Marielle

by Sylvia Halliday

  Gravillac had insisted that she join him at supper. They sat facing each other across a massive oak table polished to a high luster. He seemed in fair enough spirits, although Louise had said his tour of the estate had been disappointing; far too many fields would lie fallow this spring, their tenants buried in the soil of La Forêt.

  Marielle ate sparingly, her green eyes cold as a wintry sea, unable to forget his violation of the night before. For his part, Renard was pleased to have this lovely creature sharing his table. It had been a difficult day; it did a man good to look at someone as exquisite as this wench. They had begun to talk of politics, of France and Spain and what was happening in England. At first he only watched her as she spoke, her eyes flashing, bosom heaving in anger when she disagreed with him, but in a bit he began to listen more carefully to her words. What was it that Bonfleur had said? A doctor’s daughter. Well he could believe that. She had a fine mind, sharp and logical as a man’s, a mind to match her other merits as a woman. Frank admiration showed in his face.

  Marielle found her anger softening under his courtly attentions; his open approval pleased her in spite of herself. She could never forgive him, of course, but perhaps she could understand. The loss of his cause…exile…and surely he had been very drunk. A man might forget himself under those circumstances. She could perhaps prevail upon him to help her get to Paris; there must be people there who remembered her father, who would befriend her. She thought of Claude, Gervais’ friend. She knew he would marry her in a moment, and after all, what did it matter? After André, she no longer expected a man to make her heart sing. Lyon, after all, was not so far. Surely Renard would be willing to help her find Claude. She felt optimistic, almost happy, as they left the dining salon.

  Renard gripped Marielle’s elbow, and guided her firmly to the foot of the staircase. He motioned to Louise, who had just come in from the kitchen.

  “Attend my lady,” he said. “I shall be up presently.” There was no mistaking his meaning. Marielle’s heart sank.

  In the bedchamber, Louise bestirred herself about the room, closing the casement against the chill night air, turning down the coverlet and sheets. Marielle paced the room, wringing her hands, her eyes purposely avoiding the huge imposing bed, feeling helpless and trapped. She stood quietly, lost in unhappy thought, while Louise removed the soft lace collar and unhooked the front of the green silk bodice. Their eyes met briefly and a wave of sympathy passed from the elder woman, a look filled with understanding and dismay. The green silk skirt fell about Marielle’s ankles, then she sat and removed her dainty brocaded shoes, the silk stockings. She stood up, slipping the soft white chemise over her head. Louise hurried to fetch a nightdress as she stepped out of her linen petticoat and stood there naked, shivering with a chill that had less to do with the night air than with the heaviness in her heart. With a start, she saw that de Gravillac was at the door; how long he had been watching her she could only guess. Scooping her petticoat off the floor, she clutched it to her and shrank back against the heavy bed hangings, her pulse racing. Louise approached with the nightgown, but Gravillac motioned her away, then followed her to the door, closing and locking it securely when she had left, and pocketing the key.

  He was sober tonight, and smiling, thoroughly enjoying Marielle’s helplessness. The pig! She could not make excuses for him this evening. Her fear turned to cold fury. By le Bon Dieu, she would fight him tonight! It would cost him dear to take her, she would see to that!

  He smiled smugly, confidently, content to savor every moment.

  “I could wish you were not so modest, my dear,” he said. “You are exceedingly lovely to look upon, and it occurs to me I only have glimpses of you through tattered garments.”

  “That is all you shall ever have,” she said contemptuously. “If I could, I would dress in heavy furs, though it be summer, to keep myself covered against your hateful eyes!”

  He laughed aloud. “You should consider yourself fortunate that you look so charming in silks and velvets, else I would be tempted to keep you always locked in your room, with no garments at all!”

  “You are vile!” she said stamping her foot in fury. “I wonder not that you need to rape a woman to get what you want. Only a fool would come to you willingly!”

  He smiled languidly, desire smoldering in his eyes. “I have had many women—mostly willing. And I always get what I want. And what I want now is a spirited wench with green eyes—willing or no!” His eyes swept hungrily over her, and she cringed farther back against the draperies of the bed. “You are worth the sport, ma petite.”

  He began then to undress, slowly, carefully, unwinding the long baldrick sash about his waist, slipping off the brown doublet. Marielle leaned into the bed, powerless, transfixed, her eyes darting wildly about the room—a trapped animal desperate for escape.

