The King's Daughter

by Suzanne Martel

  “Now, take the new one, for example. There’s a capable woman for you. She can handle a frying pan and a paddle like no one else.”

  While the heroine, her cheeks aflame, hid under her blanket, everyone laughed loudly over the adventure at Quatre-Ruisseaux.

  A Huron, usually not very talkative, asked to speak. He told the lengthy story of how Isabelle had been saved, which he had heard from an Algonquin friend.

  “From noon until sunset, the words of that white woman flowed like honey into the Algonquins’ ears.”

  The young mother’s audacity and courage were much appreciated. A joker who couldn’t resist getting in his two cents said, “A woman who can go on for five hours at a time, that would scare me a little.”

  “Rouville won’t always have the last word,” Charron concluded as he spat into the fire.

  A smile on his lips, Jean Chatel fell asleep, taking no notice of the fine rain that was beginning to fall.

  At Fort Chambly Hubert de Bretonville came down to the dock to meet the voyageurs. The junior of the group, his head turned towards the river, carefully avoided attracting attention. Charron and the two others accepted the captain’s invitation to dine with him.

  Jeanne slipped over to see her old friend, Hippolyte. She had several specific questions to ask the healer. She introduced herself as Jean Chatel, the brother of Madame de Rouville. Faced with the skepticism she read in his discerning eyes, she admitted her trickery. She slept on dry ground right by the fireplace, on a straw mattress her host had given her. She left the next day with fresh supplies of medicine and advice.

  At Ville-Marie the crafty boy played his role with confidence. Thanks to childhood memories, Professor Limp’s lessons and the information he had pried from Charron and the unsuspecting trappers, he correctly answered the agent’s questions concerning the quality of the fur skins, the types of traps and the demarcation of the hunting territory. Having proved his competence despite his young age in that land where children were considered men, he obtained fur trading permits in the name of his “brother-in-law,” Simon de Rouville, and in his own name. With a firm hand, Jeanne signed “J. Chatel” and put down the required guaranty. Through a doorway she caught sight of Governor Perrot watching the transactions. She repressed a strong desire to stick out her tongue at him in triumph.

  Finally, her contract safely in her pocket, she wandered like a sightseer through the streets of the town. She had declined her travelling companions’ friendly invitation to accompany them to the inn for a celebration.

  She didn’t push her audacity as far as going to visit Sister Bourgeoys. Simon would have been the first to suffer from the gossip caused by her masculine attire and short hair. It took very little to provoke a scandal in the puritan colony.

  At nightfall a timid, polite young boy asked for shelter at the Hotel-Dieu. The Mother Superior of the hospital let him sleep in a corner of the kitchen, after having made him bring in a good provision of wood. A practical person, she firmly believed that one good turn deserved another.

  Jeanne had hoped to meet Mademoiselle Mance, the faithful friend whose merits Sister Bourgeoys had praised, and the founder of the first hospital in Ville-Marie. Unfortunately, this saintly woman had died the previous month, to the great regret of the entire colony that worshipped her. Jeanne was surprised to see how unmarried women like Marguerite Bourgeoys and Jeanne Mance had succeeded in asserting themselves through their personal value, whereas married women seemed eternally destined to live in the shadow of their worthy husbands. She would have liked to know Simon’s opinion on that subject. How would he accept his young wife’s new spirit of emancipation?

  He’ll just have to get used to it, Jeanne decided resolutely. From now on she wasn’t playing any more roles. A foolish laugh came over her when she realized she was making those laudable resolutions at the very moment she was sleeping in front of the hospital fireplace, disguised as a boy by the name of Jean Chatel.

  The next morning, most of the trappers left for their preferred hunting grounds. Charron had lost the Huron who continued on to Quebec. He asked his young friend to paddle in his place at the front of the canoe.

  For two hours she kept up the exhausting rhythm before admitting defeat. They were alone in their boat, far behind the others because of the second paddler’s weakness.

