She stood up and began to remove her tattered jacket, then waited modestly until he had turned his back. He could hear her small movements behind him, picture in his mind’s eye the jacket dropping, then the chemise—the rosy glory of her full breasts; he shut his eyes tight, trying to drive out the tantalizing images. It suddenly seemed important to speak, to say anything that would help him forget the desirable woman but an arm’s length away.
“You are tired,” he said. “We will rest here until morning. It will be time enough to see if we can get you a horse for the ride back to Vilmorin.”
“Why should I return?” she said tiredly.
He stared into the darkness of the trees. “Because you are my wife, and I want you there. Because I love you,” he said simply, and ached to turn around to read her face. There was silence. But when at last she indicated that she was dressed again, he saw that she was trembling, and his heart flared with renewed hope. Louise had sent along a warm mantle. Marielle wrapped herself in it and lay down close to the fire, closing her eyes in exhaustion. André fetched extra logs for the fire and banked it carefully that it might burn throughout the night; then, pulling his own cloak about him, he lay down opposite her and dozed fitfully, his mind a whirl of desire and unrest.
He woke again at dawn, feeling chilled. Beyond the clearing where they lay, the damp mists rose between the trees. The sky was a silver gray, pale and luminous, awaiting the first kiss of the sun. The fire had nearly gone out, despite his precautions of the night before; he built it up again and huddled close to its warmth, his chin on his knees, lost in his thoughts. Beyond the fire Marielle stirred in her sleep and shivered, tugging at the mantle on her shoulders. He took his own cloak and, crossing to her side, knelt down and tucked its warm folds gently about her sleeping form. She sighed softly and opened her eyes. For long moments their glances held, hazy green eyes searching clear blue ones, questioning, hoping; at length he smiled, a tentative, shy smile born of his uncertainty. One long slim finger traced the delicate curve of her chin, the ripe fullness of her lips. A morning lark sang in the distance.
“My love,” he said gently, his eyes enveloping her in their warmth.
A look of pain crossed her face, her eyes filled with tears. “I cannot…” she began softly, then stumbled and stopped.
“Do you remember how you slept in my arms at La Forêt?”
“The maid from La Forêt is dead!” she said desolately, turning her face away. He cupped her chin gently in his hand and smiled into her eyes.
“Nay! I have seen her often these past months, sweet and good and kind—though my stupid pride and jealousy near drove her away! Can you forgive the pain I caused you? The ugly words I have spoken?”
She shook her head. “And have I not made you suffer in the cruelest way? What kind of wife have I been to you?”
He laughed ruefully. “More than I deserved. Ah, Marielle!” he burst out. “How could I have forgotten that I loved you—that you were my friend?”
“And Clothilde?” she asked softly, biting her lip.
“I have sent her away. She means nothing to me, nor did she ever.”
“But I thought…she said…”
“It matters not what she said! I swear to you, my love, as le Bon Dieu is my witness, I have not been unfaithful to you since first I brought you to Vilmorin…though it has not been easy!”
“Poor André!”
He grinned. “I am a soldier. I have survived worse campaigns!” They laughed together at that, with a lightness that neither had felt for weeks.
“And will you besiege me, Monsieur Soldier, until my defenses crumble?”
“Nay, for I have conceded defeat. It is you who must dictate the terms of peace!”
For answer, she reached up and pulled his face down to hers, parting her lips in sweet surrender to his gentle kiss. “Marielle,” he breathed, his heart filled with the wonder of her love. Her lips awoke the raging passion that burned within him and he clasped her fiercely to his breast, his mouth hungry and insistent.
“No!” she cried, pushing him away. She sat up, her shoulders shaking violently. “Oh God,” she whispered in agony. She turned away from him, sobbing as though her heart were broken. “Help me, André,” she moaned, “for I am a cripple haunted by memories that will not be stilled!”
