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  At the end of the wharf stood the entrance to the citadel, where the Compte de Marbeuf had his official residence.

  A group of French soldiers sat in the shade of a tree by the gateway. As they saw the boy they waved and shouted a greeting at the child who had become something of a mascot to them. Naboleone smiled back and joined their circle. Although he understood little French and spoke only a Corsican dialect of Italian, a few of the soldiers spoke some Italian and could more or less conduct a conversation with him. He, in turn, had picked up a few words of French, which included the kinds of curses that soldiers are inclined to teach children for the amusement it afforded them.

  It seemed that they had been looking out for him and they gestured to him to sit down on a stool beside them, while one of the soldiers entered the citadel and ran across to the barracks block. Naboleone glanced round at the Frenchmen and saw them watching him with amusement and expectation. One was carving thick slices off a sausage and the boy called out to him, indicated the sausage and then pointed to his mouth. The man smiled and handed him a few slices, together with a chunk of bread torn from a freshly baked loaf. Naboleone muttered his thanks and started to cram the food into his mouth. Nailed boots clattered across cobblestones and the soldier who had gone to the barracks returned with some cloth carefully folded under one arm. In the other he held a wooden sword. Squatting down in front of the boy he laid the toy sword beside him and gently unfolded the cloth to reveal a small uniform and a child's tricorn hat.The soldier pointed to his own uniform.

  'There,' he spoke in Italian, with a heavy French accent. 'The same thing.'

  Naboleone's eyes widened with excitement. He set the remaining food down hurriedly and then chewed and swallowed what was left in his mouth. Standing up, he reached out for the white coat with its neatly stitched blue facings and polished brass buttons. He slid his arms into the sleeves and let the soldier do the buttons up for him, then fastened a small belt about his waist. When he had finished the man started to button a pair of black gaiters that rose up to the hem of the coat. Another soldier carefully placed the tricorn on Naboleone's head and then all stood round him to inspect the results.The boy reached down for the sword and stuffed it into his belt, before he stiffened his back and saluted them.

  The Frenchmen roared with laughter and clapped him affectionately on the shoulder.

  One of those who spoke Italian leaned over him. 'You're a proper soldier now. Except that you must take the oath.' He straightened up and raised his right hand. 'Monsieur Buona Parte, please raise your hand.'

  For a moment Naboleone hesitated. These were Frenchmen, after all, and despite his mother's friendship with the governor, she was prone to utter dark sentiments about the new rulers of Corsica. But Naboleone looked down at his beautiful uniform, with the gilt-painted handle of the sword sticking out of his belt. Then he looked up into the smiling faces of the men gathered around him and felt a keen desire to belong amongst them. He raised his hand.

  'Bravo!' someone cried out.

  'Now, little Corsican, repeat after me. I swear undying obedience to His Most Catholic Majesty, King Louis…'

  Naboleone echoed the words thoughtlessly as he revelled in the joy of becoming a soldier and the thought of all the adventures he might have; of all the wars he might fight in; of how he would be a hero, leading his men in a gallant charge against terrible odds, and triumphing to the resounding cheers of his friends and family.

  'There! That's it, young man,' the French soldier was saying. 'You are one of us now.'

  But Naboleone's thoughts remained with his family. As he glanced back towards the harbour the first lamps were already being lit along the street and in the windows of the houses.

  'I have to go,' he muttered, gesturing in the direction of his home.

  'Oh!' the soldier laughed. 'Deserting already!'

  Naboleone started to undo his buttons, but the soldier stayed his hand. 'No. The uniform's for you. Keep it. Anyway, you're a King's man now, and we'll be expecting to see you on duty again soon.'

  Naboleone surveyed the coat with a look of disbelief. 'It's mine? To keep?'

  'But, of course! Now run along.'

  The boy's eyes met the soldier's. 'Thank you,' he said softly, little fingers closing around the hilt of the toy sword.'Thank you.'

