He sat lolling at the table, a catlike smile on his handsome features, his body seeming relaxed and at ease, but the hand that held the weapon gleamed white from the fierceness of his grip. Molbert, likewise armed, moved out of the shadows and came to stand at the foot of the staircase, pointing his pistol upward toward André’s breast. André recognized Tapié and Barrault, who stood somewhat apart, swords at the ready, their faces mirroring their uncertainty at this dubious venture. In a corner huddled the innkeeper and his family, kept to obedience by the nobles’ men-at-arms. Gravillac laughed softly, his eyes glittering with malice; he inclined his head politely in André’s direction.
“Monsieur le Comte. And his fair Comtesse! You are late abed this day, although”—and here his lascivious eyes swept Marielle—“one can hardly reproach you for that! No, Monsieur,” he added, as André, his face contorted, reached for his sword, “I should not move were I in your boots. Molbert would like nothing better than to put a pistol ball through you.” André cursed silently, remembering his own pistol, useless to him now, still in his saddlebag.
“How fortunate we were,” continued Gravillac, “to have chosen this very place to feed and water our horses.” He nodded toward the courtyard through the open door. “Had we not seen the crest upon your saddles, we should have wasted half the day riding to Vilmorin! You have saved us a tedious journey.” He smiled again, fully in command, enjoying the look of consternation on André’s face. Rising languidly to his feet, he brandished the pistol. “Now, Madame,” he said to Marielle, “bearing in mind that if Molbert does not shoot your husband, I am prepared to do so, please be so good as to come down the stairs to me!” Trembling, Marielle hesitated, her hand plucking at André’s sleeve; Molbert took a menacing step forward and raised his pistol.
“Wait!” cried Marielle. Reluctantly she left André’s side and made her way down the rest of the stairs, stopping at the bottom to look back at him, taking courage from his fearless gaze. She crossed to Gravillac and cringed as he slipped his arm smoothly about her supple waist, drawing her toward him. The pistol in his other hand was pointed squarely at André, who stood rigid, one hand still on the pommel of his sword, the other clenched tight in fury.
“My dear Comtesse, I have missed you,” said Gravillac silkily. “Can it be possible that you have grown lovelier yet since last I saw you? Ah, Crillon, I envy the pleasures you have stolen from me! But we shall make things right again. Yes,” he said, pulling Marielle closer until she stood in front of him, her back held firmly against his chest by the strong arm about her waist. “We shall make things right!”
“Hold!” cried Tapié, looking wildly from Gravillac to Barrault. “There were rumors…stories from Paris…a wife abducted…ma foi! She was the woman, wasn’t she? Wasn’t she, Renard?”
Gravillac laughed dryly. “I am surprised it took you so long to remember that!”
Barrault’s face darkened. “Curse you, Gravillac! You meant only to have the woman! All that talk about revenge and duels—a lie, merely to mollify us!”
“Au contraire, my good friends! While it is true that I intended the lovely lady to comfort me in my exile, it is equally true that—as a grieving widow—she will need my comfort likewise!” Almost casually he slid his hand upward until he grasped the firm roundness of Marielle’s breast; she flinched, feeling panic rising within her, and looked desperately to André. His face was cold and hard, but a muscle worked fiercely in his cheek; he kept his rage in check by the greatest effort of will. She realized suddenly that Gravillac was deliberately trying to goad André, to force him into some foolish action that would justify his shooting him. Fighting back her tears, she smiled bravely at her husband; she held the smile even while Gravillac, his eyes glittering wickedly, leaned down and kissed her on the neck. André’s face betrayed not a flicker of emotion, and his voice, when he spoke, was calm and controlled.
“Are we to duel at last, then, Gravillac? Shall I have the pleasure of skewering you like the pig you are, and leaving you for the jackals?”
“A pistol ball will do just as well, I think. I would not wish any trifling scratches to disturb me when I take your wife to bed!”
“No!” cried Barrault angrily. “To shoot him would be murder! I must insist upon a duel!”
