The Ruins of Lace

by Iris Anthony

  I whined.

  “I’m fine. I just don’t want to be recognized.”

  I slunk along beside him as he entered a busy square. But the men were already there. They were stopping everyone entering or leaving.

  We stepped into a shadow cast by a tall building, slipping by one of the men as he stopped to talk to someone. “Very tall, he was. With a dog beside him.”

  My master waved his hands at me, gesturing toward the opposite side of the square.

  I looked toward where he was pointing. It was far, far away from him.

  I sat on my haunches.

  He gestured once more.

  I lay down at his feet.

  After casting a look up at the man, he walked back the way we had come, toward a quieter area of the market. Then he paused and bent toward me, clicking his tongue. “Come here, chiot.”

  I lowered myself toward the ground and wagged my tail at him.

  “Come here!”

  Why did he sound so cross? I whined before I could stop myself. I could hear those men behind us. They were pushing through the crowd. They were getting closer.

  “Come here, mon cher!”

  Moncher! With a yelp, I threw myself at my master’s arms.

  He clasped me to his chest. Keeping the hood draped over our heads, he nestled me with one arm against his side. He used the other to settle the cloak about me, blocking my view of the square.

  I didn’t need to see. What I needed was a nap. And some cream.

  My master started off with his strange, new gait.

  There were people all about us. I could hear them, though I could not see them. Suddenly, my master stumbled, bumping into something.

  “Pardon me. Sorry.” His arm reached out, and I could see, for just an instant, as a woman bent toward the ground.

  Quick as she bent, my master took hold of a pail and a ladle. As he lurched away, I dug into his side with my legs, trying to keep myself from tumbling from his arm.

  “Patience, chiot. You saved my life once. I’m trying to return the favor. I’m going to turn myself into a leper. The only thing anyone would do with a leper’s dog is kill it. With a little luck—”

  That pail—it carried cream! I could smell it. I scrabbled against the constraint of his arm, trying to reach it.

  “Merde! If they see you, we’re both finished! Here.” He shifted the pail to the hand that held me.

  It was cream!

  “Gently! You’re going to spill it.”

  Some spilled over the edge before I could eat it. And then my master began to beat on the pail with the ladle.

  “Sorry, mon cher. I need this for other things.” He tipped the pail, dumping the cream to the ground. I would have barked, but some had clung to the sides. If he would just stop beating the pail, then I could lick it.

  “Stay away.” Clang. “Stay away.”

  I timed my licks to his words.

  Around me, people gasped. I could hear them. “Leper! A leper!” There came the sound of people running from us. The master paused in his beating, and I got in an extra lick.

  “Stay away.” Clang.

  He almost clipped me on the nose.

  “Stay away.” Clang. “Stay away.”

  “Halt there!”

  At last, my master stopped beating on the pail. I nosed my head into it and licked up what I could.

  My master had turned toward the voice. “Stay away! I warn you.”

  “Take off that hood.”

  “I beg you—please—spare yourself the horror.”

  “If you’re a leper, then show yourself.”

  My master bent toward the man, giving me full access to the pail. I tipped it toward me with a paw.

  “Stop!” His grip on me tightened. “I’m a leper. Don’t come any nearer. Just…”

  My master dropped the ladle, took up my leg, and threaded my foot through his sleeve. He grasped my paw with his other hand and exposed it to the sun when it emerged. I did not wince much, though I was nearly hairless. I had almost licked the sores from the razor closed, but still they wept foul-tasting ooze.

  “Mon dieu!” Someone else, some other man, gagged.

  I paused in my licking when I heard it.

  My master pressed me tighter against his side.

  I went back to licking up the cream.

  “Stay away!”

  “Did any man pass by here just now?”

  “I saw no one.”

  “If you do see anyone…any man. Quite tall…with a dog…”

  “I shall tell him to stay away.” My master banged at the pail with his knee.

  I could hear the scrape of boots again as the men turned from us.

  Once they left, their voices were replaced by others. “Get out, leper. Go away!” Though my master hurried from those voices, they followed us. “If they don’t stop throwing stones at us, chiot, I’m going to start throwing them right back. And I have deadly aim.”

  Eventually, those footsteps and voices fell away. And soon after, they ceased all together. My stomach was full; the fat of the cream coated my throat. My master straightened and resumed his usual gait. To the rhythm of his stride, I fell asleep. I dreamt of cream and fires. And a hand stroking my fur. Moncher, Moncher, Moncher.

  Chapter 33

  Lisette Lefort

  Château of Eronville

  The province of Orléanais, France

  Unfortunately, my resolve not to harm the child did not solve my problem. The count had gone mad with desperation. His demand had proved that. If I did not kill the babe, then I would have to find some way to protect him. If, indeed, it were a he.

  Pray God for a girl!

  I would have gone to the chapel that next day and repeated Hail Marys for eternity, but just before dinner, the marquise cried out, placing a hand on her belly. “I think…I’m almost certain…I think it’s time!” She looked at me with both dread and delight. And with her other hand, she grabbed for my arm.

