“Ah! Monsieur le Vicomte de Narbaux?”
“Yes. Certainly!”
“Then I have a message for him as well!” The young man handed them each a letter. André broke the seal and opened his at once; Jean-Auguste took the time to note that the seal bore no crest, but was plain and unadorned.
“Mon Dieu!” André, his hands shaking, had dropped his letter to the floor.
Jean-Auguste motioned to the footman to take the young man to one side of the room, then, heart pounding, he opened his own letter and read aloud: “‘Monsieur. Be advised that I hold your wife prisoner. She is safe and unharmed, and will remain so, so long as my commands are obeyed. You are to give this courier twenty thousand livres. As soon as the money is secured, your wife shall be returned to you. Go to Loudun. On the first market day, Madame de Narbaux will appear.’” Jean-Auguste looked at André. “And your letter is the same?”
André nodded dumbly. Then, with a cry of anger, he rushed to the peasant and clutched him by the throat. “What proof have I of the truth of your letter?”
Shaking, the man drew a small packet from beneath his doublet. “I was to give you this, Monsieur!”
Stricken, André gazed at the contents of the packet: a single gold earring. “Marielle’s,” he groaned. With a sudden roar, he swung at the man and knocked him to the floor, sending him sprawling. Placing one booted foot upon the man’s chest, he drew his sword and held its point close to the man’s groin. “Unless you wish to see your manhood on the end of my rapier, you will speak truth to me! How came you here?”
The man began to babble in terror. “I…I was sent, Monsieur! A man in Loudun. I know nothing! I was to give you and Monsieur le Vicomte these letters and the packet. He gave me money…a horse to ride. I know nothing!”
Jean-Auguste came to stand beside André. “And where are you to take the money?”
“To Moncontour. It is a village near Loudun. There is a tavern. I am to wait there. I know not how long. The man who gave me the letters will approach me when there is no one about! Please, my lords, I know no more!”
Reluctantly, André sheathed his sword and turned away, allowing the man to scramble to the safety of the doorway. Jean-Auguste, thoughtful, pulled André to one side, and spoke in a low, worried tone.
“Can we do aught but pay this ransom, mon ami?”
André clenched his fists in helpless fury. “God knows we have no choice. I can raise the money quickly enough, but what of you? After the fire, is there a financier who would advance you more capital?”
“The tax collector in Tours owes me a favor. I discovered once that he was sending underweight coins to Paris as his due. He claims he has not done it since, but it would be a scandal for him if I brought it to Richelieu’s attention. He will loan me the gold I need—at a usurious rate, I have no doubt—but my credit, at least, is good.”
“And then what? Are we to wait, helpless, in Loudun?”
Jean-Auguste sighed. “What else? And we cannot even be sure that the women will be returned!” He rubbed his forehead thoughtfully. “A moment. We can track this fellow”—he jerked his head in the direction of the young peasant—“and the man he is to meet in Moncontour. But will that lead us to the women? If the money is to be collected in Moncontour, and the women returned in Loudun, it is possible that Lysette and Marielle are being held in neither town.”
André’s eyes lit up, catching the drift of Jean-Auguste’s words. “And if we were to arrive in Loudun before the money is delivered to Moncontour…!”
“Precisely! We could station troops around Loudun to see who goes out and in.”
“Including the women? And the messenger from Moncontour?”
“Mayhap! And if not, what is lost? We must in any event be in Loudun come market day!”
“And once the women are returned, we may still capture the brigands as they attempt to leave the town!” André smiled in satisfaction, then frowned as a sudden thought struck him. “But so many unfamiliar troops—surely if we ride into Loudun with a large force, all men of Vouvray and strangers to Saumurois, they will arouse suspicion. I would not put at risk the lives of Marielle and Lysette!”
“What of the local nobility near Loudun? I know you do not like Monsieur le Comte d’Ussé, but his estate of Trefontaine is close by. If he would put his men at arms at our command, it could be done with no outward show. What say you?”
“Ussé!” sneered André. “That one-eyed jackal! And if we succeed in capturing the band of cutthroats, Ussé will petition the King for a pension as a reward, of that I have no doubt.”
