In the morning he was haggard, his dark eyes ringed with darker circles. Ninon felt a pang of guilt. He had obviously believed her. Not that she had completely set aside her anger. But she had used him cruelly, more so than he deserved, tormenting him with his own demons, his own doubts, when she might have put his fears to rest with a few words. She resolved to do him a kindness, to ease the sting of her spite.
It was a sunny morning, mild for the end of September; she set out upon the road to Vézelay, some three leagues distant. Valentin had been promising himself some plain collars and cuffs to wear with the flannel shirts they had bought from the peddlar. But he complained constantly of the bother of separate pieces that must forever be tied on, particularly with an everyday shirt. Ninon proposed to seek out the finest linen draper and lace seller in Vézelay. She would buy some holland cloth for neckbands and wristbands, and attach them directly to the shirts, then edge them with lace and frost them with her most delicate embroidery. And when it was done, he might find it difficult to thank her, but he would know, at least, that she meant it for a peace offering.
Vézelay was a small town set against a hill. She found suitable holland at her first stop; then, at the draper’s direction, she climbed the hill—the narrow cobbled streets crowded with children and carts and pilgrims—to find the lace seller. Emerging with her small packages, she hesitated, then followed the street to the crest of the hill and the splendid church that sprawled at its summit: Sainte-Madeleine, with its relics of the Magdalen, the mecca of Christian pilgrims for five hundred years.
Ninon untied the light kerchief that she wore about her shoulders and draped it over her head, then passed through the open doors to the narthex—the entrance hall—with its three arched portals leading into the church proper. She looked up. The main portal was crowned with a magnificent carving of Christ enthroned, surrounded by his Apostles. Around this central scene were grouped strange and exotic people, the lame and the leprous, heathens and disbelievers, sinners and knaves—all those to whom the Gospels were to be carried for their salvation. She sighed heavily. Was there, among these tortured and unsaved souls, an actor or two?
Feeling like an infidel, she crossed herself quickly and passed through to the nave. The church was bright and airy, its high vaulted ceiling illumined by a series of arched windows along the length of both aisles. It was an old church, older than the one at Reims, where Ninon had so often prayed in that last year before her mother had died. Reims had been tall and majestic, with pointed arches and stone tracery and stained-glass windows; Sainte-Madeleine had heavy, rounded arches of alternating pink and gray stone, and a simplicity and serenity that reached out to Ninon’s troubled heart. She sank to her knees on the stone floor, her hands clasped together. Would le bon Dieu hear the prayers of an outcast? It was fitting that she should pray in the church of the Magdalen, the redeemed whore. Perhaps there was more forgiveness in the Magdalen’s church.
She looked up. Across the aisle was a woman with two children. Her face was shiny and scrubbed, and her neat white apron and starched cap were spotless. A fine bourgeois housewife. A woman of respectability. Sweet Madonna, thought Ninon, her heart tearing at her. She should have stayed at Marival, married Mathieu Couteau, and raised his children. There was no happiness in this world, not since the days of her father and Bellefleur, but at least she would have had a home, repute, stability. All the things that were denied her now. She bowed her head, feeling the scalding tears on her cheeks, the sweet memories of her lost childhood filling her thoughts.
She spent the afternoon sewing the collars and cuffs onto the shirts, seated at the window that overlooked the courtyard of de Brinon’s château. Valentin had joined her after dinner, pulling out pen and ink to work on a play he was adapting from an old Spanish novella. Peace had been declared with a few rueful smiles and searching looks, and now they worked in companionable silence, each with his own thoughts. Occasionally Valentin would stretch and rise from his chair, coming to look over Ninon’s shoulder and admire her skill with the needle.
“You sew a fine seam,” he said.
“Thank you. ’Tis not so remarkable. Every woman knows how to sew.”
“But not like that. You must have had a skillful teacher.”
