Marielle

by Sylvia Halliday

  “Pierre! Georges! Come along! Do you think I have all night? And if you spill one drop, just one, I’ll box your ears!” She hitched up her homespun skirt, shifted the bulky armload of clothing she was carrying and continued on up the stairs. Outside the windows, the heavy rain still beat down, and the drafty staircase was cold and damp. She shook her head. Who would think it was nearly May? And what a night for the master to come home! Pounding on the door in the dead of night, drenched to the skin! The horse foaming and exhausted—Mon Dieu!—he must have ridden straight through from La Forêt. Thrusting that sodden little waif in her direction—“Take care of her!”—and storming into the great hall to stand by the fireplace and shout for wine. Well, she wasn’t about to ask him what had happened. Best to leave him alone. Let Molbert handle him, if he ever showed up, Devil take him!

  She pushed open the door to the large bedchamber. The poor creature was still sitting where she had placed her, on a little stool in front of the blazing fire. The tray of food in front of her was untouched. Louise showed the boys where she wanted the tub, then sent them, yawning, back to bed. She put down her bundle and turned her attention to the girl.

  She was young, no more than nineteen, the same age as her own daughter Adèle had been. But where Adèle had been small and dark, this one was tall, slender, fair, with hair the color of ripened chestnuts, rich and burnished. She was pretty, that was clear, even with her hair hanging damp and matted about her face. Poor little thing! She looked exhausted, numb, shivering still from that long cold ride. A hot bath, a good meal, a night’s sleep—that would put her to rights. Louise fussed about, stripping off the wet chemise, the mud-stained skirt, the heavy country shoes. The girl neither helped nor resisted; she seemed bewildered, lost on some distant shore. Strange. She reminded Louise so much of Adèle. Which was absurd! But perhaps it was the sadness about the eyes, the vulnerability, that made Louise’s heart ache. She felt needed, motherly, the way she had not felt for these two years. Not since she had buried her dear Adèle, the stillborn baby at her side. She eased the girl, uncomplaining, into the hot tub, happy to see her trembling stilled at last. How strange this one was! The master had brought more than one pretty creature to stay at Quiot: bright, gay ladies of the Court; tempestuous, dark-eyed vixens from the south; even a country maid or two. This one had the clothes of a provincial but the proud bearing of royalty. Lost as she was in some faraway world, she yet thanked Louise for every kindness, murmuring her gratitude in a soft and cultured voice. The bath over, Louise dressed her in the warm nightdress she had brought, fed her a few mouthfuls of soup, and led her gently to the large bed. The poor child was asleep before Louise had finished smoothing the coverlet.

  It was night again before Marielle awoke. She struggled up from the layers of mist that surrounded her, trying to clear her head, to remember. It had all been a dream, of course. She could think about it—Gervais, André, the burning stable—but it was a dream. She could picture it all, vague and distorted like a dream, but it did not touch her, it was not real. She could remember it all dispassionately, the images flickering behind her closed eyelids, her heart unmoved.

  That dreadful ride in the rain—hours and hours—balanced precariously behind de Gravillac, her hands clutched tightly to his wide sash. He rode like a madman, never slowing his pace, even as the mountains rose before them and the horse threaded its way through narrow, stone-strewn paths, slippery with the rain. She dared not nod, dared not sleep lest, falling from the horse, she tumble into a rocky gorge or slip under those flying hooves.

  La Forêt—waking in a sheltered corner of the courtyard with Gravillac saddling his horse, arguing with Molbert, his voice filled with fury. All around them was death, destruction, smoking ruins.

  “Damn them all, Molbert! What care I for the rest? Shall I wait with Barrault for Louis to enter in triumph? Shall I kneel in the dust with Vautier and beg the King’s mercy? Bah! I’m for Quiot! If the King wants me, let him seek me there! I expect you to bring the troops back as soon as you can.” He looked at the devastation around him, his face purple with rage, and pounded his fist against the stone wall. “Curse André du Crillon! Let him rot in hell! I should never have believed him!” His eyes took in the gutted stable, then swept Marielle, and he laughed bitterly. “At least I shall have some revenge, if only on his specter in hell!”

