Table of Contents
Title Page
Praise for Philippa Lodge
The Indispensable Wife
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter One
Author’s Note
A word about the author…
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
She had longed for him so intensely she thought for a moment she had imagined him, as she had so many times over the last several weeks.
He stared as if unsure it was her, due, certainly, to the mask hiding the top half of her face. She’d trimmed a riding mask and added ties to it to leave her mouth and nostrils uncovered for singing. She had to be heard, even if she might sunburn her chin. Who would care if she were sunburned?
The couple with the lyre and the wooden flute played on for a few notes and then paused before looping back to the part of the song between verses. She couldn’t remember the words and coughed suddenly to cover her hesitation. “It is dustier than I had noticed, my good people. Would someone bring me a drink of water, please?”
Two young men who had been shouting crude comments grabbed a bucket and ladle and pushed their way forward, laughing. She pointed, however, at her husband. “Good sir? I see that you have a lovely, large water skin, and I wish with all my heart to drink from it.”
This brought hoots of laughter from the crowd, and she was glad that no one could see her blush behind the mask. The crowd paid better when she pretended to be a seductress. The comte moved forward at a slow, steady pace, his eyes shaded by a battered hat but never wavering from her face.
Praise for Philippa Lodge
“Only two hearts committed to each other and their future can overcome the betrayal, deceit, and greed that lurk in the court of Louis XIV. If you enjoy historical intrigue with a generous dose of romance, you’ll love Philippa Lodge’s THE INDISPENSABLE WIFE.”
~Dee Brice, author, Temptress of Time
~*~
“THE INDISPENSABLE WIFE weaves romance, suspense and historical accuracy into an exciting tapestry of a story! Once you start, you can’t put it down.”
~Donna Del Oro, award-winning author of
Athena’s Secrets (Book One, The Delphi Bloodline)
~*~
“Set in Louis XIV’s glittering and dangerous court, THE INDISPENSABLE WIFE is full of action, intrigue, and the redemptive power of love. Don’t miss this memorable historical romance!”
~Loucinda McGary, author of
award-winning romantic suspense
The
Indispensable Wife
by
Philippa Lodge
Châteaux and Shadows, Book One
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
The Indispensable Wife
COPYRIGHT © 2015 by Phyllis Laatsch
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Debbie Taylor
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Tea Rose Edition, 2015
Print ISBN 978-1-5092-0320-8
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-0321-5
Châteaux and Shadows, Book One
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
For my husband and kids,
who survive on pizza and burritos.
For my mom,
who taught me to read and taught me to love to read.
For the teachers who encouraged my odd,
rambling stories in my creative writing journals.
And for the members of the Sacramento chapter
of the RWA—especially my critique partners—
from whom I learned exponentially more.
Chapter One
Spring 1666, The de Bures château-fort, France
Aurore awoke with a start. A great cry rose up from the guardsmen on the walls of her husband’s château-fort. Someone—several people—ran through the corridor outside her room, and steel clashed in the courtyard as if someone were sword fighting outside. The men who were there for training weren’t supposed to fight in the courtyard. Mathilde, her companion, shrieked in the hall. Aurore rushed to the narrow window to see heavily armed soldiers streaming into the courtyard, some on horseback. The gate was wide open, and men grappled on the rampart. She shook her head fiercely. Was she still dreaming?
Her bedchamber door crashed open behind her, and she spun around as a scowling stranger in chain link armor entered, sword in hand. He grinned fiercely and strode forward, lifting his sword point to her chest. “Do not budge, Madame de Bures. We wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”
Other armed men entered her room, each more menacing than the one before. A voice in the hallway had some of them retreating into the hall and the others stepping aside.
“Excellent. Très bien fait. I will be sure that you get a bonus for finding her so quickly. Bind her hands, and we will lock her in here until the château is completely under our control. Monsieur Poudrain and I will see to her later.”
Aurore struggled, but a big soldier cuffed her on the side of the head with a gauntleted hand and she staggered, seeing stars. Her ears rang, muffling all but the pounding of her own heart as the soldier tied her hands behind her.
“Where is Mathilde? Have you hurt her?”
The soldier shoved her onto the bed, and another man tied her feet to one post. The man in charge—he was dressed in a somber but expensive-looking long coat and looked somewhat familiar to Aurore—snapped his fingers, and two soldiers pulled her pregnant companion into the room. Her hands were tied as well. They shoved her onto the bed and tied her feet.
“No noise, or we will gag you both.”
“Who are you?” demanded Aurore, trying to exert her authority in spite of her physical position. “And what are you doing?”
“Your husband will be dead by the afternoon,” announced her captor from the doorway.
“No!” Aurore gasped. Her heart pounded harder. Not Dom.
Mathilde wailed.
