by Kate Forsyth
‘Really?’ She clasped her hands together like an excited child. ‘Oh, one day I must go to China. It seems as if all the marvels of the world are hidden behind its high walls and mountains.’
All awkwardness seemed to have passed away. Once again she was at ease with him, as if she was his sister or his friend. But David knew that his feelings for her ran much deeper than that.
Sometimes he indulged himself in a fantasy where he performed great deeds and won her father’s gratitude and Viviane’s hand in marriage, as if he was a knight out of one of her old stories.
Other times, he spoke to himself sternly. She is not for you. You cannot afford a wife. Particularly not one brought up in a château. You have your grandparents to support, your sisters to dower. You need to keep her at arm’s length. She is a marquis’s daughter, with blood as blue as snowmelt. She is used to servants. To fine clothes of silk and velvet and fur, and a vast château to live in.
A vast cold empty château, the voice inside him whispered. A lonely loveless château.
David tried to ignore that voice. He had to be sensible. He had to think of the future. Viviane was not for him. She would go to court and marry for money, and he would seek to make his fortune somewhere else, far away from here.
Yet he could not help imagining Viviane in his life, in his arms, in his bed.
David turned away from her, put his hand upon the handle of a spade, searching for something to say. ‘Would you like to plant the first rose?’ he said at last.
‘Oh, yes, please.’ Viviane waited as he dug a hole next to the statue of the Rose Maiden. Then she drew her bare hands out of her ermine muff, and carefully lifted one of the roses into place. As she straightened, one high heel sank into the soft earth and she pitched sideways. Flinging out a hand to save herself, she caught at the rose’s branches and cried out in pain as thorns pierced her palm. Beads of blood as red as rubies sprang up on her white skin.
‘Aïe-aïe-aïe!’ Viviane cried. She put her palm to her mouth to suck the blood away.
David drew out his handkerchief and took her hand in his, pressing the white linen against the wound. Immediately her blood soaked through.
Viviane looked up at him ruefully. ‘I wonder if that is the colour of the red rose of China? A rose as red as blood that blooms even in frost! I would love such a rose.’
David should have turned away. He should have muttered something inconsequential about the weather.
Instead he took her bare hand and lifted it to his mouth, pressing his lips to her palm. ‘One day I will go and find you one,’ he promised.
8
Free as a Bird
8–11 December 1788
It was dusk, and the sky was slowly darkening.
Snow lay thick on the château’s battlements, and frosted the steep slate roofs of the towers. The lake was a sheet of steel-grey ice, and the mill-race a surge of frozen cascades. The mill-wheel stood immobile, long icicles trailing from the spokes.
David stood on the smaller bridge, staring down at the frozen lake. A solitary figure skated there, pushing along one of the gilt chairs from the banqueting hall. She had been out there for an hour or more, all alone, stumbling and falling often. Luna crouched in the snow on the shore, watching anxiously, having tried to follow Viviane onto the ice until all three legs had slipped in different directions.
David and his sisters and the Morgan children had spent many a happy hour in the winter skating on the fish-pond at Plas Machen, building snowmen and hurling snowballs at each other. It had been great fun. He wondered if Viviane had ever been allowed such innocent play with other children her own age.
Just then, Viviane fell with a thump, skirts billowing up around her. Doggedly she tried to regain her feet, only to fall again.
David went through to the kitchen, and found Pierrick playing cards with some of the men. ‘May I have a word?’ he asked.
Pierrick looked up at him speculatively. ‘When I’ve won this round,’ he answered.
David sat down to wait. Finally – after much smoking of pipes and swilling of hot cider – the game finished and Pierrick came to join him. ‘You want something, monsieur?’
‘I am wondering if there are any ice-skates I can borrow?’
Pierrick shook his head. ‘Mamzelle ordered hers from Paris. It does not often snow here in Bretagne, but they say this is the worst winter in eighty years. Mamzelle has had her heart set on a pair ever since she read that the queen loved to skate on the Grand Canal at Versailles.’
‘I wonder if I can get hold of a pair somehow,’ David said. ‘I often skated at home.’
Pierrick regarded him steadily. ‘I can find you some skates, naturellement, if you have the coin to pay.’
David sighed. ‘I have very little coin left, not having been paid yet.’ And I am saving it to buy something special for Viviane for Christmas, he thought but did not say.
‘Do you have anything to sell?’
‘Only some old books,’ David replied.
Pierrick made a face, but agreed to take the books to sell next time he went to Rennes to pick up the mail. ‘The main difficulty will be finding skates big enough,’ he sighed. ‘You have feet like an elephant.’
‘Better than having feet like a mouse,’ David rejoined.
Pierrick returned with the skates a few days later, and – when dusk was falling and the men had come in from the cold – David strapped them on and went gliding out to join Viviane.
Her face lit up as he raced towards her. ‘David!’ she cried. She let go of the chair and skated towards him, both hands held out. Inevitably one foot skidded sideways and she lurched wildly. David caught her before she fell.
‘I never realised it would be so hard,’ she panted, straightening her skirt.
