By Honor Bound (41 page)

The chamber in which Antoinette had been imprisoned at the end was so small she barely had room to turn around. There were three beds, one for her, one for her attendant, and one for her ever-present guard. She was not even left alone to attend to personal needs and had only a small screen for privacy. She stood behind it now and put on her white piqué dress.

Her last letters, to Fersen, Gabrielle de Polignac, and her sister-in-law, Elisabeth, had been taken by a kindly guard to be posted. She felt better. She wanted them to know that being separated from them and their troubles was one of her greatest regrets in dying.

Antoinette stepped out from behind the screen and turned her back to the attendant so she could fasten the long row of buttons. She winced when the woman accidentally pinched her.

“Oh, I’m sorry, madame! Did I hurt you?”

“Nothing can hurt me anymore,” Antoinette replied calmly. “Nothing, no pain, has been able to touch me since they took me away from my children.”

It was not strictly true, however. The memory of it still caused an agonizing pain in her heart. She tried to block the nightmare recollection, but it always returned to her. The knock on the door in the middle of the night. Her son ripped from her arms, screaming …Antoinette shook her head and slipped into her plum-colored high-heeled shoes. At least in death, the memory could no longer return to torment her.

The attendant handed Antoinette a cup of chocolate, sent for from a nearby cafe, and the former queen sipped it daintily. Then she set down the cup and put on her white bonnet. She pulled a muslin shawl tightly about her shoulders. At eleven, a tall man entered her cell.

His name was Henri Sanson. His father had executed Louis.

Obligingly, Antoinette put her hands behind her back, and he tied them. With a large pair of scissors he cut her hair, pocketing the tresses in order to burn them later.

Antoinette was led out of her cell.

It was close to noon when Honneure approached the big town square. It was thronged with people, and she pushed her way the best she could nearer the platform on which the guillotine was mounted. Though the day was warm, she kept the cloak wrapped about her shoulders and pinched the hood closed at her chin. She had already recognized two or three people who had been at the Tuileries during her imprisonment.

Fear rose in her throat, but she pushed it back down. This was no time to think of herself. She remembered instead something the queen had written to her long ago.

This was the very square where Antoinette had come as a young bride. She had been cheered by the crowd. Men had thrown their hats in the air, and a friend had whispered to her that two hundred thousand people had fallen in love with her.

Now the same people clamored for her death. Honneure shuddered.

A creaking attracted her attention, and she turned. She watched the crowd pull away from something that approached.

It was a tumbril, an open, straw-filled cart. Louis had been driven to his execution in a coach. Yet Antoinette was not only to be murdered but also totally humiliated first.

Unbeknownst to Honneure, tears streamed down her face.

Antoinette sat facing backward, hands tied behind her. Her posture was rigid, chin held high. The cart rumbled to a halt.

The former queen had to be helped from the tumbril. Honneure noticed her pretty plum shoes as she slowly climbed the ladder to the scaffold. Her white piqué dress and bonnet were immaculate.

How like her. How very like her. A sob caught in Honneure’s throat.

Though she remained erect, Antoinette began to tremble at last. The executioner seized her roughly and forced her to her knees. He tied her to the plank. The guillotine towered above her, blade glinting in the sun.

“You’re not alone,” Honneure whispered. It felt as if her heart had, literally, broken.

“Antoinette, dearest friend, you’re not alone,” she said a little louder. Heads turned in her direction, but she paid them no heed. Pressing closer still to the scaffold, she slipped the hood from her head.

For one moment, Antoinette raised her eyes.

There was recognition. Sadness. And grateful love.

“My queen!” The tortured cry rasped from Honneure’s throat. She stretched out her hand, cane clattering to the ground.

The blade fell.

The white mare danced, prancing sideways with nervousness as her rider guided her through the crowded streets. People were streaming in the direction of the square. They seemed barely to notice horse and rider.

Snow Queen reared slightly as someone bumped into her shoulder. Philippe steadied her with a hand on her neck. But she remained skittish, and he couldn’t blame her. He was full of dread and apprehension himself.

