“Coward!” whispered Marielle into her mirror. Her reflection gazed back at her, the pale cheeks less drawn and tired after her night’s rest. What had happened to her pride, her spirit—that she should have allowed him so easily to resume his assaults on her body, on her dignity? She had been exhausted from her illness, true enough, numb with grief because of Gervais, André. Still…“Coward!” she said again, her voice sharp with self-loathing. It was foolish to fight him openly, as Louise had said, but surely there were other ways to resist his attentions. To escape even!
She fretted impatiently as Louise helped her into her gown; when the elder woman, her hands clumsy, fumbled with the lace falling band, Marielle snatched the wide collar from her and tied the strings herself. She was impatient to be out of doors, to walk in the gardens and the grounds of Quiot with more direction than she had shown before. Surely there was a way to leave! She spent the morning in mounting frustration and anger, finding herself stopped at every turn. The terrace dropped steeply to the river—impossible! The wheatfields, unprotected and open to view. Once, during the morning, she managed to reach a small stand of trees at the edge of a field, only to be startled by one of Gravillac’s tenants who firmly guided her back to the château, under orders from the master to see that the fine lady did not stray from Quiot. And Molbert—always Molbert—skulking around every corner! By the time a pretty young serving girl came to announce the noon meal, Marielle was filled with a savage desperation that showed in her green eyes, and the servant curtsied humbly in response to her testy mood.
Gravillac was waiting for her, smiling and at ease, lolling in his chair while the servants spread a cloth on the table before him and set out platters of food and wine and cutlery. He looked up when she entered, but did not rise; his eyes scanned her face with such sharpness that she wondered if he could read the hatred written there. Nervously she averted her gaze and paced the room until the servants had withdrawn, her thoughts in a turmoil.
He indicated a chair and she sat, picking indifferently at the food as he offered each platter, scarcely listening to his casual conversation, so intent was she on her own thoughts. She would reason with him, make him understand that she did not welcome his attentions, that he would be better off to let her go back to La Forêt, or Lyon—or Paris even. Her hatred would only cause him needless grief—surely there could be no joy for him in a woman who could not return his ardor! And if reasoning failed?…Almost involuntarily her eyes strayed to the cutlery upon the table, the sharp knives meant to carve the slab of beef. She would kill him. God forgive her, she would kill him. She dragged her eyes away from the blade and looked up to see him smiling oddly at her.
“Will you take more wine?” he asked softly.
“No, I thank you. I am content.” Still agitated, Marielle rose quickly from the table and went to stand by the window. Could I really kill him? she thought, her eyes traveling once again to the knife. As though he read her thoughts, Gravillac rose from the table in his turn and ambled to the cold fireplace, seeming almost deliberately to turn his back to her as he leaned against the mantel. Now! she thought, moving quickly to the table. Dare I do it now? She stood for a moment, her hand poised over the blade.
Suddenly Gravillac whirled, transfixing her with his malevolent glare. Despite the smile that twitched at his mouth she could see cold fury in his dark eyes. He had seen. He knew.
With trembling hands, Marielle reached for her wine cup and drained it in one gulp.
Gravillac selected a hefty stave from a large basket of kindling on the hearth. “You must have fresh wine,” he said silkily, and gave the floor a sharp rap with one end of the rod. In a moment the pageboy Pierre appeared carrying a large jug; at Gravillac’s order he refilled Marielle’s goblet. “Wait,” said Gravillac, as the boy made a move to retire. Though his tone was mild, there was something in his manner, the tension in his body, that made Marielle shiver. “Did you lay out the table?”
The boy bobbed politely and nodded his head. “Yes, Monsieur.”
“The knives as well?”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“Have you the sense that God gave you, boy?” The voice low but edged with cold steel.
The boy trembled. “Monsieur?”
“Do you not see the knives are too sharp? Madame could harm herself, and you would bear the blame!” All pretense of civility was gone now as Gravillac scowled fiercely at the boy.
