Now Marielle was in this terrible place, searching for Gervais. If he were dead, would his body ever lie in the churchyard? She steeled herself against the wave of panic that suddenly gripped her. Her eyes swept the room desperately, almost willing him to be there, to still the suspense and dread that threatened to choke her. There! In the far corner! Ah, Dieu! Could that be Gervais? She stumbled over a sleeping peasant and threaded her way past a couple locked in an obscene embrace, straining to see more clearly in the thin morning light. With a cry, she fell to her knees before him, laughing and crying with relief and happiness. He turned his pale face toward her. His eyes, dark and hollow in their sockets, burned into hers. She caught her breath as a cold dread seeped through her body. At her father’s side, she had seen Death often enough to read it now on the face of Gervais.
Her eyes quickly scanned his body. Where his left leg had been was now a mangled stump, barely recognizable as a human foot. She remembered that, before the battle, one of the farmers had told her the troops were hauling large boulders atop the parapet for those soldiers who might come too close to the wall. Gervais would have been one of the bold ones in the front line ready to storm La Forêt, to avenge his father’s death.
Gervais smiled wanly at her and groped for her hand. She tried to manage a cheerful look as she bent to kiss him, but he shook his head.
“We are not fools, Marielle, you and I. I have been lying in this place of death long enough to have made my peace with God, so do not grieve on my account. It is you I worry about. I should have liked to know there was someone to look after you.” He clenched his teeth as a wave of pain swept over him. After a moment, he recovered his breath and laughed softly. “You know, I probably would have made a terrible lawyer!”
The exertion of talking had left him white-faced and shaking. He closed his eyes. Marielle saw great beads of perspiration on his forehead. Lifting the edge of her skirt, she tore a large piece of cloth from her linen petticoat and dabbed gently at his brow. Too late she realized that her action had left her dainty feet and slim ankles uncovered. A heavy hand fell on her shoulders as she struggled to her feet and found herself in the grip of a foul-smelling man who leered at her like an animal with his prey.
“And what have we here?” said he, grinning, as he revealed broken and rotting teeth. “Where have you been hiding, pretty one?” He snatched at the folds of her cloak, trying with anxious fingers to reach her bosom. She wrenched herself away, sobbing with disgust and loathing, and as she did so the hood of her cloak fell back, releasing the luxuriant tresses beneath. The sight of that radiant chestnut glory seemed to fuel his desire, and he lunged toward her, grasping her hair in a cruel grip that drove her to her knees. As he forced her down, she saw Gervais gasping, vainly trying to rise, to help, and she cried out, as much for her brother as for her own pain and fear.
She heard a low, angry growl, and saw her attacker flying across the width of the stable, where he fell in a heap, winded and defeated. A strong hand lifted her to her feet, and she looked up and found herself staring into the bluest pair of eyes she had ever seen. They were like the blue of the sky in April, clear and warm, and they quite took her breath away. She was vaguely aware of a fine strong face, a firm yet sensuous mouth and a week’s growth of beard that glinted like old gold in the morning light. But it was those eyes, warm and overpowering, that held her rooted to the spot by their magic. She felt a jolt in the very core of her being, a distinct physical sensation that made her tingle all over. Gervais, ever the wise older brother, had once spoken of the spark that could pass between a man and a woman…some alchemy that not even their father could explain away, with all his knowledge of the human body and soul. She caught her breath and blushed, wondering if her rescuer had felt the same shock, then forced herself to lower her eyes and turn away. She shook her head impatiently as if to break the spell. It seemed suddenly so foolish, so incongruous a thought in this place of misery and death.
But when he spoke, his voice low and vibrant, she knew with certainty that the thrill of their encounter had not escaped his notice, despite his seeming nonchalance.
“Ah, Mademoiselle,” he said mockingly, “do you have that effect on every man you meet?” And he laughed softly at her discomfiture.
Chapter Two
André had awakened at dawn, as the first thin rays of April sunlight crept through the iron bars high above him. He had been dreaming of Vilmorin. It was a recurring dream from his childhood, one that he had almost forgotten. Strange that it should suddenly come back to him after so many years, and in this desolate place.
He was in the garden of Vilmorin on a lovely summer’s day. He could feel the warmth of the sun, see its rays glancing off the pond. His mother was walking in the garden, in a lavender dress with skirts so wide she seemed almost to be floating, moving through the rosebushes without touching the ground. There seemed to be birds surrounding her, what kind he could never discern, but he knew they were beautiful. He started to walk toward them, but the more he advanced the more they receded, and however much he called out to his mother to wait, he could not seem to lessen the distance between them. Suddenly, one of the birds took flight. He saw now that he had a small bow and arrow in his hands and, aiming carefully, he let fly the arrow. It traveled very slowly through the sky, following a path that almost seemed visible, and leading directly to the bird. But somehow it was no longer a bird, it was his mother. In vain he would recall the arrow, cry out to her, warn her, but it was too late. As the arrow pierced her breast, he perceived that it was once again only a bird, who did not fall, but turned on him a look of infinite sweetness. He tried to stretch out his arms, to reach her, but he saw that where his arms should be, there was nothing, only flapping empty sleeves.