For over a year there had been no word of Honneure. He clung to a fragile thread of hope only because her body had never been found after the massacre at the Tuileries.

Had she escaped?

If she had, why hadn’t he heard from her?

He knew. Even as he asked himself the question for the thousandth time, he knew.

She would not want to further endanger him. Or their daughter. She was still being sought, and she was in hiding. To protect her family, she had foregone contact with them.

This had become Philippe’s prayer. It was all that had kept him going. It was why he left Chenonceau and returned to Paris again and again. To look for her.

Because she couldn’t be dead. She couldn’t be. Or he was dead as well.

He had almost reached the square. It was where she would come if she was still alive. He was sure of it. She would never let her queen die alone.

A great and mighty cheer went up as the queen’s head rolled. The crowd surged forward. All except a few who surrounded Honneure. They had noticed her when she cried out. Now they stared at her.

Though choking on her tears, Honneure quickly pulled her hood up. It was too late.

“It’s that woman, from the Tuileries!” a pockmarked woman cried. “It’s her!”

“Who? Who is it?” someone asked. A small crowd within the crowd had formed.

Honneure tried to back away, but a hand grasped her skirt.

“The bastard whore,” the scarred woman exclaimed. “The old king’s bastard spawn!”

Honneure screamed as another pair of hands tore at her, ripping her bodice.

“No!”

“Get her! Don’t let her get away!”

Searing pain shot through Honneure’s head as someone pulled her hair. She saw a great handful of it come away.

“Leave me alone!”

Hands dragged at her, pulling her down. She was losing her footing. A fist connected with her nose, and blood splashed.

“No!”

Snow Queen squealed in terror as a roar went up from the crowd. She tried to whirl and flee, but Philippe held her firmly. He could not give up and turn away. This was his last and best hope to find Honneure.

But there were thousands. Thousands. And even though the queen’s head had rolled, they were still filled with bloodlust. They were even turning on one another.

Philippe watched, horrified, as the mob surrounded some helpless woman and began to tear her apart. He tried to guide the mare in another direction and then heard Snow Queen’s peculiar little snort and whinny, the one she used whenever she recognized the person she loved most in the world.

“Honneure!”

She heard him, heard his voice. Philippe! He was calling her.

But she couldn’t go to him. They were pulling at her, pummeling her. Blood obscured her vision, blinded her. Pain ripped through her again and again as they pounded her body. She was sinking into the murderous sea, drowning, and she could not get to him.

“Philippe,” Honneure cried as the darkness closed in. No longer able to protect herself from the blows raining on her head, she stretched out her hands in a final supplication.

It was all the advantage Philippe needed.

Snow Queen obeyed at once when her rider jabbed his heels into her sides. She jumped forward, knocking bodies aside, and broke into a gallop. Philippe leaned from the saddle and grasped Honneure’s outstretched arms. He pulled her from her feet and onto the saddle in front of him. When he felt her limp body revive and cling to him, he kicked his mare again, and she plunged through the crowd.

Screams rose around them. People fell beneath the flying hooves. Philippe did not care. One arm about his wife, he urged the mare to greater and greater speeds. Within minutes they had cleared the mob and entered a nearly deserted boulevard. Ears flattened to her head, Snow Queen stretched out and ran as if the devil himself pursued her.

Honneure did not open her eyes. She was in a dream.

She was with Philippe once more. He held her in his arms. All her pain went away. All her sorrow and heartache. And if she opened her eyes, the dream would end. She could not bear it.

Greathearted, the mare ran on until they reached the outskirts of the city. Philippe did not pull her to a halt until he was absolutely certain they had not been followed. Then he tugged on the reins, and she stumbled, exhausted, to a walk. At last, trembling, she stopped.

“Honneure? Honneure, my love, open your eyes.” Gently, Philippe wiped the blood from her face. “Honneure? You’re safe, my darling.”

She opened her eyes slowly.