  “If I were a man I’d kill you!” she said boldly, and was dismayed to hear the quaver in her voice.

  He laughed wryly, pulling his shirt over his head. “As I recall, you very nearly did, last night!” He stepped closer, enjoying himself thoroughly. The sight of his hairy chest, black and thick and matted, made her stomach churn. She glowered at him, eyes burning with hatred.

  “Come, my little tiger, show me what you are guarding with such modesty!” He circled warily around her, ever mindful of her dangerous kicks, and grabbed her suddenly from behind, pulling the protecting petticoat from her grasp. She flailed furiously with her arms, catching him in the ribs with her elbows, and pounding against his shins with her bare heels. She shrieked and cursed him furiously, trying to turn in his steel grip, to use her punishing knee as she had before. The more she struggled, the more he laughed, exultant, enjoying the challenge, the certainty of ultimate victory.

  “Dommage! Am I not to see you plain, then? Will you deny my eyes their feast?” He laughed, as though struck by a thought. “Ah, no, my lovely flower, there is a way!”

  So swiftly that she hardly had time to marshal her defenses, he bent down, picked up his long sash and looped it skillfully around her narrow wrists, binding her hands in front of her. With one strong arm slipped about her waist, he lifted her, kicking and wriggling, and carried her to the bed. He threw her on her back and swiftly tied the other end of the baldrick to the bed post, stretching her arms cruelly above her head. She sobbed in rage and frustration, twisting and writhing while his eyes burned into her, shaming her with his lascivious stare. His gaze never left her body as he removed boots, stockings, breeches, his eyes traveling hungrily from her full ripe breasts to her flat smooth belly and the patch of chestnut beyond. He stood before her in the full vigor of his manhood, lean and hard—a powerful body, strong, potent, brutal. She knew her struggles only added fuel to his ardor; with a great sob, she lay still, knowing she could not escape the unavoidable, but wanting to hurt him as much as he hurt her.

  “And is this how your father begat you?” she said with contempt and bitterness. She saw his passion die instantly, and a look of such violent rage came into his eyes that she cringed in terror. Seething, he cast his eyes around the room till they lit upon the forsythia branches. He snatched up one supple twig, stripping it of leaves and blossoms in one swift gesture, then, using it as a switch, slashed at her tender body again and again. She shrank against the bed, drawing up her knees to protect her breasts, twisting and turning to avoid that flailing arm. The restraining baldrick cut into her wrists, and the punishing lashes stung her shoulders, legs, buttocks. She yelped in pain and outrage, humiliation cutting her more deeply than the switch. Finally, his anger abated, he snatched up his clothes, unlocked the door and stalked from the room.

  Louise, hearing Marielle’s shrieks, was waiting impatiently outside the door. As soon as Gravillac vanished into his own room, she rushed swiftly to Marielle’s side, to untie her, to soothe her, to still the racking sobs.

  In the morning, Marielle spent a long time in her tub. She felt dirty, soiled, degraded more by the whipping and by his laughing e
njoyment of her plight, than she had when he raped her in anger.

  Louise knelt beside her, gently soaping the milky shoulders, rubbing as softly as she might where ugly red welts yet remained. If there were only something she could do to help this poor creature. She knew with certainty that, family tradition or no, she would leave Quiot tomorrow but for this girl. But she was a practical woman, and perhaps that was what was needed most.

  “Eh bien,” she said finally. “Maybe it is none of my concern, my lady, but what is so bad after all in going down for a man? Women have always done it and it’s soon over—and what’s the harm?” She smiled tenderly at the look of surprise on Marielle’s innocent face. “It leaves no scars, ma petite—unless you struggle! He will tire of you soon enough, and then you will be free!”

  “To do what?” asked Marielle with bitterness in her voice.

  “He has brought beauties from Paris, grand ladies, but none could match you in face and form.”

  “Shall I then go to Paris and be a harlot?”

  “Nay!” said Louise. “But in Paris a woman’s past is of no matter. No one cares. They make much of beauty and wit. You could be the toast of the Court, and marry well in the bargain!” She sighed with exasperation. “But you can be nothing if you are maimed and crippled.”

