Bride of the Wilderness

by Charles McCarry

  “Why is she wandering about the town alone if she’s in mourning?” he asked.

  The younger man lifted his eyebrows, waiting for an answer to the other man’s question. A glint of amusement had entered his eyes.

  Fanny whispered. “I wanted some air.”

  “She wanted some air, Count.”

  Montagu, who evidently could not understand French, had lost interest in this encounter.

  “Look,” he said in English. “I wonder if we could discuss my ship.”

  The older Frenchman looked up at the sky.

  “Tell him I have not yet made my decision,” he said.

  The young man repeated these words in English. Evidently he had the job of talking to people whose station was too low to entitle them to be addressed directly by the older man.

  Montagu shook his head. “Why not now? What if that dago sails on the tide? I should, if I were he.”

  “The count will make his decision tomorrow at ten,” the young man said firmly.

  Montagu drew in a long exasperated breath through his nose and blew it out between fluttering lips.

  “Very well, but if she’s stolen in the night, someone will pay!”

  He strode away, ignoring Fanny, an uninteresting local swathed in black.

  In his bright coat he cut a strange, agitated figure among the placid fishermen in their blue clothes and the grim slate houses. It seemed odd, too, to see him alone; he must not take his bullies with him when he traveled.

  The young Frenchman was speaking to Fanny again. “The count asks if he may see your face,” he said.

  Fanny lifted her veil. The young man’s eyes, which were deep blue like her own, widened slightly. Now that she could see him clearly, she noticed that he had a fresh scar on his jaw. She thought it was a saber cut and wondered if he had killed the enemy who gave it to him. Probably. He was one of the Viking Normans—fair, and tall for a Frenchman, with dark blond hair tied up at the nape of his neck, military style, by leather thongs. She saw that he recognized her.

  “You came in on the packet boat from Calais,” the young man said. “I saw you on deck.”

  Fanny lifted her eyes again. “I remember,” she said. “You were standing on the deck of my ship.”

  The Frenchman drew back his head in puzzled surprise, as if he had expected her to speak to him in a different voice, even in a different language.

  “Your ship?” he said. “Which ship is that?”

  “The one you just left. The Pamela.”

  “That ship seems to have a great many owners—another one just walked away in that yellow coat.”

  “That man has nothing to do with the Pamela.” “You know him?”

  “Yes.”

  “But he’s an Englishman. I haven’t seen you before in Honfleur.”

  “As you said, I’ve only just arrived.”

  “From England?”

  Fanny nodded.

  He asked her name and the nature of her claim on the Pamela. Fanny answered with the bare details.

  “Who is that man?” she asked, nodding at the older Frenchman, who stood a few paces away, taking snuff out of a silver box.

  “The Count of Vallier. He is the king’s lieutenant in Honfleur.”

  “And you?”

  “His aide-de-camp.”

  The other man sneezed and touched his blinking eyes with the knuckle of his middle finger.

  “Philippe,” he said.

  “Philippe,” Fanny repeated in a whisper. She didn’t know why. As a child, obliged to recite the names of the kings of France for Antoinette, she had always like the Philippes. They were a relief, popping up among all those Louis’s and Charleses.

  This Philippe went over to his superior and reported in a low voice. While he listened, the older man stared at Fanny with a boldness that reminded her of Montagu.

  “Who is she?”

  “An English girl. She says she owns the Pamela.” “I wonder how she got it,” the count said.

  “Her father died.”

  “In England? And she’s come here alone?” “Evidently.”

  “Bold girl,” the count said. “Look. That hair, those eyes, that figure. Can you imagine her at Versailles?”

  He made no effort to lower his voice, so Fanny could hear him quite clearly. She lowered her veil. Both men were looking at her now.

  Philippe, the young man, spoke to her in his beautiful, simple French. He had a clear baritone voice, but it lacked timbre and Fanny did not think that he would be able to sing very well. It was a voice for talking to soldiers.

  “The count asks if you have any means of verifying your claim to own this ship.”

