The Indispensable Wife

by Philippa Lodge

  Dom looked around at the darkening landscape. The convent bells rang for evening prayers and the first fat raindrops tapped onto Dom’s wide-brimmed hat.

  He had never been alone before, he realized. Not for long, at least. Or maybe he had always been alone, no matter who was with him. He thought of his beautiful wife and how they had been close when they first married. He smiled faintly before the guilt told him he deserved to be alone.

  He turned his ugly gray gelding toward Paris. He would rest, wait for more information, and retrieve his wife. Then he would remake his life just the way it had been when they had first married.

  Chapter Three

  Over a month later

  On that hot summer day, Aurore, Comtesse de Bures, wore patched skirts and a faded red linen stomacher over a rough linen chemise while she sang with her musicians in a village somewhere outside Paris. To be truthful, they weren’t her musicians so much as she was their singer.

  She was in the middle of a wistful love song when she spotted her husband, Dominique, at the back of the little crowd. She stopped short, bringing her hand up to her chest, suddenly unable to catch her breath. Even after five years of marriage, none of them terribly happy, he was the most handsome man she had ever seen. Although in drab knee breeches and a smudged leather coat with plain dark buttons, he stood straight and proud, every inch an aristocrat.

  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. His skin was browner than it had been since he and her brothers played outside all day as children. His expectation that everyone would move away from his path was further proof that it was truly him, just as her demand for water, however jokingly couched, marked her as someone who was used to giving orders. His jaw clenched, the firm contours she had traced her fingers down hundreds of times accentuated by dark stubble. Her chest burned with desire.

  And fear.

  She was suddenly afraid he would drag her from the platform and expose her for who she was. He had every right to punish a wayward wife. Even if she were to die from such punishments, he would be exonerated, unless her father brought suit. She stood firm in her belief that, no matter what, her family would protect her. If he tried to hurt her, she would take out her knife. No, that was ridiculous. She could no more stab Dom than she could stab herself. She could never stab anyone, no matter what her half-brother Michel had taught her.

  But Dom would never hurt her physically, no matter his disregard for her emotions. Her body didn’t seem to understand that. She was a cold stone statue, frozen in panic at the sign of a strong man approaching her, her head flashing images of her captors.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Michel step around the front of the stage, easing the worst of her panic, allowing her to breathe. Michel had stood between her and the world for two months now, offering loyalty, protection, and lessons in how to protect herself with a knife. He would not let anyone, even her husband, mistreat her. Her brothers and father would have stood between them, as well, if only they had been there.

  Tears filled her eyes as Dominique took the last few steps to the edge of the tiny stage, but she smiled for the crowd’s benefit. He stood a foot lower than she, and yet she stepped back, shivering as if he towered over her.

  She held out a hand, imperious and demanding. Her voice shook. “And the water, Monsieur?”

  “As you wish, Madame.” His voice rasped under her skin as it had ever since changing when he was thirteen.

  The people around him laughed at his reply, obviously thinking she was as demanding as any grande dame. As arrogant, perhaps, as a member of the aristocracy.

  He tipped his hat back on his head, bringing his eyes and nose out of the shadows. His hands rested at his belt for a moment before he unhooked the water skin and held it out to her along with a drinking vessel. He very nearly smiled.

  “I’ve got a much larger gourd over here, ma belle!” shouted a man from the edge of the crowd as she uncorked the skin and poured water into the proffered cup.

  Dom’s gaze didn’t move from her mouth as she sipped the water flavored with a hint of cheap wine.

  The crowd hooted with laughter again, and she lowered the cup, smiling. Dominique’s eyes narrowed as she dabbed away a drop with the tip of one finger.

  “Thank you, Monsieur. I was parched.”

  “I am surprised that your husband does not have a drinking gourd for you, Madame.” He spoke so softly she could barely hear him over the mutterings of the crowd waiting for her to go on, the shouts of the vendors in the marketplace, and the braying of livestock.

  She wasn’t sure if he were being spiteful, but she had grown adept over two months at bantering with crowds, teasing just a little and then referring to Michel, who could defend her if any of them got the wrong idea.

  She smiled again, haughty and superior. “My husband’s gourd is the finest I have ever seen, Monsieur.”

  The comte scowled toward Michel.

  “However, it is possible that my husband has shared his gourd with other women. He could very well share with ladies in every town square from here to Provence, n’est-ce pas?”

  She only vaguely heard the chuckle from the crowd and saw Michel’s uneasy move, so focused she was on her husband.

  “I would not, Madame. If I had a wife like you, I would surely never share with another.” Then slightly louder, “And it has been months that I am the only one to touch my water skin, to polish it, and to enjoy it as it empties.”

  The crowd laughed appreciatively as Aurore closed her eyes for a moment, relief washing through her along with a shiver of desire mixed with fear.

