Pride of the King, The (49 page)

“Oh, they
will
be suspicious, but I believe their greed will cloud their judgment and more importantly, I believe
I
will cloud their judgment. These three men have a fundamental disdain and hatred for women which is paramount and to admit that a lowly servant girl could be a threat to them would be unthinkable.”

There was a pause and Brobriant said, “You are very sure of yourself.”

“No, Lieutenant. I am very sure of them.”

“And if they refuse?”

Lauren shrugged. “Then everything remains as it is, nothing more, nothing less.”

“Why do you approach me?” he asked.

“You know where to find them. I need you to set up a meeting.”

She heard him chuckle. “Impossible. They would have nothing to do with me.”

“Well could you send me to--”

“Wait,” he interrupted and he began to pace again. “There is a possibility. I know someone who loathes them as much as I do, but he conceals his true opinion. They would listen to him.”

“Is it Dazemard de Lusignan from Fort Frederic?”

“No, but he hates them too. His name is Sebastian Dubois. He is the commander of Fort Saint-Jean on the Richelieu River.

“And you trust this Dubois?”

“I do. I will be meeting with him within the week, but he is unpredictable. This may not be to his liking.”

“I will be waiting for your answer,” said Lauren.

She turned and started back to her cabin leaving the Lieutenant on the shore watching her shadow move into the distance. The night breeze carried her scent to his nostrils, and he remembered once more that she was a woman.

Chapter 51

The sun was relentless that summer and the rain nonexistent. Wildfires left a constant stench of smoke in the air and every living thing seemed on edge. Lauren longed for a fresh breath as she walked on the deer path heading to the north. She followed a group of soldiers, native women and trappers bound for a rendezvous on Lake Champlain, halfway between Carillon and Frederic. After several minutes the path turned downhill, and they came out by the lake which flooded them with breezes and fresh air. Lauren heard several of the group sigh with relief.

The waterway was busy with canoes and bateaux bulging with furs and trade goods for the merchants and businessmen to inspect at the rendezvous, but this was only a small part of the grand meeting. At its core it was a celebration. A celebration of another year of survival in the rugged and dangerous interior, a celebration of the easy days of summer, a celebration of companionship and good will.

Strains of a bagpipe reached Lauren’s ears, and she heard the hearty laughter of men. Because of the abundance of males, Lauren had stuffed her long, auburn hair under a floppy hat and clothed herself in her buckskin shift. For much of the way Lauren thought she was the straggler on the trail, but hearing a twig snap, she looked behind her and saw a grizzly trapper following her. He kept his distance, but she felt his eyes on her the whole time.

Lieutenant Brobriants’s instructions had been scant. He informed her that Julien Gautier, Jean Baptiste and Claude were purchasing furs at the rendezvous, and Lauren was to meet with them at a tavern at midday. Her contact was a
coureur des bois
or trader by the name of Guilliume Golon who had set up everything. Gautier and the Aberjons were ignorant of Dubois’ involvement.

The festivities were in full force. Everywhere Lauren looked there was activity. Tents and campfires were scattered near the lake, circles of men gambling, fiddlers and dancers, men leaning on barrels drinking and telling stories of their adventures and there were women, many more women than Lauren had expected. Native and European women were cooking, dancing, mingling with the men. Many dressed in buckskin or loose blouses, skirts and aprons. Some appeared to be wives, mothers or cooks, some sold companionship.

She was told this Golon was an expert tomahawk thrower, and Lauren knew that she could find him near that competition. Brobriant said that everyone knew the large gray haired trader and finding him would not be a problem.

Lauren spotted a large raw boned man pulling targets off the bark of a tree holding three tomahawks. He wore his long, gray hair tied back under a dirty three-cornered hat, and Lauren guessed this rough looking character was her contact.

She approached him and said, “Excuse me.”

The man bent down under the brim of Lauren’s hat to see her face. “Well, well! There is somebody under there!” he boomed. Lauren smiled, and he smiled back with a large toothless grin. “Couldn’t tell there was such a pretty little thing under that hat.”

“Are you Monsieur Golon?” she asked.

“That I am. What can I do for you?”

“I am here to meet Messieurs Julien Gautier, Jean Baptiste and Claude Aberjon.” Guilliume Golon’s smile dropped. Taking Lauren by the elbow he escorted her into a nearby tent. Searching her face he asked, “Do you know what kind of men they are?”

Lauren took a breath and said, “I do.”

After a moment’s hesitation he shrugged and said, “Very well, little one.” He walked her to the only structure on the site, a tall two story log tavern with a field stone foundation. Golon held the door, and she saw the trapper who had been following her on the trail walking in behind him. Golon and Lauren passed through a drinking establishment filled with smoke and boisterous unwashed voyageurs and up a staircase. When Lauren looked back, the stranger had taken a seat at a table in the corner of the room. Golon escorted her down a hall then disappeared into a one of the chambers. Lauren could hear murmuring then two squat men in stocking caps emerged and started down the stairs. Jerking his head Golon said, “You can go in now.”

He went downstairs leaving Lauren alone outside the door. She took off her hat, letting her tresses fall about her shoulders, took a deep breath and entered the room.

Julien was the first one she saw, standing as usual with his hand on his hip by the fire. Her mouth went dry. When their eyes met he lifted his chin. Lauren noticed his face was still scarred from her fingernails.

Jean-Baptiste sat at a table, a quill in hand. He was a bit grayer and his right eyelid now completely obscured his eye. Claude she did not see anywhere. The room was dark, and not until he spoke did she realize he was in the shadows on the bed, reclining on his side, his head on his hand.

He was the first to speak, and his voice felt like a barb in her belly. “So good to see you again, dear.”  He rubbed the bridge of his nose and said, “I just realized you have been responsible for rearranging two of our faces. No one could ever call you a shrinking violet. Father, today could be your turn.”