“My mother,” she said, then turned away, unwilling to share more with him. She looked out the window, pretending to take an interest in the doings outside. The Marquis de Brinon was putting one of his daughters up on a pony, giving her reassurances as he handed her the reins. Ninon sighed, her heart still heavy from her thoughts of the morning. He would teach his newborn son to ride someday, and his son would teach his son, and on into an unbroken future. But the Peerless Theatre Company would play tonight and be gone tomorrow, moving on to the next town, and the next—a band of gypsies with no home. The scene in the courtyard misted as her eyes filled with tears. She let her sewing fall into her lap.
“What would he be doing now?” Valentin asked gently.
She looked down at her hands. “He always liked to gather the children around him after dinner and tell stories of his exploits on the battlefield.”
“Philippe?”
“What?” She looked up, bewildered, her eyes sparkling with tears.
“I said…Philippe?”
She frowned. Philippe? Her father? Which one had she seen in her mind’s eye, laughing as she begged him to tell just one more story? She looked away. She had said too much, revealed too much already. Valentin was an intruder.
“Put up your sewing,” he said. He lifted the shirt from her lax fingers and set it on the table, then pulled her to her feet. He undressed her gently, his hands tender and careful, and carried her to the bed. She watched as he pulled off his own clothes, admiring the beauty of his body, but feeling strangely unmoved. There was too much pain in her heart today. He lowered himself to the bed and kissed her softly; she tried desperately to respond to him, needing the oblivion of hot passion. It was no use. She felt like a coiled spring about to snap.
He sat up and looked at her, his eyes warm with understanding. Without a word he pulled her over onto her stomach and began to massage her back, his fingers easing the tense muscles.
“People who love are fools,” he said. “’Tis better not to love.” His hands found the tight knot at the back of her neck, working at it until she felt the spring unwinding. “Yet I cannot but admire your folly. You love Philippe truly, for all the grief it brings you. Forgive me if I think he is not worthy of your love.”
“Why should you care?” she said, her words muffled by the pillow. “You are Sanscoeur, the heartless one.”
“Even a man with no heart can feel pity when love becomes a torment.”
That was why he had been so kind to Colombe, she thought. What a strange man. She sighed. His strong hands had begun to roam more freely over her body, caressing her shoulders and arms, the backs of her legs, the smooth roundness of her buttocks. She twitched, feeling her senses stirring, the hot desire rising within her. When he prodded her gently, she rolled over onto her back, welcoming his love-making, the sweet comfort of his kisses. He had never been so tender to her, his mouth warm and undemanding, his body rousing her to a gentle climax that drained away the griefs and bitterness of the morning.
Even after his body had stilled, he held her tightly, his arms about her, soft fingers pushing back the copper curls from her forehead. “Sleep for a little,” he murmured. “There’s time enough before the performance tonight.”
She moaned softly and burrowed more deeply into his arms, vaguely aware (before sleep overtook her) of his firm flesh, the pleasant, masculine smell of his body. She drifted off and dreamed of her father at Bellefleur, the children wide-eyed around him as he told the tales of his battle service.
Chapter Ten
“Dammit, Ninon, I don’t know why you cannot remember the lines!”
Ninon glared at Valentin, who was pacing like a tiger about the bedchamber of the inn, and threw herself off the be
d where she had been sitting with Toinette and Hortense. “It’s cold in here,” she grumbled, stalking to the fireplace and holding out her hands to its warmth.
“’Tis colder outside—but the play must be learned before tomorrow’s presentation!”
Ninon sighed. She was tired. They had spent the last month traveling between Vézelay and Nevers, playing in the small towns along the way. She was exhausted from the pace—always on the move, always a new theater to set up, another rowdy audience, another official to bribe.
And the cold. The weather had turned sharply, with a steady drizzle day and night that made her bones ache. No matter how quickly she hurried from the theater, her clothes always seemed damp, her shoes cold and wet. The weather had kept the audiences at home, the theaters relatively empty save for the local cavaliers who came more to socialize—flirt with the women, mock the players—than to see a performance. Business was slow, the actors’ supply of reserve money dwindling. That, and the weather, had made the whole company quarrelsome. Their nightly meetings for supper and sociability—in her and Val’s bedchamber—had become battlegrounds for them all.
