While the men bustled about, rubbing down the horses and unwrapping packets of dried beef, Lysette huddled close to the large fire that they had built in the center of the glade. Would she ever be warm again? She really had been quite foolish, refusing the Vicomte’s offer…he had only been trying to be kind. It was just that he made her uneasy, those cool gray eyes stripping her of pretense, making her feel guilty for every thought she had. She sighed deeply. Mon Dieu! She had never in her life felt so conscience-stricken, not even in church. She could smile at the priest, her eyes clear and untroubled, even while (if he chanced to be young and good-looking) her mind whirled with scandalous thoughts. She sighed again, hating herself. Wicked, wicked Lysette!
From the edge of the clearing, Jean-Auguste watched her elfin face, lit by the glowing fire. It was really quite remarkable, he thought. Lost as she was in reverie, she seemed almost placid and serene, a far cry from her usual coquettish smiles or stubborn petulance. A lovely face, delicate and fragile, a face of strange contrasts, deep violet eyes, black-fringed, smoldering against pale, creamy skin translucent as alabaster. And her mouth, unexpectedly full-lipped and sensuous, surprising counterpoint to the finely chiseled jaw and chin. She looked so soft and vulnerable and helpless. He laughed and fingered his bruises—well, perhaps not totally helpless! Still…he had not been particularly kind to her, baiting her into anger, and she was little more than a sweet—if spoiled—child…He resolved to be more pleasant in the future.
Then André stepped into the circle of firelight and Lysette smiled adoringly at him, her face glowing with a light that came from within. She stretched out her arms and he grasped her slim fingers and helped her to her feet, steadying her for a moment before releasing her hands. Cursing André’s stupidity—and his own—Jean-Auguste stormed off into the woods in search of firewood.
Chapter Four
At dawn, the heavens opened up, drenching them with a cold rain; Lysette awoke chilled and sputtering, her small blanket scant protection against the driving storm. There was a flurry of men and horses as the column was hastily formed; there would be time later for food when they had found shelter. This time Lysette swallowed her pride and accepted the proffered cloak, murmuring her thanks to Narbaux and wrapping her head and shoulders in its dry warmth. She saw with a pang that he had only his casque and a short cape for protection, then shrugged her shoulders. After all, she had certainly not asked for his help, and one of the other men would have obliged her had Jean-Auguste not stepped forward. It was hardly her concern what he chose to do!
It rained all that day and into the night; when the men could walk no more through the blustering storm they found shelter in a half-ruined barn. In the morning it was still raining and the road had become a great mass of mud, thick and viscous, that sucked at the horses’ hooves and made progress well-nigh impossible. To lighten the burden, André ordered them to dismount and lead their horses—even Lysette, whose slight weight was still too much for her mare.
By nightfall the rain had finally stopped and they found a farmer who was willing to let them use his stable and barn, and would sell them some hay for the horses. Madame la Marquise could spend the night in the house with the farmer’s wife and two small daughters. Sighing with relief, Lysette stumbled into the farmhouse and plopped down before the fireplace. She had never walked so much in all her life! Tiredly she asked for a small basin of water, stripping off her muddy shoes and stockings and bathing her sore feet. Yes…see? There was a large blister beginning already to form on her left heel, and her toes were red from the clumsy shoes. She almost wept in self-pity, hating everybody and every thing that had conspired to reduce her to such misery. She pulled off her sopping garments, heedless of the giggles of the two little girls; wrapping a dry blanket about her naked body, she curled up on a small trundle bed in one corner of the room, instructing the farmer’s wife to dry her clothes in front of the fire. In a moment, she was fast asleep.
The morning brought the welcome sun, warming the air and cheering spirits that had begun to flag. As they readied themselves for the journey, a young peasant appeared in the farmyard. The rain had flooded the road, he said; two or three leagues were well under water. If the King’s general was heading northward, toward Paris, there was nothing to do but wait until the waters had receded.
André muttered an oath. “Is there no other way? A small path, perhaps. Some spot of high ground through the forest?” He swept his arm impatiently toward the north, where the land rose sharply and unexpectedly, and the deep green of the woodland trees stood out in high relief against the clear blue sky.
“There is only a goat trail, Monsieur, where the farmers drive their animals up to the flatland!”
