“We are going to a safe house on the outskirts of Paris.” “You have just come ashore near Dieppe,” the Falcon replied in French.
They were a clear and startling blue in colour. They placed their burden in the waiting carriage, and the Falcon joined him. “They face death across the Channel if they stay in their own country.” The man’s head flopped back, his dark-blond hair coming loose from its restraining velvet ribbon. “These are men of the defeated Jacobite army,” one of the fishermen whispered to the others, as they carried the inert figure between them.
“Mind your mouth, my good man, and help me get him into the carriage.” Although he was English, the man they called the Falcon spoke in flawless French.
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