“I’m sorry, Val,” said Ninon, rubbing a hand over her eyes. “The cold makes me sleepy.”
He put his arm around her. “Sit here by the fire, then. Sébastien, pour another cup of wine for Ninon.”
“Yes, Sébastien!” Hortense’s voice was sharp. “Show how kind you are to the ladies. Tell me, is Ninon as charming as that baggage you were making sweet eyes at during the performance this afternoon?”
“You might as well be civil, Hortense,” Sébastien said coldly. “I don’t intend to go out on such a foul night, even for rouge et noir. Though I’d much prefer a game of cards, I’ll settle for you.”
Ninon shook her head as Hortense shrieked in outrage and stormed off to her bedchamber. She was becoming as indifferent as were the others to the constant bickering of Sébastien and Hortense. Once she had feared that their passion could not survive the quarrels; now she was beginning to suspect that they quarreled with each other to whet their passion. Indeed, the nights when they shouted most loudly—their voices rising in shrill acrimony—invariably led to mornings with smiles and tender kisses.
Marc-Antoine looked up from the table. “Don’t go out, Pierre,” he said.
The boy turned from the door, his face an ugly sneer, and gestured obscenely at Marc-Antoine.
“I implore you,” said Marc-Antoine.
“Let the little devil go,” Sébastien said kindly. “He is not worth your grief.”
Marc-Antoine drew himself up proudly. “Please be so good as to keep your own counsel, Monsieur Duvet.”
“Dieu du ciel!” exclaimed Chanteclair. “Are you two still quarreling?”
“I’m willing to make my peace,” said Sébastien. “I’m tired of singing alone. What say you?”
Marc-Antoine looked anxiously about the room. While they had been talking, Pierre had quietly slipped away. Marc-Antoine struggled to hide his dismay. “Plague take you, you shittlehead,” he said with a sniff. “There is no forgiveness in my heart.”
Colombe turned from the window, where she had been sitting quietly with Jamie. “You pitiful wretch. You spleenish old woman,” she said to Marc-Antoine. “Stop making your foolish noises and go and see if your godchild is hungry. If she is, feed her a bit of porridge—the bratling has quite sucked me dry.”
Not that Colombe cared, thought Ninon, her anger rising within her. She and Jamie had become lovers this past month—two selfish, unpleasant people, and never better matched. It would be a miracle if Marie-Anne did not die, Colombe was so neglectful. As for Jamie, he played his parts with ill grace, collected the money due him, and spoke openly of his desire to be quit of the company as soon as he had enough gold to take him to Italy.
Valentin turned to Chanteclair. “Will you take the provost to supper tomorrow?”
Chanteclair nodded. “But I think we would be better served in the matter of our permits were you to take the provost’s wife to supper. She is the real power in this village, I am given to understand. Her father was a maréchal of France. And she finds you attractive. She made a point of conveying her desires to her maidservant, who informed our innkeeper, who in turn informed the serving wench who has been warming my bed this week.”
“Ah, ah, ah!” laughed Ninon, pinching Valentin’s cheek. “Were you making sweet eyes at her this afternoon?”
“’Tis scarcely a joking matter,” growled Valentin. “What’s to be done?”
“Oh!” Ninon cast her eyes heavenward. “I’ll tell you what’s to be done, you great sour-face! You shall take her to supper. If you only eat two courses, and gobble your food quickly, you should be able to remain pleasant. About a quarter of an hour is his limit for charm, wouldn’t you say, Chanteclair?”
“Indeed. I often think…” Chanteclair stopped and looked up. The boy Pierre was standing in the doorway, rain dripping from his hat and doublet. “Back so soon?”
“Where’s Marc-Antoine?”
“With Colombe’s baby.”
Valentin scowled at the boy. “Don’t tell me there’s a spark of pity in that twisted soul of yours.”
Pierre shrugged. “He didn’t give me enough money.” Turning on his heel, he went to find Marc-Antoine.
Valentin sighed. “There is more evil done in this world in the name of love.” He poured himself another glass of wine. “Now, what am I to do about the provost’s wife?”
