The King's Daughter

by Suzanne Martel

  “Her name is Zeanne and she’s beautiful.”

  “Look, sir,” cried Nicolas, punching the ball with his fist.

  The young father put down his weapon and sat the little girl on his knee. He examined the doll seriously and had her tell him the long story of its manufacture. Little by little, Nicolas, more daring, came closer.

  “My dog’s name is Miraud,” he said. Then the child mustered his courage and mumbled, “May I look at your gun, sir?”

  Busying herself over her pot, Jeanne followed the events, a smile on her lips.

  When Simon came in to eat an hour later, he lifted Nicolas up in his arms. The little boy, proud as punch, hung the musket on the rack near the door all by himself. As soon as his father set him on the ground, he ran over to Jeanne.

  “Mama, Papa is going to take me into the forest tomorrow. And later Miraud is going to be a hunting dog. Isn’t that what you said, Papa?”

  “An excellent hunting dog, no doubt about it. Probably the best in Canada and maybe in all of New France.”

  Laboriously, Isabelle explained, “Sir Papa, he’s going to make a cradle for Zeanne with boards, and it’ll rock and Zeanne will go to sleep and...”

  Over the children’s heads, Simon and Jeanne exchanged the amused glance of indulgent parents.

  The young woman rejoiced. Her cabin in the woods had become a happy home, the home of Jeanne de Rouville, king’s daughter and mistress of the manor.

  21

  DURING A family stroll in the surrounding forest, Miraud flushed out a partridge.

  Nicolas, a lively child, ran ahead of them, exclaiming, “Look, the bird is hurt. Its wing is dragging and it’s walking all crooked.”

  Simon was a hunter who appreciated the value of any game he saw, and he had already shouldered his gun.

  Jeanne gently turned the muzzle of the gun aside. “Don’t shoot, Simon. It’s a poor mother protecting her little ones by pretending she’s hurt. She deserves to have her life spared. She’s a heroine.”

  “How do you know that?” asked Simon, who persisted in thinking his young wife was a townswoman.

  “When I was young I learned that from my grandfather who was a poa...I mean a hunter like you. Look, children, the little partridges are hidden here. Let’s leave them in peace.”

  A conscientious teacher, she explained the mother partridge’s clever trick to the fascinated children. She walked down the path, holding Nicolas and Isabelle by the hand, and captivated them with her well-told story. Simon followed her, shaking his head. His second wife never ceased to amaze him.

  Walking along a barely visible path, they stopped near an enormous tree that towered over all the others. To have room to grow, it was not adverse to choking or crowding out its neighbours.

  Simon pointed it out. “That’s the old giant, the biggest oak in the forest.”

  Adjusting his musket on his shoulder, the hunter stretched out his arms, made a leap and caught hold of a branch. Pulling himself up agilely, he hoisted himself into the tree. They watched his leather-clad figure disappear higher and higher between the bare branches.

  Craning her neck, Jeanne asked, “Why are you climbing? Is that your chateau?”

  Childhood souvenirs crowded her memory. Perhaps even serious adults needed a land of dreams.

  The lord’s distant voice reached them. “It’s an excellent observation post. From the top I can see both sides of the river.”

  He came down rapidly, with sure movements, bombarding them with broken twigs.

  Like an expert, the young wife observed his manoeuvres. Nose in the air she said admiringly, “You climb well for your age.”

  Simon stopped short and contemplated her there at his feet. “What do you take me for, your father?” he protested.

  Candidly, Jeanne let herself be carried away once again by her indiscreet tongue. “Not all forty-year-old men can climb so fast,” she stated with conviction.

  “Forty years old?”

  As if in shock, Simon let himself slide down, straddling a branch. Incredulous, he repeated, “Forty years old? Where did you hear that I’m forty years old?”

  Jeanne regretted her remark. Too late, she realized she must have wounded him. And she’d even sworn to herself never to refer to their age difference.

  Leaning over her, Rouville repeated, “Who told you that?”