“Nom de Dieu, André! But are you agreed to the plan?” André nodded. “Then how are we to delay the courier?” went on Jean-Auguste.
“I shall have Grisaille take charge of the man, keep him under lock and key. He can be told that we are trying to raise the money, but these are cash-poor times and it is difficult. You and I will away to Ussé and Trefontaine with a half dozen men or so.”
“And can Grisaille see that the man’s horse goes lame, for good measure? I would not want him to return before we have set the trap.”
“Grisaille will delay him, and then see that he is followed to Moncontour. If all goes well, my man can get word to us outside of Loudun.” André turned to the footman. “Have that man put under guard, and send Grisaille to me.”
Jean-Auguste threw his cloak over his shoulders and strode to the door. “I’m for Tours and a certain tax collector. When I have secured the loan, I shall join you here with three of my best swordsmen. Look not so gloomy, mon ami. It is a good plan, and we shall have our wives home before the next full moon.”
André rubbed his chin, his face creased in a worried scowl. “If only we did not have to depend on Ussé!”
It was a soft scuffling noise that had awakened her. Lysette opened her eyes and grunted, her body stiff from the bare floor cushioned little by the mound of straw. By the dim light of the candle that shone from the room below, she saw Marielle standing in a corner, her head bowed, hands clasped tightly before her. Lysette sat up and rubbed her neck, feeling the tense muscles beneath her fingers.
“Marielle! What is it?”
Marielle turned and indicated the small table, covered with crumbs from the last of their bread. “The rats woke me.”
Lysette shuddered. It was their third night in this awful place, and she still was not used to the rats, the fetid air, the dismal gloom. From the unseen room below she could hear the sounds of voices. Dandin and his men were always there, to guard the only door of escape, to stand below and mock them, to pass up a meager meal. Tonight it had been a thin soup, foul and rancid: Marielle had almost gagged, unable to eat. Disheartened, the two women had gone to sleep early, praying for a new day and a swift release. Lysette sighed. Surely she would have died without Marielle to keep up her spirits and fill her with hope. They had spent their days talking of their childhoods, discovering a common link: Marielle had had an older brother, now dead, to whom she had been devoted; she envied Lysette her two brothers, both living. As for Lysette, she listened to Marielle’s stories of helping her father with his doctoring, and wished that someone had prodded her into such usefulness. Now she saw the edge of despair in Marielle’s posture, and fear clutched at her heart. What would she do if Marielle’s strength failed them both?
“Marielle, what is amiss?”
Marielle turned, her face wet with tears. “I think, ah, Dieu! I think I am with child! I cannot sleep…the food, the unyielding floor. Had I dreamed it was so, I should not have left Vilmorin! What am I to do?”
Lysette jumped to her feet. “You must have better food, a pallet to sleep on. Can we not demand such care?” She paused, surprised by her own boldness. “I shall call our jailers! Surely they can provide better for you!” She hurried to the edge of the loft, then stopped surprised. “Marielle!” she whispered urgently. “Look! They have grown careless!” She pointed to where the ladder still leaned against the rim of the loft.
“Can we escape, do you suppose?”
Lysette’s shoulders sagged. “No. There is no way out save through the door of the large room, and it is never left empty.” She frowned, listening as the voices below rose and fell. “Come!” she said with determination. “At least you shall have a bed to sleep on—if I must threaten Dandin with God’s wrath and the King’s vengeance, if you are not cared for as befits your station!” She started down the ladder, motioning for Marielle to follow. Below, the light from the larger room cut a path across the earthen floor; Lysette followed it to the noise of laughter beyond. As she stepped over the threshold, she could hear Marielle gasp behind her, but she ignored the sound, her eye caught by the figure who sat at the table, talking animatedly to Dandin.
“Ah! Monsieur d’Ussé!” she exclaimed delightedly. “How glad I am that…ah, Dieu!” Her hand went to her mouth, suddenly comprehending. What was it Ussé had said in Paris…his “new source of income”? Her heart began to pound as Ussé rose, his pale blue eye glittering, and bowed formally to her.
