Louisa Rawlings (68 page)

She heard noises from one of the stalls, then soft giggling. A woman’s voice. “Careful, you handsome lout! You’ll make me so sore, I won’t be able to ride! And then I’ll tell your master.”
 

A man’s coarse laugh. “You’ll be back here tomorrow, my lady. Like always. Because you likes the ride
I
give you!”
 

Rouge suppressed a laugh. No one would miss
this
horse for a while. God bless the lechery at Rochenard! She patted the animal’s nose and whispered softly to it, then untied its halter. She really was in luck. Across the saddle was a woman’s cloak, with a hood; she pulled off her fontange and wrapped the cloak about her, covering her head. It was a cold day; the wrap would serve for warmth
and
disguise. Then, with the sounds of passion still coming from the stall, she led the horse into the courtyard. She was mounted and down the road in no time.
 

She rode slowly. She still wasn’t sure where the brigands might be, and she didn’t want to surprise them. But the road was open, the land flat. She was more than ever convinced that the ambush would take place at the stand of trees the maid had described. She’d ridden a little more than two leagues when she saw the grove up ahead. She left the road and swung wide, bypassing it at some distance; then she returned to the road and continued on her way.
 

She topped a small hill and saw a carriage in the distance. Thanks be to God! Whoever it was, she could send them to get help. It was a large and handsome coach, with a footman perched on the back, and another riding a spare horse alongside the carriage. She gasped in surprise. But they were in dark green livery! And the coach…dear heaven, it was the very coach that had taken her from Sans-Souci to Choisy-aux-Loges! She murmured a prayer of relief. Colinet. She spurred on her horse and drew up to the carriage, which slowed, then stopped. “Monsieur Colinet!” she cried in delight.
 

The door opened and Pierre stepped out, followed by Colinet. “Madame,” he said. His face was unreadable.
 

She slid from her horse and ran to him. “Thank God you’re here! I was afraid you wouldn’t come!” She threw her arms around him, her heart filled with joy to see his dear face again.
 

He disengaged her arms and held her away from him. “It goes badly with your Arsène?”
 

She froze, aware for the first time what he must be thinking. They had parted on a violent quarrel. She’d told him she wished she had married Arsène. And he’d returned to find she’d gone off to Rochenard of her own free will. “You don’t understand, Pierre. There’s so much to tell you. Only believe that I love you.”
 

“You have a strange way of showing it, madame.”
 

“Oh!” She turned away in frustration. It would take all day to explain to him. And in the meantime, Anjou would be arriving. She looked at Colinet. It would be easier to enlist his help. “How glad I am to see you, Monsieur Colinet!”
 

He smiled broadly. “I didn’t want Monsieur de Villeneuve to come alone.”
 

She stared at him, suddenly filled with cold dread. He was wearing a sword. She had never seen him wear a sword before. And it was customary, when one gentleman challenged another to a duel, for their seconds to duel as well. Her eyes flew to Pierre’s grim face. He couldn’t…!
 

He saw her glance, and smiled mockingly. “Yes. I flew to be with you, wife. The poor horses have scarcely been rested.”
 

What could she say? It would be like talking to a stone wall. In the awkward silence, Colinet cleared his throat. “Yes.” He grinned. We flew like the wind! We dashed past another coach with such speed we left them all agape!”
 

“Another coach? How far back?”
 

“Not more than two or three leagues, madame.”
 

“
Ciel!
Did you notice? Was it the Duc de Chartres’s coach?” At Colinet’s blank expression, she turned to her husband. “Pierre?”
 

“It might have been,” he said coldly. “I think I recognized his crest.”
 

“Oh, alas. So soon?”
 

His mouth twisted in scorn. “Another admirer, wife?”
 

His cruelty tore at her heart. But there wasn’t time for her own grief. “Listen to me. That coach mustn’t go on to Rochenard. We must stop it. There’s danger. There’s…”

“
We?
Not I, madame.” Pierre pointed as another coach came into sight. “Tell them yourself. I have business of my own at Rochenard.”
 