  “The only gourd I enjoy is my husband’s, Monsieur. It is the largest and firmest, and I hold it in my”—she clenched her fist for all to see—“in my heart.” She simpered as she drew her hand to the bare flesh where her bodice and stomacher pushed her breasts up high. The audience hooted with ribald laughter as she suppressed a shudder. She didn’t like being ribald, but it made the coins rain down.

  She turned her head to the musicians and asked them to play a sweet madrigal that always made her want to cry. Before they could start, though, Dominique’s voice made her look at him. “And how, Madame, can your husband be sure his is the only gourd for you?”

  She gestured for the musicians to begin. She leaned forward slightly, showing more than she liked of her cleavage to the crowd, and pointed at her embroidered headscarf. “It is in the flowers, Monsieur.”

  His brow snapped down. He always looked angry when he was confused, which had taken her years to understand: years of attempts to placate him, to apologize for every joke and miscommunication. She smiled, and when her cue came a moment later, she began to sing. It was a song of lost love and loneliness and the joy of love found again. She had sung this song many times, but never
with as much meaning.

  Dominique watched her as closely as she did him throughout the song. His jaw relaxed a little, and she thought he might believe her. At least he wanted to. She had never been good at reading his emotions, but she recognized desire in him, if nothing else.

  It was only as she finished the song that the spell was broken, and Michel took a step toward Dominique. Dominique glanced at Michel, and confusion marred his expression before his face became a tight mask.

  “Oh, do you know my husband, Monsieur?” she said sweetly as the applause died down. “He is ever so jealous, so you must be wary. A woman on the road could not do better than to have the escort of a big man, strong of sword.”

  The exaggerated bump of her hips made the audience titter again as the musicians began the lively tune she always sang last about minstrels taking to the road.

  ****

  The man in the little tailor shop who was responsible for the town’s mail thought it was sometime in the past few days that someone had retrieved the letter sent poste restante to a certain name, but he had been busy and had put his wife in charge of the stack of letters. He did say, during Dominique’s brief, awkward chat with him, that there was a traveling troupe performing twice a day on the village square. Dominique had seen at least a dozen troupes in the past month, from pox-scarred peasants to sly gypsies to squint-eyed whores whose children picked the crowd’s pockets. None of the dozens of performers had been his wife. He glanced through the letter from Cédric, who said Aurore had been ten leagues away a few weeks earlier but had no more news. Cédric also wrote that he had been exchanging letters with some of their friends at the court, asking for their support, explaining that the plot had been to remove Dom, not that Dom had been embroiled in a plot.

  He folded the letter—Cédric had written very little, evidently still angry with his best friend and brother-in-law—and sighed as he slipped between carts, donkeys, and milling crowds of smelly peasants toward the square.

  I shall have to return to the court and convince the king on my own. If Aurore cannot forgive me, her family will never forgive me.

  He hated to fail. As the weeks wore on, he had become more and more focused on the goal of this quest. His desire to find his wife and bring her home consumed him.

  Dominique rounded a corner.

  La voilà. There she is.

  She had a pale cloth over her hair and tied across her brow, much like a nun’s wimple, but embroidered with a riot of bright colors. Her chestnut hair peeked around the edges of it, caressing her neck. The upper half of her face was obscured by a truncated riding mask. He doubted his first impression—this could not be his wife with her large eyes and curling brown hair.

  Yellowish dust rose from a passing cart, and the sun beat on his head. He was dizzy. He wanted to pull her down from the platform and kiss the pink lips that showed under the edge of the mask, kiss them until neither of them could breathe. He wanted to grab her and hold on to her and run to his horse and ride all night back to their château.

  Putain de merde, he thought, reminding himself that usurpers had taken over their château or they would not be standing in the square of a dirty market town, hoping no one had the plague. They would be at home or at court. Anger rolled through him for the years of estrangement, for his own trespasses, for Aurore’s single-minded focus on having a baby, which left her weak from miscarriages and sorrow.

  Dominique hardly knew what he was saying as he bantered with his wife about his wine skin. It was ridiculous and salacious, but her saucy smile almost had him convinced she was happy to see him. As Aurore sang about vagabonds and pilgrims, he heard the audience laugh at the double entendres, but his gaze stopped on Aurore’s traveling companion, standing at the edge of the platform, arms crossed, staring at him in challenge.

  Rage boiled up. Nom de Dieu. The little boy Michel has stolen my wife.

  The two of them had always been as sister and brother, nearly mother and child. He couldn’t imagine them having an affair. However, Michel hadn’t been little for many years now. He must be nearly twenty, and Aurore was only twenty-one. Michel was recently married and his wife expecting a baby. Dom had been told Michel’s wife was in hiding; he didn’t know where.

  The crowd applauded and shouted, pulling Dom from his reverie. The musicians moved to the side of the stage to play a lively tune as a juggler leapt onto the platform.

  Michel stepped forward, scanning the crowd carefully, as he had been taught by the military school Dominique’s father had established. Then he turned his back to Dominique and focused on Aurore, handing her a shabby triangle of linen which she draped around her shoulders and across her cleavage like a shawl.