  “Carrot-Top did. He didn’t say that exactly, but he told me you were building forts in 1665 and that you were a captain. Hubert de Bretonville is a captain and he’s more than forty. So...I thought...”

  Embarrassed, she stammered and fell silent.

  Like a cat, Simon jumped down beside her. He looked at her, head bent, fists on his hips.

  “Madame made clever calculations. Madame drew conclusions. You silly little thing. I was a captain in the Canadian militia, not in the army. And in New France we’re not very old when responsibilities are thrust on us. I’m old, that’s true, older than you. I’m thirty-two years old, not forty.”

  With great dignity he turned and strode away, pursued by Jeanne and the children. From time to time they heard him mutter, “Forty years old. An old husband. Imagine that!”

  For the hundredth but not the last time in her life, Jeanne resolved to hold her tongue and turn it around a good number of times in her mouth before speaking.

  Just the same, she was happy to have made a mistake in her calculations. Simon was much younger than she had thought. That meant they would be together longer. She would have to tell him that, whisper it in his ear that evening. That would console him.

  Her peace of mind restored, careless Jeanne recovered her good mood and whistled like a bird.

  Simon, still surly, turned around brusquely. A lady whistling?

  “Where did you learn to do that?”

  “To imitate birds? My grandfather showed me. I have all sorts of hidden talents.”

  He was beginning to suspect as much. That’s exactly what was worrying Monsieur de Rouville. For the past few weeks, his life had been more full of the unexpected than on an expedition to Huronia.

  22

  ON A DULL day at the beginning of November, a canoe passed on the river, and its passengers hailed Simon, who was cutting wood in front of the house. Picking up the rifle next to him, he went down to the river bank and chatted with the voyageurs for a long time. All the news of the area, transformed, exaggerated or embellished, was exchanged and commented on. Then the canoe moved on, and Rouville came running back to the house.

  In spite of the cold, the door was wide open to let in the pale autumn sun. Singing, Jeanne was making the dust fly with an aggressive broom.

  “What is all this housewifely fury?” exclaimed her husband, always surprised by the energy his wife expended in everything she did.

  “This floor is impossible to keep clean. I’d like a wood floor.”

  “You won’t have it this year, but you might find something you like at the Quatre-Ruisseaux fair.”

  He had the satisfied look of someone with a surprise up his sleeve. His curious wife jumped at the bait.

  “What are you talking about? Don’t be so mysterious.”

  “Come on, we’re going shopping.”

  “Simon, you’re dreaming. What do you mean?”

  “Every year, before they leave for the winter hunt, the settlers, trappers and Indians get together where the four streams meet. For a few days, a great exchange of goods is made. Everyone brings a few things he doesn’t need anymore.”

  “What is surplus for some brings happiness for others,” Jeanne concluded.

  “Exactly. Dress warmly and put the things you want to get rid of in a bag. I’ll tell Limp about it and I’ll join you at the canoe.”

  As excited as a small-town woman who has been prom
ised a day in the Paris boutiques, Jeanne turned circles searching for unneeded possessions in her humble abode.

  She finally chose the last pair of white stockings, and after much hesitation, she threw in the blue silk dress. It was already wrinkled and too beautiful for life in the forest. After all, I can bring it back if I don’t find anything I like, she reasoned, justifying herself.

  Simon made her sit in the bottom of the canoe and covered her with a bearskin.

  “When will you teach me to paddle?” she protested. “I feel like a useless burden.”

  “This isn’t the time to risk being capsized, not in this icy water. In the spring I’ll show you how.”

  He still considers me a precious doll, Jeanne lamented.

  Despite her efforts, the shadow of Aimée, ineffective and timorous, was hanging over their heads. Simon, the strong and competent protector, still nurtured a false, chivalrous idea of women’s helplessness in the wilderness. To keep from disappointing him, Jeanne had not yet dared to enlighten him.

