One of the guards whispered to Gravillac. He laughed softly, an ugly, guttural sound, and nodded at the guard, who left the room.
Gravillac glanced at André, who was shaking his head, trying to clear the mists from his eyes.
“Barrault, we have been ungracious hosts,” said Renard softly, and evil glittered behind his hooded eyes. He turned to the soldiers guarding André. “Untie our guest. Give him a cup of wine. The poor fellow looks haggard. But see that he does not get up from his chair!”
André drained the wine cup gratefully, feeling the strength return to his body. He looked uneasily at de Gravillac. Damn the fellow! What was he up to now? Watching Renard sauntering around the room, chatting casually with Barrault, that unfathomable smile upon his face, André wondered if perhaps he did not prefer the raging Gravillac, even with a hot poker in his hands. It might be painful, but he knew at least what to expect of his enemy, and could gauge his own strengths and weaknesses accordingly. He did not like this wondering and waiting.
There was a noise outside the Great Hall. The door burst open and a guard dragged in a struggling Marielle. At sight of her, André started from his chair, his wine cup crashing to the floor, then sank back quickly, feigning unconcern. The movement had not been lost on de Gravillac, however, and his eyes, like the tongue of a snake, flicked hungrily back and forth from André to the girl.
She stood tall and proud, shaking off the guard’s restraining hand, but her eyes cast nervously around the room as though looking for a familiar face, and came to rest with a worried frown upon André.
“Mademoiselle,” said de Gravillac pleasantly, “welcome!” A slow smile spread itself across his handsome features. “You do us honor!”
Marielle viewed him warily. His words were innocent, his manner almost charming, and André seemed at his ease, but she had heard enough about this Marquis de Gravillac in the last weeks to be on her guard.
“Come, Mademoiselle, let me take your cloak.” With deft fingers he untied her mantle and swept it from her shoulders, dropping it gently to the floor. He stepped back, his eyes raking her trim form. She was wearing a snugly fitted jacket that revealed the rounded swell of her breasts, and his eyes rested appreciatively on her young curves. She stirred uneasily under his gaze; there was something so nakedly hungry in his look it gave her a chill, yet she could not name what she saw in those hooded eyes—anger? cruelty? lust? She was glad she had tied the drawstring high on her linen chemise so it peeped out modestly above the neckline of her jacket; nevertheless, she felt almost soiled by his regard.
“Lovely,” he said softly. “I admire your taste, my dear Comte du Crillon.” He lifted a heavy chestnut curl and played with it idly for a moment before resting it on her bosom, where it seemed his hand lingered for just the fraction of a second.
Marielle bit her lip. Her heart was pounding in trepidation, and she looked helplessly to André. He still seemed to loll idly in his chair, but the muscles of his jaw had begun to work, forming a hard line on the handsome contours of his face.
“It is so warm in here, Mademoiselle, after that damp cell. Permit me!” With slow and deliberate fingers, Gravillac began to unfasten the hooks on the front of Marielle’s jacket. She took a step backward, trying to pull away, to avoid those intruding hands, but he pressed toward her again and she felt trapped. When he had undone the last fastening, he began gradually to pull off the jacket, both sleeves at the same time. To do so, he put his arms around her, pinioning her arms behind her back, and holding her very close to his body. She closed her eyes and turned her head away, trying to shrink back from his odious contact. She knew she trembled in fear and loathing, and she cursed the weakness of her woman’s body. Loosing the sleeves, he let the jacket fall to the floor, and stepped back, a malevolent smile playing on his lips.
“Better and better!” His glittering eyes traveled hungrily over her body. The soft linen of her chemise clung to each curve, revealing every contour of her heaving breasts. The room was very still, save for the logs crackling in the grate. A guard coughed nervously. Barrault passed his tongue across his dry lips. Marielle looked desperately to André who sat now far forward, his hands gripping the arms of his chair so tightly that the knuckles gleamed white. Gravillac chuckled softly, maliciously, enjoying the moment, his sense of superiority. Almost without looking at her, his left hand suddenly shot out to Marielle, and with one swift movement he grasped the neckline of her chemise and wrenched it away from her body, tearing the drawstring. The soft folds of fabric fell about her waist, and for one terrible moment she stood frozen, her naked breasts exposed to his lustful eyes. Then with a small cry she wrapped her arms tightly in front of her, trying to shield her body while waves of shame stained her creamy flesh.
