Lysette

by Sylvia Halliday

  “Monsieur! Please! I beg you—not here!” She glanced nervously around, as though she feared the prying eyes of the world.

  “Mayhap…tonight?”

  “Alone?”

  “With no eyes to see, Madame!”

  “And will you…steal a kiss or two?” she asked, suddenly coy.

  “I shall…take more, if it pleases you. You wounded my heart—as well as my manhood—that night in the woods. I would be avenged!”

  “Will I be…imperiled, then, if I come to you?”

  A wicked leer. “Indeed, yes!” He ran his tongue across his lips. “For how am I to cool the heat of my passion, save by plunging myself into that pool, that wellspring, source of all delight that waits in the grotto of your soft thighs? Again, and yet again, until you needs must beg for respite!”

  She gasped, her eyes wide with mock fear, and turned away from him. “Then I would be wise to abstain from your company! On the other hand”—she glanced back over her shoulder, her violet eyes twinkling—“Madame du Crillon is a very tiresome companion. Who knows? By this evening, I may be languishing with despair and ennui! I shall consider your…proposal!”

  He laughed, but there was an ugly edge to his voice. “Take care, my charming dove, lest I usurp what you would not give willingly!”

  She smiled, her cheeks tight with the effort at agreeableness. “But you must promise to give me supper! I am far more…amusing…with good food and wine!”

  For the rest of the afternoon she avoided Marielle’s questioning glances, willing herself to think of other things, playing endless games of patience with the cards she had wheedled from the guard. At last, when the sky grew dark outside the window, she rose from her chair and motioned to Marielle.

  “I am to take supper with Ussé. If all goes well, we shall escape tonight. Hold yourself in readiness until my return.” She unfastened her jacket and stripped it off, then pulled down the line of her chemise until her shoulders were seductively bare. For a moment her hand clutched the golden cross and chain about her neck, as though it would protect her from harm, from Ussé’s evil.

  “Alas, Lysette, what will you do?”

  “Whatever I must!”

  “Surely you cannot…” Marielle looked stricken.

  Lysette gulped, feeling the edge of nausea in her mouth, then thrust her chin out resolutely. “I was married to Guy de Ferrand for two years. He was old and disgusting, and my flesh crawled each time he touched me. But I endured because it was my duty, and I had no choice! What can I not endure to gain our freedom?”

  Marielle’s eyes were dark with sympathy. “Is there no other way?”

  “Nom de Dieu!” Lysette snapped. “Do not pity me! I need every bit of strength I can muster!”

  The two women embraced, then waited in silence until the guard came to take Lysette to the Comte. He led her down the passageway and into a well-lit corridor, stopping at last at a paneled door. A polite knock, a command to enter, and Lysette found herself within the room, facing a grinning Ussé, while the door closed firmly behind her. Ah, Dieu! He intended no subtlety nor coyness. Beyond a large table set with a snowy cloth and cutlery and platters of fruit and meats, was a massive bed, its hangings pulled well back—waiting, ominous. Lysette forced her eyes to turn away from the bed, to smile at Ussé as though she were as eager as he. How powerful he was, for all his short stature: the strong arms, the barrel chest! He would not be caught off guard as he had been that night on the journey. She felt her blood run cold, aware suddenly of the full extent of her peril. If she attempted to hurt him this time—and failed—le bon Dieu knew what obscenities he would force upon her in revenge! She dared not assail him unless she were sure of success, and how could she be sure? Perhaps, afterward (she shuddered inwardly) his guard would be down. She prayed to God to give her the strength to endure until that moment.

  He reached out and pulled her to him, but she twisted from his grasp and danced away. Laughing, he caught her and bent her back over his arm, his lips burning on her neck, the coarse hairs of his small beard scratching against her bare flesh. She giggled coyly and pulled away again, darting to a corner of the room. She waited, bosom heaving, all playful dimples, while he advanced upon her; then, or ever he could crush her in his strong embrace, she ducked under his arm and skipped away again.

  “Will you trifle with me?” he growled, suddenly angry. There was something frightening, and evil, in his pale blue eye.

