Pride of the King, The (33 page)

“Good. Who?”

“He is a visiting merchant from Montreal. He has a large business in the fur trade.”

“His name?”

“Julien Gautier,” she responded. “And I will have him ready soon to strike a bargain.”

“Very good,” Davi responded. “Anything else?”

“That is all,” Lauren said. “Your mother and sister, are they well?”

“They are.”

Lauren felt her palms perspire, and she asked, “And Captain St. Clare. How does he fare?”

“He is well and in Albany, on business with a woman there.”

Lauren’s stomach tightened. “What sort of business?’

“He tells me nothing. I must go,” he replied, pulling his cap on and putting his hand on the door.

“Is there anything you need?” he offered.

Lauren whispered, “No,” and he was gone.

*          *       *

The rest of the night Lauren tossed and turned. She cursed herself for asking about St. Clare, yet repeatedly her thoughts returned to him. She remembered the way he ran his fingers through her hair, the urgency of his kisses, but most of all she remembered how safe she felt in his arms.

Lauren doubled her efforts to please Julien. She felt she was getting close to making her final move. The next step would be to introduce him to a representative of The Pride of the King
.
Then they would begin to place and receive orders. Large amounts of money would be exchanged and Julien’s greed would prevail. She knew money was more important to Gautier than anything else, and once he realized there were great profits in illegal traffic, he would become an eager customer.

Julien had been attentive and affectionate toward Lauren again for weeks without incident until one afternoon he came home early, greeted her with a kiss and slipped his hand inside the material of her gown, pulling out her pocket searching the contents.

“What are you doing?” said Lauren pushing him back. “What are you looking for?’

Gautier did not respond, dropping her pocket and turning to lift the lid of a Dutch oven in which Lauren was baking a pie. “Did you miss me today?” he asked as he was bending over smelling the pastry.

“Of course I missed you,” she said with a scowl, tucking the pocket back into the slit of her gown.

Julien turned and smiled at Lauren searching her eyes. “You know, I adore you.” He took her hand and led her to the bedchamber, and this time when they embraced Lauren felt as if Julien was punishing her, not caressing her.

Everything began to change after that. Lauren did not understand what was happening, but she did know that Gautier’s grip began to tighten on her, and it was frightening. At first she thought he was simply being possessive and it was flattering, but as time passed, Gautier seemed to be watching her movements. He would come home early or stop by the Moreau home asking Madame her whereabouts. He knew nothing of her relationship to The Pride of the King
,
yet this sudden possessiveness could pose a threat if Lauren needed to send a signal from the windmill.

Other things changed as well. Gautier seemed to find fault in Lauren more and more, pointing out flaws in her cooking and criticizing her housekeeping skills, but what infuriated her the most were his disparaging remarks regarding her appearance. Frequently he asked her to change her gown or fix her hair differently, chuckling and calling her tastes in fashion pedestrian. At first, the comments hurt Lauren, then after several weeks she grew resentful burying her loathing under an exterior of compliance and docile acceptance.

Now more than ever Lauren needed to introduce Gautier to the contraband trade in case the relationship soured. She endured it all in silence, smiling sweetly yet watching and hoping the right time would arrive soon, and she could finish up. He expressed interest in meeting with her contacts, but insisted he do business first with the proprietor. This indicated to Lauren that he was indeed interested in a large-scale trade agreement, but it would be difficult to get word to James in time. The summer was waning and Lauren had no idea if St. Clare was still in Albany or moved out to sea. She knew she must work quickly before Julien returned to Montreal for the winter. Success was essential this fall, so she could return to the Hudson Valley to claim her land.

Thoughts of her property were what sustained Lauren now. Late at night she would lay on her bed in the loft, arms behind her head and speculate about her future home; what it would look like, what curtains to have, flowers and vegetables in the garden and what sort of view there would be from the front door. Sometimes she even thought about owning some chickens, a horse or a dog.