‘Here, hold my hands,’ he said, and began to skate slowly backwards. She stumbled along after him, but after a moment caught the idea and her skates began to move more fluidly.
‘Keep your knees bent a little more,’ he instructed. ‘Push off with the inside edge of the blade … that’s right.’
David was careful to keep close to the shadow of the château, where they would be less likely to be seen. Mademoiselle de Ravoisier, the daughter of the Marquis de Valaine, skating hand-in-hand with the gardener? Quelle horreur!
Yet he had not been able to bear seeing her out on the ice, so indomitable, so alone.
Her gloved hands clung to his. Her cheeks were rosy, her black eyes glowing with excitement. Soon they were moving so swiftly, her muff flew out behind her on its long satin ribbon. The ice hissed beneath their steel blades.
‘Oh it’s wonderful! I feel like I could skate forever,’ she cried, ‘all the way to the sea. I’m as free as a bird. Look, David!’ And she let go of his hands so she could spread her arms wide like wings, one foot lifted. For a long moment she flew forward, graceful as a swan, then her ankle wobbled. David caught her hands and steadied her. She laughed up at him, and it was all he could do not to pull her into his arms and kiss her.
‘It’s getting dark,’ he said. ‘We should go in.’
‘I don’t want to go in,’ she cried. ‘Skate with me, David! Skate with me to the ends of the earth.’
So he took her hands and taught her how to spin.
Round and round they whirled, snow swirling down from the dark sky.
At last they came to a halt in the shadow of the bridge, clinging together, laughing, trying to catch their breath.
‘That was wonderful!’ Viviane gasped, looking up at him. ‘Thank you.’
Unable to help himself, David bent his head and kissed her.
Viviane gripped his coat with both hands, lifting her face mutely, pressing her body against his. His hands found the shape of her within the heavy ermine-lined coat. Her mouth was sweet, her skin under his fingers like silk. He lost himself in a delirium of passion.
Then she wrested herself away. ‘I can’t, I can’t,’ she said, mouth against his shoulder. ‘
Oh, David, you must stop.’
He held her, staring down at her as if stupefied.
‘I can’t,’ she said again, even as she lifted herself on tiptoe so she could kiss the clenched line of his jaw. ‘My father would kill you if he knew …’
David could not think. His body trembled as if he had an ague. ‘I did not know … it could feel like this.’ He kissed her again.
After a long while, she drew away. ‘What are we to do?’ Her voice was desperate.
David tried to recover himself. He leant his hands on the wall, feeling the burn of the snow on his bare skin. ‘I’m sorry,’ he managed to say. ‘I should never have done such a thing. It was … damnable.’
‘No, no,’ she said quickly. ‘It was as much me as you. We could not help it … and I am glad!’ She caught hold of his hand. ‘I just wish … oh, but like all my dreams and wishes, it is impossible!’
Her voice broke. David turned and drew her into his arms, kissing away her tears. ‘Why? Why is it impossible? Is not every man born free and master of himself? Why cannot we choose who to love?’
‘I am not free,’ she said. ‘And I will never be free. I am my father’s chattel, I must do as I am bid. And he will never permit me to marry you.’
David stiffened. ‘Am I so ineligible?’ he cried, out of the bitterness of his heart. ‘I am not rich, it is true. The Lord knows, the Devil could dance in my pocket. But I am young, I am strong, I can work to support you …’
‘It does not matter. Your blood is not blue. My father … we are of the noblesse ancienne … how do you say, of the old nobility. He is a grand seigneur … of noble blood from time immemorial. He would consider it an insult of the most unforgiveable. If he even knew that you had kissed me … he would run you through with his sword and feed you to the dogs.’
David was silent. His body thrummed with anger and thwarted desire. Words and arguments tumbled in his head. It is wrong! We are all equal in the eyes of God. No man has the right to lord it over another.
Yet he knew that all would condemn him for daring to fall in love with a marquis’s daughter.
He looked down at Viviane, nestled into his arms as he had wanted her for so long. ‘We will run away together,’ he said recklessly. ‘We’ll find a ship and sail the seven seas. You can be my cabin-boy.’
She smiled, as he had intended, but it was such a forlorn attempt it smote his heart. He bent and kissed her hair. She was shivering.
‘You are cold, Viviane fach. You must go in.’
She nodded, but did not move from the shelter of his arms. ‘What does that mean?’ she whispered. ‘What you just called me.’
‘It means “little one” in Welsh,’ he told her, smoothing her hair away from her face. ‘And also, “my dear one”. And you must call me Davy bach, which is “my dear one” for boys.’
‘I like it. I wish you could call me that always. I wish we could stay here, like this, for always. I wish … oh, Davy bach …’
He wiped away her tears. ‘They would find us frozen to death in the morning,’ he pointed out. ‘Entombed in ice.’
‘I wouldn’t care.’
‘Come on, Viviane fach. Let me take you in. Remember what my grandmother always said. For a valiant heart, nothing is impossible. We will find a way, I know we will.’ David spoke only to comfort her. His own heart was as heavy as lead in his chest.