  “Aye, marry well,” said Marielle, and a tear coursed down her cheek. “And bestow on my husband the gift of my virtue.”

  “Tis gone, and no calling it back. Would you die for it?”

  Despite herself, Marielle knew there was wisdom in Louise’s words. How ridiculous to go on suffering. For what? She was no longer a virgin, and no amount of tears and rage could change that. There was something else as well. Gravillac’s temper was wild and uncontrolled; he could be a dangerous man. Louise was right. Only a fool would provoke his murderous moods. She resolved that, come what might, she would endure with fortitude, praying he would weary of her in good time.

  In spite of her resolve, she was glad he was gone for the whole day; the thought of facing him still made her uneasy. She asked Louise for a small piece of needlework, and spent much of the afternoon sewing in the spring sunshine, glad to have something to keep herself busy, to forget André, Gervais, her grief. She was aware that Molbert watched her from time to time—a cunning prison, this! The air had become chilly; she shivered slightly and came inside, minded to ask Louise for a shawl. Just as she reached the staircase, she heard Gravillac’s voice behind her; she had not seen him in the shadows. She took a deep breath, willing her tremulous heart to be stilled, and faced him.

  He bowed courteously. “Good evening, Madame la Comtesse. I was about to go in to supper. Will you join me?”

  She eyed him coldly. Dieu! How she despised him! “I should prefer to take supper in my room, Monsieur. My head troubles me this evening—a slight malaise.”

  He took a step toward her, and placed a hand gently on her arm. He smiled disarmingly, his face filled with concern.

  “You understand,” he said with an apologetic shrug, “I like to have my way. I am used to it. There is no need for things to be difficult between us. I should regret a repetition of last night.” He smiled magnanimously. “I shall send Louise to your room with your supper. I will join you later.”

  She escaped up the stairs, happy to be free of him, if only for awhile. At the landing, his voice, sharp and willful, stopped her abruptly.

  “Tomorrow, wear your hair up!”

  She fled to her room, sobbing. What kind of man was he? Nothing in her background had prepared her for this. Trusting and guileless, she could not cope with his duplicity. He played with her as a spider with its victim, and she felt helpless. The vile temper—that she could understand. He was like a cruel, spoiled child, frightening and dangerous, but not unfamiliar to her experience. But what thoughtlessness could make him ugly and abusive one moment and then smile, be charming, act as though nothing had happened? Was he so unfeeling as not to know the grief he caused, or so selfish it mattered little to him?

  She picked at her dinner; her head had begun to throb. When he came to her room, she submitted with cold anger and disgust, turning her head away, trying to keep her lips from his loathsome kisses. Afterwards, alone, she thought of André and the sweetness of his kiss. She felt overcome by her loss; large, bitter tears welled up in her eyes and she wept softly, curled up and shivering in the big bed.

  In the morning, her fever was raging.

  Chapter Seven

  Renard de Gravillac watched from the window as Louise helped Marielle into the daybed laid out below in the May sunshine. The girl was terribly thin and pallid, her face pale and translucent as alabaster. He felt an unexpected pang of concern; she had been so terribly ill. A prison fever perhaps, or the chilling ride in the rain. For nearly two weeks she had lain in her room, teeth chattering against the chills that racked her, writhing with fever, her face flushed and hot, eyes glassy and unseeing. Sometimes she muttered unintelligibly or sobbed bitterly or cried aloud the name of André. Always du Crillon! Would the man haunt him even dead? He remembered with frustration those unflinching blue eyes, the clash of wills between them, the lies that had cost him the battle at La Forêt. He gnashed his teeth in fury. He had thought that taking Crillon’s woman would even the score, would make him the victor, if only over a dead man, but the remembrance of the nights he had spent with her brought him no satisfaction. He tried to concentrate on those traits of hers that he usually found so arousing in a woman—the fighting spirit, the voluptuous body, the pride that begged to be subdued. He had beaten more than one woman into submission, and found that, despite her protests, it served to inflame her passions. But not Marielle. He turned impatiently from the window and muttered an oath. It was useless to try and remember her soft body under his—his mind dwelt only on her heartbroken wailing, her horror and disgust. Well, perhaps it was because she had been a virgin. He allowed himself a small surge of satisfaction over that; so much for du Crillon, who had not been smart enough to take her when he could! Still, a man’s body was new to her, and perhaps frightening. He must proceed more slowly, delicately. She was a flower to be plucked gently, not ripped brutally from the ground. It suddenly seemed important to eradicate that loathing from her eyes.

