Marielle

by Sylvia Halliday

  Reluctantly, she opened her eyes again to find the handsome stranger peering down upon her, his blue eyes filled with concern. Strange! He was the only friend she had in this desolate place, and she did not even know his name! But for him, she could not have survived the morning; she would have gone mad with grief. She had clung to him, sobbing out her pain and misery, shedding tears she had not let herself shed before, not even for her father. He had pressed her tightly in his arms, trying to give her his own strength and stroked her hair, murmuring what words of comfort he could. When at last her tears had abated, he had gently urged her to rest, to sleep. She vaguely remembered him covering her with her cloak as she drifted gratefully into oblivious sleep. The cloak reminded her now of Gervais. Gervais! She sat up suddenly, wildly looking around. Gervais! Where was he?

  As if divining her thoughts, the stranger placed a comforting hand upon her shoulder.

  “Be at peace, Mademoiselle,” he said reassuringly. “The soldiers took his body out for burial. There is a priest who will say the words over him, you may be assured of that.”

  “But I would bury him myself!” she cried, pushing aside his restraining hand.

  “In this prison?” he said. “Think, Mademoiselle. How long might it be until we are released or rescued?”

  “Ah!” she cried, and jumped to her feet impatiently. “I am not a prisoner here! Jacques the old jailer let me come in to search for Gervais!” Her eyes flew suddenly to the windows. How long the shadows seemed!

  “Ah, Dieu!” she cried. “What time is it?”

  “’Tis well into the afternoon,” he answered, mystified by her behavior.

  “Oh!” she cried in dismay. “Are you sure? Then I must wait until nightfall when Jacques returns to release me! Only he knows that I am here.” She cast her eyes wildly about, filled with apprehension and dread. “What shall I do?”

  “There is nothing to do but wait,” he said, trying to ease her fears. He took her gently by the hand and, leading her to a quiet corner, urged her to seat herself. His calm concern stilled her uneasiness, and she sat down. After all, she could endure this place until dark.

  “You have eaten nothing all day,” he said, producing a small piece of bread. “It is not much,” he admitted ruefully, “but my lord Bonfleur’s hospitality is not noted for its generosity. Nor is his wine the best vintage,” he laughed, indicating the small water trough that served the prisoners’ needs. “But what do they know about grapes in the Languedoc?” he said with contempt.

  Finding herself surprisingly hungry, Marielle had been busily eating the bread as he spoke, but now, hearing an odd note in his voice, she stopped and looked up quickly. His face was wistful, with a faraway sadness in those blue eyes. Without quite realizing what prompted her words, she spoke.

  “And where are your vineyards, Monsieur?” she asked gently.

  André looked at her in surprise. Again that directness, that honesty which seemed to cut through his defenses, to see into the depths of his heart, to hear the longing in his voice.

  “The Loire valley,” he said. “The greenest paradise in all of France.”

  “And the land is owned by…who?” she prompted.

  “Forgive me, Mademoiselle Marielle. I have quite forgotten my manners!” He bowed his head to her in courtly fashion. “The land is owned by myself, André, Comte du Crillon, master of Vilmorin, and your obedient servant.”

  “Ah! I should oblige you with a curtsy, my lord,” said Marielle with a wicked gleam in her eyes, “but at the moment this crust of bread seems to have more nobility than you do!”

  “As to that, Mademoiselle,” said André with a pained expression, as he attempted to smooth his stained and ragged doublet, “I fear I have misplaced my manservant!”

  Marielle laughed at that, her voice a silvery bell. André looked at her lovely face, hungrily drinking in her delicate beauty. She grew uncomfortable under his steady gaze, and turned away shyly.

  “Tell me about Vilmorin,” she said simply.