There was a terrible choking sound. Panic-stricken, she looked to André. At this last indignity he had bolted from his chair, his eyes murderous, only to be stopped by a pike, held from behind, pressing against his windpipe. The guard increased the pressure on the pike, forcing André back down into his chair, winded and gasping.
“Damn you, Gravillac!” he spat out. “She can tell you nothing!”
“Perhaps not, my friend. But you can, I think!”
Gravillac snapped his fingers and two of the guards seized Marielle, snatching her arms from off her breasts and holding them away from her body. She writhed and twisted, trying to escape their grip, to break free, then cringed in horror as Gravillac turned and slowly removed a red-hot poker from the coals where it had lain.
“It seems a pity to mar such perfection,” he said regretfully.
“Enough,” said André, and his voice was tired, resigned. “There is no need for her to suffer. The King and Richelieu will attack at night.”
“Where?”
“From the woods.”
“They will cross the river?”
“Yes. Above Digne.”
At this, Gravillac looked triumphantly at Barrault. “Their strength?” he asked.
“I do not know.”
“When?”
“I do not know.”
Gravillac brandished the poker menacingly. “I like not your answers!” he burst out. “Will the wench’s screams jog your memory?”
“Confound it, man! My orders were to meet the King’s forces on the west. The time of his arrival, the strength of his forces—that all depended on what he could muster in Italy!”
“But you attacked, you did not wait!”
“The Chevalier was impetuous. I could not prevent him giving the order to his men,” said André in disgust. Even now the thought of it made him sick, lending credence to his words.
Satisfied, de Gravillac turned, placed the poker back into the fire, and waved away the guards who held Marielle.
“You are fortunate, Mademoiselle, to have a lover who prizes you so highly!”
“Villain! Pig!” she hissed, and clutching her cloak to her bosom she ran to throw herself at André’s feet. He lifted her by the elbows and tenderly wrapped the mantle around her soft shoulders, murmuring soothing words. Gravillac had turned away and was once again leaning over his maps, talking heatedly with Barrault. Although the guards watched the doors and there was no escape, within the Hall itself no one seemed concerned with them any longer. André led Marielle to a small bench against the wall where she might recover herself. She leaned against him, feeling still the shame and humiliation, and he winced as her head touched his raw wounds. She gasped, noticing them for the first time. Her eyes widened with pity and guilt, comprehending what his silence had cost him.
“You would have said nothing,” she said, weeping. “But for me, you would not have spoken. Ah, that I had not been here to break your resolve!”
“Softly, my love,” he whispered, placing a gentle finger on her lips. “God willing, they will not guess I lied until after the attack comes.” Relief flooded her face, and she pressed his hand to her mouth, covering it with her kisses.
“Marielle Saint-Juste! Can it
be you? Barrault, what is this girl doing here?”
Marielle looked up in surprise. The Duc de Bonfleur had come into the room, and was eyeing her now with alarm and astonishment. She had not seen him for some months now, and was shocked to see how he had changed. He had been a hearty man, strong and robust; now the ruddy face was lined and worn, with a haunted look about the eyes. She would have pitied him, but she remembered her father, and despised him instead.
“They are prisoners, Bonfleur, that is all,” said Barrault impatiently.
“Nonsense! That is Marielle Saint-Juste! Her father is the doctor! She cannot be a prisoner here. It is absurd. Is it not so, Marielle?”
She looked at him with contempt. “My father is dead. My brother is dead. I do not choose to recognize you!”
His eyes filled with remorse. “Can I do nothing to help, to make amends?”