  He’s assuming I do not wish to sink a dagger into him. Michel does not have a guilty conscience. Unlike me.

  Michel glanced at him as Aurore stepped down. Dominique looked around as well, noticing that no one seemed to be paying particular attention to them now.

  “Jean-Paul,” said Aurore with a little smile, “introduce me to your friend, chéri.”

  Dominique wondered who Jean-Paul was, then caught Michel’s eye and realized he was traveling under an assumed name. Dom nodded once.

  “Of course, chérie,” said Michel. “Or I would if I could remember his name. We met once in a tournament, I believe. His sword is not as mighty as one might think.”

  Dominique almost laughed. Almost hit the boy for his insolence. Instead, he swept off his guardsman’s battered hat and bowed as gracefully as he had ever done to the king and queen. “Dario Dumouton at your service, Madame.” It had been a bit of a risk to use his secondary title as he slipped through villages out of sight of other nobles, but he had been called by it throughout his youth and would answer to it, which he would never do with a totally assumed name.

  “Ah yes, Dario le Dangereux,” said Aurore. “Jean-Paul has spoken of you.”

  “And this is my wife, Dumouton,” said Michel. “Audrianne.”

  Through the large eyeholes of the black riding mask, Dominique could see the little crinkles at the corners of his wife’s eyes that meant she was smiling, even if her mouth was not. He had missed her eyes. He wanted to remove her mask and see them in full light. He wanted to kiss her eyelids and crush her fiercely to his chest. He would kneel down and press his head against her belly and beg for her to come home.

  “Enchantée, Monsieur.” She swept him a deep curtsy that exposed her upbringing and the tops of her firm, white breasts. “We would be honored if you would join us at our camp for a meal, though we have only light fare in the afternoon.”

  They walked in tense silence up a bustling, dusty street that led directly to a grassy field. Shabby tents made from blankets were scattered to the right, and two donkeys and a mule grazed placidly to the left. A few ragged, dirty children ran about. On closer inspection, they were as clean as one could hope of small children playing in a field. A man on the back of a cart shot to his feet as they approached. Dominique recognized him as one of his own men, Petit le Petit, son of the guard master, barely more than a boy. Dom remembered being told he had helped Michel take Aurore out of danger.

  He very nearly dropped to one knee before Dominique, but Michel grabbed his arm. “Le Grandot, do you remember my rival from tournament days, Dario Dumouton? Has Marie-France come back yet with the ham?”

  Petit gestured to the other side of the wagon, where a woman bent over a small fire. He glanced at Dominique nervously and bowed awkwardly before rushing to the woman. She looked at him sharply and then up at Dominique, and she scrambled up to curtsy. Dominique nodded to her, recognizing her as one of his kitchen maids. Petit grabbed her hand and said something, and she turned back to her fire.

  Dominique faced Michel. “Quite a gathering you have here.”

  Aurore looked over her shoulder toward the village before untying her mask and rubbing at the red marks it left on her cheeks.

  Dominique pulled her left hand away—not as gently as he had mean
t to, but the anger that had not been far from the surface for two months boiled up inside him. “What happened to your face?”

  Her family had told him she had a scar, but they hadn’t told him it was so wide or so red or so close to her eye. Perhaps they had thought it would have healed by the time he found her. Perhaps they were hiding the truth of it, figuring he would reject her.

  She yanked her arm away from him with a gasp, then turned her face so he could look more closely at the jagged line that ran down her temple to her cheekbone, tugging at the corner of her eye.

  “I fell.”

  “Fell?” He reached out to brush the mark marring her beautiful face with the tips of his fingers. He could feel the odd tickle in the back of his nose that signaled impending tears. He scowled instead.

  “I fell against the fireplace. I was lucky to have knocked over the fire irons, because a maid heard it and rushed in before I lost too much blood,” she whispered, her face full of misery.

  “You fainted?” Dominique said.

  “Because…” She closed her eyes and took a breath. When she opened her eyes, she appeared calm. She smiled at him and put a hand on Michel’s arm. “But you should sit down, Monsieur. I will go help Marie-France and the other women with our meal.”

  Once they were all settled on short stools—hardly proper seats for a comte and comtesse—Marie-France brought a wooden trencher with slices of ham and a pile of toasted bread. Aurore handed Michel a stack of bowls to pass around while she poured out watery, sour wine from a pitcher.

  They ate in silence. Soon, the rest of the traveling troupe returned en masse from the village square and pulled more stools out of the wagons. Marie-France went to put more ham on the platter. The other performers glanced nervously at Dominique.

  Dominique sank into contemplation of his wife, who was talking quietly with Marie-France by the fire. Michel would every so often draw his attention away with talk about their fictional old days on the tournament circuit, and they would exchange stories—mostly invented on the spot, but some based on the training they had taken at Dom’s castle—to bolster their ruse. Petit jumped up and went to help Marie-France.