Louisa Rawlings (26 page)

Indeed, they laughed a great deal—his deep baritone in counterpoint to her silvery trills—like good friends. The only time she saw a coolness come into his green eyes was when she spoke of Arsène or of returning to Versailles. Then he would sit, silent and withdrawn, until she would put her hand on his arm and challenge him to a game of cards. She was always surprised at how good he was at cards; she would have been unable to cheat at Versailles had
he
been watching her!
 

And, to her great pleasure (though why it should please her so was a mystery), the baker, bringing his trade regularly, came alone or with Cosme the rat. Jacquelan seemed to have vanished from Pierre’s side and from his thoughts.
 

The last day of April began with a dawn of rosy sunshine. Rouge awoke to the sound of birds chirping in the trees. Pierre had worked hard the day before: he still slept on his pallet on the floor. She crept out of the cottage on tiptoe, carrying her clothing; she felt like a truant escaping her lessons, a child with no responsibilities on this lovely spring morning. She raced to the millpond, shed her chemise, and dived in. The water was sweet and refreshing. She swam till she was exhausted, then scrambled out of the pond and lay on her chemise in the soft grass of the meadow, allowing the air and the warm sun to dry her contented body. She dressed at last, wringing out her hair as best she could, and tied her steinkirk about her still-damp curls. When she reentered the cottage she saw that Pierre was just putting on his shoes and stockings. It made her feel deliciously wicked to have stolen a swim before he’d even opened his eyes!
 

He stretched and yawned. “It’s a pleasant day?”
 

She shrugged nonchalantly. “It appears so.”
 

“Have you been up long?”
 

“Just a few minutes,” she lied. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”
 

“Pity.” He turned and stared at her. For the first time she saw the devilish gleam in his eye. “It would have been pleasant to…share your morning diversion.”
 

Her jaw dropped in indignation. “You scoundrel! Did you watch me swimming?”
 

He looked hurt. “No! I didn’t watch you swimming! You wrong me, mademoiselle.” The outraged scowl turned to a leer. “I watched you
after
your swim, of course. But I didn’t watch you swimming,” he added hastily as she picked up a pillow from the bed and hurled it at him.
 

She put her hands on her hips. “I swear I’ll not give you breakfast this morning!”
 

“Then I’ll not take you to the May fair in Selommes tomorrow.”
 

She clicked her tongue. “Be off with you and get some wood for the box if you want to eat today!” In spite of herself, she began to giggle.
 

“Now what is it, woman?”
 

She wrapped her arms around herself and did a pirouette. “Oh, Pierre, I feel as giddy as a child! I haven’t been to a May fair in years!”
 

He shook his head. “I shall never fathom you. I should have thought that diamonds and pearls would make your eyes shine. And here you are, frolicking in the sunshine and dancing about the room—just because of May Day!” He smiled warmly, then turned to go out. “Well, if I’m to help the draper Fabien bring his goods from Marchenoir to Selommes, I’d best get started.”
 

“Will you be gone all the day?”
 

“I expect so. He seemed to think that it would take two trips.”
 

“How wearying.”
 

“It’s not a very difficult way to make a few extra livres. I do it all the time. Rent my horse and wagon. Besides”—he tried hard not to grin—“I need the money for tomorrow. With all the stalls and hawkers at the fair, I shall have to turn my pockets inside out to pay for all the food you’ll eat!”
 

She gasped and reached for the pillow again. “Out, out,
out
! Or they’ll hang me for an assassin in Selommes!”
 

Laughing, he retreated to the mill yard.
 

He ate a hasty breakfast, fed his horse, hitched up the wagon. He put on a large felt hat to shield himself from the sun, took the tied napkin that Rouge had packed with a cold dinner, and swung himself easily onto his wagon. “What will you do all day?”
 

“There’s wash to be done. You’ll want your best shirt for the fair,
n’est-ce pas
? And I’ll sew the lace on my chemise.”
 