  They sat side by side on the rude earth floor, while André told her of the gentle hills, the verdant valleys, the grapes that hung heavy on the vine, filling the air with their rich, sweet scent. As he spoke, he kept his eyes fixed on the patch of blue that gleamed beyond the window, as though the sight of that bright sky brought him closer to Vilmorin. Marielle was grateful for the chance to watch him unobserved. She noted the tawny gold of his hair that fell almost to his shoulders in the current fashion, the burnished copper of his skin that bespoke the soldier’s life he led. When they had stood together, she had seen that he was tall—taller even than her father. Now she noticed the breadth of his shoulders, so strong and wide that they might fairly burst from his doublet. His hands looked powerful, sinewy, long-fingered—the hands of a soldier with the soul of a poet. It was clear from his manner that he was well-bred and educated, yet when he spoke of his vineyards it was with the earthy delight in the land that one might expect from a farmer. Watching him, she smiled, grateful for these few hours they had to share. To touch someone’s soul, to weld a bond with another heart, however brief the time…these things would feed her spirit, no matter how lonely the years ahead, the grief at her loss.

  He had stopped speaking, and was watching her in his turn. He held her for a long moment with his eyes, those blue pools that might drown the unwary.

  “Did Gervais ever bring his friend home?” he asked suddenly.

  She smiled softly, remembering. “Yes, he brought Claude, and a few of the other law students.”

  “Students!” he scoffed. “He should have brought kings and princes to pay court to you!”

  “That is all very well for you, Monsieur le Comte,” she said ruefully. “Perhaps someday when you have daughters you will bring royalty to meet them, but a doctor’s daughter comes with a meager dowry, and a lawyer is a good catch.”

  “The man who would win you would have dowry enough,” he said earnestly. “He would be a fool to ask for more.”

  She turned crimson at his words.

  “You are lovely when you blush. No, do not turn away,” he said, cupping his hand under her chin and turning her face back to him. “You should not feel ashamed. The women of Paris have forgotten how to blush…it is their loss.”

  “I must seem a country fool, after the women of the court you have known,” she said.

  “They suffer from the comparison, I assure you, my sweet Marielle,” he said, and launched into a description of the more eccentric court ladies and their foibles that had Marielle laughing gaily. He seemed determined to keep their conversation light, trusting in the healing power of laughter to ease her sorrows. Marielle was grateful for his concern, although, for a brief moment, she wondered if he were using humor to hold her at arm’s length, to deny the bond she felt.

  Only once in the long afternoon did a cloud pass over his face. He had been speaking of Vilmorin, when she suddenly interrupted him.

  “Are you alone there? No wife, brothers, sisters? Do your parents yet live?” she asked.

  “My sister is married and lives in Strasbourg. My parents are dead.” He bit off the words with such finality, his brow darkening, that she dared not question further, but quickly changed the subject.

  Evening came quickly. They seemed lost on an island in time, preoccupied with one another, oblivious to their surroundings. The men who recognized André as their commander respected his privacy and left them in peace. When the guards brought in the evening meal, André fetched two portions, bread, a few meager turnips, and they ate in silence, filled with a sense of loss at the coming of the night.

  “What will happen to you?” asked Marielle suddenly.

  “Richelieu will arrive and we shall be saved,” he replied.

  “And if he does not?” she persisted.

  “Why then, I fear me I shall die of a surfeit of turnips!” he laughed. “And you,” he said, suddenly serious. “What will you do when you leave here?”

  “Le Bon Di
eu only knows,” she replied wearily. “These last few weeks have been like a nightmare. I have no home, no family, no place to go but a rude hut by the river.”

  “You have a friend in me, Marielle,” he said warmly. “When this is all over I shall seek you out in your hut. Surely I will be able to be of some service to you.” He stood up, and helped her to her feet. Suddenly, he put both his hands on her dainty waist and whirled her around until her feet barely touched the floor.

  “I shall take you to Paris,” he whooped, “and dance you through the Louvre Palace to the delight of the men and the envy of the women!” Abruptly, he stopped turning and put her down, his face darkening. “Come,” he said gruffly, “Jacques must be here by now.”

  “Wait…André,” she said haltingly. It was the first time she had used his name. “May I…kiss my friend good-bye?”

  His eyes, clouded now like a stormy sea, were unreadable as they searched her face, but he inclined his head slightly to her kiss. She reached up gently with her hand, lightly touching his bearded cheek, and, standing on tiptoe, she softly pressed her lips to his. “Adieu, mon ami,” she whispered, and turned to go.

