by Kate Forsyth
‘I’m sure ladies are not meant to gloat either,’ he returned.
She laughed. ‘If I had my way, I’d gallop every day.’
‘Then why don’t you?’ he asked in surprise.
She gave a little characteristic twist to her lips. ‘I don’t have my way very often. Sacré bleu, if I was to be seen galloping! Someone would write to my father for certain, and then I’d be in trouble.’
‘Well then, you must gallop here in the forest where no-one can see,’ David responded lightly.
‘I am not supposed to ride at all anymore,’ she explained. ‘My great-aunt only gave permission today because you said you wished to discuss the garden, and she knows my father wishes it to be the very best it can be. If she had known we were going to ride in the forest, out of sight of the château, she’d never have agreed!’
‘I hope you do not get into strife,’ he said.
She shrugged. ‘It will be worth it, to ride in the forest once more. I have missed it so much.’
The path led them to the small bay with its lovely view of the château.
‘I was thinking we could build a summerhouse here.’ David pulled his battered notebook out of his coat pocket and showed her his sketches.
Her black eyes glowed with excitement. ‘It’ll be truly lovely,’ she exclaimed. ‘I remember coming here with my Austrian governess. She did not mind the scramble at all. We would bring a basket and have a picquenique. She would never let me go any further, though. She said it was not safe. I wonder if it may not be even prettier a little further along? Can you see how the land juts out into the lake there, almost like an island? That may be a better place to build the summerhouse.’
They rode together down into the narrow track, which twisted and turned among tree roots and mossy boulders. It was so rough and overgrown they needed to dismount and lead the horses. Brambles snagged his sleeve. Soon David caught a whiff of something unpleasant. Viviane made a face. Luna began to whine and ran on ahead, nose to the ground. They followed her, David wondering uneasily if they were about to find a dead stag or something even more unpleasant.
The next moment the trail led out to a small peninsula, surrounded on three sides by water. A ramshackle hut was built close to the lake shore, overgrown with ivy and weeds.
‘Someone lives here?’ David said, dismounting and catching at the gelding’s bridle.
‘I don’t know,’ Viviane said. ‘I’ve never come this way before. There was no path. Or, at least, I thought there was no path. Ooof! Doesn’t it stink?’
‘Look at the view!’ David said. ‘It is the perfect framing of the château.’
Together they stood staring across the lake. The château looked like a dream of a fairy-tale castle.
‘But if this is someone’s home …’
‘It looks abandoned,’ David said. ‘And if it’s not, it should be! The whole thing looks ready to fall down.’
As he spoke, he went across to the rough-hewn door of the hut and pushed it open with one hand. He had to duck his head to enter. Viviane followed him, screwing up her face at the smell.
Inside was a dark room with a hard-packed dirt floor. A rough hearth had been made of rocks against one wall, and was filled with ashes that winked red sparks of fire. A blackened pot hung over the ashes from a tripod, and a few iron utensils hung on the wall, most of them filthy with dust and cobwebs. Three crude stools were drawn up by a rickety table, where a knife lay gleaming next to a dark heel of bread.
‘Someone is living here.’ As Viviane’s eyes accustomed to the gloom, she saw a row of moleskins tacked to a string across the ceiling. Her pulse jumped. ‘It’s the mole-catcher’s home. He’s quite mad. He mustn’t find us here – I hate to think what he might do. Let’s go.’
David, however, had seen a small door set in the back wall. Curiously he pushed it open.
A white shape swung towards him, arms billowing.
Viviane screamed. As David stumbled backwards, she sprang towards him, half-sobbing in her terror. ‘What is it? Is it a ghost?’
David put his arm about her and drew her close. ‘No, no, look. It’s just an old nightgown. Hanging from a hook. It’s just the draught that made it sway.’
Viviane uncovered her face and looked. The white thing was indeed a small nightgown, green-stained as if with water, and falling into tatters. Other clothes hung from hooks. A shabby dress of brown homespun. A dirty fichu. A child’s linen coif.