  As he moved towards the edge of the small group of soldiers they parted before him, as if he were a general and when he turned back someone shouted an order and they all shuffled to attention with wide grins and saluted. Naboleone, stern-faced, returned the salute, then turned about and marched down the street towards his home, feeling as tall as a man and as grand as any king.

  Behind him the Frenchmen settled back to their evening ration of sausage, bread and wine. The soldier who had dressed Naboleone watched the little boy strutting down the road and he smiled in satisfaction before he rejoined his comrades.

  Chapter 5

  By the time he had reached his home, night had fallen and Naboleone's bravado had seeped away as he faced the prospect of sneaking back into his room without being caught. He waited in the entrance hall for a moment, ears straining to pick up any sounds in the house. From the first floor came the voices of Naboleone's parents. He crept towards the stairs and then, keeping as close to the wall as possible to minimise any creaking of the boards, the boy stole upstairs. His heart was pounding at the tension in his body as he reached the top, squeezed through the door to his family's rooms and started down the darkened corridor to the room he shared with Giuseppe. He never made it.The toy sword, jammed into his belt, suddenly scraped across a skirtingboard.

  Before the boy could dive the last few feet to his room, the door to the kitchen was wrenched open and a dim glow spilled into the corridor.

  'Where on earth…?' his father began, then there was a beat before his anger gave way to surprise. 'What are you wearing? Come here, boy!'

  Naboleone warily made his way to the kitchen door, paused to remove his tricorn and look up at his father towering over him, then entered the room. His mother sat at the table. Her lips tightened as she saw the uniform.

  'Where did you get that?'

  'It – it was a present.'

  'Who from?'

  'The soldiers at the citadel.'

  Letizia stood up and stabbed a finger at her son. 'Take it off! How dare you wear that?'

  Naboleone was shocked by the venom in her voice. He hurriedly undid the belt and buttons, shuffled his arms out of the coat and laid it on the table. The gaiters followed, together with the tricorn and toy sword. All the time his parents stared at him. At length his father broke the silence.

  'Tell me you did not walk through the streets wearing that uniform.'

  'I did.'

  Carlos rolled his eyes and clapped a hand to his forehead.

  'Did anyone see you?' Letizia snapped. 'Speak up! The truth, mind.'

  Naboleone thought back. 'It was growing dark. I passed a few people.'

  'Did they recognise you?'

  'Yes.'

  'Well, then,' Letizia said bitterly, 'word will get round that our son has been seen in French uniform. That's an end to any reputation our family once held in this town. It's bad enough your father is employed by the French, Naboleone. And now our own son marches round the town in a French uniform. The Paolists will drag our family name through the gutters for this.'

  Carlos stepped up to the table and examined the tiny uniform. 'You exaggerate, Letizia. This is a toy, that's all. Dressing-up clothes. They made them for him as a joke.'

  'They were a gift,' Naboleone piped up. 'They're mine.'

  'Quiet, you little idiot,' Letizia said coldly. 'Can't you understand what you've done? What fools you have made of us?'

  The little boy shook his head, bewildered by her rage.

  'Well, try to understand, before you ruin our reputation any further. Do you know, there are still bands of Corsican patriots out there in the maquis, still fighting the French? Do you know what th
ey do to any collaborators they capture?'

  Naboleone shook his head.

  'They cut their throats and leave the bodies where others can see them, as a warning. Do you want that to happen to us?'

  'N-no, Mother.'

  'Stop it!' Carlos raised his hand. 'Letizia, you're scaring the child.'

  'Good! He needs to be scared. For his own sake, as well as ours.'

  'But we're not in the maquis. We're in the town. The garrison is here to protect us. To restore order. The Paolists are little more than brigands. They'll be finished off before the year's out. The French are here to stay and the sooner people accept that, the better. I have.'

  She sneered. 'Don't think I haven't noticed. Don't think it hasn't disgusted me that we have had to sell our birthright as Corsicans to safeguard the future of our family.'

  Naboleone watched the confrontation between his parents anxiously and now he almost choked as he interrupted their exchange. 'Mother, I was only playing with them.'

  'Well, don't! Never again, you understand?'

  He nodded.