“I am here to present an offer to you,” Lauren said, standing with her shoulders squared.

Putting down his quill, Jean-Baptiste said in a voice heavy with sarcasm, “Your husband shows great courage sending a woman to do his dirty work.”

Lauren stepped forward and asked, “May I sit down?”

Julien, who was snacking on nuts, stopped chewing, stunned by her aplomb. Without waiting for an answer she pulled a chair out and sat down at the table across from Jean-Baptiste. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Claude sit up.

“Here is what we offer,” she said. “St. Clare will agree to lift the blockade on the Mississippi permanently and pull his marketing operation out of New France and New England completely if you give us pertinent details about French troop movements.”

There was silence in the room then Gautier laughed. “Blackmail.”

Lauren raised her eyebrows and shrugged. “A simple cost free proposition which would solve all of our problems.”

“He will sell the information to the British?” Gautier asked.

“Indeed,” said Lauren. “It will fund his new operation in the West Indies.”

Jean-Baptiste sat back in his chair, and it made a creaking sound as he reclined. He crossed his arms and said, “Your bravado enchants me. Claude was right. I should have taken you years ago.”

She continued, “If you do not agree, St. Clare has no choice but to remain.”

Claude rose off the bed and walked over to the hearth. He still wore thick white makeup and several patches around his mouth. Lauren wondered if these were to hide sores from the whore’s disease.

He said, “What’s to prevent us from ransoming you?”

Lauren sighed, dropped her eyes for a moment then explained, “Gentleman. I will be frank. If that had been something St. Clare feared he would not have sent me at all. I have found that ours is strictly a business arrangement.”

“Then why did he come for you at Fort Frederic?” challenged Gautier, his eyes narrowing.

“He was interested in retaining his only French born contact. That matters little now. The Romany
girl who accompanied him was the one you should have ransomed. He loved her, not me. Instead you killed her.”

There was silence in the room.

“How did you know where to find us?” Jean-Baptiste asked suspiciously.

“Wherever you can find someone who likes money, James St. Clare has spies.”

Gautier lit some tobacco as Claude continued to watch Lauren closely. Jean-Baptiste said finally, “We will consider your proposition but,” and he paused, “you will not have your answer tonight.”

“Very well,” said Lauren shrugging. “I will return before the sun sets tomorrow.”

*              *              *

The moment Lauren left the room Gautier said, “That woman is not to be trusted.”

“Oh really cousin? How perceptive you are,” said Claude.

“I don’t like it,” said Jean-Baptiste frowning. “I don’t like any of it. It’s a trap.”

“Yes, it could be a trap, Father,” said Claude slumping down into a chair. “But who is behind it? Brobriant? He is terrified of us. Dazemard de Lusignan or Dubois? We line their pockets. It is absurd to think they would listen to an insignificant servant girl.”

Gautier walked to the window, took a puff of his tobacco, blew out the smoke then said, “This St. Clare could be out of our hair forever.”

“You cannot underestimate the man,” argued Jean-Baptiste. “His powers are far reaching.”  

Claude threw his hands into the air and jumped up. “Just what do you suggest, Father! He has the Mississippi bottled up. There is no money coming from Kaskaskia. He threatens to cripple Julien’s trade at Champlain, and our creditors grow impatient. Unless you have a wealthy wife hiding somewhere who will die in a week, we have little choice!”

The only sound in the room was the crackling of the fire as Jean Baptiste burned a look into his son. Finally he rubbed his forehead and said, “Very well. Julien get the information. We will meet here at sunset tomorrow.”

*              *             *

After informing Golon of the meeting the next day at sunset, Lauren set out to find a place to sleep. She found a family who allowed her to place her bedroll behind their tent. She took great care not to be seen, and when it finally grew dark she lay with her knife and flintlock by her side. She watched the bonfires, listened to music and laughter.

It had been unnerving seeing the Aberjons and Gautier again, and she slept fitfully having bizarre dreams of Fort St. Frederic and Kaskaskia throughout the night. When morning came she longed for the comfort and security of
The Pride of the King,
and she wondered if they were on the Hudson or out to sea. She sat up feeling nauseated and thoroughly fatigued.

All day she stayed in back of the tent, out of sight, going to purchase porridge and cider for breakfast and stew with bread and cheese for supper. Being an unescorted female was dangerous, and Lauren counted the hours until sundown. After her meeting she would return to her sutler cottage, meet Gunnar and they would start their journey back to the Hudson River Valley immediately.

At last the hour came and every muscle in Lauren’s body ached with tension. When she entered the tavern she saw several officers and regulars. She wondered if these were the men Dubois had posted for the arrest. She clenched her teeth, walked through the bar room, ignoring the lewd comments and lecherous gropes of the men and marched up the stairs knocking on the door at the end of the hall  

This time when she entered the room, Julien was seated at the table with Jean-Baptiste. They had some maps and documents in front of them, and when Lauren started across the room to examine the document Jean-Baptiste said, “Not so fast. We wait for Claude.”

Lauren pursed her lips and sighed, stepping back. Julien jumped up and looked out the window while Jean-Baptiste watched Lauren. Her heart was thumping so hard she was afraid he could see it. Outwardly she remained calm touching her waist once to make sure her knife was still there and moving her shoulder to adjust the strap of the flintlock. Jean-Baptiste cleared his throat. There was cheering in the distance from some competition.

“Why the hell must we wait for him?” barked Julien.

Lauren looked at Jean-Baptiste, and he replied coolly, “A moment longer.”

Reaching for a decanter of spirits on the table, Jean-Baptiste poured himself a drink. Tossing the contents down his throat in one gulp, he grumbled at last, “That damned fool. I suppose it matters not.”