“Wide enough for a horse?” The young man nodded. “Good! Will you lead us?” A moment’s hesitation. André produced a coin and the peasant grinned and nodded his head enthusiastically.
Comfortably settled on her horse, Lysette smiled unaffectedly at Jean-Auguste. It was a genuine smile, springing from her sense of well-being, and a good breakfast, and the golden day. Narbaux raised one eyebrow quizzically, then thought better of his cynicism and returned the smile with warmth. He really was quite good-looking, she thought, especially with the mustache gone; not startlingly handsome like André who was, without a doubt, the most attractive man she had ever seen, but pleasant-looking, a nice face, strong and serious. Except, of course, when he grinned and the corners of his eyes crinkled up and he seemed ten years younger. He was fairer than André, with that coloration peculiar to redheads; whereas the sun had turned André’s face to bronze, Jean-Auguste seemed barely touched by the elements, his skin a warm golden glow that served to point up the clarity of his gray eyes. She smiled again at him, grateful that his eyes seemed less penetrating this morning, and guided her horse past him to where André had just mounted up. Perhaps today, in the seclusion of the woods, there might be a moment that she could steal with Crillon alone.
The narrow path led up into the trees, dark and cool and still damp from the storms. With the young farmer leading the way, the foot soldiers clambered up the steep incline, followed by the men on horseback, then Lysette and André. Much to Lysette’s chagrin, Narbaux had dropped back at the last minute to exchange a few pleasantries with his friend, and now followed close at their heels, bringing up the rear of the column. As though he were a chaperon, she thought with annoyance.
Almost at once it became apparent that they would have to dismount: the sharp slope had slick, damp patches here and there which made the ascent difficult even on foot, and extremely precarious if horse and rider should go down together. Lysette sighed peevishly, then turned helpless eyes to the young lieutenant who had just dismounted above her on the trail. He made his way quickly to her side; she slid from her saddle into his waiting arms, contriving to smile shyly as she did so. A few soft words, a melting plea from those violet eyes, and he found himself back on the path, leading her horse as well as his own, congratulating himself on his good fortune. For her part, Lysette was delighted to be so close to André, without a horse to intervene; after a few careful maneuvers on her part—a stumbling hesitation, a wobbly step on a mud-slicked rock—he was forced to hand his horse down to Narbaux, that he might be free to assist her.
Lysette picked her way carefully among the mossy stones and rotting logs, avoiding the oozing mud as best she could—she had had her fill of damp feet. Occasionally she paused and looked uncertainly about her, waiting for André’s steadying hands about her waist, almost willing to risk the mud and filth if it would propel her into his arms. At length the woods began to clear, the trees giving way to thick shrubs and briars, dappled with sunlight and humming with a thousand insects. The path here was still narrow and quite steep, but dry, and well suited to her purposes. Deliberately, she stepped on a loose rock in her path; it yielded beneath her and slid out from under her foot, upsetting her balance and sending her toppling. She managed to twist about as she fell so that, as André ca
ught her, she could throw her arms around his neck, her bosom pressed against his chest, eager mouth inches from his own. His blue eyes burned into her, deep and smoldering—surely he could feel her heart pounding against his breast! She was positive he was going to kiss her, his face filled with a longing that mirrored her own desire; unexpectedly he set her on her feet, loosing her twined arms and turning away in agitation. Aching with disappointment, she looked up to see Jean-Auguste’s scowling face, lip curled with disgust. How she hated him! Tossing her curls angrily, she turned back to the path. There would be another opportunity on the journey!
The steep slope leveled off and they found themselves on a high plateau, thick with brambles and craggy rocks, the path so narrow that the briars caught at Lysette’s skirts as she passed. The trail itself was strewn with sharp stones, and she stumbled along, noticing that her left shoe had begun to chafe distressingly again. She glanced back at André and Jean-Auguste, uncertain whether to speak up or not; after what had happened on the trail below, Narbaux at least would scarcely believe her. Better to manage as well as she could—this dreadful path could not go on forever! But after ten minutes she had begun to limp painfully, though she tried to hide it. She simply could not go on! She stopped and waited for André to reach her, her eyes avoiding Narbaux behind him.