The poor lad began to shake with fear, “Monsieur…I did not think…it will not happen again…I…”
Gravillac gripped the rod more firmly in his hand. “Indeed it shall not! And you shall have a reminder!” He pointed toward the table.
Whimpering, the boy leaned over the table, his fists clutching tight to the cloth, his face screwed up in pain as though he already felt the blows.
“No!” cried Marielle, as Gravillac’s arm rose and fell. Pierre gave a muffled squeak, his small body twitching at the force of the stroke on his rump. “The knives are not too sharp! Do not harm the boy!” Another blow. This time Pierre cried out. Marielle was near tears. “Please. I shall not touch the knives. I swear it!” Gravillac, unmoved, continued the punishment. An ugly red welt appeared as the rod struck the lad’s bare leg. “I beg you!” cried Marielle, clutching at Gravillac’s arm.
He turned to her, his eyes burning. Rage had carried him beyond the edge of reasoning. “Would you take his place?” he growled. Aghast, Marielle hesitated, half-minded to endure the beating herself, if only to spare the boy. Gravillac delivered one more stroke, then jerked the lad upright by the scruff of his neck. “Get you gone!” he ordered. “But do not forget there are to be no more knives at table when Madame sups!” Shaking, Marielle watched the boy limp away, then made for the door herself. “Wait!” thundered Gravillac. “I have not said that you may go!”
She whirled toward him, her chin outthrust in defiance, though her heart pounded at the sight of the threatening staff yet clutched in his hand. “Have I your leave to retire?” she asked coldly. At his stiff nod, she fled to the safety of her room. She sank onto her bed feeling drained and exhausted, her heart heavy with remorse. There was a flurry of light taps at her door, then Louise entered and hurried to her side.
“You are well, Madame? He has not harmed you?” The simple face creased with concern. She sighed in relief at sight of Marielle, then frowned again in disgust. “That poor lad…”
“I was the cause,” said Marielle in an agonized voice. “It was to make me suffer that he beat the boy.”
“No. You must not reproach yourself. He beats the boys often—Pierre…Georges…all of them. He would have found a reason soon enough! There is a cruelty to him…I have never understood it. He can be kind, generous, gentle…like his father was. They were so alike. Hot-tempered, quarrelsome—Quiot rang with their battles. But the father never saw the cruelty in his son—mayhap that is why I stayed with him so long, thinking the cruelty was a childishness that would pass.” She sighed deeply. “Ah, me! Pierre’s bruises will heal—and Gravillac will be charming once again. Will you stroll in the garden this afternoon?”
Marielle shook her head, remembering her frustrating escape attempts of the morning. “I shall rest here for a little. See to the lad, for my sake.” She lay back on her bed, meaning to close her eyes only briefly, but when she awoke it was evening and the young serving girl was shaking her gently and inviting her to join Monsieur le Marquis at supper. Marielle hesitated. “I shall sup in my room. But…tell Monsieur, most kindly, that I should like to…receive him in my chamber…after he has dined, if it so pleases him.”
She scarcely touched her food when it was brought, rehearsing again and again the words she would say to him. Louise said he could be kind, reasonable—it was she herself who had provoked his rage at lunch by her intemperate courting of murderous thoughts. Surely she could appeal to his reason. After an eternity of waiting, a soft rap announced Gravillac. He strode into her chamber, his face beaming, a large red rose i
n his hand. At sight of her, the smile faded and was replaced by a puzzled scowl.
“When a lady invites me to her room, I expect to be greeted with more warmth!” His black eyes raked her figure. “And you have not even sent for Louise! Am I to strip the gown from you myself?”
Marielle gasped, dismayed that he should have read acquiescence into her invitation. “N-no,” she stammered. “I…I wished to…speak to you, merely.” She took a deep breath before continuing. “You must see that I cannot stay here…it is not seemly…it is an affront to God. Surely you will release me!”