She clutched desperately at Colinet’s arm. “I beg you to listen. And help me to warn them.”
 

Colinet looked at Pierre. “It does no harm to hear what madame has to say.”
 

Pierre shrugged and waited, scuffing his boot impatiently on the dirt of the road, as Chartres’s coach pulled up. His eyes widened in surprise at the young man whose face appeared at the window. He bowed. “Monsieur d’Anjou, my wife seems to think that you’re in danger.”
 

Philippe, Duc d’Anjou, waited for the footman to open the door, then scrambled from the coach. He was a plain-faced young man with a serious expression, and he looked with some concern to his tutor, who had followed him out of the carriage. He spoke slowly, his voice harsh and unpleasant to the ear. “Do we know this man?”
 

Pierre bowed again. “Allow me. I am Charles, Duc de Villeneuve. This is my wife.”
 

Anjou nodded in acknowledgment. “Who fears for our safety?” He turned to the coach. “What think you, cousin?”
 

The Duc de Chartres emerged, smiling, from the coach. On his left shoulder was a bright red cluster of ribbon loops. “I cannot think that danger awaits us at Rochenard. Unless it’s danger in a pair of blue eyes. He turned to Rouge and bowed. “Or gray eyes, madame, and very handsome.”
 

Rouge stared at him. Except for what she’d overheard, there was nothing to connect him with the plot. And he was a Prince of the Blood. She couldn’t accuse him openly merely for wearing a
cocarde.
“There’s to be an ambush,” she said. “I overheard it being planned at Rochenard.”
 

Chartres’s eyes flickered. It was clear he wondered how much she knew. “Are you sure, madame?”
 

There was no point in talking to him. He’d make light of it, no matter what she said. She turned to Anjou. “Monsieur, it’s your life that’s in danger. I’m not sure where. But somewhere up ahead there are brigands who lie in wait to attack your coach.”
 

Chartres laughed. “Come now, madame. Rochenard has many amusements. Perhaps you heard a play being rehearsed.”
 

She looked pointedly at him. “I heard everything, monsieur. Everything.”
 

“And misunderstood, I’m sure.”
 

Anjou scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Perhaps you’re right, cousin, and the lady is overwrought. Let’s be on our way. I’m eager for a good dinner, and you said Falconet sets a fine table.”
 

Rouge turned to Pierre, her eyes pleading. “Name of God,
do
something!”
 

He looked skeptical, but he turned to Anjou. “Why don’t we hear the lady out?”
 

Anjou shrugged, amused, but willing to listen. Rouge plunged in at once, afraid that Chartres would prevail before she could tell it all. “You’re to be waylaid. Up ahead, in a stand of trees, I think. Brigands. They mean to kill you, monsieur.”
 

Anjou laughed with the reckless bravado of youth. “Why then, we’ll fight them!”
 

“But there’ll be too many.”
 

“How many?” asked Pierre.
 

She sighed with relief. At least he believed her. “I don’t know. But they were expecting Monsieur de Chartres and Monsieur d’Anjou and his tutor. And they spoke of the footman and coachman as well.”
 

Colinet smiled. “If they mean to win without much of a fight, there’d have to be seven or eight of them, at the very least, then.”
 

Anjou looked around. “But then, Monsieur de Villeneuve, we’ll be ten, including your servants. I’m for a fight. I’ve never run yet.”
 

Rouge shook her head. “Please, monsieur. No. Even if you defeat the brigands, there’s danger to you at Rochenard. And you’re too valuable to France.”
 

Chartres clapped Anjou on the shoulder. “I’m of your mind, boy,” he said jovially. “A good fight. Let’s go on.”
 

“I don’t see why we can’t,” said Pierre.
 

“I tell you it’s a plot to kill Anjou himself!”
 

“You have proofs?” asked Chartres, his eyes narrowing.
 