  Bonfleur appeared, his face smudged with soot, weary-footed, distracted. He watched Gravillac mount his horse, then, divining his intention, ran at horse and rider with a strangled curse. Gravillac turned and, with his booted foot, kicked savagely at Bonfleur’s head, again and again, until the old man fell and lay groaning in the dust, blood running down his face.

  Then Molbert had picked up Marielle, kicking and struggling, put her up on the horse behind Gravillac and the wild ride had begun.

  No. It was not real, not any of it.

  This was real—this cozy room, fire singing in the hearth, the bed larger and softer and far grander than anything she had ever seen before. She ran her hands along the fine sheets. They were smooth and cool and smelled of lavender. Gravillac must be very rich. Gravillac. He was real. She thought of the way he had looked at her, at La Forêt, and a sense of uneasiness began to creep through her. No! Best not to think of yesterday or tomorrow. She swung her legs quickly out of bed and padded, barefoot, around the room, forcing herself to concentrate only on her surroundings.

  There was a soft knock on the door and a robust woman entered, carrying a small tray with food. Marielle recognized her as the woman who had tended her the night before.

  “Good!” she exclaimed, nodding her head to Marielle and putting down her tray. “You’re awake! Come, eat! ’Tis best you stay here in your room.” She shook her head. “He’s in a rage, he is! Molbert rode in from La Forêt. The cause is lost. Vautier is dead. Bonfleur has lost his wits. The fortress has been leveled to the ground. And him,” here she thrust with her chin toward the closed door as if to indicate the absent Gravillac, “and the rest of the nobles, banished from Paris and the Court for five years. Exiled! And his pension cut too. A hundred-thousand livres he must give back! And God knows how many men will drag back here to work the land.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Well, I cannot say I’m sorry for him—it was a wild scheme; he wanted too much power. Even when he was a child…” Her face darkened with some unpleasant memory, then she shook off the mood. “Well,” she said with a sigh, “my family has always served the de Gravillacs and I expect to die here at Quiot.”

  At Louise’s insistence, Marielle managed to swallow a few mouthfuls of food, but the talk of La Forêt had stirred up some uneasy current deep within her, and she had no appetite. Without warning, the door burst open and Renard de Gravillac strode into the room. He had removed his doublet and riding boots, and was clad now only in soft shoes and breeches, his linen shirt hanging open carelessly. His hand held a cup of wine. His languid eyes traveled the length of her body, then slowly back again to her face. She confronted him proudly, her chin held high, but a small pulse of fear had begun to throb in her temples.

  He jerked his head in Louise’s direction. “Leave us!” he barked, but his eyes never left Marielle’s face. She tried desperately to read his look, to guess his intentions, but his eyes were unfathomable. Anger? Would he kill her out of bitterness, frustration? He was drunk, that was apparent. Surely not rape! Dear God, not rape! He was a gentleman, a nobleman, raised on chivalry—it was unthinkable!

  The door closed behind Louise. They were alone. He smiled and bowed unsteadily. “Madame la Comtesse!”

  She frowned. Why did he call her that? Ah yes. She felt the ring on her hand, remembering. André. The priest. A small finger of panic scratched at her insides. She shook her head, willing the images to vanish. That was just part of the dream…wasn’t it? Wasn’t it?

  “I’m sorry Louise did not bring you some wine,” he said suavely. “I should send for more, but it takes her so long to climb the stairs. You must have some of m
ine.” He crossed the room and stood before her, proffering the cup. She thought at first to refuse, but something in his glittering eyes made her suddenly unwilling to cross him. Besides, it would give her time to think. She drank slowly, holding the cup in both hands, arms pressed protectively against her bosom. Stupid. She had hardly eaten for three days, and the wine burnt her insides and made her feel dizzy.

  “Madame, I grow impatient,” he said, his voice smooth, silky. A slow smile lit his handsome features, but his body was a coiled spring. He pulled the cup away from her, flinging it aside, then lifted her hands to his lips, turning her palms upward and pressing soft kisses into her flesh. His eyes were dark and smoldering as he drew her closer to him. She loathed him. She wrenched her hands from his grasp, backing away, shaking her head.

  “Please,” she said, her voice low, “I beg you. Do not make me hate you.”