His green eyes were serious. “I thought you didn’t like it, when you didn’t bother to use it.”
 

She felt a twinge of dismay that he should have thought her ungrateful. “Oh, but it was a lovely gift! You should have known. I’m far too practical. And the lace is so beautiful, I didn’t want it to be torn while I did chores. I shall be proud to wear it tomorrow.”
 

He smiled boyishly at her words, clicked to his horse, and moved off down the road to Marchenoir. She fancied she heard him whistling as the wagon vanished over a hill.
 

The day was fair and bright. She opened the door and the casements, welcoming the April breeze. She worked steadily all the morning at her washing and cleaning; in the afternoon she turned her attention to thoughts of supper. She wanted it to be special, to greet him upon his return. She remembered a recipe she had read in the
Mercure Galant.
One of King Louis’s favorites,
potage à la Jacobine.
Fortunately a chicken and several small partridges had been brought by a customer. She set them to boiling gently. When they were cooked, she would bone and mince them, then return them to the pot, adding vegetables and herbs to the mixture. There were no almonds to make a proper
Jacobine
sauce, alas, but at least there was cheese in the larder. She’d dice it fine at the last minute and pour the
potage
over it.
 

She fetched in her dry wash from the meadow. The scent of the lilac bushes she passed on her way was intoxicating. On an impulse, she filled the cottage with armfuls of the blossoms, smiling in pleasure at her handiwork. A cloud drifted across the sun, shadowing the room for a moment. She went to the open door. There were more clouds in the distance. They would pass over, like as not, long before Pierre returned. But the cottage would be dim for a while, and the larder would be difficult to rummage in without a candle. Best to fetch up the cheese now, while the sun still shone, and have it to hand when she needed it. She went into the mill room and down the ladder, going past the machinery on her way to the larder. She took a moment to examine their store of cheeses, then selected a small golden wheel that they had bought from a passing farmer. She heard a noise in the room above her. Surely it couldn’t be time for Pierre to return yet! She tucked the cheese into the pouch she’d made with her apron and climbed the ladder.
 

The ironmonger’s apprentice, Jean, stood near the millstones. Next to him was another lad of about the same age (she guessed fifteen), whose cherubic smile contrasted oddly with his eyes—small and dark and malevolent. Rouge set the heavy cheese on top of a grain bin and shook out her apron. “Monsieur LeBrun is not here,” she said, “if you’ve come with grain to be milled.”
 

“No.” Jean rubbed at his pockmarked face; the beginnings of a scraggy mustache made a smudge across his upper lip. “No, we didn’t want no milling.”
 

“The horse and wagon can’t be rented today, either.”
 

The cherub giggled, a strained, high-pitched sound.
 

“We saw they was gone as soon as we came up,” said Jean.
 

“Well then, you’ve wasted your time, haven’t you?” She felt a stirring of uneasiness. “If you’re off to Selommes again, it’s a long walk, is it not? And the sky looks stormy. You won’t want to be caught in the rain. I’ll give you a bit of ale to see you on your way, and then you’d best hurry.” She turned about to retrieve her cheese; the cherub’s voice stopped her. The menace in his tone sent a chill down her spine.
 

“I don’t see no silver in her hair,” he said sulkily. “That ain’t no reward for the long walk out here!”
 

Forgetting the cheese, she swung around to look at them. Jean had moved to the door leading to the other room, and now blocked the way. She saw again on his face the look that she had seen the other day. Damn! she thought. Her first instincts had been right. His interest in her went beyond awkward stares. She examined the two of them more closely. They were rawboned and clumsy, true enough. But tall. And doubtless possessed of the ferocious strength of young boys. Well, perhaps she could turn their youth to her advantage. “I can’t stand about all afternoon,” she scolded, using her sternest maternal tone. “If you wish to wait outside for Monsieur LeBrun, you may do so.” After which, God willing, she’d bolt the doors!
 