“No!” he said sulkily, clearly disappointed in his expectations.
“If I plead with you,” she said humbly, “if I beg you on my knees…will you let me go?”
“No!”
“Is there no way to soften your heart?”
He chuckled maliciously. “Will you offer yourself in rags and covered with ashes next?”
She bit her lip and turned away, angered by her own servility. “You have no right to keep me!” she cried, her voice firm and proud.
He shrugged. “I have every right! The spoils of war. Had I bested du Crillon in a duel, I should have claimed his sword—I took his widow instead! You are far more…useful…than a blade!” He laughed softly, but there was a hard glitter in his dark eyes.
“How dare you! I am not chattel to be treated thus! You have abused me, raped me, kept me here against my will! I am not yours to do with as it pleases you!”
“Yes!” he thundered, throwing down the rose. “You are mine—just as Quiot is mine! And everything, everyone here! You are mine for as long as I want you!” He pounded a fist on the table, his dark eyes glowing; Marielle drew back before the savagery of his onslaught. “Shall I send for Pierre that he may instruct you once more in the ways of obedience?”
She gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “You would not beat that poor child yet again…?”
“I would beat him every day in your presence, so you may learn that I am to be obeyed!” He paced the room for a moment, and when he turned back to Marielle some of the fury seemed to have drained from his face. “I do not wish to be cruel to you, but…the choice is yours.”
“What can you want from me,” she said tiredly, “knowing I am unwilling?”
“I ask only that you grace my table with your beauty, give me the pleasure of a pliant disposition…and allow me to make love to you when I wish it!”
“Ugh! Love!” Marielle spat the word, her lip curling in disgust. “You call it love?”
Gravillac’s eyes narrowed, and he took a menacing step toward her. “There are other…practices…which please me from time to time. Mindful of your sensibilities and virtuous nature, I have not asked them of you. There are other women here who satisfy my…coarser appetites. That, mayhap, is not love. I have no thought for their delicacy at such times—I please only myself. But, with you, it is different. Would you have me treat you like all the rest?”
Marielle frowned, mystified.
He laughed shortly. “Not only a virgin, but naive as well!” Softly, enjoying the look of horror that spread across Marielle’s face, he began to tell her what he meant, describing acts that made her burn with shame, his language deliberately crude and ugly. When at last she could bear no more, she clapped her hands to her ears and turned away, her face drained of color, her body shaking. Gently he turned her about and smiled softly, his finger stroking the line of her collarbone, seeming not to notice that she cringed away from his touch. “I ask none of this from you, my charming flower—only your sweet agreeableness. In exchange, I give you fine clothes, food, shelter…for as long as you please me. Could you ask for more? Does the world beyond Quiot offer you finer?” He brought her hand to his lips in a lingering kiss. “I shall leave you to your solitary bed tonight, that you may think well on my words.” He turned and strode from the chamber, his booted foot crushing the fragile rose on the floor.
Still trembling, Marielle sank to her bed, feeling the terror well up within her, aware suddenly that she was more frightened of him than she had acknowledged. And she could not kill him. After all her years of nursing, of seeing life as sacred, she had not the heart to take a life—even his. Besides, would he ever allow her the opportunity? After this morning, he would be on the alert, never trusting her for an instant, poised to retaliate should she be so foolish as to try to destroy him.
What does it matter, she thought, suddenly overwhelmed with grief. Where would she go, even if she were free? Except for Louise, was there anyone to care? Her soul was dead, had died at La Forêt, snuffed out in Gervais’ pain-filled eyes, drowned in the shrieks from the flaming stable. “André!” she sobbed aloud. How few the hours they had shared—yet every word of his, every gesture, the feel of his lips on hers, was seared into her brain. She had lived a lifetime in the prison—there was no past, there was no future. “Before God,” she had said to André; now there was nothing save the weary time until sweet Death should reunite her with him.