  He laughed softly. “Even the vanquished deserve rewards after the battle. Besides, my trembling pigeon, I can make you forget your hatred; I can play you like a lute and make you sing. A body like yours begs to be loved!”

  Inexorably he advanced, his eyes filled with desire, his body tense and rigid. She felt sick. The wine burned in her belly and panic clutched at her throat. She stepped back, back, her nerves taut, until her shoulders touched the large armoire and there was nowhere left to retreat. Smiling, triumphant, he stretched out his hands and placed them firmly on her full, ripe breasts. She shuddered, feeling his hands through the soft fabric, fondling, caressing. No! By le Bon Dieu, he would not dare! Her anger boiled up within her, driving out the fear. She pushed him away with all her strength, and swung her hand in a great arc across his face. André’s ring left a fiery welt on his cheek.

  “I belong to André!” she shrilled.

  The coiled spring snapped. He slapped her face, once, twice, anger contorting his handsome visage. She twisted away, eluding his grasp, and headed for the door. She was halfway across the room when he lunged, catching her by the arm and dragging her back. Savagely he twisted her arm behind her, drawing her toward him until she could smell the wine on his hot breath. With his free hand, he ripped open the front of her gown, his eyes narrowing as the torn fabric fell away and revealed the creamy smoothness of her rounded breasts. She gasped in horror at the naked lust in his face, and twisted vainly in his cruel grip.

  “I’ll make you forget du Crillon!” he panted fiercely, and bent his burning mouth to her bosom, covering her with hot kisses. She could feel the scratch of his beard on her flesh, and trembled in fury at her helplessness. She pounded on his back with her fist, all the while heaping curses on him, deriding his manhood, comparing him scornfully with André. His eyes burning angrily, he twisted her back until she cried out in pain. She could feel the hardness of his desire against her body and with a sudden thrust she lifted her knee and drove it into his groin with all her might. With a groan he released her and doubled up, cursing under his breath and writhing in pain. For a moment she stood frozen, aghast at what she had done, appalled at her own ferocity. Then she started for the door again.

  With a roar he overtook her, grabbed her fiercely by the arm and flung her across the room. She collided heavily with the armoire, its massive corner catching her between her shoulder blades and knocking the wind out of her. She slid to the floor, half sitting, gasping for breath. Gravillac, his eyes still murderous, was in front of her in two strides. Cursing, he struck her again, full in the face, his fist doubled up in fury. She could feel her lip split against the edge of her tooth, hear a roaring in her ears. His frenzied hands tore at her nightdress, ripping it to shreds, til she lay naked on the floor. With a grunt of satisfaction, he picked her up roughly and threw her onto the bed, where she lay still gasping, dazed from his blow, her head spinning from the wine. She lay exhausted, vaguely aware he was stripping off his garments, too weak to offer resistance. Then he was on the bed, beside her, on top of her, his weight pressing against her body, his knee forcing her legs apart. She struggled feebly, arching her back, trying desperately to push him away. He had abandoned his passionate kisses; now there was only the ache in his loins that cried out to be eased. Savagely he thrust into her, feeling the momentary resistance of her maidenhood. She gasped in shock and agony as waves of pain and nausea swept upward from her thighs. Ah, Dieu! This was real, it was all real! And André had been real! André! Her love, her husband! She scarcely was aware now of the figure who heaved and panted above her, as a huge sob rumbled in her chest and she trembled violently. At the very moment his passion was spent, the sob broke from her into a wail, a terrible keening moan, as her reawakening memories flooded her with grief. Startled, Gravillac moved away from her, hastily jumping off the bed and pulling on his clothes.

  Damn the wench! Must she cry so? He had had too much to drink—his head hurt. He made for the door and his own room, bellowing for Louise to come and see to Madame.

  Louise hurried into the room. One look at the moaning figure crumpled on the bed told her all she needed to know. That animal, she thought, furious, and aloud, “Let Louise help you.” She moistened a small towel in a basin and, seating herself on the bed, dabbed at the bloody lip, the bruised jaw. She wrapped the shaking body tenderly in the coverlet and held Marielle in her lap, rocking her gently and steadily. Marielle looked up at her, her face swollen with grief, eyes filled with despair, disbelief.

