and Napier’s sword was halfway out of its scabbard. The prioress laughed ironically at this involuntary movement, Napier, you are far too eager with that sword of yours. We are not your enemy. This man is one of my loyal foresters. He knew and respected your father. You can trust him implicitly. He is here to guide you and show you the quickest way out of the forest, onto the road that leads to the nearest seaport. Go quickly, now. You have very little time. Riders may already be in the woods looking for you.

Turning to her forester, she said, Go now see him safely onto the main road. You have not a minute to lose. Then turning to Napier, she said, "A word of warning before you go. I may lead a religious life, but that does not mean I am out of touch with what goes in the world. The priory has many visitors. Powerful influential people sit at my dinner table, and from them I learn many secrets. They think that because I am closeted away in a religious house, they do not have to guard their tongues. Of course, they are right. Nothing goes any further than my four walls. I say little and listen much. I have to warn you, Napier. Your worst enemies are not in England – their only interest in you is the bounty on your head. Such people have no interest in you, only in what they can gain by catching you. Your real and most dangerous enemy is in France. She will stop at nothing to affect your demise. Fortunately for you, she is more concerned with her political agenda to spend much time pursuing you. But, if her organisation succeeds in their aims, and I fear that they might, France will become a terrifying country to live in. She will gain tremendous power. Then she will have your head. Be warned, Napier. Be watchful. She is very dangerous and determined to avenge her father’s death. In killing him, you did more than