André shook his head. “I think that the Cardinal has tried. But too many years have gone into the building of France—the ship of state is burdened with too many bureaucrats, too many government functionaries, too many regulations. As long as a man can buy an office, or secure a pardon with a bribe or cheat with impunity, people like this will suffer. God alone knows where it will all end!”
Marielle sighed, her eyes filled with pity—for the peasants, for the children, for France. She gathered the children to her and brought them to the outspread cloak, seating them gently and pressing food into their hands, talking softly to them as they wolfed down the bread and meat, smoothing an unruly curl on a tiny head. André stood apart, watching Marielle, his heart filled with love and pride: how natural she looked with children at her side. When the poor urchins had eaten their fill, Marielle pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and wrapped up the remains of the food, tying the cloth securely in the corners, and handing it to the little boy. The children, still disbelieving their good fortune, could only smile shyly before they scampered across the bridge and vanished among the trees.
“I fear we must do without our picnic, André.”
“I have feasted already, my love,” he said, his eyes so warm and enveloping that she felt a glow down to her toes. “You will prove a loving mother, I’ll wager!” He sat beside her and kissed her gently—then not so gently. “Wench!” he said hoarsely. “Will you give me sons?” He pressed her down upon the mantle, his lips finding the hollow of her throat. She giggled and squirmed under his kisses.
“Wicked man!” she teased. “When we are back home at Vilmorin!”
He sat up, disappointed. “Then it must be before I go…” He stopped abruptly, his eyes refusing to meet hers.
Now it was she who struggled upright. “Go where? André?”
He rose to his feet, his back to her. “I shall see you safely to Vilmorin, and then…I shall ride…to Quiot!”
“No! I will not have it, André!”
He whirled to her, his eyes stormy. “Do you think, after what Louise has told me, I can let him live?”
She rose to him and put her hand softly upon his arm. “If I can let him live…can you not do the same?”
He frowned. “But you yourself would have killed him!”
“Only when I thought that his specter came between us. Ah, André! What does his life matter to us now? Shall I lose you because of vengeful pride?”
“Your confidence in my sword arm is touching, Madame,” he said dryly.
She stamped her foot in impatience. “If you kill him, you yet risk the headsman’s axe!” Eyes flashing in anger, she would have turned away from him, but he held her fast and smiled into her scowling face.
“Come, my love,” he said gently. “I have no wish to quarrel on this lovely day.” He laughed as she began to melt. “Mon Dieu! I forget at my peril the tiger that lurks behind your eyes. My head ached for days from that boot you threw!”
“Pah!” she scoffed. “Your head ached from too much wine.” But she smiled and threw her arms around his neck, kissing him firmly on the mouth. He held her tightly, lips pressed against hers, his body on fire from the touch of her hips and thighs and firm breasts, and wondered how he could wait until nightfall. “André,” she whispered against his ear, “promise me you will not try to kill Gravillac.” He felt his passion die, and he held her roughly away from him; her luminous eyes gazed at him tearfully. “I love you. Would you stain that love with ugliness and revenge? Give me your promise. I beg it of you!”
“I cannot!” he said, anguished. “Gravillac haunts me as well! I know not if I must kill him, but I shall not swear to you what promise I may not keep! Ask me no more.” Without another word, he donned doublet and sword and cloak, and set Marielle upon his horse, while he walked on ahead and led the steed through the woods. The sky was no longer blue: large clouds had begun to gather, white and billowy, but here and there was a darker hue, a stormy gray that threatened rain from far off. It seemed to Marielle that a cloud hung between her and André as well, and she sighed for the loss of their sunny day.
Marielle’s horse was ready and waiting when they returned to the village. The blacksmith’s apprentice, seeing the frown on the Gentleman’s face, took care to stay well clear of André, but he peeped surreptitiously at the beautiful Lady with the bright hair—there would be much to tell his family at supper this night! André lifted Marielle to her saddle, paid the blacksmith and mounted his own horse; then, spying the boy at the door, he tossed him a coin and grinned as the lad caught it nimbly in mid-air. Marielle moved her horse close to André’s and held out her hand in conciliation; he pressed her fingers to his lips, his eyes filled with love. There would be time later to settle their disagreement; for now, it was enough that their sun shone brightly again, though the October sky lowered threateningly.