  'As for these,' she bundled the uniform and hat up, 'they must be disposed of.'

  'But, Mother!'

  'Quiet! They must go. And you must never mention this to anyone.'

  The boy seethed inside, but he knew he must accept her word or face a beating he would not forget in a long time. He nodded.

  'In any case,' Carlos said in a calming tone, 'you've spent too long running around the town.You're almost feral. Look at you. Your hair needs a comb. No, better still, a cut.You need a cleanup and some discipline. It's time you started school.'

  Naboleone's heart sank into the pit of his stomach. School? That was as bad as being sent to prison.

  'Your mother and I have talked this over. You need an education. Tomorrow I will speak with Abbot Rocco about admitting you and Giuseppe to his school. It'll mean we have less money in the house but, given tonight's events, I don't think we can afford not to send you there.'

  Chapter 6

  Ireland, 1773

  Anne poured herself a fresh cup of tea and gazed out through the doors of the orangery to where her children were playing on the lawn. The two older boys, Richard and William, were once again commanding Anne and Arthur about as they arranged a collection of drying racks and sheets into the outline of a ship. A book on pirates had gone round the nursery, being avidly devoured by each child in turn, and for the last few weeks of the summer they had played nothing else. As ever, the quiet Arthur, now four years old, said little but did as he was bid and carried out his orders with focused intensity. Anne watched him with a keen sense of pity. He had developed a sensitive face. His nose had a faint downward curve and his eyes were a brilliant light blue, the whole fringed by long fair hair that wafted in the gentle breeze as he went about his work.

  Anne raised her cup and sipped delicately from the rim. On the floor beside her slept her youngest son, Gerald, born a year after Arthur, and she was expecting yet another, who was to be named Henry, if it turned out to be a boy.

  On the other side of the table Garrett sat with a folio of sheet music spread across the table. He was working on a new composition and every now and then he would raise his violin and pluck at the strings as he tried out a new arrangement. Then he would suddenly lower the instrument, snatch up a quill and start scribbling alterations to the notes marked on the staves.

  Anne coughed lightly. 'Garrett, what do you think will become of him?'

  'Eh?' Her husband grunted, frowning. He dipped his nib and irritably scratched out several notes.

  'Arthur.'

  Garrett glanced up, frowning. 'What about him?'

  'Please lower that quill before we continue this conversation.'

  'What? Oh, very well. There.' He sat back in his chair and clasped his hands together with a smile. 'I'm all yours.'

  'Thank you. I was wondering what you thought about Arthur.'

  'What I think of him?' Garrett turned to gaze at the children playing in the garden, as if he had only just realised they were there at all. 'Oh, he'll do well enough.'

  'Really? And just what kind of future do you think he might have?'

  'Oh, I don't know. Something in the clergy, I should think.'

  'The clergy?'

  'Yes. After all, he's displayed no signs of any intellectual mettle. Not like Richard and William. Even young Gerald there seems to have a more lively grasp of numbers and letters than Arthur.We'll do our best for him, of course, but I dare say he'll never go up to Oxford, or Cambridge.'

  'Well, yes. Quite.'

  Just then their conversation was interrupted by a piercing cry from the garden and their heads snapped round. Arthur had fallen to his knees and was clutching his head. A wooden sword lay on the ground beside him and William was staring at his younger brother angrily.

  'Oh, for heaven's sake, Arthur! It was just a tap. Anyway, I told you to defend yourself.'

  Garrett shook his head and glanced down at his music. Then he looked up again, struck by a sudden notion. 'Arthur! Come here, my boy.' As Arthur toddled in from the garden Garrett smiled. 'I think it's time you learned to play a musical instrument. And what better than the violin? Come here, child. Let me show you.'

  As Anne watched, her husband carefully handed his full-size violin to the young boy, and named each string for him.Then he reached for the bow and began to play some notes. In a few minutes Arthur had forgotten about his sore head, and his bright eyes eagerly soaked up every detail of the instrument as he concentrated on his father's instructions. At length Garrett drew up a chair and let the boy sit down with the violin in his lap and Arthur sawed happily away in a series of blood-curdling screeches and scrapes. Gerald was duly disturbed from his sleep on the cushions and rose quickly, alarmed by the discordant noise.