Gravillac jerked his head toward Molbert, who immediately turned his pistol upon Barrault and Tapié. He laughed maliciously. “I think you will find it easier to agree to my plans now, gentlemen. There are two balls in that pistol, and Molbert is a good shot. And when all is said and done, what does it matter? Whether I shoot Monsieur le Comte or run him through with my rapier—in half an hour, we shall be on our way to Spain, having accomplished that for which we came to Touraine.” His left arm clasped Marielle more firmly, and he slowly raised the pistol in his other hand. “And I shall have this lovely creature as my reward and comfort.”
“Are you a coward as well as a villain?” said André with contempt. “Or are you so enamoured of winning that you dare not risk failure?” He laughed shortly as Gravillac reddened in anger, and pressed his advantage. “But you have failed already, for you could not keep my wife save under lock and key! ’Tis a pity you can not hear the things she has told me of you—when we laugh together!” André’s piercing glance caught and held Marielle’s eye, as Gravillac shook with fury and the pistol wavered in his hand. With a sudden movement Marielle stamped her heel down heavily upon Gravillac’s foot and smashed her right elbow into the hand that held the pistol; he grunted in pain and surprise, his hand flying upward. The weapon discharged, sending the shot thudding into a ceiling beam. At the same moment André vaulted over the banister, his heavy boots crashing violently into Molbert’s head and shoulders, knocking the pistol from his grasp and sending the man flying. Barrault leaped toward Gravillac and wrested the pistol out of his hand before he had the chance to fire the second shot; Tapié had already recovered Molbert’s weapon and tucked it into his sash. Marielle fled to André’s side; he smiled at her briefly, then pushed her gently behind him and, drawing his sword, saluted Gravillac.
“And now, my dear Marquis, shall we proceed?”
“André, no!” cried Marielle. “Not for vengeance! I would not have his blood on your hands—and you in exile—or worse! He is not worth it!” He scowled angrily at her and motioned her away; Gravillac, confronted by the persuasion of his own friends, armed and insistent, shrugged and drew his own sword from its scabbard.
It was Gravillac who attacked first, his rapier blade flashing. André parried neatly, taking his time, gauging the degree of his opponent’s skill. He was content to let Gravillac take the initiative, blocking the murderous thrusts, countering each flash of the sword with a deft parry, holding his ground against each new stratagem. Damn! Gravillac was good in the attack. But could he defend?
With a sudden lunge, André thrust forward, arm and wrist and blade as one; Gravillac fell back for an instant, then recovered himself and countered the swift attack, smiling as his sword turned aside André’s rapier thrust.
“If you are to keep your wife, Crillon, you shall have to do better than that!” His black eyes shone with malice. André increased the speed of his sword; the smile faded from Gravillac’s face, but still he blocked that lightning blade. André pressed forward with nimble strokes, seeking the advantage; each time Gravillac was able to anticipate his moves and fend off the murderous steel. They were too well-matched. Marielle leaned against the staircase, her hand to her bosom, as the minutes ticked by. The room was deathly still save for the sounds of steel clashing against steel, and the rasping intake of breath as the struggle dragged on and on. André measured his adversary—there had to be another way. Gravillac fought fiercely, his eyes burning with intensity, his emotions precariously close to the surface; by contrast, he, André, was cool and calculating, even when death awaited a misstep. Perhaps he could use Gravillac’s weakness against him. He launched a fresh attack, driving Gravillac back toward the open door, his advan
ce sure, his blade dazzling in its thrusts. A sudden flash and a line of crimson appeared on Gravillac’s cheek; another flash and Gravillac stumbled backwards into the courtyard, André in close pursuit. He saluted Gravillac with his sword, giving him a moment to recover his footing; the Marquis was purple with rage at such condescension. To André’s surprise, however, the man’s anger, rather than blunting his skills, seemed to focus his energies, his wrath fueling a renewed onslaught withstood only by all of André’s adroitness.