The captor smirked. “Your husband will die, killed by a bolt from a crossbow. A terrible accident.”
When the door shut, Aurore collapsed back onto the bed. Mathilde scooted closer to her and laid her head on Aurore’s arm, her body trembling just as hard as Aurore’s. “Michel will save us. He will surely know what to do.”
Michel, Mathilde’s new husband and Aurore’s oldest friend, was strong and trained in fighting, but so was this crowd of soldiers. What could Michel do? He was so young. It was Aurore who had cared for him since he was a baby, not the other way around.
Mathilde whimpered and struggled to lie closer still. “We cannot give up hope for the comte.”
That night, as Aurore screamed herself hoarse, she prayed to the saints who h
ad deserted her for her own death in exchange for her husband’s safety.
****
Versailles, the same day
Dominique, Comte de Bures, glanced around at the brightly dressed nobles assembled at King Louis XIV’s rustic hunting lodge at Versailles. Fewer ladies and gentlemen than usual were in attendance to show off their finery and join in petty intrigues to ruin each other’s lives. These were mainly the ones whose estates were dilapidated or whose relations with their families were distant or strained. Some, like Dom, were required to stay under the king’s thumb because King Louis thought they might be up to something.
Dom pursed his lips wryly. His life was not going as he had hoped, so he wasn’t sure how petty intrigues could ruin it further. He couldn’t fight when there was no clear enemy and no defined objective. Five years with no heir, and the arranged match with Aurore that had started with lust and laughter was strained and cold. Her brothers and father had been distant ever since he had taken a mistress—on Aurore’s advice after yet another baby died inside her.
She had sobbed that she wanted his baby and that she was not able to give him one. She begged him for a baby of his to raise. It was only to please his wife that he went to another woman to bear him a child. Or so he had told himself at the time. He grimaced slightly as he remembered how his mind had been fogged by grief. That last baby had been only a month from birth when it stopped moving inside her. The joy that finally, after a string of miscarriages, Aurore’s belly was large with child and they would have a baby was followed by the lowest depths of misery.
When his new mistress had told him the baby she was carrying was his, it had hurt Aurore even more. When the mistress gave birth and the baby was very clearly not his and the woman had never meant to give him the child to raise even if it were, his regret and guilt had deepened into sullen resentment.
And now Aurore was pregnant again—she had told him only two weeks before, right as he set off for court. Dom muttered a quick prayer and crossed himself. Please Dieu this time they would have a healthy heir.
Any distance between him and Aurore was his fault. He wondered if he could ever make it up to her. He wondered if he should.
It must have been easier for his great-grandfather, the first Comte de Bures, who had parlayed his ancestor’s title of vicomte, earned under François I, into a comte in the Wars of Religion under Henri IV. What Dom needed was a war that he could lead troops into, or at the very least a good minor skirmish. His father had told him part of his reasoning in founding their guard academy was to have an excuse to play at being a knight.
But if the only way to gain power—or at least not lose what one already had—was to dance attendance on the king, then that was what Dom had to do.
He glanced up and caught one of the king’s guards staring. Perhaps King Louis XIV was keeping a closer eye on him than usual. Really, the king should know he could trust Dom—they had been acquaintances since they were boys. Dom sighed. Maybe he would never live down his father’s support of the Fronde—the rebellion of nobles when Louis was a child. Or maybe the guard was watching everyone that closely, keeping an eye out for signs of plague.
Many nobles seemed to believe their status made them immune to the deathly sickness creeping through the French countryside, having already devastated England. So far the construction of this massive new palace that was draining the kingdom’s coffers had not been interrupted by disease. The massive red brick and cream stone edifices rose a little higher every day, transforming the rustic setting into yet another royal court. The smell of cement combined with dust and mud and the foul miasma from the nearby swamps that were being drained. Indoors, the nobles jockeyed for position in temporary housing and used dark corners to relieve themselves so they would not miss a moment of plotting.
Dom wasn’t sure how much longer he could stand the noise, the stench, and the whispers. Before he married Aurore, her brother—his best friend, Cédric—had been the one to open doors for him. Then when they were first married, bright, chattering Aurore was his entrée into any conversation and was good at diplomacy. Now, he stood off to the side more often than not, keeping his criticisms to himself as best he could.
Dom had requested an audience with the king the week before, to plead for reason in the extravagant cost of covering the inside of the palace with gold leaf, but he had been rebuffed by the Baron de Lucenay’s son and heir, who made His Highness’s appointments. Of course, Albert de Lucenay had never liked him, but it might nevertheless have been true that the king had no time or desire to meet with him, since Dom was always criticizing.
Pâques, who traveled with Dom everywhere as the captain of his personal guard, approached, weaving through the crowd. Dom noted that he still had some time to wait before his turn to shoot his arrows in the tournament, so he allowed the man to pull him to the side.