  Charron spat into the water, cleared his throat and grumbled, “Lie down in the bottom of the boat, little lady. I’m going to take you home without tiring you out. You certainly deserve it.”

  “What? You knew?” asked Jeanne, astonished.

  “I recognized the way I taught you to paddle. You really took us in, the fellows and me. Nobody suspected a thing.”

  Blushing and suddenly embarrassed, the trapper remembered certain stories and several very risqué songs. Jeanne reassured him with a laugh. She was a solid king’s daughter, not a delicate, fragile lady. Nothing had shocked her; everything had interested her. The spirit of comradeship had touched her most of all.

  “When Simon tells me about his journeys now, I’ll understand what he’s talking about.”

  “Damned Rouville,” Charron said admiringly. “He has a one-in-a-million wife. That’s just like him!”

  Resting her painful shoulders on her pack at the bottom of the canoe, Jeanne couldn’t help noticing the trapper’s typically masculine attitude. He still managed to give his companion all the credit for finding himself an exceptional wife.

  Out of habit, Jeanne lifted her hand to her neck, but her gold medal wasn’t there. She had given it to Perrot’s agent as a guaranty for the trading permit. Grandfather would understand her sacrifice, just as François had. Light-hearted, her soul at peace, Jeanne de Rouville was on her way back to her lord’s domain.

  That evening in the camp, poor Charron, obliged to play a role as well, experienced the entire range of emotions. He was so indignant at the abuses of his comrades who were making Junior work that he forgot his own recent demands. He changed the subject of conversation by noisy awkward interruptions when they approached areas that were too risqué. With a deafening whistle he drowned out the words to the songs Jeanne now knew by heart. His exasperated friends gave him a tongue-lashing, and his very amused passenger did her best to put him at ease.

  A few months later, Jeanne learned that at first Charron had no intention of going farther than Sorel, where he had a hunting contract for the fort.

  Using the pretext of an urgent meeting at the river’s source, he continued the journey until his young companion, Jean Chatel, found himself at the Rouville property. Only then did he retrace his steps. Once he knew Jeanne’s secret, he would not have forgiven himself for not taking her back safely.

  In the distance, hidden among the trees, he watched the boy enter the deserted cabin. An hour later, out came Madame de Rouville, modestly dressed in grey, her black scarf tied around her short hair.

  In her long hunter’s stride, Jeanne headed for the Bibeaus’ house, twelve miles away. Her lack of experience in the forest kept her from suspecting that, a hundred steps behind her, followed a devoted and discreet protector. Charron breathed easily only when he saw Jeanne holding her children in her arms and getting ready to take them back under Limp’s watchful eye.

  Limp scrutinized the forest at length, suspicious, a frown on his face. His instinct had warned him of something unusual in the air. When he went ahead to investigate, Charron was already far away, running to his canoe and hurrying towards Sorel to fulfill his obligations and furnish the garrison with game for the coming months.

  31

  THE EARS OF Indian corn, soon to be harvested, waved in the summer breeze. As she did every afternoon when she could get away, Jeanne had taken refuge at the top of the old oak and was scanning the river. One day she would spot a canoe with a familiar figure in the front. The Builder would be returning home and life wo
uld begin anew.

  A vibration in the tree pulled her from her thoughts. Light cracking noises signalled the approach of a climber who was as silent and agile as a cat.

  Was it an enemy? Her musket, hanging lower down at the fork, was out of reach. Jeanne took her knife in her hand and waited, trembling in her nest of rustling greenery.

  The leaves shook and parted. A brown hand closed over her ankle above her moccasin. Dressed in Jean Chatel’s favourite attire, she straddled a solid branch, well braced against the trunk. She raised her weapon, ready to sell her life dearly.

  A black head of hair appeared at her feet. An astonished face turned upward, and pale eyes stared at her in disbelief.