“I thought we were agreed,” said Chanteclair. “You will sup with her, flatter her. You might even manage a kiss or two.”
Ninon giggled. “And I won’t be jealous…as you are of me.”
“Once for all,” he said, his voice rumbling with anger, “I am not jealous!”
“What about the charming chevalier at Guérigny? The one you nearly brained?”
Chanteclair chuckled. “True enough. And the alderman…the one with the red beard…the one you sat up half the night cursing?”
Valentin puffed with annoyance and folded his arms across his chest. “If I find it a source of disgust that Ninon manages to attract every beetle-headed, crack-brained whoreson of a knave who ever drew breath, ’tis not the same as jealousy! I swear the jade sparkles upon the stage just to lure them on!”
Chanteclair twinkled at Ninon. “The jade grows more beautiful with each passing day.”
“Thank you, monsieur.” She suppressed a smile.
“I see you two will have your sport at my expense,” grumbled Valentín.
“Only to coax a smile from you,” said Ninon, kissing him on the cheek. She was growing quite used to his ways, learning to ignore the gruff manner that he used for protection, to twit him out of it if she could. And to shun the black humors she could not reach. She would never have believed how comforting it was to sleep with him. Even when he was asleep, his arm reached out to hold her, to pull her close. Then it was that the dark did not seem so lonely, nor the future—without her beloved Philippe—so bleak and empty.
They sat quietly for an hour or so, while the rain fell steadily outside and the fire crackled on the hearth. Toinette, Joseph, and Sébastien reclined on the bed and told stories. Jamie and Colombe, sitting by the window, could not keep their hands off each other, and their soft whisperings were punctuated now and again by a little squeal of pleasure from Colombe as Jamie’s fingers found a vulnerable spot. Her chair pulled close to the warmth of the fire, Ninon practiced her lines with the help of Chanteclair and Val.
There was a noise at the door. “Name of God!” Ninon looked up in horror to see Marc-Antoine standing there. He was drenched to the skin, his face and clothing oozing with thick mud that blended with the blood from a gaping cut on his cheek. His eye was half swollen shut, and his jaw was puffy and blue with bruises. He staggered across the room and fell into a chair as the players rushed to him.
“I’ll go for a surgeon,” said Joseph, throwing a cloak about his shoulders.
“Ge
t him out of his wet things and bring him to the bed,” said Ninon.
“Carefully…carefully…” gasped Marc-Antoine, clutching at his ribs. He winced in pain as they stripped off his doublet, and had to be fortified with a glass of wine before they could remove his shirt. His fleshy torso was covered with bruises and red welts, and the fingers of one hand were mangled and bloody.
“Good God, man, what happened?” Valentin picked up Marc-Antoine like a baby and carried him to the bed, depositing him gently against the pillows.
Marc-Antoine closed his eyes and leaned back, his face twisted with pain. “Pierre.”
“That rascally whoreson! I’ll kill him!”
Marc-Antoine sighed and opened his eyes, smiling thinly at Ninon, who, basin and sponge in hand, was attempting to clean the blood and filth from his face. “No, Val. He’s long gone.”
“But what happened?”
“When I was with Marie-Anne…he came to ask for more money. I took him to our room…showed him I had nothing left. He said he was leaving me. He wrapped up his own things, then took most of mine as well.” Marc-Antoine blinked back his tears, venturing a note of bravado in his voice. “He even took my fine hat. The one with the plumes. He fancies it will make an actor of him when he joins a new company.”
Colombe laughed in mockery. “It never made an actor of you, you cabotin—you ham actor! Useless as an actor, useless as a man, and now…by the devil’s shittlecock, you cannot even keep your tapette lover!”
Sébastien reached her before Valentin did, his hand lashing out to strike her to the ground. He whirled to Jamie. “Take that stupid slut out of here before I kill her!”
Jamie hesitated, weighing the possibility of defending Colombe’s honor, then shrugged. She wasn’t worth taking on the whole roomful of men. He helped her to her feet and led her away sobbing.
Sébastien crossed to the bed and held out a tentative hand to Marc-Antoine, his eyes questioning.
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