  Lysette smiled and came forward, anxious to mollify him, to cool the anger that could only bring her to grief. “It is only that you go too fast, Monsieur! There is no pleasure in being…pounced upon!” She batted her black-fringed eyes, contriving to look fragile. “And your beard scratches me when you are too rough!” She rubbed dainty fingers against her neck, then gasped, genuinely upset. “Oh! I have lost my necklace!” Her eyes ransacked the room, looking for her gold cross; she would have searched in the corners, but Ussé slipped his arm about her waist and peered suggestively at her cleavage.

  “Mayhap, it fell!”

  The necklace would have to wait. It was more important to play Ussé’s game. A tantalizing laugh. “Will you…search for it, Monsieur?” She felt the gorge rise in her throat as he plunged his hand down the front of her bodice, coarse fingers fondling her bare breasts and tweaking playfully at her nipples. “For shame! You shall not find it that way!” she chided.

  He removed his hand from her chemise and encircled her waist with his powerful arms, holding her firmly with one hand while the other rubbed against her buttocks, all the while trying to lift her skirts. He went to kiss her, but she turned her head, and his lips caught the side of her cheek. Laughing, he whispered in her ear, his hand poking suggestively at her rump. “Shall I initiate you into the ways of the Court?” Then laughed again as she looked shocked and tried to hide it.

  She pouted, her mouth set in a woebegone line. “How can I be…adventuresome…when I am dying of thirst and hunger? Can we not eat first? Then you shall find me as bold as the ladies at Court!”

  Reluctantly he released her and poured out wine for them both, while she picked up a knife and cut herself a small slab of meat from a platter piled high with mutton. She nibbled daintily, wandering about the room as she ate, afraid to sit down lest she be trapped in one spot. He had not touched any food, but stood drinking his wine, his one good eye watching her with an intensity that made her nervous. She saw to her dismay that his chest had begun to heave with deep breaths and the front of his breeches bulged tellingly.

  “Will you not take supper?” she said gaily.

  “To the devil!” he said, his voice harsh in his throat, and flung his wineglass into the cold fireplace. One powerful arm swept across the table, pushing the plates and silver to one side. “You shall be my supper!” He picked her up, so swiftly that the food and drink fell from her hands, and flung her backward across the table, then leaned over her, his chest pressing against her bosom.

  She wriggled helplessly, her feet off the floor, trapped by his insistent body upon hers. Her heart began to pound in fear. “But my supper…” she said.

  He laughed, and reached across her to the wine pitcher. “Here,” he said, “we shall share the wine!” He poured a small stream of the liquid into her mouth; she gulped, almost choking, feeling the overflow run out of her mouth and down the sides of her cheeks. Now he covered her lips with his own, sucking off the wine, his tongue searching her mouth obscenely until she thought she would gag with the wine—and the disgust she felt. Her hands, thrown up above her head to keep from touching him, clutched helplessly at the tablecloth. Ah, Dieu, she thought. I shall die. I cannot bear another moment.

  And then, quite by accident, her fingers touched the knife on the table. There would never be a better moment, his body and mouth pressed against hers, his whole being focused on his burning loins. She groped with her hands until she had the knife firmly in her grasp, then she drove it into his back with all the strength that was in her. H
e gasped and straightened, his one eye wide with surprise, his hands trying vainly to reach the knife. With a moan he collapsed against her; she shuddered and pushed his body away, so he fell to the floor, twisting free of the knife still clenched in her fist. She struggled to her feet and stared down at him. He looked up at her, his mouth wide as though he would cry out, his face twisted in agony.

  “Pig!” she hissed, and placed her foot over his open mouth. He twitched for a moment, then his eye closed and he lay still.