  Marielle walked slowly along the hall to her room. How tired she felt! Perhaps Louise had been right. It had been too soon to come down for supper. After so many weeks in bed, the effort of dressing, of sitting at the table, trying to eat, had exhausted her. But Gravillac was becoming testy, impatient. She had begun to fear another violent outburst. What a strange man! He had been so pleased to see her, so delighted because Louise had twisted her hair into a thick rope and piled it high atop her head. He had gently fingered the curls and tendrils that still hung soft and loose about her face, and when he had seated her at the table had bent and kissed the nape of her neck with such a triumphant air that she was tempted to unpin the whole mass and let it cascade down her back, just out of pique. Mon Dieu, but she was tired! She hoped that her appearance at supper tonight would not serve as the signal for him to resume his visits to her room. Though she had submitted passively enough that last night before her illness, she yet feared his violence. Le Bon Dieu knew her body still creaked and ached enough from her fever without risking a beating from him! And it was so difficult to guess what might anger him.

  What was keeping Louise? She was too tired to wait for her, and began stripping off her clothes herself, leaving the silks and linens in a heap upon the floor. She had just slipped her nightdress over her head and was adjusting the drawstring, when there was a soft knock on the door. Louise! At last. Perhaps she would forego the nightly hair combing, and simply unpin her coif; the thought of sleep was uppermost in Marielle’s mind. It was not Louise. It was Renard, clad in a long brocaded dressing gown.

  “I dismissed Louise tonight,” he said. “I could not bear to wait whilst she clucked over you like a mother hen.” His voice was low and throaty, and his eyes burnt into her.
He held out a small vial. “Perfume. From Paris. Wear it for me tomorrow. It is the last I have, but perhaps when Molbert goes to get supplies and the latest news from Versailles he can fetch more.”

  Silently, she took the bottle and turned to place it on her dressing table. In one soft step he was behind her, his arms gently about her waist, his hands cupped on her breasts. He held her very tightly for a moment and she could feel the heat of his body against her back, the hardness that betrayed his passion. Then, stooping slightly, he bent his mouth to her vulnerable neck, letting his lips stray softly up to her ear and burying his face in her fragrant hair.

  “I could not keep my eyes from you at supper. You drive a man to madness!” His hands moved upward from her breasts, releasing the drawstring on her garment, loosening it til it drew away from her body, then sliding it down to the floor, while his hands followed its course from the firm breasts to her slim waist and the softly rounded hips. He released the pins from her hair and watched the glowing tresses ripple down over her velvety shoulders, then turned her to face him, slipping his hands beneath her buttocks and holding her tightly against his hungry loins. She felt strangely unmoved by his attentions. Although she was dimly aware that he expected her to respond, that his caresses were supposed to ignite some flame within her, she felt only discomfort, unease, wishing he would stop. She could tell by the glow in his dark eyes, the way his breath came short and hard, that she excited him, and she prayed that, in his impatience, he would have done with her quickly. He scooped her up in his arms and carried her swiftly to the bed, laying her down tenderly and flinging aside his dressing gown. She found his nakedness repelling, frightening; a wave of nausea flicked at her insides. He seemed in no hurry tonight. He lay beside her, touching, caressing, letting his fingers stray to every part of her body. She felt degraded, shamed, as though he violated her privacy with his rapacious hands. Finally he pulled her body under his and entered her. She shuddered. It was so unpleasant, distasteful. She thought suddenly of André. Was this what he had wanted of her? Renard strained above her, the muscles of his neck hard and knotted with his exertions. It was all so ugly. Surely André, her beloved André, would not have expected this of her! Renard gave a groan of pleasure, a final thrust, and collapsed against her, his passion spent. He sat up then and looked at her, eyes narrowing, curious, trying to gauge her reaction. She was too tired to care. She pushed his weight from her body, plodded heavily across the room to pick up her nightdress and slipped it over her head. She hardly cared if he stayed or went; she climbed wearily into the bed, pulled up the sheets, and was fast asleep while yet he gazed at her in frustration and dismay.