What does it matter? she thought again. She would submit to Gravillac. And if she were cold, though compliant, would he not soon find her tiresome and let her go? And if her coldness should enrage him? What grief could he visit upon her that was crueler than her own painful memories?
“André!” she cried again—and the word echoed mournfully in the silent room.
May unfolded slowly into June. The shepherds herded their flocks higher up into the mountains to nibble on the young spring grass, the newborn lambs frolicking and bouncing around their dams. The wheat grew tall enough to catch every passing breeze, and rippled with each soft breath that blew up from the river. Marielle’s life fell into a monotonous rhythm. Most of her days were spent on the terrace overlooking the river, Molbert close at hand. Occasionally she could prevail upon him for a game of backgammon; more often she sat with her needlework until weariness overtook her and she closed her eyes, the piece dropping from her hand. She found herself still tired and weak—the fever had assuredly taken its toll. When it rained or the air was cool, she wandered into the kitchen and helped the cook and Louise. This diversion was short-lived. Gravillac, his dark eyes throwing sparks, made it clear she was not to play the servant; besides, the kitchen was hot and suffocating and made her dizzy. Renard was gone most of the day, tending to his diminished holdings. With his royal pension cut and fewer tenants to work his lands and pay rents, his fortunes had declined.
Moreover Marielle soon discovered that Philip of Spain had been paying Gravillac a considerable pension, a practice common to the Spanish King, consolidating his power by maintaining adherents in foreign countries, men of influence who could be helpful. With the disappointing results of the Languedoc campaign, Gravillac had ceased to be useful to Philip and his pension had been cut to the bone. He sat at supper pensive and distracted, but Marielle knew that within his breast he seethed at his predicament, and she took great pains to keep their conversation light, lest she touch the spark to ignite his fury. When he came to her bed at night he was gentle, charming, cajoling, the perfect courtier wooing his lady love. Sometimes he brought her presents—a lace handkerchief, a delicate pair of embroidered gloves, and once a string of milky pearls, creamy and opalescent. She accepted his gifts and attentions with cold indifference, suffered his body with anger and revulsion, turning aside his kisses as best she could. She could not bear his lips on hers. Kisses meant love and warmth and André. She had been right all along: the things that a man did with a woman’s body had nothing to do with love. They were merely in response to the basest urges, obscene and repellent. She knew that he chafed in frustration at her reactions, and he grew sullen and petulant at her lack of warmth, renewing his efforts like a wounded suitor. To placate him, she carried the handkerchief, let Louise dress her in each of the half-dozen gowns in the armoire, doused herself with the perfume he had given her, though it was cloying and sweet and made her sick. A great many things made her sick lately, but she refused to think about it, putting
unwelcome thoughts out of her mind. She was not a fool, after all—a doctor’s daughter! She bad been aware for several weeks now that her female cycle had been disrupted, but it was easier to pretend to herself that perhaps her illness, the loss of her virginity and the shocks to her system that followed had upset the normal course of her body’s functions. It was not until the June morning that Louise entered her chamber carrying a breakfast tray of rare beef, and she fled the sight and smell of it, leaning over and retching into a hastily-fetched basin that she forced herself to face the truth. Pale and shaking, her skin tinged with green, she looked into Louise’s face and saw the same conclusion written there. Sobbing in despair, she leaned on that ample bosom, hungry for warmth and comfort.
Louise rocked her, and rubbed her back, murmuring soothingly, remembering again her daughter. Adèle had been newly widowed when she learned she was with child; her poor husband had been swept down the river while trying to rescue a friend. Adèle had carried the child in a cloud of grief, finding little comfort in the knowledge that the child would be legitimate, conceived out of love, sanctified by marriage. How much less comfort was there for this trembling girl. The man she loved was dead (shyly, timidly, Marielle had told her of André), the child she carried had been conceived in pain and misery, and the father—ah Dieu! The good Lord alone knew what he would do or say when he found out!
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