“If you please, Monsieur le Comte,” she said, her voice soft and timid. “I cannot walk another step. My shoe…the stocking…it is near worn through. If I could but ride a bit, or…or…be carried…or…” Her words faltered and she crimsoned, feeling Jean-Auguste’s mocking eyes on her, aware that she must sound like a fool.
Narbaux grinned sardonically. “Here, mon ami,” he said, handing over the two horses’ reins to Crillon. “It is time now for me to play nursemaid for a bit!” So saying, he bent to Lysette, grasping her firmly about the thighs and tossing her over one shoulder, like a farmer with a sack of onions. She shrieked furiously, demanding that he put her down, and wriggled against the strong arms that, vise-like, held her legs and prevented her from kicking. Her hands, however, were not hampered, and she pounded on his back with tight-clenched fists, and cursed him for a buffoon and a villain. Narbaux laughed as though it were a huge joke, and André joined in. She could hardly bear the shame of his laughter, but she was scarcely in a position to defend her pride; she ceased her struggles, praying that they would soon tire of the game.
One of the men called to André from the head of the column, and he left the horses and made his way forward, laughingly directing Narbaux to put the poor creature down; but Jean-Auguste readjusted Lysette on his shoulder and picked his way jauntily over the stony path, whistling like a schoolboy, the horses trailing behind.
“Please, Monsieur, let me go.” A tiny voice, soft and wheedling.
The whistling continued, the pace never slackening.
“If you please, Monsieur le Vicomte…Jean-Auguste…please. I shall not complain of walking again…I swear it! Only let me go, I beg you!”
Narbaux stopped and set her on her feet, wary at her sudden change of mood. Her hair was in disarray, the thick coil tumbling down; slim fingers sought the errant hairpins tangled among the curls, and she deftly twisted and pinned the glossy mass until it was once again piled on top of her head. All the while she gazed at Narbaux with a look of such pain in her soft eyes that the grin faded from his face and he fidgeted nervously. Her pink mouth pouted adorably, almost too perfect to be genuine.
“Why are you so cruel to me?”
His face darkened, grew hard, and a small muscle twitched in his jaw. “I promised Madame la Comtesse I would take good care of her husband!”
She laughed airily. “Pooh! As though Monsieur le Comte needs an overseer!”
“You are scarcely unaware of your considerable charms! Even a man with a wife can hardly fail to notice, more especially as you seem bent on ensnaring him before this journey is done!”
“And would you have preferred to be the ensnared prey yourself?” she asked coyly. “Is that why you hate me so?”
He sighed in exasperation, like a stern parent with a stubborn child. “He has a wife! And two sons! He is devoted to them all!”
Her face fell and she turned from him, hurrying along the path to reach the column, now at some distance. Her foot burned like fire and she hobbled painfully, while great tears welled up in her eyes and spilled down her soft cheeks. She did not know if her tears were for the pain of her foot, or for herself, or for the image that seared itself into her brain—André, with his wife, with his family.
“Madame de Ferrand! Lysette!” His strong hand stopped her flight, catching at her arm and turning her about to face him. There was nothing artificial in the hurt he saw deep within her eyes. Their glances held for a long moment; at length he turned and whistled to his horse. Without a word, he lifted her with gentle hands and sat her sideways in the saddle. He held out his hand for the offending shoe, and when she had handed it to him, he turned away that she might lift her skirts and remove her garter and stocking. The blister on her heel was now quite raw and red, and she winced when his fingers touched it lightly. Scanning the thickets, he reached out and plucked a bit of thistledown; with Lysette’s help, he placed it over the angry sore and anchored it by means of her stocking. While she refastened her garter, he ran his finger along the inside of her shoe, finding a rough spur of leather, the cause of all her misery. He took out his knife and pared it smooth, then slipped the heavy shoe back onto her foot as though it were a silken slipper. She was surprised at his gentleness, confused by his kindness, knowing she would hate him again in a moment because he was the only thing that stood between her and André.
The days passed uneventfully. The weather was fine, clear and warm, the air sweet with summer. They had traveled by now into the valleys watered by the Loire and its tributaries, and the sight of terrain that was so like home had sped their steps. By tacit consent, and without a word from André, the men pressed on quickly, marching farther and longer hours each day. They stayed often in open fields, or an occasional country inn, and once, near Poitiers, they enjoyed the hospitality of a doddering Baron, who welcomed them to his country manor house and kept André and Jean-Auguste up half the night recounting his exploits as a soldier under the old King Henry IV. Crillon avoided the towns as best he could; though there had been little rioting this far north, there was always the danger that the sight of troops, even so small a complement, might stir up the local populace.