  She began to shake, feeling hysteria about to overtake her, longing for someone—anyone!—to end this nightmare for her. Pah! Lysette! she thought suddenly. You have only yourself! She breathed deeply, willing the panic to go, her brain to clear, she wiped her face, still wet with the wine, on the edge of her sleeve, and patted and smoothed her hair into place. She saw that she still held the bloody knife, and almost dropped it, then thought better of it. They might need it on their journey. She swallowed hard and scrubbed the blade on the edge of the tablecloth, trying not to see the crimson smears that spread on the snowy linen. She wrapped the knife in a napkin and put it into her waistband. About to quit the room (carefully avoiding Ussé sprawled on the floor, a pool of blood beneath his body), she returned to the table and took up another napkin, filling it with fruit and bread and chunks of meat. She wrapped and tied it carefully, folding in the knife she had removed from her waistband, then returned to the door and peered out into the corridor. There was no one about. She tiptoed down the passageway; when she turned the corner she saw that the guard at her room was leaning against the doorframe, his back to her, seeming almost to nod. Carefully she put down the bundle of food and picked up a heavy torchère, empty of candles, that stood in the corridor.

  God forgive me, she thought for he has been kind to me, and bashed the guard over the head. He crumpled at her feet. Fetching the packet of food, she unlocked the door and hurried in to find a worried Marielle, her body stiff with tension, waiting for her.

  “Quickly!” said Lysette, shrugging into her jacket.

  “Where is Ussé?”

  “I have killed him. Nom de Dieu, Marielle,” she said, feeling the tears begin to choke her, “look not so tender-hearted upon me or I shall give way to weeping! Come!”

  As they flew down the stairs, Lysette remembered, with a pang, that she had never searched for her necklace. And now, of course, it was too late. They sped past the orchard, grateful for the moonless night, then slowed their steps as they reached the outbuildings and stables. Most of the servants’ cottages were lit, bright with the candles within; and more than a few of them, their doors open to the pleasant evening, cast long golden ribbons across the gravel paths. From one of the hovels came the melodious whistle of a reed pipe, soft and mournful in the still air, seeming to intensify the silence of the night. Lysette cursed to herself as the gravel crunched under their feet; motioning for Marielle to follow, she made her way slowly to the rear of one of the cottages, where the light was cut off by strings of laundry hanging on a line, and the noisy gravel gave way to packed earth and bumpy kitchen gardens.

  Suddenly the night exploded with sound: shouts, and men’s footsteps, and the loud whinnying of horses from the stables. Dozens of brightly lit torches seemed to pour from the château, swarming like fireflies through the gardens and grounds of Trefontaine until the night was turned to day. Lysette and Marielle, hidden deep within the hanging laundry, listened and trembled as the search went on, holding their breaths when a torch seemed to come too close, exhaling when the curses and shouts receded into the distance. A voice called out in alarm, begging to know what was amiss. Another voice replied that someone had tried to kill Monsieur le Comte. (Ah, Dieu, thought Lysette in gratitude, he lives! She had not wished his death on her conscience, no matter his wickedness.) Le Comte d’Ussé had offered a reward, the voice went on. One thousand crowns! Two women had escaped—they were the guilty ones. Thieves. Harlots, probably, though they pretended to be noblewomen. All of Loudun would be alerted, and half of Saumurois. They must be brought to trial before Ussé as the local magistrate. Twenty lashes, and prison afterward if they were found. And one thousand crowns to the fellow who brought them to justice!

  At last the hubbub on the estate died down a bit, the search centered now on the roads. Tapping Marielle on the shoulder, Lysette indicated the direction of the path through the woods; struck with a sudden thought, Marielle pulled some of the clothing from the line, tucking it under her arm before following where Lysette led. Struggling through the underbrush beyond the outbuildings, they could scarcely miss the path in the woods: every few minutes men and horses raced by, marking for the women the direction of their freedom.

  All night long they followed the line of the path, staying just within the trees, stopping sometimes to take turns napping, or to hide from the searchers who still traveled the road. Just before dawn they came to a fork in the path. By the rosy glow on the horizon they chose the more easterly way, reckoning it would take them nearer to Touraine. But after nearly an hour of walking, during which they saw no one, the dirt road petered out to a grassy path, then vanished.

  “Dieu! We have come the wrong way!” cried Marielle.

  “Did you not see, when we passed that linden tree awhile back, another path?” asked Lysette. “Mayhap if we retrace our steps and follow it, it will lead to the highroad!”

  “Can we not rest a little first, and eat some food? And if we reach the highroad, shall we still be perilously close to Trefontaine? I am filled with misgivings!” Marielle indicated the bundle of clothing she still held. “We would be safer in disguise. I tried to gather in men’s clothing. Yes, see! A doublet, breeches! Alas!” Holding up a second pair of breeches meant obviously for a small child. “I could not see in the dark!”