  “He’s dead!” she sobbed over and over. “He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead.”

  Chapter Six

  The bright spring sunshine glowed through the casement window. Marielle sat up in bed, every bone and muscle crying out in painful protest. She fingered her swollen lip and groaned, dropping her aching head into her hands. Her brain felt as though it would explode, and there was a tender spot along the line of her delicate jaw. Her shoulders throbbed, her back twinged. On the irreparable damage to her chastity and the dull pain in her heart she dared not dwell. Louise bustled into the room carrying her breakfast. She placed the tray on Marielle’s lap and smiled brightly.

  “A lovely morning, Madame! The sun is warm—I think we shall have spring at last! Come. A little breakfast to cheer you up. No need to dwell on what is done. Eat.”

  Marielle bent to the food. A piece of bread, cheese, a slice of cold lamb. A large cup of wine, thinned with water and sweetened with rich honey. It seemed impossible that she could eat, but her appetite was young and healthy and she wolfed down the meal despite the heaviness of her heart. Louise busied herself about the room, directing the placing of the bathtub, carrying in armloads of clothing to be folded neatly into the oaken armoire. (“They are old, Madame, but of good quality.”), throwing wide the windows to the warm breeze. But ever her glance turned to Marielle, eyes filled with maternal concern. While Marielle soaked away her aches in the warmth of the tub, Louise fetched in armfuls of bright spring forsythias, yellow blossoms ariot on the supple branches, and arranged their cheerfulness about the room. By the time Marielle was bathed and dressed in a smoky green silk gown that just matched her eyes, she was beginning to feel a great deal better, both in body and spirit. Louise combed her hair until it shone, and arranged it full and loose about her face, heavy tresses cascading down her back. A knock on the door, and the pageboy Pierre announced that Monsieur le Marquis was in the garden this morning, and wished Madame la Comtesse to join him. Her heart thudding, Marielle allowed the boy to lead her down the staircase and out into the bright sunlight.

  Gravillac was standing on the edge of a terrace that fronted the river far below. The neat order of the terraced garden was separated from the wild vegetation below by a stone retaining wall, surmounted by a carved balustrade. Gravillac turned and smiled as she approached. He was dressed for riding, high leather boots that cuffed at his knee, brown velvet doublet, a wide red silk baldrick sashed at his waist. His eyes swept her graceful form approvingly, filled with open admiration. She eyed him coldly, guardedly, puzzled to find not a flicker of lust nor even of uneasiness in his frank
stare. Could he have forgotten last night?

  “I would have preferred you to wear your hair up in the back,” he said smoothly. “The ladies of Paris have dressed their hair that way for several seasons now. The back of a woman’s neck is too charming to hide!”

  She felt flustered, disarmed. She had never dressed so grandly in all her life, and was flattered by her reflection in his eyes. He smiled warmly, and offered her his arm. She hesitated, bewildered. No word of apology, no acknowledgment of what had happened, nothing. Had he been so drunk he did not even remember?

  “As you wish,” he said, and lowered his arm. “I shall be gone most of the day. I must see to my estate. You have the freedom of Quiot, of course.” Then he was gone.

  She spent most of the day exploring the house and grounds. Quiot was situated on an isolated promontory overlooking the Saône River. The nearest town was some leagues distant, reached by a single narrow road through the hills. On the river side, with its steep bank, the château was virtually inaccessible. The fields dropped away on either side, planted with early wheat that would soon begin to sprout under the May sun. To the south, where the mountains rose high and steep, Gravillac’s tenant farmers herded their flocks of sheep. The front of the château was approached by a wide avenue that cut through a broad lawn dotted with formal flower beds. The château itself was no more than fifty years old, built, no doubt, on the site of previous Gravillac holdings. It was a fine house, paneled with rich, dark woods and high Italianate windows, almost incongruous in this wild secluded setting. On reflection, Marielle decided that perhaps it suited Renard de Gravillac; both were charming, attractive, with a guarded aloofness that neither touched nor was touched. One lived in this house—one never belonged to it. She was aware during the afternoon that Molbert seemed to appear rather frequently; she wondered idly if he were watching her, guarding her. No matter. With the expanse of open fields, there would be no way to leave without being seen.