“André, I shall not go one more league unless you promise me that we shall eat!” Marielle reined in her horse abruptly. They had ridden hard for several hours, anxious to reach Vilmorin, to avoid the rain that now seemed imminent. André knew that they had more than an hour’s ride yet, and night would soon be upon them, but Marielle looked so determined—and so hungry!—that he was reluctant to refuse her. He was close enough to home to recognize his surroundings; there was a cozy inn, he knew, but a few leagues further on where they could get a hearty meal.
“Ah,” he said with mock seriousness, “is this what it means to be married? Petticoat tyranny? Very well, wife! Come along. There is an inn not far; I shall see that you are fed.” The devil glinted in his eye. “But it will cost you dear, for I too have an appetite!”
Marielle wrinkled her nose at him, then smiled demurely. “Ah, Monsieur—alas!” she said, her eyes wide and innocent. “Is this to be my lot henceforth? That I must buy my supper with favors?” She dimpled mischievously at him and galloped off toward the inn, André in close pursuit.
The inn was set just back from the road, a small thatch-roofed cottage with shuttered gables and overhanging eaves. In front was a dusty courtyard, well-trampled by countless horses and travelers; to the left, a large stable with wide doors, and an ancient water trough, its oaken planks bleached silver by the elements. Situated as it was on a well-traveled highway, the inn never lacked patrons for food or lodging. The proprietor, with the help of his son, managed the stable and saw to the horses and occasional carriages that came to his door; the innkeeper’s wife set a fine table both for the hungry wayfarer and those who chose to spend the night in one of the rooms beneath the eaves.
The first large drops of rain had begun to fall as André and Marielle rode up before the inn. Each heavy raindrop sent up a little puff of dust as it landed on the dry courtyard—in a moment the ground was pockmarked; in another moment the pale dust became dark earth as the heavens opened up and the rain began to soak in. Dismounting quickly, André reached for Marielle and together they raced for the shelter of the inn, gratified to find a hearty fire blazing on the wide hearth. The innkeeper, who had served the Comte du Crillon in the past, bowed low in welcome before sending his son out to stable and feed the Comte’s horses. In a twinkling, steaming food appeared and, shaking off their wet garments, Marielle and André set to with relish.
At length, sighing with contentment, André leaned back in his chair and looked at Marielle. She was in the act of raising her winecup to her lips but, at his piercing stare, she stopped and lowered her eyelids, the dark lashes brushing modestly against her cheeks. Damn, he thought. In spite of the morning, he still felt awkward and nervous. They had spoken gaily and frivolously of love all the day, but he was far from certain that their lovemaking of the morning heralded a permanent change. She had been willing to please him, and he knew he had her love, but he could not forget her tension, the panic that she suppressed with difficulty. There had been magic in the silvery mists, the quiet woods; in the reality of this room, warm and cheery and ordinary, he was assailed by doubts. It seemed ironic to fi
nd himself in such a dilemma. He had wooed and seduced and persuaded countless women, never fearing or doubting the outcome; now he felt tongue-tied. Was it because she was his wife? Or because he loved her so deeply that he feared her refusal? Damn! he thought again. How does a man woo his own wife?
She finished her wine and smiled gently at him. “Think you the rain will end soon?” He shrugged but said nothing. “It has already grown dark.” He nodded, lost still in his own thoughts, averse to idle chatter. Did he imagine an edge of impatience in her voice when next she spoke? “Must we return to Vilmorin tonight?” His head snapped up and he searched her face. Her eyes smoldered with green fire, a warmth that stilled his fears and made him chuckle aloud. It always surprised him, the way she seemed to read his mind, plumb his thoughts—he should have guessed that she would sense his uneasiness. He put his hands over hers.
“Do you want to return tonight?” She shook her head, and her eyes turned to the staircase.
It seemed an eternity while he arranged for a room, and left instructions that their horses should be waiting in the courtyard an hour after sun-up, but at length, hand in hand, they made their way up the stairs, eyes only for one another, while the innkeeper and his wife beamed their approval and wished Monsieur le Comte and his Comtesse a good night.
Clothilde sniffled noisily and wiped her nose with the back of her hand, leaving a dusty streak across her face. She winced as her fingers touched the sore spot just under her right eye; hiking up her skirts, she saw that large dark bruises had already formed on her hips and thighs.