Barrault and the others had followed them out into the sunny courtyard. André regretted that Marielle had not remained within; it would be far easier to do that which he had in mind without her worried eyes upon him. And he knew exactly what must be done. Gravillac was a man who needed to win; ferocious in defeat, he might be careless in victory. André lunged. Gravillac’s return thrust, a finely executed parry and riposte, was low and aimed straight for the armpit; André saw it coming and sidestepped, warding off the blow with his rapier, his movements a fraction of a second slower than they might have been. Deflected from the vulnerable ribcage, the tip of Gravillac’s blade pierced the soft flesh of André’s upper arm; he gasped audibly, his face showing the pain. Marielle stifled a cry, her hand to her mouth. Damn! he thought. It was far more difficult to play the role with her watching and suffering. Gravillac had begun to smile again, and pressed the attack, glad to see André’s implacable gaze replaced by a worried frown. Though he still seemed to fight with the same intensity and skill, André was now being slowly driven back, retreating with every fresh offensive, back and back, his sword repelling Gravillac’s with greater and greater difficulty.
The Marquis laughed exultantly, tasting victory. “You should have let me shoot him, Madame!” he cried to Marielle. “It would have been less painful for you to watch!” With a shout, he lunged recklessly, one leg far outstretched. It was the opening for which André had been waiting: a quick jerk of his wrist, a flash of steel, and Gravillac’s sword was caught on his point and sent flying. The momentum of Gravillac’s thrust had carried him forward, his balance precarious from the lengthy stride; now he slipped to one knee—and found the point of André’s rapier at his throat.
Gravillac’s eyes, black and full of hatred, still showed no fear as he waited for the final blow—there were worse ways to die than in an honorable duel, even if Crillon had tricked him into carelessness. For his part, André would have thrust the point of his blade into the man’s throat, and exulted as the lifeblood poured out of him, but something made him stop and look toward Marielle. He knew suddenly that their happiness together depended on the staying of his hand, and he waited for her decision. She came quickly to his side, her eyes searching his, and then looked scornfully down at Gravillac, still kneeling in the dust. She felt nothing but disgust and contempt; her lip curled with loathing, she spat full upon his face. She turned then to André with an air of weary finality; he sheathed his sword and led her away, nestling her in his comforting embrace.
Gravillac went mad then, the rage exploding behind his eyes. His face glistening with sweat and spittle, he scrambled to his feet. Snatching up his sword from where it had fallen, he flew at André’s retreating back, the rapier clutched tightly in both his hands and upraised like a huge dagger. The innkeeper shouted to André, who whirled, pushing Marielle swiftly behind him; Barrault and Tapié leapt at Gravillac, grasping his arms so violently that the sword clattered to the ground.
“Nom de Dieu, Renard!” cried Barrault. “It was a fair fight! Have you forgotten we are gentlemen? He spared your life! He had that right! Would you repay him with treachery? Come, come,” he cajoled, as Gravillac took a great gasping breath and fought to regain his self-control. “She is his wife, and only a woman, after all. Think of the beauties in Spain! Come away!” He motioned for Tapié and Molbert and the rest to mount their horses, then indicated the black stallion, nervously pawing the ground. “See? Your horse awaits. Spain awaits. We have no further business here. Come away!”
Gravillac hesitated, struggling to recover his pride; he wiped his face and even managed to swagger a little as he made for his horse. A shrill cry stopped him, a voice that froze him in his tracks.
“Perrot!”
Perrot. It was the name he had used many times in the past to keep his father from learning of his escapades. Perrot. He turned slowly.
“Mon Dieu! Perrot, is it you?” Clothilde stood in the stable doorway, her eyes wild, her voice sharp with hysteria. He could not even remember her name—just some woman he had known. He looked at her with contempt: the flying hair, hay-covered, her face red and blotchy, the veins distended in her neck. She was disgusting. For a second, regret clutching at his vitals, he allowed himself a glance at Marielle, serene and beautiful in the warm shelter of André’s love, then turned back to Clothilde with a sneering laugh.
“What? Petite mouche? Little fly, would you buzz around my ears? Did I not show you the world, merchant’s daughter? Was I not generous enough?” He felt suddenly weary, deflated, defeated. With a tired sigh, he turned away. “Molbert, give the wench a few sous and let us be on our way.” He sheathed his sword and reached for the stallion’s reins.
With a demonic shriek, Clothilde leapt toward his turned back, seeming almost to fly through the air; hands upraised, she plunged the pointed shears between his shoulder blades. He turned slightly, his face mirroring his shock and astonishment, like a disappointed, wondering child. He staggered. “But…mouche—” he gurgled, his voice low and choked. Stumbling, he clutched at his horse, reaching desperately for the reins; instead, his clawing fingers found and held the poor animal’s ear. The black stallion snorted in terror as Gravillac’s other hand pulled savagely at the bit, tearing the animal’s mouth. With a half-turn toward Marielle, standing in shock and awe, Renard de Gravillac smiled, coughed and fell lifeless against his horse, his fist still clasping the bit, his body tangled in the reins.