  She felt herself caught, swept into the circle of those strong arms, pressed against his lean, hard body. He bent his head and covered her mouth hungrily with his own, pressing, insistent, until she felt she would surely swoon. No one had ever kissed her like that before, and she pushed him gently away from her, unsteady on her feet and a little frightened at her own reaction. He was smiling down at her, and his eyes were clear and untroubled now, as though the kiss had answered some unasked question.

  “Not adieu, Marielle,” he corrected gently. “Au revoir, ma chère.”

  He took her tenderly by the hand and led her back through the prison to the barred door. Although the guards had lit a few torches high up on the walls, it was darker here away from the windows, and they had to walk carefully to avoid the other prisoners. When they reached the heavy oaken door, André peered through the barred opening to the gloom beyond.

  “You there,” he called.

  A grizzled face appeared out of the darkness. “What do you want?” said the guard. “Things not fancy enough for you in there?”

  “Where is Jacques, the old man who was here this morning?”

  “What do you want him for?” asked the guard suspiciously. “Come on, speak up! Or should I call the Captain of the Guard?” he added, as André said nothing.

  André looked apologetically at Marielle. “He…promised to get me another woman, and I grow impatient!” he said with a swagger. “Mayhap the other cell has better pickings!”

  “Well, now,” said grizzle-face craftily. “Perhaps it can be managed without him!” And he rubbed his hands together greedily.

  “Ah, alas, my good man! I have given my last two sous to Jacques on account, and unless he appears tonight, I fear I must resign myself to this ugly wench!” Saying this, André quickly tugged at the hood of Marielle’s cloak, pulling it well down over her face.

  “So be it!” said the guard. “For Jacques will not be here tonight.”

  Marielle uttered a cry of dismay which André quickly smothered, pulling her toward him and clapping his hand over her mouth.

  “And wherefore not?” he said with a nonchalance he did not feel.

  “They have set him to watch the small dungeon tonight. The regular guard took sick.”

  “And when does he return here?” asked André, trying not to see the terror in Marielle’s eyes.

  “Tomorrow at noon,” came the reply. “But if you’re looking for someone to relieve you of the wench for tonight…” He peered in through the bars, interested suddenly in the cloaked figure André held.

  “You wouldn’t like her. She bites,” said André, moving away as quickly as he could, and leading Marielle back to their sheltered spot at the far corner of the cell.

  She turned to him, her eyes wide with fear.

  “André!” she cried, and her voice was shaking. “I am afraid! What if Jacques does not come back? Shall I be trapped here? Ah, it’s too much, too much!” she sobbed, sinking to her knees.

  He knelt beside her and took her roughly by the shoulders.

  “Listen to me, Marielle Saint-Juste!” he said firmly. “It took courage for you to come to this prison! I cannot believe you have suddenly lost your courage because of a few hours’ delay! Jacques will return, and if not? What harm? We shall spend a few days together and be rescued when the King’s army arrives.”

  Reassured by his words, Marielle gulped and smiled up at him. He gently wiped away her tears and kissed her tenderly on the cheek.

  “And will we dine together on turnips, Monsieur le Comte?” she asked, her good spirits returning.

  “Elegantly, Mademoiselle!” he replied with a laugh. “Come, sleep,” he encouraged, suddenly serious. “The day has been so long and terrible for you. There is healing in sleep.” He sat down with his back against a stone pillar, and put his arms around her, drawing her to him. She leaned her head against his chest and felt herself encircled by his comforting arms. She could hear the muffled beat of his heart with its soothing rhythm, feel the warmth of his body next to hers. And so, with a small sigh of contentment, she closed her eyes and slept.

  She awoke with the moon shining in her face. She was still in André’s arms, but had shifted her body as she slept, and now lay cradled in his arms, her face looking up into his. His face was in shadow, and she could not at first tell if he were asleep, and so she lay very still, hearing the soft sound of his breathing. Around her were the small noises of the other prisoners—a soft moan, one who cried aloud in his sleep, restless stirrings here and there. The moon was very bright, and it silvered the sleeping bodies it touched, but otherwise the cell was in darkness, the torches having burnt out hours since.

  Suddenly, he spoke, his voice low and thrilling, and she felt her heart leap.

  “I have been watching you sleep,” he said, his voice husky with tenderness, “and wondering how a man can lose his heart so quickly.”