The days went by at a snail’s pace. She could not rush things. Acting too early could be disastrous and dangerous. Her carefree days of summer were gone, and she found it fatiguing and nerve wracking maintaining the charade of adoration for Gautier. The relationship that had been so carefree now had become draining and exhausting. In just a few months, she had gone from sincere passion for Gautier to complete disdain. She finally began to understand, to a small degree, the degradation Eugenie must have felt at the hands of Jean-Baptiste Aberjon.

Not everything was painful and tedious though. Lauren enjoyed the good-natured company of Madame Moreau, and sometimes the women would share breakfast or sit and sew. One afternoon, the good woman invited Lauren to attend confession with her at the chapel in the fort.

“At long last, Father Piermont has some help,” Madame Moreau, explained. “He has taken in an old priest who hears confessions for him. The man is a deaf mute and somewhat addled, but kind. He suffers from apoplexy.”

Lauren put her sewing down and said, “Oh, what a shame.”

Madame Moreau covered her mouth and giggled, “Being almost deaf makes him a perfect priest to hear confessions don’t you think?”

“Madame!” Lauren gasped then giggled too.

Several afternoons a week, the women would walk to the fort, cross the drawbridge and go to the chapel to say their confessions. One afternoon after they emerged from the chapel, Lauren told Madame Moreau to return home without her because she had a pastry to bring to Julien. Lauren climbed the steps of the citadel to the officer’s quarters where Julien did his business. The door was cracked but just as she was about to knock she overheard Gautier say, “St. Clare is nothing more than--”

Lauren stepped back, startled. She put her hand to her chest.
Gautier was speaking of St. Clare!
She held her breath and listened.

“Has anyone seen him since he left Albany?” asked Gautier.

“No sir.”

Goosebumps rose on her arms. Her heart thumped so hard she was terrified they may hear it.

“Damn! We were so close to eliminating him at Warren’s Landing and here on the lake earlier this spring.”

Someone was shuffling paper.

“We must flush him out immediately,” Gautier ordered. “If I am to obtain the arms and luxury monopoly I deserve, he is not to infiltrate here before me. Now search the waters and the woods.”

“The woman can tell you nothing of his whereabouts?”

“No, I tried to set up a meeting through her, but she doesn’t know where he is. I had hoped she could lure him here.”

“If you expressed an interest in trade with his organization would he come?”

“No, I believe he would only send representatives. I have obtained the information I need from her. She is of no use to me anymore.”

Stepping quickly but quietly down the wooden stairs, Lauren departed. She stopped at the entrance to the parade ground and looked around. There were soldiers everywhere and Indians loading carts. She knew if she ran, she would attract attention so she steadied herself, thrust her chin into the air and forced herself to walk casually to the gate.

When she was out of the sight of the sentries she broke into a run for the tree line. Holding her skirts high above her knees, she struggled through the brush, branches and nettles finally stopping at the base of a huge white pine exhausted and terrified. Her chest was heaving and her heart felt as if it would burst. She told herself to calm down and make an escape plan quickly. It all was clear now. Julien was the one making attempts on St. Clare’s life. He wanted the lucrative smuggling venture here. She could not have entangled herself with someone worse. She cursed herself for being so careless and naive.

Lauren examined all of her options. Traveling on the lake was impossible; she had no boat. Walking overland was feasible only with a guide, her only chance was to wait until dark, take a lantern to the windmill and hope someone from The Pride of the King would be watching. Even if it were not the appointed night, maybe Davi or someone would be there. It was her only hope. She must warn St. Clare and all those in The Pride of the King of the danger.

Lauren waited in the woods until the sun went down. She thought she would lose her mind fighting the flies and the bugs. She sat on the pine needles in her shift covering her head with her gown. When the moon finally came up, it was merely a crescent, and Lauren was grateful. It shed just enough light for her to steal out of the woods and down the path to the Moreau home.