He awoke, as always, with a sense of ineffable sadness.
From where he lay on the dirt floor, cushioned by a small mound of hay, he could just catch a brief glimpse of blue sky through the high window. It was a sky that seemed to presage spring, and he thought with longing of his château on the Loire. In a few weeks the fruit trees would be a riot of blossoms, filling the air with scented drifts of pink and white. In all his years of travel, of wars in the service of his King, he had never felt such a yearning for home and peace. He was tired of war, tired of the waste of good men, resentful of all the Vilmorin springtimes he had missed. He laughed ruefully to himself and wondered if he were growing old. What nonsense! As though a man of thirty-one were ready to sit back in slippers and pantaloons and watch spring drift past his door! Still…and he gazed up at the spot of blue and let his thoughts wander once more.
There had been spring in the air three weeks ago, when he and the Chevalier du Trémont led their men out of Paris. At first, he was aware only of gentle, almost indefinable changes—the smell of the earth thawing after the winter, the reddish, almost imperceptible haze that seemed to hang in the trees. But as they moved further south, the rosy haze became a misty green and then the first tentative leaves appeared. André led his men slowly, deliberately; despite the Chevalier’s impatience (young fool!), there was no great hurry. The secret dispatches he had received in Paris told him that the King and Richelieu were just concluding their Italian campaign, and would be moving their forces westward toward La Forêt. André had to admire the tactics of Bonfleur and the rest. La Forêt was the largest and best-fortified stronghold in the district; by combining their forces in the one spot, they presented the King with a unified and formidable opponent. But Richelieu was no fool either. He knew that Bonfleur and the others would expect the Royal forces to come from Italy, but they might not count on a separate force from the west. Nor could Bonfleur know that the Royal army intended to strike from the river side, with the cannon they had confiscated in Italy. Thus, with André’s forces attacking from the woods, La Forêt would be caught between the jaws of the two armies.
So they rode into spring, André and the Chevalier du Trémont. The Chevalier was the darling of Paris and the salons,
having recently married the King’s second cousin. At the King’s urging, Richelieu had grudgingly included the Chevalier’s forces in the plans for the battle, trusting André’s cooler head and wisdom to keep the headstrong young man in check. This decision produced unexpected and somewhat disquieting results that Richelieu could not have anticipated. The Chevalier proved to be like a magnet, for every young blade in Paris was anxious to show his mettle by fighting under the banner of the reigning court favorite. As a result, André found himself in the peculiar position of commanding an army the larger portion of which owed its loyalty to his second-in-command.
André had watched them with some uneasiness as the march progressed. They were all so young, so untried, so green in the ways of war. They laughed and joked as though they were off to Versailles for a picnic, and when they spoke of the battle at all, it was to brag about the honors they would win, the glory of returning to Paris as heroes. They chafed with impatience at the slow pace of the march; they were restless and anxious to attack. As they approached La Forêt, they were met by some four score townsmen, loyalists to the King, ready to fight on his behalf. Armed with little more than pikes, pitchforks and eagerness, and bound only by their hatred of Bonfleur, they had seemed to André to be a rather meager addition to his forces. But to the Chevalier and his friends, already buoyed by their own enthusiasm, the arrival of the townsmen had seemed to be a sign from God that whipped their fervor into a state of almost uncontrollable excitement.
“Damn fools!” muttered André to himself, then started as the clang of the cell door woke him from his reverie. What poor devil had got himself locked up now? Or were the guards just removing another corpse? He looked around at the sick and wounded; they seemed to fill every corner of this foul place. Burdened by guilt and remorse, he pressed his hands tightly against his eyes, blocking out the sight, wishing he could still the sounds of pain and misery.
Damn the Chevalier! “For France and glory!” And before André could give the order, could bid them wait for a sign that Richelieu was near, the Chevalier had led his men to the attack and André, knowing that his force alone would be too small, had been compelled to give the signal to his own troops.
Now he groaned and held his head. He did not like to think of the carnage that followed, nor of all the good and true men he had lost because of the Chevalier’s stupidity. He knew only that had he not seen the Chevalier with a musketball in his breast, he himself would have run him through. Even now, five days later (and Richelieu still not in sight!), André was filled with an anger, a rage at the waste of good men that made him feel murderous.
Lost in his fury, he was suddenly aware of the sounds of struggle nearby. Glancing up, he saw a filthy oaf attacking one of the women. A harlot, probably. Still, there was something in the way he clutched at her, twisted her hair, wringing a cry of pain from her lips, that pierced even his black mood, and touched some chord of chivalry deep within him. In two strides he reached them, picked the man up by the shoulders and hurled him against the nearest wall, feeling a satisfaction that drained all the bitterness and anger from his soul.