Jean looked momentarily cowed, and stepped away from the door. “Come on, César! The miller might be back soon.”

Rouge breathed a small sigh of relief. “Yes. I’m expecting him. So if you lads will…”
 

“No!” growled César. “I want to see her hair!” He reached out a grimy hand and snatched the steinkirk from Rouge’s head. She heard the fabric tear from the force of his assault.
 

Her only steinkirk! “You filthy little urchin!” she said in indignation, and boxed him smartly on the ear. “Now, out of here! Before I take a broom to you both! By my faith, your mothers should have whipped you more, to teach you manners! Vile children! Out!”
 

Too late she saw her mistake. César, who had been rubbing his ear and backing toward the door at her angry onslaught, now halted at the word “children.” He growled, an ugly sound in his throat. “Be we children, Jean? Or
men
, with the shittlecocks to prove it?”
 

Clutching at his groin, Jean moved toward Rouge. “Aye. And ready to prove it to the miller’s drab!”
 

Rouge looked wildly from one to the other. She’d never felt such terror. She’d turned aside lustful courtiers, God knows—even Arsène, that night when he’d invaded her room. But they had been men of some education: if she couldn’t appeal to their chivalry and good sense, she could always threaten to raise such a hue and cry that they would be shamed in the company of honest men. But these two were uncivilized peasants, and headstrong youths besides, fired by their carnal hungers. She made a desperate try. “You said you wanted to see silver. I haven’t much in my purse, but…”
 

“
Merde
,” laughed César. “I never had a whore offer to pay
me
! First let me put my prickle in you, slut. Then you can tell me how much I’m worth!”
 

Dieu!
thought Rouge. That one was hopeless. She whirled to Jean. “The miller will kill you if you touch me!”
 

He took a bold step forward. “Hold your tongue,
foutue putain
!”
He reached out and gave Rouge a violent shove; she stumbled and fell back into César’s waiting arms.
 

“Let me go!” She struggled and shrieked as César dragged her down to the floor, stretching her arms cruelly over her head.
 

He leaned above her, grinning and breathing hard. The cherub’s face had become a leering mask. He put her palms together, circling her wrists with one hand; he lifted his other hand and cuffed her sharply across the ear. “Don’t you have no manners, whore? Maybe a good beating with a stick when me and Jean is done…” The thought seemed to excite him even more. He licked his lips and glanced impatiently at Jean. “Do it,” he said. “I can’t wait my turn all day!”
 

Oh, God, thought Rouge. This can’t be happening! She watched in horrified fascination as Jean came close, fumbling with the fastenings of his breeches. She kicked wildly at him; the toe of her shoe struck his shin with a hard thump. He yelped and leaped back for a second, then fell on her, his hands restraining her ankles. He knelt in front of her; with some difficulty he shifted his knee to her leg, so that one of his hands was free.
 

Rouge gasped at the sudden weight. “For the love of God,” she said, “you’ll break my leg!” She gazed at him with soulful eyes. “I beg you. Let me up.”
 

For a moment Jean looked contrite. He shifted slightly so that her leg, while still pinned by his knee, no longer bore the weight of his body. “We don’t mean to hurt you. But you’re a pretty doxy to enjoy. We just want what you give the miller.” He tossed back her skirts, baring her legs. He stared at her naked flesh and groaned in pleasure.
 

Above Rouge’s head César cursed. He seemed to be in pain. He put his free hand on Rouge’s breast and squeezed. Hard. She winced and tried in vain to evade his grasp. “Jean, you piece of cow’s dung,” said César, “get on with it!”
 

Jean gulped and touched his hand to Rouge’s knee. “I never saw such soft white skin in all my life.” Eyes shining in ecstasy, he stroked her leg, slowly working his way up to her thigh, and the treasure that waited beyond.
 

“Damn you both,” choked Rouge, feeling her flesh crawling. She closed her eyes in helpless frustration.