“Madame de Narbaux!” A nod to Marielle, hanging back in the doorway. “Madame la Comtesse! I trust you have not been too uncomfortable here!”
Lysette rallied. She had dealt with Ussé before, and she knew he viewed her with favor. What had she to fear? “Monsieur d’Ussé!” she said, drawing herself up regally. “Madame du Crillon is not well! I can only guess that we are near to Trefontaine—you would not be far from home at this hour of the night. If we are to be your prisoners…”
“Ah, Madame!” he exclaimed with mock concern, “You must consider yourselves guests!” He smiled benignly and rubbed his forehead above his black patch.
“Guests. Pah! You would not treat a dog as we have been treated! If we must be detained until the ransom arrives…”
“For shame, Madame! Tribute! Tribute to your worth!”
“Tribute…ransom…it is all the same! But Madame du Crillon is a great lady, and she is ill. I must insist that we be taken to Trefontaine, to wait there until our release!” Lysette was surprised by her fearlessness, angered only that Ussé seemed to find it amusing.
“Of course, Madame. How tantalizing you are when your eyes flash! Can I refuse you aught?”
“Tonight! Now! And we shall require our luggage that these…minions of yours have taken away!”
“Alas. Your gowns and furbelows have long since vanished! You must make do with what you are wearing”—his good eye raked Lysette’s form—“or nothing!”
Dandin and his men laughed uproariously at that, while Lysette turned away, feeling her cheeks burning, remembering with what careless abandon she had encouraged him in Paris. Ussé crossed to her and slipped his arm about her waist. He bent low, his lips close to her ear. “You are as desirable as ever, ma chère,” he whispered. “Mayhap we may beguile away the next few days with simple pleasures, until your husband redeems you from my keeping.”
Lysette’s heart sank, recalling his lecherous talk in Paris, the import of his words “simple pleasures.” On the other hand, if she could gain favors for herself, and Marielle, and still keep him at bay until Jean-Auguste arrived, it might be worth her while.
She allowed herself to soften perceptibly, as though his words had touched a chord within her, and smiled tentatively.
“Indeed, you were amusing in Paris, Monsieur le Comte. And I am dying of boredom!”
“As well you might be, my lady, with Monsieur de Narbaux in the Netherlands, as I have heard! I am minded of your journey through Angoumois, when first we met—and you the lone woman among all those men. There was not a gallant whose head you did not turn, including my own! And some, perhaps, who were rewarded with more than a kiss…?”
Lysette smiled uneasily, silently cursing Ussé. With dismay she saw that Marielle had turned to her—pale, stricken—her green eyes dark with accusation.
Chapter Twenty-one
Lysette opened her eyes to the rosy dawn, and stared at the velvet bed canopy above her. She had never felt so alone and abandoned in all her life; even when Guy died there had been one or two friends in Soligne, or, at the very least, acquaintances, to be charmed and beguiled into looking after her. But Marielle was useless. From the moment the door of the chamber in Trefontaine had locked behind them, Marielle had seemed to shrink into herself, her usual serenity replaced by a helpless fear that lurked behind her eyes. For two days now she had wandered about the room, distant, silent, spending long hours staring out of the leaded windowpanes at the woods beyond the château. Even now, and it barely daylight, she stood at the window, silhouetted against the pink sky. Ah, Dieu! Lysette wanted to cry aloud at that disconsolate form, to reassure her that nothing had happened on the journey from Soligne, to ease the despair that surely arose from Marielle’s fear of André’s infidelity.
“Marielle!” Lysette got up from the bed, wrapping the coverlet about her shoulders, and went to the window. “Have you slept at all?” she asked kindly.
Marielle turned, her face haggard. “Did you know that long ago, when the Huguenots rose up against the King, and there was fighting and civil war, that I was…held captive? I thought I would die of despair, and then André…”
“When he was injured…the scars he bears?”
Marielle nodded. “It was a terrible time. I lost my father, my brother. Until he rescued me, I thought that André was dead.” She smiled almost apologetically at Lysette. “I had not thought the past could haunt me so, yet each time I hear the key turn in yonder door my blood runs to ice. It is a fearful thing to be imprisoned and helpless.”