Lysette was exhausted by the pace. It was enough just to eat and sleep and drag herself into the saddle day after weary day; she had not the energy to fence with Narbaux. As for André…though she convinced herself that the tiring journey drained her and robbed her of her looks, making her hardly worth his attentions, she avoided him not so much out of vanity, but because of the nagging thought that perhaps—with a wife, children—he truly took no interest in her. Her heart ached with the thought. How could le bon Dieu be so cruel? To send her such a man—strong and dominating, stern and just, yet capable of laughter and tenderness, a man whose every glance turned her knees to water and set a fierce flame to burning within her bosom—and make him blind to her! No! She refused to accept it, preferring to tell herself that it was only the tiring speed of their journey, not his anxiety to be home and with his wife, that prompted his casual indifference.
One evening, near sundown, with the sky glowing pink and orange on the horizon, they saw three horsemen approaching them from the east, their faces lit by the rays of the setting sun. It appeared to be a nobleman and his retinue.
André reined in sharply and motioned the column to halt. He and Narbaux exchanged surprised glances.
“Le Comte d’Ussé!”
“So it would seem! I thought he was with the army in Flanders!”
Ussé rode up and the men exchanged pleasantries and introduced Lysette. The Comte’s glance swept her appreciatively, and when she held out her gauntleted hand he bent her wrist down and kissed the naked flesh b
etween glove and sleeve. “Madame la Marquise de Ferrand! Is there not a parable somewhere of flowers blooming in the wilderness? And lo! this long and tiresome journey blossoms with a lovely rose, pale and delicate!” Lysette smiled demurely then glared at Jean-Auguste who, smirking, had begun to massage his ribs. One word, she thought. Let him dare to say one word! She dimpled again at d’Ussé, turning her back resolutely on Narbaux.
Ussé was a small man, compactly built, with a barrel chest and thick arms that ended in strong stubby hands. He was dark and swarthy, his hair crisply short, with a small peaked beard, well trimmed; by far his most striking feature was a large black patch that covered his right eye, a strange contrast to the cold blue of his left eye. He nodded to André. “I am on my way home to Trefontaine, but I had thought to stop here for the night. There is a pleasant grove yonder, just beyond the knoll, with a small stream. Maybe if you have had your fill of the road’s dust today, you will join me. I should be pleased to take supper with such distinguished gentlemen…and their lovely lady!”
André frowned, annoyed at the insinuation, but Jean-Auguste interjected smoothly. “Madame la Marquise has been through a terrible experience at Soligne. She was nearly killed in the riots. We are escorting her home to her brother where, it is hoped, le bon Dieu will cleanse her mind of all the horrors she has known.” He looked sympathetically at Lysette, content, for once, with her artifice; she did not disappoint him. Violet eyes cast down, she turned away with a deep sigh, while d’Ussé squirmed in the saddle and cursed himself for his unseemly innuendo.
In spite of Crillon’s inquietude, it was decided to spend the night in the grove. There was an open meadow where the horses could graze, and the men had been many hours on the road; it seemed a sensible place to stop for the day. André concluded that his reservations about spending the night in the company of Ussé and his men were due to his antipathy toward the Comte. In truth, he had never particularly liked the man—angry, discontented, forever railing about the King’s lack of gratitude and the meagerness of his royal pensions, all the while letting his estate at Trefontaine fall into ruin while he gambled away what money he had in the salons in Paris. He was not a gentleman when it came to women, either. André scowled as he watched Lysette encouraging his attentions. She wasn’t exactly a child, and it was none of his concern, after all…but she was so young, so vulnerable. He laughed to himself. Marielle would tease him if she were here. She always said that he was born far too late, that he should have lived in the time of great knights and fair damsels, of chivalry and legends. Marielle. He ached to have her in his arms, to feel a woman’s softness pressed close. It had been four long months, while his body tormented him, and he envied Jean-Auguste and the casual encounters of bachelorhood. Not that he would—or could—be unfaithful to Marielle; but the long separation had begun to weigh heavily upon him, disturbing his sleep and haunting his dreams.
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