  Anne smiled. 'Time for supper, I think. Run along, boys. Arthur, put that down and get along to the kitchen. Your father and I will follow directly.'

  'Yes, Mother.'

  Garrett held out his hands for the instrument. 'Thank you. Do you want me to teach you how to play this instrument properly?'

  The boy's eyes sparkled. 'Oh yes, Father! I should like that.'

  Garrett laughed. 'Good. And one day we shall compose music together.'

  Arthur smiled brilliantly, then hurried round the table to help his brother up from the cushions. The two of them walked towards the kitchen with stiff little steps, still holding hands. Both parents watched their progress and then turned to each other and smiled.

  'A musician, I think,' said Garrett.

  'God help us,' Anne muttered. 'Your charity concerts will be the ruin of us yet.'

  'Shame on you! We can afford it. Besides, it's my Christian duty to spread culture to the less advantaged.'

  'I'd have thought your first Christian duty was to the wellbeing of your family.'

  'It is, my dear.' He stared at her intently. 'Now, we were talking about young Arthur. Seriously, though, I think he might be suited to a musical career.'

  'How wonderful,' Anne replied with acid-laced irony.

  'Yes, well… Meanwhile we must find him a school. I have one in mind.'

  'Oh, yes?'

  Garrett nodded. 'The Diocesian School at Trim.You know the place. St Mary's Abbey.'

  Anne stared after her son. 'Do you think he's old enough?'

  'My dear, if we don't start preparing him for life now, when will we begin? If he is not to fall behind the achievements of Richard and William we must work him hard.'

  'You're right, of course. It's just that he seems so… vulnerable. I fear for him.'

  'He'll do well enough,' Garrett said comfortingly.

  Chapter 7

  Corsica, 1775

  'I won't go! I won't go!'

  Letizia shook the boy by his shoulders.'You will, and there's an end to it! Now get dressed.'

  Outside, the first light of day was picking out the details in the houses across the street. Letizia led her son to the clot
hes laid out on his bed and pointed to them. 'Now!'

  'No!' Naboleone shouted back and crossed his arms. 'I won't go!'

  'You will.' Letizia slapped his cheek. 'You are going to school, my boy, and you will get dressed. You will come and eat your breakfast, and you will behave impeccably when you are introduced to the abbot. Or you will have the thrashing of your life. Do I make myself clear?'

  Her son frowned at her, eyes blazing with defiance. Letizia crossed herself. 'Mary, Mother of God, give me patience. Why can't you be more like your brother there?' She nodded across the room to where Giuseppe was just tying his bootlaces. His clothes were neat and clean, and his hair gleamed from a fresh brushing.

  'Him?' Naboleone laughed. 'Don't make me laugh, Mother. Who would want to be like him? The big sissy.'

  Letizia slapped him again, much harder this time, leaving an imprint of her slender fingers on his cheek. 'Don't you dare talk that way about your brother.' She pointed to the clothes again. 'Now get dressed. If you're not ready by the time I come back you'll have hard bread for supper tonight.'

  She stormed out of the room and made for the kitchen, where Lucien – her new child – was bawling for more food.

  For a moment Naboleone stood quite still, arms folded, and glared at his clothes. On the other side of the room Giuseppe finished tying his laces and stood by his bed, gazing at his younger brother.

  'Why do you do it, Naboleone?' he said softly.

  'Sorry. Did you speak?'

  'Why do you make her so angry at you? Just for once, can't you do as she says?'

  'But I don't want to go to school. I want to go and play. I want to see the soldiers again.'

  'Well, you can't!' Giuseppe hissed. 'You'll come to school with me. We must learn to read and write.'

  'Why?'

  The older boy shook his head. 'You cannot be a boy all your life.You cannot be so selfish. If you want to be a success when you grow up then you must have an education. Like Father.'

  'Pah! And where's his fine education got him? Court assistant, that's where.'