What shall I do? she thought. “What shall I do?” she wailed aloud to the dusty road, the silent trees. She sniffed again, and took a deep breath. Be not foolish, she thought. You know very well what you must do. No need to be upset. All will be well. She shifted her heavy bundle and felt a fresh twinge in her ribs; the bastard could have broken them, she thought, and wept anew. Damn the silk merchant! Who would have thought he was capable of jealousy! She had slept in a cave near Vilmorin last night, her heavy bundles clutched tightly to her: one held her clothes and the lengths of silk she meant to sew into a gown that would rival anything Paris had ever seen; the other contained a little food and the sack of gold coins wrapped tightly in an old petticoat so they would not jingle. In the morning she had come to Vouvray and knocked timidly at the door of the silk merchant. She had always known how to please him, and she meant to have a place to stay while she made her gown, gathered together what she might need for Paris and decided on the best way her money would buy her entrée to the Court. Two hundred crowns. It was a great deal of money. Far more than a simple housekeeper would be expected to have, and it made her an easy prey for thieves and cutpurses. Even one crown would arouse suspicion. She was sure that, for a small compensation, the silk merchant would be willing to hold her money and exchange it for smaller coins when she had a purchase to make.
He had greeted her coldly at the door, but she had smiled and pushed her way in, dropping her heavy bundles and rushing to throw her arms about his neck as though she had been longing to see him. To her surprise and dismay, he had slapped her face and exploded in fury, cursing her for a whore, condemning her for abandoning him after all his kindness—and bringing grief and shame to him. All Vouvray knew she had been the Comte du Crillon’s mistress—how dare she return as though nothing had happened! He had struck her again, his fist finding her eye; when she would have fallen, he had tangled his fingers in the hair atop her head, hauling her upright with such force that her feet barely touched the floor. Her hands had shot up to her head, trying to dislodge his hurtful fingers, but he had held her fast, at arm’s length, and, grasping the stout measuring stick he used for his bolts of fabric, had beaten her about the legs and thighs and buttocks while she shrieked in pain. At length he had released her, and she had dropped to the floor, sobbing. Her body ached and she despised him, but her mind was as shrewd as ever. She needed him. It was worth the price of a beating if she could stay with him for a little. Dragging herself across the floor, she had thrown her arms about his legs, promising to make amends, begging him to forgive her. She had misjudged the depth of his feelings; his towering anger was not yet spent. With an angry roar, he had kicked viciously at her, his heavy shoe finding the edge of her ribs and forcing a gasp from her lips. Then, still furious, he had cast wildly about the room until his eyes had lighted on her belongings. Hoisting one of the bundles, he had hurled it violently to the floor, spilling out bodices and skirts and her lovingly-folded lengths of silk; seizing a pair of shears that hung on the wall, he had ripped and torn and slashed all her precious things while she gaped in horror. She had lost all control then, and had snatched up another pair of shears that lay on a cutting table, cursing and screaming while she hacked at him with the sharp tool, gashing him about the arms and shoulders until he fell and lay gasping, reviling her for a madwoman. Panic-stricken, she had picked up her other bundle and fled, still clutching the bloody shears in her hand.
She sighed and sat down heavily on a tree stump. She had walked all day. Her body was sore, her feet were tired and sometimes she could not remember where she was going. She rubbed her eyes. Think. Think! Of course. Bourges. She shook her head and smiled at her own forgetfulness. That handsome Marquis from Bourges. She had met him in the spring; he had kissed her secretively in the back of the silk merchant’s shop, going so far as to invite her to stay with him at his château—but it was obvious from his worn doublet and cloak that he was far from a worthwhile catch. In the spring she had needed money as well as connections; now, with two hundred crowns as enticement, she might even be able to persuade the penniless Marquis to marry her!
Heartened, she set off down the road once again. It was only a few days’ journey and she probably had enough bread and cheese to see her to Bourges. Still, she was glad she yet had the silk merchant’s shears tucked safely into her waistband under her jacket. She had not liked the way the peasants had looked at her in the last village she had passed. She had tried to cover the bruise under her eye, and hurried quickly to the edge of town, but she had the uneasy suspicion that they knew what was in the bundle and would try to rob her if she stopped for a moment. To take out a whole crown in payment for anything would surely proclaim her newfound wealth to all who might do her ill. No. It would be best to make do with the food she had brought, and sleep in the woods on the side of the road.