The room was simply furnished with a straw pallet covered with an old patchwork counterpane, much chewed by rats who seemed to have nested within. A candle was set upon a stool, the wax melted down in fantastic shapes and thick with dust. At the foot of the bed was a cradle, grey-draped with cobwebs, and a little rocking chair, made as if for a child. Set upon the rocking chair was a handmade ragdoll, eyes and mouth crudely stitched, wearing a dress made of scraps.
‘It’s a little girl’s room,’ Viviane said wonderingly.
‘But look how dirty. No-one has been in here for many years.’ David took a few steps inside, his footsteps smudging the grey fur of dust on the floor.
‘I did not know Maugan had a daughter,’ Viviane said.
‘Perhaps she died, and he shut the door to her room and never opened it again.’
‘So sad,’ she whispered.
Just then David caught a swift movement in the corner of his eye. He turned. The mole-catcher leapt towards Viviane with the knife in his hand. David called a desperate warning and Viviane jerked away. The knife sliced down her arm, tearing the cloth. She screamed, as David caught her in his arms and swung her out of harm’s way. The next moment, he struck a powerful blow to Maugan’s jaw. The mole-catcher reeled backwards, dropping the knife. David seized Viviane’s hand. ‘Run!’ he cried.
Together they leapt over the mole-catcher’s body and raced for the door. Maugan staggered to his feet and bent to retrieve the knife.
‘He’s coming!’ David flung Viviane up into her saddle and unhitched her bridle, passing her the reins. ‘Ride!’ he shouted, striking her mare’s rump with the flat of his hand. Viviane obeyed, Luna racing behind her. David vaulted into his own saddle, and galloped after her. Looking back, he saw the mole-catcher shaking his fist and shouting curses.
As soon as he was sure they were safe, David drew his gelding to a halt and caught the reins of Viviane’s mare. ‘Show me your arm.’
‘It’s nothing. Just a scratch,’ she panted, showing him the bare skin of her arm inside the torn fabric of her sleeve. A long red weal oozed blood. He tore off his cravat and bound it firmly. ‘Oh, David, you saved my life!’
It was the first time she had called him by his name.
‘It was just luck,’ he said. ‘If I had not seen him from the corner of my eye …’
‘But you did. You did see him. And you knocked him over. You helped me escape. Thank you.’
Her dark hair was ruffled, her eyes glowing with fervour. David wanted badly to kiss her. He looked away, the gelding prancing and fidgeting from the tension in his fingers.
‘Let’s get you home,’ he said gruffly. ‘Then, when you are safe, Monsieur Corentin and I shall take a few men and see what can be done about that madman!’
The air was scarlet with smoke.
Viviane stood at her bedroom window, gazing out at the forest. ‘They are burning the mole-catcher’s hut.’
‘Well, what did you expect? The man attacked you with a knife.’ Briaca gently wound a bandage about her arm.
‘But it’s his home … where will he go, what will he do?’
‘By all accounts, he is rarely there. He travels about, catching moles for whoever will pay him. Monsieur Corentin said the locals thought that old place had fallen in long ago.’
‘I just don’t understand. Why did he try to stab me? What have I ever done to him?’ Viviane’s voice broke.
Briaca was silent for a moment. ‘A lot of hate for those of blue blood.’
Viviane thought of the m
en who had been sent to burn the shack. Many of them had sent her sullen looks, though she had not wanted Monsieur Corentin to take such harsh action. They had not liked to see David riding at the head of the procession either. Some had cursed him under their breaths or spat on the ground.
‘If it was not for David, I’d be dead,’ Viviane whispered.
Briaca came and put a hand on her arm. ‘You should not be so familiar with him, mamzelle. He is a foreigner and a commoner, and not even Catholic. If your father knew …’
‘Am I not allowed even one friend?’ Viviane cried in sudden anger.
‘Choose your friends from among your own kind, mamzelle,’ Briaca said.
Viviane’s shoulders were rigid with tension. ‘There is no-one of my own kind here. You know that.’
‘Come to bed, mamzelle,’ Briaca said.
Viviane resisted the pull of her hand, looking back out the window at the thick pillar of black smoke. ‘I never knew the mole-catcher had a daughter.’
Briaca dropped her hand and turned away. ‘She died soon after you were born.’