  For the young woman who had lived in solitude for weeks, the scene at the Quatre-Ruisseaux fair presented an extraordinary spectacle. About fifty trappers, settlers and Indians had placed the oddest assortment of objects on the ground, and they were doing their utmost with word and deed to attract the attention of potential customers. Except for Jeanne and a few Indians, there were no women. The strangest thing was that, instead of the cacophony that should have accompanied these exchanges, scarcely a murmur of conversation was heard. The Indians and coureurs de bois did not quickly break their customary silence.

  “Tonight,” Simon predicted, “when the whiskey is passed around, it will be a different story. But we’ll be gone by then. Do you see anything you like?”

  “Not so fast. I want to look everywhere.”

  Eyes shining, like a child in a candy store, Jeanne ran from one spot to the next. Her indulgent husband let her go and went to chat with some old fellow adventurers.

  Two hours later, he looked around for his wife and found her. She was radiant. She showed him the fruit of her transactions lying at her feet: a cast-iron frying pan with a long handle and, miracle of miracles, a round-topped door whose upper part framed an unbroken glass pane. The two objects must have changed hands many times.

  “That’s my window, Simon. I have a window!”

  Simon turned to a coureur de bois behind him. “You see, Charron? What woman wants, woman gets. Are you happy? Nothing else you need?”

  “I have nothing more to trade.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  All of a sudden Simon looked concerned and cast a questioning glance around.

  “What’s the matter, Simon? Are you worried?”

  “It’s nothing. I thought I saw some fellows I had some misunderstandings with.”

  Charron, who was listening to them, leaning on his musket, cut in with a short laugh.

  “Misunderstandings. He calls them misunderstandings. Damned Rouville!”

  Turning to Jeanne, the man spat on the ground and proceeded to tell some secrets. “Rouville caught those bandits selling fire water to the Indians. He nearly killed one, beat up the other and made them lose their fur trading permit. You don’t call that a misunderstanding. Damned Rouville! He’ll never change. Always be a fighter.”

  “I’ll see you at Katarakoui, Charron,” Simon interrupted with a frown.

  He wasn’t at all anxious for his wife to learn of the ups and downs of his stormy career. Picking up the glass door and adjusting his rifle, he turned on his heels with dignity.

  Jeanne, clutching her heavy frying pan, had to run to keep up with him, as usual.

  “What’s this Katara something or other?” she asked.

  “Katarakoui,” Simon flung over his shoulder. “It’s the name of a river we’re going to explore with Cavalier de la Salle, on Lake Ontario.”

  “Not so fast, Simon. Wait for me. I don’t have long legs like yours.”

  They were going down the slope that led to the canoe. Suddenly, without a sound, a man appeared on the path. He had an axe in his hand and was brandishing it threateningly.

  “Goddamned Rouville!” he shouted, blocking the way. “I’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time.”

  Sure of himself, the man was already savouring his revenge. He hadn’t counted on his adversary’s reflexes. With lightning speed, Simon let the precious door slide to his feet, grabbed his musket by the barrel and in the same lithe movement, turned it around, hitting his aggressor right in the jaw as he was preparing to lower the murderous axe.

  Just then, a big blond-bearded fellow appeared on the path, bent double, his hand clutching his knife as if it were an extension of his arm. He didn’t look as though he would make the same mistake as his accomplice.

  Simon’s hand slid towards his moccasin, and when he straightened up he was holding his knife like a man who knew how to make use of it.

  It all happened so quickly that Jeanne was left standing stock-still in surprise. She heard footsteps behind her. Someone jostled her and a third man, also armed with an axe, ran past. Leaping like a wildcat, he jumped on Rouville’s back and wrapped his legs around his waist. Savagely, he grabbed hold of Simon’s hair and pulled his head back, exposing his defenseless throat to the blond giant’s weapon.

  In a gasping voice Simon ordered, “Jeanne, run to the fort. Quickly.”

  He bent forward, trying in vain to dislodge the man straddling him.

  Galvanized into action by her husband’s order, Jeanne awoke from her lethargy. An unspeakable fury seized her at the sight of those murderers threatening her happiness, ganging up to attack Simon.