It was growing dark. She was weary. Curse du Crillon and his wife. And her father. And the silk merchant. And Perrot. She felt weighted down by her troubles; they made her head hurt and her thoughts wander.
“Perrot!” she cried aloud, her voice tinged with hysteria. Don’t cry, she thought. Don’t cry. All will be well. In two days’ time she would be in Bourges—she would be safe. She would be cared for, and protected and loved. Perrot would take care of her. Perrot would be waiting in Bourges. No. No! She shook her head. Where was her mind today? What nonsense! The Marquis would be waiting, of course! She laughed aloud, a shaky giggle that hung in the still air. Why had she thought of Perrot again? It was simply that all her disappointments had made her forgetful. That was all.
It had begun to rain. Through the trees she could see a small wisp of smoke that curled up and hung against the cloud-darkened sky. She began to run, as fast as her bruises and heavy bundle would allow her; surely she could find shelter ahead. It was a small inn, just off the road; the smoke came from a stone chimney, promising a warm bed for the night. She stopped for a moment next to an ancient water trough and put down her bundle, that she might catch her breath. She glanced into the water, stirred up by the rain; the quivering reflection that stared back at her gave her pause: her hair was tangled and disheveled, her eyes swollen from weeping and there was a large purple bruise under her right eye. She looked nervously about her. How could she go into the inn? They would ask questions. They would want to know all about her. In all likelihood, they were expecting her! They were waiting for her—and the gold! No, no! She w
ould not be safe in the inn. She cast her eyes wildly about. The stable. There was a loft, she could see. No one would think to look for her there, buried among the mounds of hay. She scurried inside, her precious bundle held tight, and climbing the small ladder to the loft she was soon enveloped by the sweet grass. Sighing, she closed her eyes and slept, seeing Perrot even in her dreams.
Chapter Twenty-three
The room was small and cozy, its low ceiling and heavy beams lit by the cheerful fire that burned in the hearth; the large bed, piled high with downy pallets, crowded the tiny chamber until there was scarcely room for more than the wooden stool drawn up to the fireplace. The two gabled windows, their mullioned panes closed to the driving rain, were set into shallow recesses with small cushioned windowseats beneath. On the floor, woven rush mats scented the chamber with their sweet freshness and whispered silkily as Marielle crossed the room and placed her candle on the mantel. Ducking through the low doorway, André closed the door softly behind him, then turned to watch as Marielle perched on the stool and stripped off her shoes and stockings still damp from the rain, placing them neatly on the hearth. She smiled shyly at him. Dear André, she thought. How much she loved him. Ah Dieu! Let him be pleased with her tonight, let him find satisfaction with her body. She was not afraid of his lovemaking, for truly it was love he gave to her, but she wanted above all to make him happy, and she was not at all sure how. She had only her experiences with Gravillac to guide her, and remembering how he had chafed at her coldness, she knew suddenly that the greatest gift she could bring to André would be her warmth and compliance, her willingness to yield to his needs as a man.
She stood up and waited, passive, willing, as he crossed the room and drew her into the circle of his arms. His mouth found hers and he kissed her with an intensity that was new to her, his lips and tongue moving and tasting and exploring, sending ripples of feeling through her body, a strange flame that flickered deep within her. Breathless, she clung to him, wanting the flame never to die; but he held her away from him and stepped back, smiling at her with eyes that smoldered and glowed black in the dim light. Slowly he began to undress her, his hands so soft and gentle that she shivered at his touch and the flame within her flared anew. His fingers lingered on every button, traced the line of her collarbone, brushed the velvet curves of her shoulders. Trembling, she closed her eyes and let her head fall back, filled with strange sensations, a kind of impatience she could hardly fathom; his deliberate slowness was an exquisite torture, every inch of her body awakening to new and astonishing feelings. When at last she stood naked before him, her skin glowing in the firelight, he bent his head to her breasts, his lips caressing their soft roundness; she swayed against him, the breath catching in her throat, and gave herself over to the flames that rose and surged within her, racing through her body like tongues of fire.
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