  I prayed the birthing would take just as long as it could to give my father time to return with the lace. But the hours seem to slow in their passing as she labored in her travail. The midwife rubbed unguent onto her belly and whispered soothing words. As a cock greeted dawn, still we waited. At some point, a servant brought us dinner and then came to take the remains away. As the birds in the garden left off singing and a wolf howled at the moon, I began to amend my desires.

  “Does it usually take this long?” I whispered the question to the midwife as she changed out the bedclothes.

  “Sometimes it takes longer.”

  Longer!

  “Longer it takes, the worse it is for the child.”

  I had not considered the child might not live. Though perhaps in this case, it would be a blessing.

  “Worse for the mother, as well.”

  I glanced toward the marquise. She had passed much of the time since dinner in a state of misery, moaning and tossing about on the bed. Her face looked pale, even in the dim-lit chamber. If the child died, might that not mean the death of its mother, as well? I could not pray that on anyone…save the count. He deserved the worst of all of hell’s torments.

  When the marquise next cried out, I went to the bedside and smoothed the hair from her brow.

  “I’m so afraid.”

  I could have assured her I was more so. “There’s nothing to fear. All will come right.”

  “What if it’s a girl?”

  May heaven be so kind! “If it’s a girl, then she will be the most beautiful babe in the kingdom.”

  “What if…What if I…if I—?”

  “Hush.” I held a cup to her lips. “There’s too much work yet to be done, and there’s a babe still to be born.”<
br />
  The midwife sent servants to open all the château’s drawers and doors and cupboards, to release the babe from the marquise’s womb. I saw the marquis out in the corridor. The count must have hid himself away somewhere in the depths of the château, for I did not hear or see him.

  As the cock announced the sun’s coming that second day, the marquise’s moans were uttered with new urgency.

  The midwife unfastened the shutters and pulled them open. “Sometimes the sun draws the babes out.” I went quickly to the other window and did the same.

  “I think—I think he’s coming!” The marquise’s voice was a shrill and desperate shriek.

  I went to her and offered up my hand once more.

  Though she pushed and though I prayed, the only thing that seemed to come was blood. I swabbed at her forehead with a linen. She was gripping my other hand so tightly my fingers had gone numb.

  So much blood.

  The marquise cried out, more sharply this time. The midwife helped her to sitting and then took a hand and pulled her toward a stool. There she collapsed, panting, in the midwife’s arms. “It’s coming.” She spoke the words with confidence, as a command, but a hitch in her brow proved no remedy for my anxiety.

  The midwife tried to extract herself from the marquise without success. “My lady!” She gestured me toward the foot of the stool with a sweep of her chin.

  Did I dare to? What if I could not catch him?

  There was no time for hesitation. The marquise gave a wrenching cry as I knelt before her, and the babe dropped into my hands. It was slick as a newborn calf and warm as a chick. Holding it to my side, I hastily bundled it into a cloth.

  The marquise slumped, threatening to fall to the floor.

  “No, my lady. You’ll do better back in bed.” The midwife somehow pulled and pushed the marquise back onto her mattress. And then she turned to me, a single question in her eyes.

  Just how much had she seen while she’d been struggling with the marquise? “It’s a…It’s a girl.”

  The marquise rallied, opening her eyes.

  I went to the bedside and held up the babe. “You’ve birthed a girl child, my lady.”

  “A…girl?”

  “It’s a girl?” The midwife looked at me sharply.

  A tear shimmered at the corner of the marquise’s eye. “After all of that…” Exhaustion seemed to overwhelm her features, but even so, she stretched out her hand toward me.

  I could not let her have the child, so I simply nodded and then took her hand up in my own.

  “What must be done for you? You have helped me so.”

  In my arms, the babe nuzzled at my breast. “Entrust to me the care of your babe as you rest.”

  The marquise grasped the child’s hand in her own for an instant before she succumbed to fatigue. “Take her. Please.”

  But the midwife was already reaching for the child. “I must insist I have it, my lady, to ensure everything is—”

  “No!” It was on my word alone the child’s sex had been declared.

  “I must cut the cord.”

  Clasping the babe to my chest, I moved toward the door. “My lady gave the child to me.”

  “Just let me—”

  “I will do it.” A long-forgotten stubbornness stiffened the line of my jaw even as a queasiness sifted through my stomach.

  The midwife handed me a knife.

  I took it with one hand as I clasped the child to my breast with the other. “What is it—how shall I—?”

  “Really, my lady!” The midwife stalked to the bed, beseeching the marquise.

  “I shall do it. I do not need your help.” I spoke the words with a confidence I did not feel. Placing the child on the marquise’s desk, I unwound the cloth I had fastened about it. The babe was intemperate and squalling, its fists and tiny feet writhing in the air. Across its belly lay a tube, long and waxen. I could hardly bring myself to touch it, let alone cut it. I nearly laughed aloud at the absurdity of it. How could I have ever contemplated killing the child, when I could not even bear to cut its cord? Clamping my teeth together and taking long, deep breaths, I finally accomplished the task and then wrapped the child once more in the cloths.