  “Simon.” She breathed a sigh of relief as her taut nerves relaxed. Louder, she repeated, “Simon” and finally all her joy broke through in one triumphant cry: “Simon!”

  “Do king’s daughters grow on trees now?” asked the Builder in a husky voice.

  In one supple movement he hoisted himself up and sat astride the same branch, facing her. With one hand he leaned against the trunk above her shoulder; with the other he caressed her short curly hair. His bantering voice was no match for the tenderness of his green eyes as he drank her in.

  “Are you really my brother-in-law, Jean Chatel?”

  “Oh, Simon! You’re back! If you only knew...”

  Imperious lips interrupted her words. All the birds in the forest were singing in Jeanne’s ears. If the overly strong grip he had on her brown curls had not held her back, she was sure she would have taken flight. More likely she would have tumbled from her perch.

  Simon leaned back a few inches to look at his young wife’s happy, tanned face, as if to rediscover its every feature. Only then did he ask the logical question. “What are you doing up here?”

  “I was waiting for you. I was going to watch you arriving down there on the river one of these days.”

  “Never trust a husband. I took a short cut through the woods to get here faster.”

  “If you were running so fast, why did you climb the tree?”

  “Because I do every time I go by. Remember, I told you. It’s my observation post.”

  “Did you build your fort?”

  “Yes. But at the last minute I handed it over to Frontenac and came home. I strongly advised him not to make any more plans involving me.”

  Another kiss interrupted the conversation. When Simon looked at her again, she was splitting her sides laughing. His hackles raised, the lord frowned. Jeanne pressed her hands against his chest.

  “How many daughters do you think the king has who get kissed at the top of an oak tree?”

  “There’s only one, and that’s already one too many. You’re going to split your head open on the way down. I’ll help you.”

  The commanding voice already indicated the master had returned. Slipping out of his embrace, Jeanne put her leg over the branch, encircled the trunk of the oak and began a rapid and expert descent.

  She retrieved her musket at the large fork while Simon, offended, swept past her. He jumped to the ground and held out his arms. He was convinced she couldn’t do anything without his help...when he was there.

  Willingly, she let herself drop into his comforting embrace. It was quite a while before Simon remembered to put her down on the ground. When he finally decided to do so, he sat down next to his pack and pulled her down beside him.

  Sitting very close together, her curly head pressed against her beloved’s chest, Jeanne said to herself that she had finally found happiness. For a long time they did not stir. Suddenly Simon rummaged in his shirt pocket, then dangled a gold chain with a shiny medal on it from the tip of his long fingers.

  “Your brother forgot this in Ville-Marie. I got it back for you.”

  “Like Thierry did before.”

  Jeanne bit her tongue. It had been a spontaneous, involuntary remark, like Simon’s cry when he called her Aimée. She waited, frozen with apprehension.

  But Rouville laughed happily as he pulled her closer.

  “That damned captain, ‘as handsome as Saint Michael,’ sends you his affectionate greetings. It seems that you’re some sort of Joan of Arc to him. He’s put you on a pedestal. That doesn’t suit you at all. Your place is here on the ground with a humble mortal like me.”

  He kissed her again, stretched out his long legs and said, “Tell me about your summer. Now that we’re partners in the fur trade, we shouldn’t keep anything from each other.”

  “You already know about all that?”

  “I stopped in Ville-Marie, thinking I’d lost my chance. To my great pleasure, I found my little brother-in-law had taken care of everything.”

  Simon was not a demonstrative man. He squeezed her a little tighter. That took the place of all the words of gratitude, but it was more than enough for her.

  “Don’t forget your epic adventure with the Algonquins. Don’t hide anything from me because I know all about it.”

  “Oh? So you were having me watched?”

  “You will discover, little Madame de Rouville, that our vast, wild country is as rife with gossip as the salons of your venerable father, Louis XIV.”

  “Who told you all my secrets?”