“When you might have helped my father, you did not. I cannot forgive you for that,” she said with finality.
“These are my prisoners, Bonfleur,” said Gravillac dangerously. “I warn you not to interfere.”
Bonfleur’s shoulders drooped. He turned to go, seeming to age and shrink with every step. André had been eyeing him reflectively, deep in thought. Now he stirred himself.
“Wait! There is a small service you might perform. Bring the priest here, if you will. I should like him to marry us. I trust, Monsieur le Marquis,” he said, turning to Gravillac with a mocking smile, “you can find enough compassion in your heart to allow it!”
“Do you expect to live long enough to enjoy your happy state?” asked Renard coldly. “Very well. It matters little to me.” He turned impatiently back to his maps and charts.
Marielle smiled up at André. Her beautiful face radiated love, wonderment, joy. If he had had doubts before, they were washed away in the glow of her eyes, the tears of happiness that sparkled on her cheeks. He laughed softly, remembering her misgivings of the night before.
“If I am to have you, my lovely virgin, if only in God’s heaven, I think you would come to me more willingly with a ring on your finger!”
He removed a golden circlet, old and worn, from his little finger. Long years of wear had flattened the crest and polished the edges to a luster; Marielle had difficulty discerning the figures engraved thereon, a lion and a hound standing erect, supporting between them a bunch of grapes.
“My father’s,” he said simply. “The hound is for fidelity.” He slipped the ring onto her left hand; she fingered it gently with her right, turning it, admiring it, noting how it fit exactly, as though it had always been meant for her hand.
“I have nothing to give you,” she said wistfully. He laughed at that, filled with wonder and awe. Nothing, he thought, but unspoiled love, a pure heart. Nothing! Mon Dieu! He felt suddenly, achingly, as though he had been searching for her all his life.
The ceremony was brief, hurried. Bonfleur watched the marriage of his old friend’s daughter with a face that spoke of regret, and grief and a weariness with life. At the end, when he turned to lead the priest away, André stopped him, shook his hand, thanked him. He looked pleadingly at Marielle, who touched his arm briefly then turned away. Even in this moment of joy, forgiveness came hard.
The hall was a flurry of activity. Vautier arrived, and Molbert, Gravillac’s lieutenant. Bonfleur, who had been the nobles’ leader, now seemed incapable of making a decision; by tacit consent, Gravillac took charge. It was arranged for a patrol to ride north to Digne and bring word of the King’s arrival. Barrault was dispatched to see to the defenses of the west wall, and deploy the musketeers more efficiently. Vautier, concerned with a sky that now seemed to threaten rain, had gone to gather the scattered gunpowder stores and house them in a small shed that lay up against the southwest corner of the stable. Bonfleur was shunted to the river bank.
“What about those two?” asked Molbert, indicating André and Marielle, who, ignored until now, had been blissfully lost in each other’s eyes. Gravillac shrugged the question impatiently aside, then stopped and turned. He thought again of André’s unflinching gaze—the lack of fear in those clear blue eyes—and hated the man anew.
“Take him to the stable for now,” he said, pointing to André. “When the signal comes from Digne, hang him, and string up his body from the west parapet. I want the King to be greeted by his noble general!”
Marielle gasped in horror and clung to André.
“What about the woman?”
Gravillac smiled cruelly. “Put her in the small prison with the other whores!” André’s face fell. He held Marielle tightly for a moment, drinking in her beauty, as if he would memorize her lovely face forever.
“Before God, André, I swear it!” she whispered. He smiled sadly, longingly.
“I shall wait, ma chère!”
The guards led him out; the door closed on her love, her husband. Marielle turned, sobbing, to de Gravillac. “Let me be with him!” she begged.
“Take her away.” he said, impatient, annoyed.
They seized her, struggling. For a moment, her cloak flew open, revealing her naked breasts. Something flickered behind Gravillac’s eyes.
“Wait!” he said. “On second thought, a bride should have a wedding night. Put her in my quarters!”