  “The master of the Pamela will tell you who I am.” “Row her out to the ship,” the count said. “Find out if she’s what she says she is.”

  Philippe looked at Fanny. “Is that agreeable?”

  She said, “Perfectly, monsieur. In fact, I will stay aboard.”

  “As you wish.”

  The count turned to Philippe. “‘Perfectly, monsieur,’” he repeated, reproducing Fanny’s accent in a French quite different from his own. “Have you ever heard such French coming out of an angel’s mouth?”

  He walked away.

  “The boat is just there,” Philippe said.

  He got in before her and lifted her down from the quay. His strength, running like a current through his compact body, surprised Fanny. She did not think about it very long. She was wondering what was wrong with her French, as earlier she had thought of the color of her own eyes when she saw Philippe’s. She realized, as the boat slipped through the water with a groan of oars against pins, that she had been thinking about herself, wondering about how she looked and how she sounded, for the first time in her life.

  Philippe, seated beside her in the stern, closed his eyes as if to rest himself from a tiring duty, and said nothing. Fanny closed her eyes too, and tried to make her mind a blank.

  After a few minutes, one of the oarsmen hailed the Pamela and Fanny looked up to see Joshua standing at the rail. She lifted her veil.

  On deck, Joshua kissed her.

  “It’s true, then,” he said in English.

  Fanny nodded.

  “I didn’t believe it when that man came aboard with Grestain and your young friend, there, and told me.” “Who is Grestain?”

  Philippe was still in the boat, giving orders to the oarsmen. Nevertheless, Joshua lowered his voice.

  “The man you talked to on the pier, Armand de Grestain, Count of Vallier. He’s taking over the army of New France.”

  “I thought he was the king’s lieutenant in Honfleur.”

  “He is, but he’s leaving. Grestain wanted to know if I thought it was possible to sail across the Atlantic by the northern route so early in May.”

  “What did you say?”

  “That it was possible but there would be icebergs.”

  Joshua had sailed in nearly every ocean. He had told Fanny tales of icebergs as big as Saint Paul’s Cathedral floating in the black northern water. As he told it, the icebergs were always covered with birds that rose into the air like a cloud when a ship came near, or by fearless seals that swam around the vessel like saucy boys.

  It was late afternoon, and a sharp breeze was beginning to blow across the harbor. Fanny shivered and drew her cloak more tightly around her shoulders.

  “Come below,” Joshua said. “I have hot chocolate if you still like it.”

  “I still like it.”

  Inside the cabin, Fanny took Joshua’s hand in both of hers and looked at him closely. His fingers, his whole square body, was twisted by old fractures, and now that he was past fifty he groaned when he sat down and limped when he got up. His grizzled hair was cut short like a monk’s, and he had eyes that were so sympathetic and intelligent that they seemed out of place in his brown Mediterranean face covered with sun-cooked sailor’s skin.

  Fanny told Joshua what had happened.

  “The neck was br
oken? Then there was no time.”

  He meant that Henry had had no time to repent of his sins.

  “No,” Fanny said. “I think he was dead before he knew he was dying.”

  When the Pamela was in Catholic waters, Joshua kept a crucifix on the wall of his cabin. He looked at it while he spoke.

  “Your father thought that there is no heaven,” he said. “But we know that he is there.”

  “If so, he will be very surprised,” Fanny said.

  “What Henry said and what he believed in his heart might not be the same. I don’t know how a man could be so good without the help of God. He had you baptized a Catholic, after all.”

  Fanny had taken off her hat and cloak. There was little color in her lips and Joshua saw faint dark bruises under her eyes. She was tense, as if she had not slept in a long time.

  “Have you cried yet?” Joshua asked.

  “No.”

  “You must, you know.”

  Fanny shook her head. “First, you must know about Montagu.”

  “He says he owns the Pamela.”

  “That’s not all.”

  Joshua listened, his face working, while Fanny told him what had happened in England.

  “He wants everything,” she said.