“A rumor, Monsieur le Comte.”
“What sort of rumor?”
Pâques glanced around furtively. “Treason, Monsieur. Assassination.”
Dominique stared in surprise. “If that is so, we will take this straight to the king and his guard. Who is said to be a treasonous assassin?”
Pâques frowned. “You are, Monsieur.”
Dominique staggered a step back in shock. His brain churned through all the people to whom he had ever mentioned his unease with the constant warfare and the elaborate palaces. With the high taxes and pressure on the nobles to stay under the king’s nose at all times. Was his disapproval seen as treason? He wasn’t the only one to criticize the king. He had done his best to be a rational voice within the court since childhood. He would never work against His Highness, no matter how much he tried to guide the king. Surely Louis knew that.
Dom shook his head. “Ridiculous. I will tell the baron that I withdraw from his tournament due to urgent business.”
He had just turned when he felt a hard hit to his left bicep and heard a loud crack. The force spun him around and threw him against Pâques, who fell back, a bolt from a crossbow stuck in his upper arm. Dom struggled to sit as a lady a few feet away swooned and her companion carried her away. Dom dragged himself to his feet, grasping his left shoulder with his right hand and turning in the direction the bolt had come from. He looked down to reach for his court sword and saw the blood running out from under the elbow-length sleeve of his red silk coat, staining the puffed sleeves of his shirt and his lacy cuff, marring his pale gloves. He stared at his hand in a trance as the world around him dimmed. He watched another of his guardsmen, Le Fèvre, sprint across the lawn, scattering nobles, most of whom were only starting to notice that something was amiss. Le Fèvre tackled him to the ground just as another bolt flew past their heads and into the small patch of woods behind them.
“Stay down, Monsieur,” Le Fèvre panted. “Stay down! You know better. You taught us all better. A sword against a crossbow? Impossible. Don’t be an idiot.”
“See to Pâques. He has the bolt still in him. I’ve only been nicked,” said Dom.
His head felt rather light for what should have been a minor wound. Le Fèvre took out a knife and cut away his coat and shirt sleeves, then wrapped the sleeve of the shirt around Dom’s wound.
Pâques moaned beside them. Le Fèvre went to Pâques and started to cut his sleeve off, too. “There’s…the bone is… Merde! Where are the palace guards?” Le Fèvre looked around wildly. “Guards! Bandages!” he roared at some big men who strode across the lawn, which was clearing as the rich and titled fled. “Two litters!”
Dom raised his head enough to see servants racing from the nearby kitchens but discovered that his head was really too heavy to lift.
****
What felt like a moment later, Dom opened his eyes and found himself in his own bed in his own suite in the old hunting lodge, the curtains drawn. He eased his aching head cautiously to the left and saw the bandages on his upper arm. His head and arm pounded with every beat of his heart. He wiggled his fingers and sighed with relief. S
till there.
He swallowed against his dry throat and called out, “Paul?” His voice was a harsh cough.
The bed curtains were pulled open, and his manservant leaned in.
“Oh, merci à Dieu, you are awake, Monsieur le Comte. You have been asleep for more than a day. We have hardly been able to make you drink some wine and broth, and Le Fèvre has been fretting that you would waste away.” Paul opened the curtains wider, then lifted a spouted cup to Dom’s lips.
Dominique drank a few swallows, which burned his throat and made his head spin. He waved the watered wine away. “My wife. Have you sent word to the comtesse?”
The valet set the cup down carefully. “We sent a rider out as soon as we had you inside and we thought the bleeding would stop. I am sorry. Terribly, terribly sorry, Monsieur. We have had some terrible news.”
Dominique’s heart thudded, making his arm and head throb harder. “Has she lost the baby? Is she in health?”
Paul set a hand on his master’s shoulder and kept him from sitting up. Paul was stronger than he looked and skilled with a dagger. Nevertheless, Dominique knew he should be strong enough to win out over Paul’s gentle pat. “The rider crossed two men riding at a breakneck speed from the château-fort. They arrived here late last night.”
“What is the news?” he demanded, anxious.
“Mercenaries, led by two minor noblemen, have taken your château.” Paul looked away.
Dominique thought he must be having a terrible dream. “Taken it? What do you mean?” Someone could not just take property that belonged to a nobleman. Dom would strike down anyone who dared. There were laws. There were centuries of ownership. There was privilege handed down from the king, and above him, from God.
“The news was rather confused, as the men came immediately to alert you, once the château had fallen. They were outside the fort with horses when the gates were sealed. They believe that some of the new men who came to train as guards were mercenaries. They overpowered the other trainees in the night, then overcame the guards watching the gate. They had the gates open to their compatriots just before dawn yesterday, and the château was taken very quickly.”
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