They dragged her shrieking, horrified, up a narrow stone staircase and threw her roughly into a small bedchamber, slamming and locking the door behind her. She felt she would surely go mad. It had all been too much! She screamed and pounded on the door, tore at the bed hangings, kicked wildly at the furniture. She threw herself to the floor, buried her face in her hands and sobbed uncontrollably. At last, her frenzy spent, she felt her panic subside. She sat up, wiped her face and tried to think clearly. If Gravillac had not come by now, he surely did not intend to bother her until evening. There was time—to collect her thoughts, to make some kind of plan, to keep a cool head. Time even for the King to arrive, God willing!
She examined her torn chemise. Better not to tempt the animal in every man! It was not badly ripped, only the drawstring would need repair. Her hands were still shaking, but at least it was something to do, to keep busy, to recover her balance. She set about the task as quickly as she might, uneasy at being even temporarily more naked and vulnerable. The mending finished, she dressed rapidly, and set about to explore her prison. It was a small chamber, and like all the others in this ancient fortress, stone-walled and dark. There was only the single oaken door and a small window high up on one wall. Even were the door not bolted, the guards in the corridor and the constant activity outside would make escape impossible. She looked again at the window, and wondered if she might find freedom that way. No. It was too high, too narrow. And no assurance that, once having squeezed through the opening, she would find anything but a sheer drop to the open courtyard below. No. Escape was not the way. A weapon, perhaps? She prowled the room, searching. It was sparsely furnished: the large bed, a massive armoire, a heavy oaken chair. What few personal effects the Marquis de Gravillac had brought to the room were useless for her defense. Even the two bronze torchères were too heavy for her to lift.
She paced the floor, thinking. If she could beguile Gravillac, play the submissive maiden long enough to get out of the room, she could find Bonfleur. He would not countenance the Marquis’ savagery! A feeling almost of serenity came over her at last; André would be proud of her. André! Ah Dieu! Let the King come in time!
There seemed a great deal of noise and tumult from the courtyard. She was aware suddenly that it had been going on for some time; now it grew in volume. Men shouted. There was the crack of a musket, then another. From somewhere far away there came a booming sound. She pulled and tugged at the heavy chair, straining to drag it to the window. By standing on tiptoes and leaning forward on her elbows, she could just look out onto the courtyard. There was much excited activity, shouts, calls, men running in every direction, buckling on swords, priming flintlocks. Across the courtyard and slightly to the right was the stable
where she and André had been, and where now he must be again. She could see clearly the corner of the building where they had spent the night, and knew that he would have returned to that self-same spot. Her heart ached with dismay and longing. She heard the booming sound again, louder and more insistent, and a peculiar whistling noise. It was coming from the right, out of her line of view, from the direction of the river. Cannon! From the east! And de Gravillac and his men poised on the western parapet! She laughed aloud, relief and happiness flooding her being. A cannonball whined through the air, landed in the courtyard, and kicked up a spray of dirt that sent men scurrying for cover. A horse reared up in fright, his rider desperately trying to keep his seat. Another cannon blast. The King’s cannoneers were finding their range. The ball struck the château itself, somewhere below Marielle. A man shouted in pain. The third cannonball whistled through the air and landed squarely on a small shed tucked up against the corner of the stable. There was a terrible explosion. Another. And a third. The whole corner of the stable had vanished. From the gaping opening came tongues of flame, as the mounds of straw were ignited one by one. From within came awful screams, smoke-racked coughing; the whole stable was a mass of flames.
Marielle screamed. “André!! No!!” And then she was falling, falling, down, down, striking her head, and from thence to blessed oblivion.
PART II
The Nightmare
Chapter Five
Louise Deloche navigated her ample girth up the broad oak staircase. Bon Dieu! She was getting too old for all this running and fetching! Puffing, she stopped for breath and, hands on wide hips, scolded the two young pageboys struggling up the steps behind her. Between them, they carried a large tub filled with hot water, which they took great pains to keep in balance.
Marielle Page 5