  The cook brought the hot chocolate. Fanny’s hands trembled slightly when she lifted the cup. Joshua wondered how she could be so calm, telling him the things she had been telling him.

  “What now?” Joshua said.

  “How long does it take to sail to Plymouth from here?”

  “Two days when it’s calm. Longer in a storm. I think a little storm is making up between here and England.”

  “Then we’d better sail on the tide,” Fanny said.

  A boat thumped against the side of the ship. After a moment they heard boots clumping across the deck above their heads, and then the sound of men coming down the ladder that led from the deck to the master’s cabin.

  Fanny, drinking her chocolate, looked up inquiringly.

  Joshua shrugged. “The French are always coming aboard,” he said. “The Pamela is well-known here.”

  Behind him, the door of the cabin opened. Philippe stood there, his three-cornered hat with its cockade set squarely on his head as before and his sword in its dull steel scabbard gripped in his hand. Montagu stood behind him. He had changed into a lavender coat and he wore the pink wig that Fanny had seen before.

  “Ah, Fanny,” Montagu said. “How good of you to come all this way to join me.” He turned to Philippe. “This lady is betrothed to me.”

  “Betrothed?” Joshua said.

  “Actually not quite, quite betrothed,” Montagu said. “Her father and I were on the point of an agreement, but there have been … unfortunate events.”

  Fanny spoke to Philippe. “Did you bring this man here?” Philippe did not reply. Fanny was still seated. She looked up at the three men standing over her.

  “He must get off the ship at once,” she said.

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Montagu said in English. “Ask the frog.”

  Fanny turned to Philippe, meaning to interpret, but then she remembered that he understood English. The signs of it were on his face, which up to now had been so calm. His skin was flushed around the fresh scar on his cheek and he looked very slightly nauseated.

  “What he says is true,” he said. “The count has placed all of you under arrest aboard this ship. I, too, will stay aboard, and in the morning the count will hold an inquiry in this cabin as to the facts.”

  Even before she woke in the cabin where Giacomo Cerruti had died, Fanny knew that she could not possibly be dreaming. She really was suffocating. Someone had stuffed a gag into her mouth. She sat up in bed and tried to snatch it out but she could not move her arms. Someone had tied them together behind her back.

  Fanny heard someone breathing. In the nervous half-light that came in the stern windows, she saw the man standing over her. He was tall and thin; his face was turned away. He seemed to be listening for something, but the ship was silent. Joshua Peters was sleeping outside the cabin door; Philippe and his French sailors were standing watch on deck. The man in the cabin turned his head and his skull came into the weak light. He wore a knitted cap instead of a wig. Fanny could not see his face.

  She tried to cry out, but the gag muffled her voice. As soon as she uttered this small sound the man whirled, lifted his arm, and brought it down. A cane whistled as it cut the air, then struck her buttocks. Fanny had never felt such an excruciating pain. It spurted through her body, burning and jagged, and forced the air out of her lungs in a scream. Stifled by the gag, the sound came out as a whimper. When the man heard this sound he hit her again.

  He went down on one knee and took her by the hair, pulling her face into the light.

  “Did you like that?” he whispered.

  Fanny saw that the man was Montagu.

  “You’re crying,” he whispered. “That’s good. I like a wet girl.”

  He stood up and caned her again, just as hard as before. This time, because she knew what to expect and sensed that he would not stop as long as she made noise, Fanny gasped but did not cry out.

  Montagu whispered into her ear. “Good,” he said. “You learn fast. I like that too.”

  He stroked Fanny’s hair, then yanked it hard, twisting her face close to his.

  “Poor Fanny is crying,” he said. “Let me help.”

  He licked the tears from her cheek. Then he straightened up, his tongue flickering.

  “Delicious,” he whispered.

  Fanny was still immobilized by the pain inflicted by the cane. She wore only a nightdress, so that her skin was protected by a single layer of fine wool. Montagu was tugging at the hem, pulling the nightdress up over her legs. He drew a finger along the welts he had made. They smarted like burns. Montagu pressed the cane against her nose, forcing her head back.