  Brandishing the heavy frying pan over his head, she measured the distance and brought the utensil down with all her might on the head of the man holding the axe. He slid to the ground, limp as a rag.

  Rouville didn’t lose any time trying to find out how he was released. A fierce and seasoned fighter, he leaped head first onto the surprised bearded man. The two of them rolled on the ground and fought in a silence more threatening than any scream.

  Of equal strength, each in turn took the upper hand. Strong wrists stopped the knife thrusts, and in the tangle of arms and legs, Jeanne could not tell who was her husband and who was the enemy.

  But she was far from being a passive spectator. The dangerous pan raised in her hand, she moved around the combatants, waiting for her chance to intervene. A gasp for breath, a grunt of effort, a muffled curse were all that broke the silence.

  Suddenly, with a prodigious arching of his back, the bearded man took the upper hand. He raised his knife. At the last minute, Simon intercepted the threatening wrist and stayed it.

  Jeanne seized her opportunity and lowered the avenging pan a second time.

  Alas! At that very instant Simon made a desperate recovery and dominated his adversary. The pan struck his dark head with a dull thud. Like a sledge hammer, Monsieur de Rouville collapsed on top of his enemy. The latter jerked, cried out and moved no more.

  At the sight of those two motionless men, Jeanne’s fury evaporated. She dropped her all-too-efficient club and fell to her knees by her husband. Grabbing him by the shoulders and pulling back with all her might, she managed to roll his large inert body onto its back. Simon’s eyes were closed. Blood was running from the corner of his mouth.

  “I’ve killed him,” Jeanne murmured despairingly. She shot a quick glance at the bearded man. He was staring up at the sky, his own knife buried in his chest.

  Trembling, Jeanne pressed her ear to her husband’s leather shirt. All she heard was the wild beating of her own heart.

  A shadow blotted out the sun; she looked up. Instinctively her hand closed over the familiar handle of the frying pan. No one would touch her husband’s body as long as she was alive.


  The rough voice of Charron the trapper remarked, “A fine slaughter. With Rouville it’s never anything else. Is he dead?”

  “I think so,” Jeanne murmured in a broken voice.

  “He’s often looked dead but it’s never happened yet,” he commented philosophically.

  He put his ear to his comrade’s chest, raised his head, spit to one side and assured her, “No deader than I am. Is he hurt? A knife in the back, by any chance?”

  She hardly dared admit it. “No. A frying pan. I hit him on the head by mistake.”

  Charron broke up laughing. He said, “Rouville has a hard head. It would take more than the bottom of a pot to finish him off.”

  Picking up the weapon responsible for the crime, he weighed it in his hand and disappeared into the trees. Two minutes later he returned, carrying the pan full of water. He emptied it onto the injured man’s face. Simon groaned and opened glazed eyes.

  “Simon!” cried Jeanne. Now that the danger was past, she burst into tears.

  Charron rummaged unceremoniously through the dead man’s pockets, mumbling, “He always had some on him, the dirty bastard.”

  He produced a bottle of brandy and roughly lifted Simon’s head. Simon let out a groan and grimaced. Without pausing to sympathize, the trapper poured a good ration down his throat.

  Rouville coughed, spat, choked and found himself sitting up, gasping for breath. He grabbed hold of the bottle with a firm hand and took a long drink, his head thrown back. He seemed to have forgotten his wife was there, still sitting on her heels behind him. When his eyes fell on the corpse beside him, a string of abuse issued from his lips.

  Charron gave what he thought was an unobtrusive jerk of his chin in Jeanne’s direction. Surprised, then embarrassed, Simon stared at her. Had she understood his colourful language? Apparently so, since a mocking glint lit her tearful grey eyes.

  Intrigued, Simon touched his skull and considered his bloody hand.

  “Were they everywhere? Was there a fourth one?”

  Jeanne blushed while the trapper choked with laughter. He pointed to the frying pan and explained, “You have a wife who knows how to handle a pot. If I were you I wouldn’t contradict her too often.”