Clash of Empires by Brian Falkner Page A

in Calais or Brussels,” Frost says. “There will be few, if any, left at the abbey.”
    â€œAnd the battle will be a short one, Your Grace,” Willem says. “There are secret underground ways into the abbey. While the cavalry attack from the front, a small force, including myself, will emerge inside the abbey, rescue the prisoners, and retreat the same way. Even if there are still battlesaurs at the abbey, our entire force can withdraw, the battle over, before a single beast sees the light of day.”
    The duke sighs and steeples his fingers. He looks at Willem across the top of them. “Young man, you know that Bonaparte sits just across the Channel, teetering on the edge of invasion.”
    â€œOf course, Your Grace,” Willem says, desperately afraid of what the duke will say next.
    â€œTwo hundred horses, in the right place at the right time, might be the difference between throwing Napoléon back into the sea or England becoming the newest state of the French Empire,” the duke says.
    â€œYour Grace, you made a promise—” Frost begins, but the duke stops him with a raised hand.
    â€œAn Englishman takes his honor and his promises very seriously,” the duke says. “And you shall have your two hundred cavalry. But not just yet. Let us deal with this threat of invasion, and as soon as our isles are secure once again, I will give you whatever you need to rescue your mother and this girl.”
    â€œThat may be too late,” Willem protests.
    â€œIt has been three months,” the duke says. “What is another three weeks, or another three months, if it comes to it?”
    Willem stares at the table for a moment and there is silence. He slowly raises his eyes to meet the duke’s.
    â€œFor many weeks I did not know where my mother was held,” Willem says. “Or Cosette, the girl who has my heart. When I found out, I wanted to rush there immediately, but I stayed to complete the training of your men, as per my promise. Now I need you to uphold yours, so that I can free them before they are moved or killed. Who knows what indignities they are being subjected to by Napoléon’s men? You cannot default on your agreement.”
    â€œSuch insolence,” the earl says.
    â€œHe is young and passionate, not insolent,” the duke says. “And he is right, I made a promise. Willem, you will have your men, but not until I can release them. I am sorry, but that decision is final.”
    He drains the last of his glass and refuses with a flat hand when offered more.
    â€œIt has been a truly interesting day,” he says, and stands. “In many ways. But now, unfortunately, I must return to Whitehall. Congreve, I look forward to a future demonstration of your spinning rockets.”
    â€œOf course, my lord,” Congreve says.
    The duke turns to the earl. “Lord Wenzel-Halls, will you ride with me back to London?”
    â€œThank you, Your Grace,” the earl says. “But I have another matter to attend to. I will find my own way back.”
    â€œAs you wish,” the duke says with a short bow.

 
    IN PRIVATE
    â€œLieutenant Frost, I am given to understand that you requested a private audience with me,” the earl says. He pushes his plate away from him with an expression of contentment.
    â€œThat is true, my lord,” Frost says, including Willem with a nod. “For both of us.”
    â€œThe two saur-slayers,” the earl says. “Is it anything that cannot be said in front of your fellow officers?”
    â€œIt is a private matter concerning your son,” Frost says.
    The earl’s expression grows cold. “Come with me,” he says. “We will adjourn to the smoking lounge.”
    The earl’s aide, a hard-faced man, is the first to stand.
    â€œA private matter,” Frost emphasizes.
    â€œThere is nothing that Arbuckle’s ears cannot hear,” the earl says.
    As they