  She caught her breath, feeling giddy with happiness. She had known almost from the first moment that she loved him, though she had tried to deny it to herself. Once Gervais had tried to describe it, what it was like to be in love, and had contented himself finally by saying that she would simply know it when it happened. He had been right; she loved, and it was foolish to deny it. And now this man, this man that she hardly knew and yet had somehow known all her life, was giving her his heart in return! She felt as though her own heart would burst with the joy and wonder of it.

  “And did my face give you answers?” she asked softly.

  “Your face gave me pleasure,” he said. “Why should I need answers?”

  He bent low and gently kissed her eyelids, her delicate chin, her earlobes. His soft lips tenderly explored every inch of her face, sending waves of feeling rippling through her body. She felt herself tremble with sensations that were new to her, thrilling, yet frightening too, because they filled her with emotions she could hardly control. Fiercely she threw her arms around his neck and pulled his mouth down to hers, abandoning herself to his kisses. With an effort he reached up, pulled her arms away from his neck and held her at a distance.

  “Nom de Dieu, my girl,” he said hoarsely. “Do you know what you do to a man? Do they not teach you country girls not to throw yourself at a man?”

  She drew back, hurt. “Don’t you want to kiss me?” she asked softly. She moved out of his arms and turned away.

  He laughed unsteadily. “As to that,” he said, “I think I can cope with kissing you; it’s when you decide to kiss me back that I begin to feel uneasy!” And he laughed again.

  She looked at him, a puzzled frown upon her face.

  “Ma chère!” he cried, sweeping her suddenly back into his arms. “You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you? Love is so innocent for you. I kiss you, you kiss me back. It is as simple as that to you, n’est-ce pas? It would not
occur to you to be coy or difficult. Mon Dieu! I did not think women like you existed anymore.”

  “Are you sorry?” she asked softly.

  “Sorry? Ha! When we get out of here, ma chère, I will stand with you on the highest hill above La Forêt and shout till they hear me in Toulouse that I love the most adorable woman in the world. What do you think of that?”

  “I think,” she said timidly, “that I should very much like you to kiss me now, if you could manage it.”

  He kissed her then, gently, tenderly, a kiss of such sweetness that she thought her heart must surely burst with the love she felt for him.

  Then, like a father putting his beloved child to bed, he smoothed the straw on the floor and put her gently down, draping her with her cloak and tucking it around her chin. He knelt and kissed her softly on the forehead, then lay down beside her, covering her protectively with his arm. She nestled close to him, feeling safe, shielded from the world outside.

  “Good night, my love,” he murmured softly.

  When she woke again, the moon had set, and the large cell was very dark and still. André had turned away as he slept, and now lay with his back toward her. Dear André! She thought of his kisses in the moonlight, reliving every tender word and gesture, pondering the things he had said.

  It had been so bewildering, knowing there was something she had been expected to understand, and being treated like a child because she didn’t. Mon Dieu! She almost said the words aloud as a sudden thought struck her. Could that have been what he meant? She felt her face flush with embarrassment. No wonder he had laughed and called her innocent! In her sheltered world, there was love and there was the desire of the flesh, and until this moment it had not occurred to her that one had anything to do with the other. Love was a pure and noble emotion that filled the heart with rapture; it was courtly and kind. She had read about it often enough, and watched her parents’ gentleness toward one another. Sleeping with a man—that was for marriage, for babies, even for the traffic of the streets, but not for a maiden—and surely not for pleasure! The fact that André loved her she found quite natural and acceptable. But that her kisses could excite his desire, that he could want her body in a lustful way—she scarcely could believe that was part of the same love. What a naive innocent she was indeed! How little she knew or understood of men! The young students who had come to call, who had courted her and kissed her, had treated her with awe and respect. She knew from Gervais that they sometimes visited certain sections of town—and certain women—but it was not her concern. They were responding to uncontrollable urges, to something base in their natures—it was natural and understandable, if unseemly, but it had nothing to do with her relationships with the young men. As for herself, although she had found their kisses pleasant enough, they certainly had not excited her. Now, remembering how she had thrilled to André’s kisses, she suddenly wondered if a woman were capable of feeling the same desires as a man. She had never had such thoughts before—she found them strange and disquieting, yet oddly exciting. She sighed deeply. How much she had to learn!