  Lysette frowned. “Then only one of us can dress as a lad.” She sighed, eying Marielle’s voluptuous figure and exquisite features. “I have always found your beauty scarcely to my advantage—it is your misfortune as well now!” She took the doublet from Marielle and held it up to her lovely face, shaking her head doubtfully. “I fear me you shall never pass as a boy, but…there is safety in false colors. Wear the foolish things!”

  “Nay! The sleeves are too short, and the breeches as well. ’Twere better if you wore them!” Marielle laughed. “You shall be my little brother!”

  Lysette stripped off her jacket and skirt, then stepped out of her petticoat and tried on the men’s garments. The breeches fit well, hanging loose about her calves; she eased her garters until her stockings drooped carelessly about her ankles, hiding the dainty curves of her legs. The doublet was another matter. It was scarcely snug, yet it draped over her bosom in a most unmasculine way. She tore a wide band from her petticoat and wrapped it round her breasts under her chemise, while Marielle giggled in amusement. But when she donned the doublet again, her chest was as flat as a lad’s.

  “I do not find it amusing!” she said with mock asperity. “It is very uncomfortable! And you shall not go unscathed, big sister!” She ripped a large square from her petticoat and handed it to Marielle. “We can hardly transform you into a boy, but you might at least try to look a little plain! Wrap your hair up in this, so you seem a farm girl, and smudge your face with dirt.” She grinned wickedly. “Shall I help you?” Marielle shook her head and backed away, tying the scarf tightly and tucking up her hair until not a single chestnut curl showed. “But what am I to do with my hair?” said Lysette suddenly serious. “Ah, Dieu! I wish I had a hat!”

  Marielle scanned her petite form. “Yes. ’Tis a pity. Save for your hair, you really do look like a lad!”

  Lysette pulled the pins from her hair. The raven tresses tumbled down about her shoulders and she stroked the glossy curls, her fingers reluctant to let them go. Then, with a heavy sigh, she rummaged in the packet of food until she found the knife. Closing her eyes, she clutched at a hank of hair and began to hack away, trying to keep her chin from trembling while her beautiful hair, her
pride, fell in pathetic ringlets at her feet.

  They ate in silence, accompanied only by the songs of the birds, then gathered up the rest of the food. Lysette tied her skirt and jacket in the remains of her petticoat and slung the packet over her shoulder. Retracing their steps to the linden tree they saw that there was indeed another path, that wound through a meadow and led at length to a fair-sized road, its dirt surface incised with the tracks of many wheels. Using the sun as their guide, and guessing it to be mid-morning, they turned their steps eastward, praying that, sooner or later, they would reach a signpost that would tell them the way.

  “Listen!” cried Marielle suddenly. From somewhere behind them on the road they could hear the creak of wheels, the squeaking of harness. They stopped and waited, as a small cart hove into view, pulled by a sway-backed mare. Perched on the seat of the cart was a handsome young farmer, a bright red handkerchief about his neck. “Quickly!” hissed Marielle. “Into the woods, lest we be near to Trefontaine and he in d’Ussé’s service!”

  “Pooh! Can a young lad not ask for a ride for himself and his sister? Come!” Lysette stepped boldly into the middle of the road. “But he is a lusty fellow. I would not want him to…dally with you! Keep your eyes cast down, and hang back from me. I shall contrive to sit next to him, that you may be spared any advances.” She grumbled deep in her throat as the wagon approached them. “Ho! You there!” she called, pitching her voice as low as she could. The cart slowed to a stop. “Wouldst give a ride to my sister and me?”

  The young farmer grinned, showing white teeth, and held out a hand to them. Lysette ignored it (a boy did not need help!), and scrambled nimbly up to the seat beside the farmer, then pulled Marielle up next to her, handing her the packet of clothing. Marielle sat thus, with the napkin-wrapped food as well as Lysette’s gown clutched tightly to her, the large bundles serving to hide the sweet curves of her body. The farmer clicked to his horse and they continued down the road.