Clothilde, distraught and remorseful, began to scream wildly then, her voice high and shrill. “Ah no, Mon amour! Ah, Dieu!” and ran frantically toward Gravillac. The highstrung horse, already terrified, was now beside himself; her sudden movement and screams unnerved him completely. As she rushed over, the stallion reared up—Gravillac still caught in the harness—and struck out fiercely with his forelegs. The lethal hooves flashed once, twice, and Clothilde lay dead upon the ground, blood pouring from a gaping wound in her skull.
“André, keep still! Nom de Dieu! What shall I do with you?” Marielle perched on her knees on the big bed at Vilmorin, André seated by her side. Frowning in concentration, she fumbled with fresh bandages while a shirtless André fidgeted and twisted, more concerned with planting kisses on Marielle’s soft neck than in having his wound tended.
“It is healing well, my love. I see not why you must continue to tend it. ’Twas a trifling wound to begin with!” André laughed wickedly, surveying his bare chest and arms. “But then the healing arts give a maid a nice excuse to strip a man mother-naked! Was your father teaching you to be a doctor—or to snare a husband?”
“Wicked knave!” she cried, and gently cuffed the side of his head. Her green eyes narrowed, a tantalizing smile upon her red lips. “Besides, you above all should know a woman has other wiles to catch a man—I scarce needed Gravillac’s swordpoint to lure you to my bed in midday!” She laughed gaily, her voice a silver bell, and planted a kiss firmly on André’s shoulder. “No. I think rather that you enjoy being nursed—you shall never convince me that you did not allow him to strike you!”
André looked thoughtful as Marielle finished binding his arm and sat back on her heels. “Perhaps,” he said pensively. “They say the sight of blood will enrage a bull—it seemed a fitting trap for a viper.” They were both silent for a moment.
“Poor Clothilde,” said Marielle suddenly.
André looked at her in surprise. “You can pity her? She meant you naught but harm, from the moment I brought you to Vilmorin—though I was too much the foo
l to see it.”
“Poor André!” laughed Marielle. “To have been deceived so easily!”
He shook his head ruefully. “It disquiets a man to the very core. If marriage had not cured my wandering, Clothilde surely would have. Such deceit! And still you pity her?”
“She brought me heartache, but she had her own secret griefs. God grant her tormented soul peace at last. I am glad you gave the gold to the innkeeper.”
He frowned. “I could not have taken it back…tainted coins…” He fell silent, filled with remorse. “She took advantage of my grief, true enough…but I was a willing party to her schemes.” He sighed deeply.
Marielle smiled gently in sympathy. “Think you that the King can trust Tapié and Barrault, now that you have persuaded them to return to their estates?”
“I shall speak in their behalf, certainly. If France goes to war, Louis will need every sword and loyal noble in the kingdom. It was Gravillac’s poison that was sending them in desperation to Spain. Without him, they will, I trust, make their peace with the King. But enough! I would hardly have left Grisaille and the wine to sit here and talk to you of politics and war!” His eyes glowed clear and blue and warm; one strong hand went about her waist, the other deftly pulled the pins from her coiled hair, releasing the luxuriant masses. The blue eyes clouded suddenly, as though remembering a nagging thought. “Tell me,” he asked suddenly, “why did you risk your life at the inn? When you knocked the pistol from Gravillac’s hand?”
“But…I thought you wanted…you gave me such an odd look…”
“I meant for you only to get out of the way!”
Marielle looked surprised, then dimpled prettily. “Can I not sometimes rescue you from evil men?”
He drew her toward him, his fingers caressing her downy cheek and tracing the line of her chin. She trembled at his touch. “I need only your love, ma chère,” he said softly, “for you have reached a place in my heart I thought barren and empty.” He tipped up her chin and kissed her gently, while his hands moved insistently upon her shoulders and back and heaving breasts, and she shivered in anticipation.
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