He folded her tenderly in his arms and stroked her hair and murmured tender words of love until her weeping ceased; then he held her apart and smiled into her eyes. “Come, wife. Let us go home. We have a lifetime to exorcise those ghosts!” He stood up quickly and crossed to his horse, busying himself with saddle and harness, glad of the distraction, the opportunity to quell the raging fires that consumed him, knowing he could not take her unwillingly, despite his hunger. He remembered the terror in her eyes, and prayed that when the moment came, he could love her gently and with tenderness, making up in part for all the unhappiness he had caused her.
“André.”
He turned, then drew in his breath sharply, his heart beating wildly. She was standing where he had left her, her chin proud and determined, a small defiant smile upon her lips. At her feet lay the jumble of her garments, cast off with uncertainty and fear; she shivered slightly, despite the brave smile. He gaped in wonder and awe. The sun had begun to rise, the sky a rosy pink that suffused the air and reflected on the creamy perfection of her beautiful body until she glowed like the incarnation of Dawn itself. In two strides he was before her, searching her face as though he would probe her very soul.
“Are you sure?” he said at last.
She shook her head, her voice trembling as she spoke. “No. But how will I ever know, if I let my fear rule me?”
He lifted her gently in his arms and laid her down upon the outspread mantle, and there, in the glory of the morning, she became at last truly his wife.
Marielle smiled at André across the clearing. He grinned back, his white teeth dazzling against his burnished skin. In truth, they hardly seemed capable of anything but smiles, tender, radiant, beaming. They had dressed with smiles, breakfasted with smiles; when they stopped occasionally to kiss, their lips would hardly be parted before they curved upward into smiles again. Now Marielle watched him, her face mirroring the joy in her heart, filled with a gladness she had not thought possible. She regarded him as he busied himself with the horses—her own mount having reappeared—and trembling a little, smiling a little, she relived the morning.
She had marveled at his gentleness and sweetness, all the more touching because she was aware of how he burned for her, and kept his passion in check to still her fears. He had lain beside her for a very long time, kissing, caressing, his hands gentle and tender as they roamed her body. Sometimes she would stiffen in his embrace, filled with the familiar terror and loathing; he would stop, and soothe her with words of love and the soft kisses he knew pleased her. At length, his ardor beyond containing, he possessed her, swept away on a tide of mounting ecstasy he could no longer control. Open-eyed, she watched his face, the sight of him a reassurance. André. Her André. No other. When at last his body had stilled, she closed her eyes, content. He would have withdrawn, but she held him fiercely and would not let go, feeling him within her, the warmth of his body upon hers, the sense of fitness in the act itself. Because of Gravillac, she had found it ugly, distasteful, cruel; now, with André’s strong arms about her, she knew that it was for him as much a part of love as his kisses, his tender solicitude—an act of giving, not taking. Her heart was filled with gratitude and love, a tide of emotion that welled up within her; warm tears seeped out from beneath her closed eyelids.
“Marielle. Love,” he had said, his voice warm with concern, “are you yet afraid?” Wordlessly she had shaken her head, and smiled at him with a look of such radiant happiness that his own eyes had filled with tears and he had kissed her almost reverently, his lips doing honor to her sweet face.
Chapter Twenty-two
The whip rose and fell. The black stallion reared up on i
ts hind legs, eyes rolling wildly in its head, and slashed the air with its front hooves. Again the whip fell and the great horse snorted and bared its teeth.
“Nom de Dieu, Renard! I vow that brute will kill someone one of these days, the way you treat him!”
The Marquis de Gravillac whirled, his eyes as black as the horse. “I scarcely need your advice, Barrault! Only with God’s help will that bay you are riding get you to Spain!”
The Comte de Barrault looked mournful. “I would have no worry at all if you would abandon your wild scheme! The die has been cast. Why delay our departure from France longer than we must?” He turned for affirmation to the Duc de Tapié, who was giving orders to his lieutenant.
“It is true enough, Gravillac,” said Tapié. “You know the wisdom of riding south through Languedoc—there are still loyal Huguenots who would see us safely to Spain, in shorter time and with less risk of word getting back to Richelieu’s spies!”