“But that was long ago, and there is no civil war now. Only a greedy man who will be content so soon as he holds our ransom in his hands! And until then, you must not think of that locked door.”
Marielle sighed, her voice low and dispirited. “I wonder when Ussé will realize he cannot let us live.”
Lysette gasped. “What? What are you saying?”
“What would he do should the King discover he maintains an army of brigands? He must kill us, to keep his secret.”
Lysette felt the panic rise in her throat. “What are we to do?” But Marielle’s hopeless eyes, filled already with the certainty of death, gave her no comfort—nor answers. It was as though, in some mystical way, she was waiting for André to save her again. But Lysette could not wait for Jean-Auguste, could not depend on Marielle; salvation, if it came, must be through her own devices.
She hurried to the door and knocked briskly upon it. In a moment she heard the key turn and the door was opened warily by a guard who peered in at them both, his brow wrinkled with suspicion. She smiled beguilingly at him, letting the coverlet droop low enough to reveal her creamy flesh and slender neck above the line of her chemise.
“What?” he grunted, but his eyes strayed to her bosom.
“It is such a lovely morning! I can smell the roses from the window. How fortunate you are to be out and around! Do you suppose”—the violet eyes grew soft and misty—“I could walk in the gardens for a bit? With you by my side, of course!”
His stern glance wavered; he hesitated, face glowing red at the open invitation in her eyes. “I cannot!” he burst out at length, in an agony of disappointment. “I am to keep you ladies in this room. I know not why. But Monsieur d’Ussé has charged me with your care!”
Lysette sighed, allowing her full lips to tremble. “I am perishing of boredom!”
He shook his head back and forth, as though he would convince himself. “No. No! Monsieur le Comte has forbidden it!”
“But, perhaps if you were to ask Monsieur d’Ussé to accompany me…I do not wish to appear presumptuous…if you were to tell him I am in tears…” She gazed soulfully at the guard. “You do see tears in my eyes…n’est-ce pas?”
He gulped, totally ensnared. “Madame, I shall plead with him on your behalf. It is cruel that such a fine lady should be locked away from the world, whatever you have done!”
She smiled in satis
faction as the door closed behind him, mouthing a silent prayer that Ussé would be as susceptible to her charms. Still, she did not wish to arouse his suspicions by seeming to capitulate too readily. When afternoon came, and the guard appeared at the door to announce that Monsieur d’Ussé wished her to join him in the gardens, she dressed carefully, her jacket buttoned up in modesty. She nodded coolly at Ussé, ever the gracious lady, but declined his proffered arm and strolled casually toward a high terrace that overlooked much of the countryside. Below, in front of Trefontaine, was the main road, leading to Nantes and the sea in one direction, and Loudun in the other. To one side of the château was a large orchard of fruit trees and, beyond, half a dozen outbuildings: stables, servants’ quarters, a smithy. There seemed to be a small path farther on, that twisted its way on into the woods, barely discernible except for a neat line that cut its way through the treetops. Northeasterly, Lysette judged, if the main road ran true—and the path that would lead them to Touraine. She felt her heart swell with hope. The guard had led her out through a rear door of Trefontaine, with no soldiers stationed along the corridor or on the staircase they had descended; and the key to her chamber was kept outside the door. With a little luck—and the darkness of night, she and Marielle could make their way, undetected, down the stairs and into the safety of the sheltering orchard and the woods beyond.
She dimpled charmingly at Ussé, and flounced about the terrace; all the while her eyes memorized every detail of the landscape. How beautiful the gardens were, she said, how sweet the perfumed air, how kind of Ussé to let her enjoy the lovely day.
“Mon Dieu,” he growled impatiently, “I did not invite you here to admire the flowers!” His good eye glittered with annoyance.
She pouted at him, all bruised innocence. “Would you steal from me the joy of a pleasant summer day? For shame!” She turned her back on him, hurt, waiting for him to make the next move, then steeled herself as his arms went about her waist and his hands slid upward to cup her breasts. He leaned to her bare nape beneath the curls piled high atop her head, and kissed the vulnerable flesh. She pulled away, pretending modesty, and wrapped her arms protectively about her bosom.
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