‘But how? How did she die?’
‘She killed herself.’
‘But why?’
‘She was hurt … she was ashamed …’ Briaca’s face was shadowed.
Viviane frowned at her. ‘Was she … was she with child?’ She remembered the cradle in the girl’s room, all spun over with cobwebs.
‘She did not want it. Your mother did her best … but then she died … and for poor Loeiza, all hope died with her.’
‘My mother?’
‘Yes. Your mother tried to help her but …’ Briaca sat down on the end of the bed, her head bent down into her hands.
‘Briaca? What is it? What’s wrong?’
‘So long ago. None of it matters now.’
‘Won’t you tell me?’
Briaca shook her head, and got up abruptly.
‘Wait. Please.’ Viviane reached out and caught hold of her dress. ‘The mole-catcher’s daughter. How old was she?’
‘Just fourteen years old. Little more than a child.’
To Viviane’s amazement, Briaca was weeping.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, scrubbing her face with her apron. ‘It’s just … I should have helped her. She was my dearest friend. But I was too frightened …’ Her voice broke.
‘Who was the baby’s father?’ It somehow seemed very important to know.
Briaca got up abruptly. ‘It doesn’t matter. Loeiza has been dead these twenty years. Let her rest in peace.’ She went swiftly towards the door.
‘Wait! Briaca, please.’
Briaca turned, one hand on the half-open door.
‘How did they die? The mole-catcher’s daughter and her baby?’
‘She drowned herself in the lake, with stones in her pockets and the baby in her arms. Twenty years ago, on the Day of the Dead.’
‘Less than five weeks after I was born. Five weeks after my mother died.’
‘Yes.’
‘Three babies, born so close. The mole-catcher’s daughter’s baby, Pierrick and me.’
‘Yes.’
‘Is that why he hates me? The mole-catcher? Because I lived but his daughter died?’
‘That is one reason,’ Briaca answered.
‘What other reason could there be?’ Viviane demanded.
Briaca stood still, her head bent.
‘Was my father the baby’s father too?’ Viviane asked, her mind making a wild intuitive leap. ‘And … was he Pierrick’s father also?’
Briaca put up one hand and smudged away a tear.
‘Please tell me.’
Briaca looked at her with haunted eyes. ‘I cannot. I swore never to tell.’
‘Who made you swear that? My father?’ Viviane rushed across the room, seizing Briaca’s hand and preventing her from leaving. ‘But why?’
Briaca shook her head again. ‘He would throw me and Pierrick out into the street to starve if he knew I was speaking to you about it, mamzelle.’
‘So it’s true? Pierrick is my brother?’ Viviane felt a surge of contradictory emotions. Joy and surprise and disbelief and bewilderment, all muddled up together. ‘But … why then is he nothing but a servant? My father wants a son and heir! Surely that is why he has married again, so late in life? I do not understand.’
Briaca stared at her in incomprehension. ‘Mamzelle, don’t you know the laws against bastards? A child born out of wedlock has neither kith nor kin, nor any rights at all. Even if Monsieur le Marquis was to acknowledge my son as his – which he would never do – Pierrick would never be able to lay claim to a single sou.’
‘But that’s so unfair,’ Viviane whispered. ‘He is my father’s son.’
‘Not in your father’s eyes.’ Briaca spoke bitterly. ‘When I knew that I was with babe, I went to him, I begged him on my knees to help me. And he told me that any child of mine would be born of a soiled womb, and so worthless in the eyes of all. And I knew that to be true. I knew all good people would shun us, and that we would likely die together in a ditch, for a sin that was forced upon me! I was in despair.’
Briaca gripped Viviane’s hands with all her strength. ‘Then Monsieur le Marquis took pity on me, he said that I could stay, and my child too, as long as I never told anyone the truth. And for twenty years now I have kept my lips sealed, and never said a word. You must promise me to do the same, mamzelle! Please! If Pierrick found out, I do not know what he would do. He hates the marquis, and all of his kind. And you know Monsieur le Marquis would not think twice about casting me off; we would lose everything. Promise me you’ll not tell Pierrick the truth!’