“Bah!” spat Gravillac. “Think you there is safety in the Languedoc? Since the Peace of Alès every governor in the region has been handpicked by Louis. And every Huguenot prince seeking to wheedle his way back into the King’s favor would be happy to betray us. I for one have not pledged my sword to Philip of Spain only to be dragged back to Paris in chains because some provincial fool grows suspicious of our journey. Far better to make for the seaboard and La Rochelle, and from thence down the coast to Bearn and Spain. There are Huguenot loyalists there as well, but the memory of war has dimmed and life is more normal. Who would question three noblemen and their servants on a visit to some Bearnais lord? It may be a longer journey, but far safer!”
“And Touraine Province?” asked Barrault sourly. “Where is the safety—or the sense—in going first to Vilmorin? It is not that near to La Rochelle. And for what? For honor?”
Gravillac’s eyes flashed dangerously. “It is my honor we talk of! Do you think I can leave France knowing du Crillon lives?” He swept his arm around the courtyard, taking in the fields of Quiot. “Look you! Was your harvest like this? Your fields so empty of men? Will you soon see the wooden bottoms of empty coffers, your fortunes wasting away like mine? ’Twere his lies that cost us La Forêt, and I mean to challenge him for the lying scoundrel he is!”
Barrault shook his head. “I doubt we would have prevailed at La Forêt, du Crillon notwithstanding. Privas fell and was put to the sword, and Nîmes and Alès—none of the towns could have held out against the Royal army. Why seek revenge against one man?”
“Because he lied to me! To me!” Gravillac almost shrieked in his fury.
“And if you challenge him to a duel, and kill him…what then? Richelieu has forbidden dueling on pain of death! How will we get out of France then?”
Gravillac shrugged. “There are still many who look upon dueling as a gentleman’s right, and would hardly be anxious to turn informer—we would be in the Court of Philip before word reached Paris!”
“But why should du Crillon accept your challenge? It is he, after all, who is in the King’s favor at the moment. Why should he take the risk?”
“Because he is a gentleman of the old school, trained in honor and chivalry,” sneered Gravillac. “And because”—he gave a malicious chuckle—“mayhap he feels he has an old score to settle!” He swung his lean body into the saddle. “Molbert!” he barked. “Does everyone at Quiot know what he is to do whilst I am away? I expect Marcel to oversee my estates well—tell him I shall send you back from time to time…and warn him how I reward stupidity or incompetence!”
They rode out from Quiot, taking the path that led northwest toward Touraine and Vilmorin, each noble accompanied by his trusted lieutenant. Barrault and Tapié eyed each other nervously—it still seemed a foolish undertaking—but neither man was willing to risk the fury of Gravillac, and they depended on his connections in the Spanish Court. As for Gravillac, he felt an exultation that threatened to burst through his chest. He grinned jubilantly. At last! He would have it all! He saw André du Crillon dead before him, those challenging blue eyes closed in defeat once and for all, the threat of him gone forever! And she would be his, with no one to take her away, to claim her; she would be his! There was no need to resurrect her memory; she had never left his thoughts—the glowing hair, those soft green eyes, the body that promised a thousand delights. He no longer knew or cared if what he felt for her was love…or lust. She would be his. Nothing else mattered.
“Two hours, my lord. I promise it! The horse will be ready.” The blacksmith straightened up and patted Marielle’s horse.
“But be quick about it, man,” said André. “It is nigh on to the noon hour, and we have more than a few hours’ ride ahead. I would reach home before dark.”
The blacksmith bobbed respectfully. “Begging your pardon, my lord. I must make a new shoe. I am a poor man, Monsieur, and with no one but Achille here to help me…” He took a swipe at his apprentice, a runny-nosed urchin of eleven or twelve, who scraped off his cap and bent a leg to the Gentleman, though his large eyes never left the Gentleman’s Lady. Marielle smiled, her face dazzling; the poor lad gulped and turned red, twisting his cap in his hands and backing up until he tripped upon a bucket and fell sprawling. He scrambled to his feet and fled to the dark interior of the smithy. Laughing, André tucked his hand firmly under Marielle’s elbow and guided her away.
