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He took a deep breath.
“Why have you stopped?” asked Lucy, but he was already leaning down to press his lips to hers. For three seconds, he was afraid she was going to push him away, but then she seemed to get over her surprise. She returned his kiss, at first cautiously, then putting her heart into it.
In fact this was anything but the perfect moment, and in fact they were also in a tearing hurry, because they might travel back in time any minute now, and in fact …
Paul forgot about the third “in fact.” Nothing counted but Lucy.
But then he caught sight of a figure in a dark hood and took a step back in alarm.
Lucy looked at him for a moment, rather annoyed, before she blushed and lowered her eyes. “Sorry,” she muttered, embarrassed. “Larry Coleman feels the same. He said I kiss like someone pushing a handful of unripe gooseberries into your face.”
“Gooseberries?” He shook his head. “And who on earth is Larry Coleman?”
Now she seemed totally confused, and he couldn’t even blame her. He had to straighten out the turmoil in his head somehow or other. He drew Lucy into the light of the torches, took her by the shoulders, and looked deep into her eyes. “Okay, Lucy: First, you kiss kind of like … like strawberries taste. Second, if I ever catch up with this Larry Coleman, I’ll punch his nose. Third, don’t forget just where we left off. But right at this moment we have a tiny little problem.”
Wordlessly, he pointed out the tall man who was now emerging from the shadow of a cart and strolling casually up. The newcomer leaned down to the Frenchman’s coach window.
Lucy’s eyes widened with alarm.
“Good evening, Baron,” said the man. He, too, was speaking French, and at the sound of his voice, Lucy’s fingers dug into Paul’s arm. “How delightful to see you. You’re a long way from Flanders.” And he pushed back his hood.
A cry of surprise came from inside the coach. “The bogus marquis! How do you come to be here? What does this mean?”
“I wish I knew, too,” whispered Lucy.
“Is that any way to speak to your own descendant?” the tall man cheerfully replied. “I’m the grandson of your grandson’s grandson, and although people like to call me the man with no name, I assure you that I have one. Several, in fact. May I join you in your coach? It’s not very comfortable standing here, and this bridge is going to be jammed for a good while yet.” And without waiting for an answer or looking around again, he opened the door and climbed into the coach.
Lucy had drawn Paul two steps aside, out of the circle of light cast by the torches. “It really is him! Only much younger. What are we going to do now?”
“Nothing,” Paul whispered back. “We can’t go up to him and say hello! We’re not supposed to be here at all.”
“But how come he’s here?”
“Just a stupid coincidence. He mustn’t see us, whatever happens. Come on, we have to reach the bank.”
However, neither of them moved from the spot. They were staring, spellbound, at the dark window of the coach, even more fascinated than they had been by the stage of the Globe Theatre.
“At our last meeting I made my opinion of you very clear.” That was the baron’s voice coming through the coach window.
“Yes, indeed you did!” The other man’s soft laughter brought Paul’s arms out in goose bumps, although he couldn’t have said why.
“My decision is still the same!” The baron’s voice shook slightly. “I will not hand over that diabolical device to the Alliance, whatever evil means you may employ to make me change my mind. I know you’re in league with the Devil.”
“What’s he talking about?” whispered Lucy.
Paul just shook his head.
Once again, they heard a soft laugh. “My blind, narrow-minded ancestor! How much easier your life—and mine as well!—could have been if you’d listened to me, not your bishop or those unfortunate fanatics of the Alliance. If only you had heard the voice of reason, instead of telling your rosary. If only you had realized that you are a part of something greater than all your priest says in his sermons.”
The baron’s answer seemed to consist of the Lord’s Prayer. Lucy and Paul heard him gabbling it under his breath.
“Amen!” said his visitor, with a sigh. “So that’s your last word?”
“You are the Devil incarnate!” said the baron. “Get out of my coach, and never let me set eyes on you again!”
“Just as you wish. There’s only one more little thing I should mention. I didn’t tell you before, so as not to agitate you unnecessarily, but on your tombstone, which I have seen with my own eyes, the date of your death is given as 14 May 1602.”
“But that,” said the baron, “that’s…”