It was late when she arrived at their home and she knew they would be asleep, so she eased open the door and slipped into the sitting room. She heard snoring from Madame and Monsieur Moreau’s bedchamber and in the dim light saw bundles on the beds by the fireplace. She knew these were the children. Lauren bent over the fire, lit a candle and placed it in a lantern. She took a towel to pass in front of the lantern to send her distress signal and slipped out, darting down the road to the windmill. It loomed large in front of her, and her hands were shaking as she threw open the door and raced to the top of the stairs. She started toward the window and stopped. The hair raised on her arms. She felt something. She was not alone.

Suddenly, someone threw her against the wall. Her lantern crashed to the floor shattering. Pinned against the wall and gasping for air, Lauren heard Julien say, “You thought I was stupid!” Gautier put his hands on her throat. He tightened his grip, and she started to gag. “You little whore. The only way you’ll leave me is in a coffin.”

Struggling for air, she reached up, grabbed his hair and yanked his head back with all her might. With the swiftness of a cat, she dragged her nails across his eyes, feeling his flesh tear. He let out a roar. Slipping from his grasp, Lauren dashed for the stairs, but in the darkness lost her footing. She stumbled once, found a step, but the momentum from running was too great. She lost her balance tumbling wildly down the stairwell. Sprawled at the base of the steps, dazed and injured, Lauren tried to stand but slumped back onto the floor, losing consciousness. When she woke up, she was bound and gagged, lying in a prison cell at Fort St. Frederic.

Chapter 36

Repeatedly Lauren would dream of Eugenie. The girl was hanging from the gallows, her muscles twitching in the final moments of death, her face covered in the hideous leather mask.
Lauren would awaken with a start, covered in perspiration and sit up in the tiny prison cell hitting her head on the ceiling of the vault. Desperately she would grope her face and neck, then drop back down onto the soggy straw. There was no leather restraint covering her skin, and no noose was around her neck--yet.

Lauren’s prison cell was nothing more than a wooden box, smaller than a coffin, and she could only lay in the enclosure with her knees drawn up to her chest, languishing on soiled straw, delirious and injured. A soldier shoved food and water through the bars, but it was of no consequence; she ate nothing and drank little.

“It’s only a matter of time for you. You English cunt,” the guard snarled. “They’re making gallows special just for you.”

He bombarded Lauren with insults throughout the day, but she did not respond. On most occasions, she was unaware of his comments, being too weak and too tired to be aware of anything. After the third day, it became difficult for her to distinguish illusion from reality. Her perception of time became confused; one moment she believed she had been in jail for months, the next for only for a few hours.

One morning she heard a jangling of keys, the grinding of a lock, and the door was yanked open. Reaching in, the guard yanked Lauren up out of the cell to set her on her feet. She crumbled to the floor, her legs too weak and numb to stand.

“Bring a cart!” he demanded of another soldier. “Jesus Christ, she stinks,” he said, turning his face away in disgust.

They dropped Lauren onto a pony cart and wheeled her across the parade ground into a room on the first floor of the citadel. It was the headquarters of the commanding officer of Fort St. Frederic, Paul Louis Dazemard de Lusignan. Lauren opened her eyes as they placed her on a chair in the middle of the room, a room filled with men in blue uniforms. An older gentleman in a powdered wig presided at the desk while several officers stood at attention behind him. Gautier was among them, a bandage over one eye. The room was small and crowded, filled with the musky odor of men in unwashed woolen uniforms.

Lauren struggled to hold her head up, but she was too weak, her chin dropped down onto her chest, her hair hanging in matted tangles around her face. The trial was quick, a mere formality for the officers of Fort St. Frederic. In their eyes, the girl was guilty of treason well before the hearing. Gautier accused her of being a spy for the British, and they convicted her without question. Lauren heard the words treason and punishment, and then someone leaned close to her ear and roared, “I said, ‘Do you want a priest!’ ”