“Sorceress,” he said, “will you enchant us all? I think I shall keep you locked up in Vilmorin, away from the company of all men!” She did not laugh, but turned to face him, her eyes solemn, almost sad.
“And do you trust me so little, André?”
Flustered, he made no reply, but lifted her onto his horse and swung up behind her, guiding the steed through the little village toward a small copse that they had passed that morning. They rode in uneasy silence, Marielle leaning her head against André’s chest; he, chin down, face buried in her fragrant hair. Did he trust her? He thought again of the morning—she had come to him willingly, despite her fears; she had held out her hands and given him all her faith and trust and love. She had set him to be the guardian of her heart, without reservations—he had never known love like that, so awesomely pure and complete. He felt overwhelmed by the wonder of it. What folly! How could he doubt her faithfulness, when she trusted him with her very soul? He dropped the reins and enfolded her in his arms, kissing the top of her head and murmuring her name; she twisted around and peeped shyly at him over her shoulder, surprised by the sudden intensity of his feeling. And so, smiling a little, and sighing and kissing, they made their way through the bright blue October day. The narrow path they followed wove in and out of the trees—scarlet and orange and gold, scented with the tang of autumn—and came at length to a gurgling stream crossed by a small wooden bridge. Here André stopped and dismounted, and lifted Marielle down. With a flourish he swept his mantle from his shoulders and spread it over a patch of bare ground; he bowed elaborately to Marielle, catching her fingertips to his lips.
“It is not the Bois de Boulogne, I warrant, but would Madame care to join me in a picnic?” Marielle laughed and spread her skirts daintily upon the cloak while André took from his saddlebag a small joint of meat and a chunk of bread. While Marielle sliced the meat with the knife he handed her and laid the slabs on pieces of bread, he removed the pistol from his sash and stowed it in the saddlebag, then he unbuckled his sword and laid it on the grass; finally he unwrapped the sash and removed his doublet, flinging his arms wide as though he would embrace the glorious day. He felt new-born, coltish and giddy, and he flung himself down upon the mantle and sprawled there, grinning up at Marielle like a callow youth in the throes of first love. She shook her head at his antics and bent away to fetch his food; he could not resist her vulnerability, and took the opportunity to pinch the target she had so temptingly (though unwittingly) presented. She shrieked and fell upon him, tickling him unmercifully, while he writhed and roared and begged for quarter. Still taunting, she jumped up and fled to the stream, bending low an
d scooping up a handful of water, threatening him if he should come near. Ignoring the icy water that she splashed on his face and hair, he swooped down and swept her into his arms, swinging her menacingly over the crystal stream while she squealed and clung fiercely to his neck.
“Now, Madame,” he laughed, “will you yield?”
“Always, my lord,” she whispered, her eyes suddenly misty and filled with love. He set her gently on the bank and drew her close in his embrace; she tipped up her chin and closed her eyes, waiting for his kiss. He did not move. Surprised, she opened her eyes to see him peering over her shoulder, a bemused smile on his face. Turning in his arms, she followed his glance. From beneath a bush, hard by the stream, she spied two pairs of dark eyes, wide and serious, set in two tiny faces. With a little cry of delight, Marielle sank to her knees, motioning the children to come to her; after a moment’s hesitation, during which they seemed to commune silently with their eyes, they emerged from the underbrush. They were not very old, the boy perhaps seven, the girl five, but hunger had made them thin and gaunt, their faces pinched like old men, their eyes filled with pain beyond their years. Marielle bit her lip and looked helplessly to André. At La Forêt she had seen poverty and its effects on the people, but within its thriving walls there was always someone to distribute alms, a warm church for shelter, a generous farmer or shopkeeper to look the other way when a hungry child filched an apple or a piece of bread.
“Times are hardest in the small villages,” said André heavily. “If the crop fails, the peasants have nowhere to turn. God knows their taxes are already oppressive—if Richelieu pulls France into the war with the German princes, we shall see rioting in every provincial capital!”
“How can such inequities be?” cried Marielle. “As a nobleman you pay no taxes at all! Why must these people bear the burden? Can nothing be done?”
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