Viviane hardly knew what to do or say. Her mind was all confusion.
‘Swear on your mother’s grave,’ Briaca commanded her.
‘I swear,’ Viviane said falteringly.
Briaca let her hands go, and turned away with a deep sigh of relief. ‘It is better Pierrick does not know,’ she murmured. ‘He is already angry and dissatisfied with his lot. He may begin to wish for the impossible, and that only ever leads to heartbreak.’
Viviane sat down abruptly. Her legs felt weak and trembly. Pierrick was her brother? Her half-brother, she supposed. Yet born out of wedlock, and so born without a name, nothing but a dash in the parish records where his father’s name was supposed to go. What would he think if he knew?
Briaca was right, she thought. Pierrick would be angry and resentful. Maybe it was better he did not know.
But the secret burned within her.
Briaca was hunched and anxious. ‘Mamzelle, you need to know. Loeiza’s father was not a bad man before. A trifle stern, perhaps, for he wanted to keep her safe. But then he found his little girl had been forced against her will, and was with child when only a child herself, and the father giving her nothing but heartache and a ruined name, and the child to be born without a sou to his name when – less than a league away – another child, born of the same father, was to be wrapped in silk and fed with a silver spoon, and bowed and scraped to all her life – well, is it any wonder it drove him mad?’
The words spilled out of her, as if a tie fastening her tongue had been cut.
Viviane stared at her, feeling sick.
‘It’s enough to drive anyone mad,’ Briaca said then, very low, and went out, closing the door behind her.
David stood at his narrow lancet window, a glass of wine in his hand. He felt both bone-weary and overwrought. He kept seeing that moment when the mole-catcher had lunged at Viviane, the knife flashing down in his hand.
Thank God he had snatched her away. Thank God she had not died.
It was a long time before he slept.
The next morning, David was roused by the sound of shouting and running feet. Half-dazed with sleep, he pulled on his breeches and boots and went out to the courtyard. Maids were clustered about the gate, shawls cast over their dresses against the early morning chill. They all looked anxious and upset. One was weeping. ‘Poor Mam
zelle,’ she said. ‘How awful.’
David pushed past them and ran through the garden. More people stood, staring towards the orchard. Through the archway, he could see a cluster of people standing near the pigeonnière, looking down at something white and bloodied on the ground.
His heart banged hard against his ribs. He broke into a run. No, no, he thought. Please.
He pushed through the crowd.
A heap of white birds on the ground. Wings bent and stained with red. Heads severed. Claws bent and frozen. Dark eyes staring.
‘Someone took to them with an axe,’ Pierrick said. For once, there was no ripple of amusement in his voice.
‘But why?’ Monsieur Corentin said.
‘The peasants hate the laws that allow the seigneur to keep a thousand doves that eat their seeds and destroy their crops, but cannot be hunted for food.’ Pierrick spoke with great authority, so that David looked at him in surprise. ‘It is one of the grievances the Third Estate hope to bring before the king.’
‘This is more personal.’ David’s voice was croaky. ‘No, this is the mole-catcher. This is his revenge.’
Pierrick glanced at him, then nodded in swift agreement.
‘But how did he get in?’ Monsieur Corentin demanded.
‘He would have swum the mill-race, then climbed the wall broken by the oak tree.’ Pierrick pointed to the far end of the orchard, to where the wall had half-collapsed under the weight of the heavy branch. A half-smile flickered over his face. ‘It is not hard.’
Just then, a cry of distress rang through the morning. Viviane ran towards them, a robe flung over her nightgown, her hair tumbling free. ‘My doves! What has happened? Oh no! But … who? Why?’
She flung herself on her knees and began to turn over the limp bodies of the birds, flinching at the sight of their severed heads. Tears flooded down her face.
‘I think it was Maugan,’ David said, his voice rough with emotion.
Viviane bent her face into her hands and began to weep. David bent and lifted her to her feet, and blindly she turned into the comfort of his arms, burying her face against his shoulder. He rocked her gently, murmuring words of comfort.
When David lifted his head, it was to find all the men staring at him and Viviane. A hot burn spread up his body. Gently he drew away from her. She clung on tightly.