  “I want to have a look at you,” he said in his shrill whisper. “Come quietly unless you want another stroke.”

  He seized her hair and pulled her to her feet, hauling her across the cabin to the windows that ran across the stern bulkhead. One of these was a Dutch door that opened onto a narrow gallery over the water. The door stood open and a rope dangled outside. Fanny realized that Montagu had climbed down from the deck, opened the door, and come into the cabin that way.

  Montagu turned her around with her back to the open window and bent her over. He lifted her skirt and ran his fingers along the welts again. Now he could see them as well as feel them. He was breathing noisily. His hands trembled.

  “Ah, very pretty marks,” he said. “I wish you could see them.”

  He let go of her hair and turned her around. She was standing directly in front of the open window. For an instant, before Montagu pulled the skirt of her nightdress above her head, she could see the town in the starlight and, much nearer, Montagu’s face. It looked quite different now—lax-muscled and eager, with the eyes loose in their sockets instead of being contemptuous and cold. She wondered why he was wearing a cap. The tassel hung down beside his cheek.

  Fanny felt Montagu’s hands on her body and his breath on her skin. She waited. When his hands were on her thighs and his breath was on her stomach, she drove her knee into his face. She felt Montagu’s nose, cartilage and flesh, collapse under the blow. He cried out in pain.

  Fanny stepped backward. The nightdress slid down of its own weight and she could see Montagu kneeling on the deck with his hand gripping his nose. She lifted her right leg and kicked him in the face with all her strength. He uttered a piercing grunt, tried to get to his feet, and fell onto his hip with his hands covering his face.

  “Bloody bitch,” he hissed.

  Fanny hurled herself toward the open window, stepping on Montagu’s prone body to reach it, and threw herself through it. Montagu seized her ankle as she went, but he was weak, and when, hanging upside down above the water, she kicked him hard with her free foot, he let go.

&
nbsp; Fanny, tumbling as she fell, struck the water with a loud splash. Her nightdress was tangled around her face, so a moment passed before the water enveloped her head. It soaked the gag, and salt water that tasted like slops dribbled into her mouth. Fanny closed her throat to keep the air in her lungs and tried to push the gag out of her mouth with her tongue, but the water kept coming in. She struggled with her bound hands, but she could not free them.

  She kicked her legs and climbed the ladder toward the surface as Henry had taught her to do long ago when he took her swimming in the Thames. Her head broke the surface and she snorted air into her lungs. The water made her cough. She could see nothing because her head was swathed in the nightdress. She thought that she heard voices shouting and another splash. These noises did not matter to her.

  Pushing with her tongue, she tried to force the gag forward between her teeth and lips. It would not move. She took in another lungful of air through her nostrils and went under the surface again.

  Water rushed into the soaked gag and went up into her nose. Fanny knew that she was drowning, that she could not possibly save herself. In her mind’s eye she saw Montagu’s flickering tongue, narrow and coated with something white, as it had been when he licked the tears off her face.

  No, she thought, driving the image out, I won’t think of that as I die.

  She thought, instead, of swimming with her father. As a boy he had swum across the Thames on a pig’s bladder, the same one he and Oliver used to play football on the other bank. When Fanny was small, Henry had hired a punt at Oxford, where the green water was clean and fragrant, and poled the boat to a hidden place. There they stripped and lowered themselves over the side.

  “Go gently,” her father had said, “imagine you’re safe in bed. Let the water hold you up and carry you.”

  She had lain on her back, naked in the August sun, and gradually the chilly Thames had grown warmer and carried her dreamily along on its gentle current.

  Now, suspended beneath the surface of the harbor, Fanny felt the same thing happening. The water was warmer. It was carrying her away. She stopped struggling. The water took hold of her. As if from a distance, she saw her white nightgown, her pale legs, her long black hair swirling lazily in the water and mistook the drowning girl to whom these things belonged for Fanchon. Fanny realized that she was weeping as she drowned.