  “You must clean her, my lady.” The midwife held out a bowl of some grainy mix.

  “That is not how it is done at my estate.” I tried to sound quite certain about it, though I had not the first idea. And the child did have an alarming amount of white curdles stuck to its skin. I nudged the woman away with my elbow as I made for the door with the babe.

  •••

  What did one do with a child? I shoved aside my bed’s hangings with an elbow and placed him on the counterpane. His tiny face furrowed, and he let out a hearty cry.

  Picking him up, I put him to my shoulder and used a kerchief to rub him clean, then wrapped him back in the cloth

  A knock sounded at the door.

  I clasped him to my chest.

  The maid entered, trailing a woman behind her. They both curtsied. “The wet nurse, my lady.” Done with her announcement, the maid left.

  The nurse looked around the room and then strode toward the chair by the fireplace. She sat and proceeded to unlace her stays, pulling down the front of her shift, from which tumbled two enormous breasts. She extended her arms toward me.

  “I can’t—”

  She rose and pulled him from me and then put him to her breast, where he began to suckle.

  The maid soon returned bearing clouts. “For the babe, my lady.” She curtsied once more and left.

  Once the child had finished feeding, the wet nurse returned him to me, laced herself up, and left us, as well. It wasn’t long, however, before the count entered without a knock, pulling the door shut behind him.

  I moved to the front of the bed, leaving the babe safely sleeping behind me.

  He pinned me with a look. “They say it’s a girl.”

  “It’s indeed a girl, my lord.” And may God forgive me for the lie. It was better, in my opinion, than the alternative.

  Looking at me through narrowed eyes, he closed the distance between us. “Let’s have a look, shall we?” He pushed me aside and reached for the child.

  I fell onto the bed, hand splayed toward the child. “Don’t, my lord! You’ll wake it.”

  A cough sounded by the door.

  He spun from the bed.

  I rose. When I saw it was the marquis, I curtsied.

  He nodded. “The marquise says she’s given you charge of the babe.”

  The count went toward his father, all smiles. “Congratulations. In spite of your schemes with Cardinal St. Florent, you find yourself, once again, without a proper heir.”

  The marquis ignored the count and walked toward me. I moved to offer the bundle up to him, but he shook his head and only looked down upon it, smiling sadly into that small, peaceful face. He put out a finger to stroke one of the babe’s plump cheeks. “I suppose one must be thankful for what is. We must not be ungrateful for God’s gifts.”

  “Indeed not.” Triumph rang in the count’s voice.

  The marquis gave the babe a pat on the head and then turned, taking the count with him as he left my chambers.

  Thank God!

  I left the babe on the bed and stood a bit away from him, considering how I should proceed. I always seemed to harm those I loved. But this child’s life depended on me. I had to keep him safe. At least he could not appeal to my affections; that offered him the best chance of protection.

  •••

  In spite of all my best intentions, I fell in love with him at some point between that first day and the third. Between the comings and goings of that chaff-brained, buxom wet nurse. At some time during those long, interminable nights, when the child would co
o away the hours, he wormed his way into my affections. With the babe beside me, I was no longer alone. I had found someone more vulnerable than I.

  Someone who depended upon me completely.

  I could not harm this child. I wouldn’t.

  Indifference became our best protection. The marquise never called for it. The marquis never asked after it. The count never visited.

  ’Twas only the wet nurse I had to be on guard for.

  I was the child’s sole guardian and arbiter. When he came down with a sniffle, it was I who discovered he had managed to kick loose of his cloths. When he began to wail long before it was time for the wet nurse to come, it was I who taught him how to be content with the sucking of my littlest finger.

  The count seemed to have lost all interest in me once the babe was declared a girl. And yet, I could not leave. The child’s life depended upon my presence. If I could keep my secret until the family returned to court, then I could reveal to the marquis the child’s true sex. At court, there would be safety among the crowds of people. The count would not dare to harm the child with an audience in attendance. We just had to survive, he and I, until then.

  Chapter 34

  The Count of Montreau

  Château of Eronville

  The province of Orléanais, France

  In spite of my father’s best-laid plans, I was still his heir. The irony is that for the first seven years of my life, my father did not even realize he had one. Not until the day he walked in on me as I was using a chamber pot.

  “She’s a…a boy!”

  “Of course she’s not.” My mother had taken me by the hand and tried to pull me off down the hall with her.

  But Father had followed. “But she’s a—he’s a boy.” He said it with more certainty that time. And something within me cheered to hear him. He wouldn’t mock the way I walked. He wouldn’t constantly examine my face for signs of “wickedness” or pull the smallest of hairs from my neck. And maybe he wouldn’t keep measuring me and then binding me around the waist.

  “He’s a boy.”

  Mother dropped my hand and whirled on him. “What if she is? You took everything else from me. All I wanted was a girl. A girl who wouldn’t betray me, who wouldn’t hurt me.”