  “Another of your passionate admirers. Charron was waiting for me at Sorel to sing me your praises.” With an air of satisfaction he added, “He thinks I’m very clever to have found a wife like you. I am, in fact.”

  Jeanne sniffed disdainfully. Was there no limit to men’s pretentiousness? Stung, she objected, “If you know everything, why make me talk about it?”

  “Because I like you. And what interests me the most is your own version of your little escapades.”

  She closed her eyes lazily, feeling his voice reverberating behind her; every one of its sharp tones filled her with comfort. She felt relaxation come over her, and would have been quite surprised to discover that, of her own free will, she was falling into the very trap she wished to avoid: the trap of blissful dependence.

  Pitiless, Simon gave her a shake. “Come on, talk. If you can chatter on for five hours for an Algonquin, you can certainly do the same for your husband.”

  The modest heroine talked at length of her solitude and her adventures. Her account was interrupted so often it threatened to last forever.

  Running ahead of Gansagonas, Nicolas and Isabelle came looking for Jeanne. They discovered their parents at the foot of the oak, laughing and chatting, their arms around each other.

  “Papa!” Isabelle cried enthusiastically.

  Nicolas, more discerning, gave them a long look, his eyes so like his father’s.

  “Are you glad to see us again?” Needing to confide, he added, “You know, Papa, Mama borrowed my fur cap. And she put her hair away in her trunk.”

  32

  A WEEK AFTER Simon returned, Jeanne was picking the last raspberries in a little clearing. Nicolas and Isabelle were helping her, eating two berries for each one they put in the pot.

  Miraud sniffed the air and growled; his fur stood on end. Jeanne put her hand firmly around his muzzle and silenced the animal.

  Suddenly she sensed that she was surrounded. She could fire a shot to call Simon and Mathurin who were cutting wood near the house. This signal would alert the enemy at the same time and start a race between the two groups. At stake was her life and, most of all, that of her children.

  Without letting go of the dog that was trembling with anger, Jeanne whispered an order. “Children, hide here in this bush and don’t move. When the Indians are gone, Nicolas will count to ten two times, then take Isabelle by the hand and run to the house. Do you understand, Nicolas?”

  “Yes, Mama,” the child answered in a low voice.

  Though his enormous eyes were filled with terror, his voice was steady.
>
  “After you warn Papa, hide in the house. Quickly. Go inside and don’t move. Even if you hear me yell, you must not come out until the last Indian has gone.”

  The branches closed over the crouching children. Jeanne replaced the leaves and rubbed out the footprints with her hand.

  As tense as a deer on the alert, she waited. At her side the dog broke loose. A voice called out. The Indians must have been very sure of themselves to dare speak, they who usually glided as noiseless as shadows.

  They appeared at the other end of the clearing between her and the house, blocking her escape route. There were four or five of them, and their headdress, which Mathurin had described a hundred times, proved they were Iroquois. They seemed unfamiliar with the territory; they glanced around as they talked quietly among themselves. Not for a second did Jeanne think of hiding. The Indians’ piercing eyes would have quickly discovered her, and a search party would ensue that would turn up her two children.

  Motionless, she blended in with the foliage. In spite of that, one of the Indians pointed her out. Now was the moment to act. With a cry of terror, Jeanne pretended to panic and turned circles, imitating the mother partridge’s trick. Then she picked up her skirt and scurried off into the forest calling Miraud, who followed her against his will.

  As she had planned, the Iroquois took off running and went past the children without seeing them. The way was clear for them to take refuge in the house.

  The children were saved; now it was time to save the mother. Jeanne devoted herself fervently to doing just that. To encourage her pursuers, she kicked up an awful row. Then, saving her breath, she ran with long strides, cursing her burdensome skirt. She released the dog who turned around and faced the Iroquois, granting her a few seconds’ respite. She took advantage of it to fire a shot into the air to alert Simon. She hated to waste her only bullet, but there was no time to turn around and aim.