Stooping, he helped the woman to her feet. Surely he had been mistaken. This was no streetwalker. His gaze took in the proud set of her chin (though her lovely lips still trembled), the honest intelligence of her hazy green eyes, the blush of shame that stained her porcelain cheeks. Mon Dieu! What was this exquisite creature doing in a place like this? He felt foolish, flustered at her presence, at a loss for something to say. Well, he’d be damned if he’d let the wench know she had so shaken his composure!
He smiled mockingly, made a frivolous remark and watched the blush color her face again.
André regretted his flippancy almost at once. Marielle, her eyes filled with concern, had already knelt again at her brother’s side and was tenderly stroking his forehead.
“Mademoiselle,” he said sincerely, kneeling to face her across Gervais’ body, “is there anything I can do to help?”
She glanced at her erstwhile attacker and shuddered, then looked up at André and smiled gently.
“It would seem that you already have, Monsieur, and I thank you for that.” She looked down at Gervais, who had fallen into a fitful sleep. When she looked again at André, she held her brave smile by the strength of will alone, but her lovely eyes misted with pain and tears.
“And then, if you are a religious man, Monsieur, you might say a prayer for my brother,” she said softly.
Looking more carefully at Gervais, André recognized one of the Royalists who had come out from La Forêt to join his forces. Poor devils! How their hearts must have swelled to see him approaching with the banners of the King. They had come to join him in glorious battle; he had led them to slaughter and destruction.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and felt the inadequacy of the words. “But surely le Bon Dieu will see your brother through this crisis.”
“Pray do not mock me,” she said impatiently. “You are a soldier, Monsieur? You have eyes? You have a nose? Then do not speak to me as though I were a fool!”
It was true, of course. The sickly stench alone indicated the extent of the gangrene, and the lad’s deathly pallor told the rest of the tale.
“Forgive me,” André murmured. “I meant only to spare you. A gentle maiden such as yourself should not have to see these things.”
“Ah, my fine soldier,” laughed Marielle sadly, “I have probably seen more ‘things’ in my lifetime than you have in all your years of soldiering. My father was the finest doctor that La Forêt has ever seen. I’ll wager that Bonfleur and his men miss his services now—may their wounds rot and fester!” she concluded bitterly.
“Your father is dead?” he questioned.
“They killed him,” she replied simply, “if you can kill a man by breaking his heart.”
He looked at her with sympathy. He was struck by her honesty, her directness, the innocence of a child who speaks truth because it would not occur to her to dissemble. He thought of the ladies of the court who painted their faces, but covered their hearts and souls with far more than rouge. Useless, tiresome women in artificial settings! It seemed as though spring had come into the gloomy cell with this lovely creature.
“What is your name?” he asked suddenly.
“Marielle Saint-Juste,” she answered.
“A fitting name,” he laughed. “I have no doubt you are just. As for the sainted part…if God will allow a chestnut brown halo…well…” He gently fingered a shining curl that lay on her shoulder.
She blushed and turned back to Gervais. If only the man did not look at her with those eyes that made her head spin! He watched her now as she tenderly placed Gervais’ head on her lap, trying to make him more comfortable, to soothe him back into sleep.
He smiled gently at her bent head. “Well, Mademoiselle Marielle, the doctor’s daughter, tell me about your father.”
She looked at him gratefully, glad for the distraction. It was easier, somehow, to watch the life draining out of Gervais if a part of her brain could be elsewhere, reliving again the good times at La Forêt. She told him of her father, proud and strong, stubborn and arrogant with fools, gentle and warm with the little people who needed him. She spoke of her mother’s sweetness, of her brother’s zest for living, of her own happy days at La Forêt. It was so easy to talk to him, and as she spoke she felt the pain and grief of the last few months, that had sat like a block of ice in her heart, melt away under his warm and sympathetic gaze. She had almost forgotten where she was, when Gervais began to tremble violently.
“Ah, Dieu! Marielle!” he cried. “It is so cold in here, so cold!” He stretched out his arms to her, shivering. She untied her warm cloak and, with André’s help, wrapped it around the shaking body of her brother and held him as tightly as she could, trying to still his quivering.
He smiled up at her. “Ah, Marielle,” he murmured, “next time I come for vacation, I will bring my friend Claude to meet you. What say you to that?” Hi
s dark eyes, as she stared into them, were like two glassy pools, deep and far-away and lost. She stifled a sob.
“That will be fine, Gervais,” she said, trying to control her voice.
“Do you remember the butterfly we caught?” He smiled at her and, with a look of childish wonder on his face, gave up his life.
Marielle looked up at André, her eyes blank and uncomprehending. She gently laid her brother’s head onto the ground, then rose unsteadily, her face working to keep its composure.
“It was a yellow butterfly,” she said shakily. “Gervais said we were catching a sunbeam.”
Her brave smile collapsed at the same time her knees gave way. But for André’s strong arms, she would have fallen.
Chapter Three
For a moment, waking, Marielle could not remember where she was. She felt strangely drained, empty, neither happy nor sad, only peaceful. Then the remembrance of the morning flooded back upon her, and she closed her eyes, wishing she could sleep again and blot out what had happened.
Marielle Page 2