She glared at him coldly. “I’m sure there are proofs at Rochenard. If we could send for the intendant at Tours…”
 

“With no proof,” said Chartres contemptuously. “Shall we tell the intendant that we saw shadows that weren’t there? And on the advice of a woman?”
 

“Pierre, please,” she begged. “It’s Anjou himself they mean to kill. How can I make you all understand?”
 

Pierre frowned, thinking. “If it’s so, we’ll get our proofs by letting them attack us. But you, monsieur”—he turned to Anjóu—“would be well advised to turn your coach about and get help from Tours. The intendant and his militia.” He nodded to Anjou’s tutor. “Take him with you. Monsieur de Chartres, will you lend us your sword arm?”
 

Chartres hesitated, clearly torn. “Of course,” he said at last. “And when we’ve killed all the brigands, I should like to question them at Rochenard myself.” And destroy the proofs? thought Rouge.
 

“It’s decided then,” said Pierre. “Rouge, did you hear anything further of their plans?”
 

She remembered suddenly—in the way he took charge, scanned the road ahead, glanced at the rest of the men as though he were assessing them—that he’d been a soldier. “They’ll stop the coach,” she said, “and make the passengers descend. A fight was to break out. And in the fight Anjou was to be killed.”
 

Pierre turned to Chartres. “Does your coachman have a pistol?”
 

“Yes.”

“And your footman?”
 

“Yes.”

“Give them here. My coachman is armed. And I’ve a pistol myself.” He looked at Chartres and Colinet. “We three have our swords. And four pistols among us. My coachman and footman can both be armed. You, Félix,” he said to the other footman, who rode the horse, “can you shoot well?”
 

“Yes, monsieur.”
 

“Good. Get down off that horse and climb up on the roof of the carriage. And take Monsieur de Chartres’s pistols. Both of them. We’ll find a canvas to cover you.”
 

“What do you propose?” asked Chartres.
 

“Since I don’t doubt they outnumber us, we must use the element of surprise. You, Monsieur de Chartres, will ride in the coach. When you’ve alit, upon their orders, my men can open fire and catch them off guard.”
 

“And you and I, Monsieur de Villeneuve?” asked Colinet.
 

Pierre strode to Rouge’s horse and pulled the sidesaddle from its back. “You and I will ride in from the opposite direction, as part of the surprise. Take the other horse.”
 

“But monsieur, you have no saddle.”
 

Pierre shrugged. “I learned to ride without one years ago. Now, Monsieur d’Anjou, take your coach and ride to Tours. We might need help.” He glanced briefly at Rouge—impersonal, cool. “And take madame my wife with you.”
 

“No!” cried Rouge. Whatever happened, she wanted to be with him. Besides, there was a good reason for her to accompany them. “They plan to stop and rob
every
carriage that comes by. Only Anjou was to be killed. If I ride in the coach with Monsieur de Chartres, the presence of a woman will throw them off. They weren’t expecting a woman in the party. There’ll be no fight until you attack first.”
 

Pierre scowled. “I don’t like it, but it makes sense.” He took Rouge by the arm and frowned at her. “When the fighting starts, I want you out of the way. Do you understand?” For a sweet moment she saw her lover Pierre in his eyes; then the soldier returned. “Shall we make our final plans, messieurs?”
 

It was soon concluded. Anjou left for Tours. Pierre and Colinet took their horses and rode out to find a hiding place at the edge of the stand of trees. Rouge and Chartres set off in Pierre’s coach, with the armed footman hidden on the roof.
 

They rode in silence. She thought: He wonders what I know. Well, that wasn’t her concern. She was anxious to see it done; more anxious still to kiss away the anger and doubt in Pierre’s eyes. She looked out of the window. The elm grove was just ahead. The carriage turned a bend and she heard a shout. The carriage stopped. The footman came up and unlatched the door; his face was tense, and one hand hovered near the opening of his coat. About to descend, Rouge turned to Chartres. “I think, monsieur,” she said quietly, reaching out to tear the ribbon from his shoulder, “that you’ll find it easier to defend your life—and your honor—without this.”