‘There is no way.’
‘I will write to your father, plead my case …’
‘No, no! You must promise me, you will not write … he will kill you. Please, David, promise me!’
At last, unhappily, he promised her. She wept in the circle of his arms.
Resting his chin on her head, David gazed out into the darkness. In the corner of his eye, he saw light widen.
Someone was standing in the lit square of a window.
Watching them.
As a child, David had always wanted to know how things worked.
He dug up seeds to see them sprouting and dismantled clocks to examine their inner workings. His heroes were the great rationalists. Thomas Paine, Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Voltaire.
A rational man would never allow himself to tumble head-over-heels into love. A sensible man waited till he was financially secure, then looked about for a suitable young woman of good birth and good sense before asking her father for his permission to court her. After a few weeks of polite conversation, it might be permitted to kiss her hand.
A rational man did not stand in a wintry garden half the night, looking up at a window hoping to see it flower into light.
A rational man did not toss his sheets into a tangle, torturing himself with memories of a kiss in the snow.
A rational man did not take any chance to seize another kiss, knowing that discovery would be the ruin of all his hopes.
Yet David was no longer a rational man. His love for Viviane was lunacy.
A week after Saint-Nicolas’s Feast, it was David’s twenty-fourth birthday. He thought that nobody knew. Yet when Pierrick brought him in his breakfast, a small packet tied up with ribbons lay on the tray.
‘From Mamzelle,’ Pierrick said.
David opened the package. Inside was a flat brick of dried, compressed leaves. On top was stamped the image of a Chinese pagoda. David lifted the brick to his nose, then crumbled a few leaves.
It was tea.
David grinned.
‘Mamzelle made me ride all the way to Saint-Malo to buy it for you,’ Pierrick said. ‘In this weather!’
‘Please thank her for me,’ David said, drawing a small silver teapot towards him. As he had hoped, it was full of scalding hot water. He cut off a hunk of the brick of tea and dropped it inside.
‘Why do you not thank her yourself? When you sneak off to see her after supper?’
David felt a sharp stab of consternation. He knew how much Viviane feared her father discovering their love. ‘Who else knows?’
Pierrick shrugged. ‘Anyone who has eyes to see.’
‘My intentions are honourable,’ David said stiffly.
‘So I should hope.’
‘But the circumstances are … difficult.’
‘Now that’s an understatement.’ Pierrick’s voice was brittle and angry.
The door opened, and Briaca came in with a bowl of pottage.
‘The men are going hunting this morning,’ Pierrick said in a very different tone of voice, ‘for if we cannot find meat we may all starve come Christmas Eve. Will you come with me, monsieur? I know that you can ride.’
He fixed David with a meaningful glare.
David nodded reluctantly.
‘Enjoy your tea,’ Pierrick said. ‘I shall see you in the stableyard when you are finished.’
The hounds milled around the horses’ hooves, baying with excitement.
The master of the hunt lifted his horn to his lips and blew a thrilling note. Horses broke into a canter, streaming across the two-arched bridge and into the forest. Ice cracked under their hooves, and the wind was sharp enough to bring tears to David’s eyes.
‘Allons!’ Pierrick cried, standing up in his stirrups and gesturing to the west, away from the pale light of the rising sun.
David urged the gelding on. He needed a good hard gallop. It was difficult being confined within the snowbound château. Wanting Viviane and not being able to have her. Seeing no way out of their impasse. He had hardly enough coins in his pockets to buy himself a jug of ale, let alone passage for two back to Wales. He was still owed his wages, the marquis paying his servants at midsummer and midwinter. In a few more days, Christmas would be gone and David would have enough money to pay for tickets for two on the stage-coach to Saint-Malo, and thence on a boat to England.
If only Viviane would flee with him. But she would not. ‘My father would find us,’ she said in that bleak, hopeless voice that cracked his heart. ‘He would kill you, and it would be all my fault. It’s no use, David.’
How he loved the way she said his name, in
that sweet broken English of hers.
The hounds caught a scent, and began to bay. Their voices were deep and powerful. David felt a quickening of excitement. He kicked his gelding into a gallop, following a narrow winding path through the trees.
It was not long before they saw the stag, antlered head held high. The dogs charged after it, baying like the wild hunt of Annwn. David and the other men galloped after, clods of snow flying from the horses’ hooves.
Through the winter-bare trees they raced, leaping over fallen logs, veering around snow-mounded boulders. At last the stag was cornered between a thicket of red-berried holly and an immense bare-branched oak tree. The dogs barked shrilly in their excitement, darting in and biting at the stag’s legs and being swept away by the lowered antlers. The master of the hunt dismounted and drew his knife. In moments, the task was done and the stag had fallen to his knees, its lifeblood staining the snow. David looked away. He could not help feeling a kind of grief that so noble a creature should end its life so cruelly.
It was not long before the stag was trussed and ready to be taken back to the château. The master of the hunt mounted up, prepared to see what other sport could be had that day. David turned his horse’s head to follow the men back home.
‘Monsieur Stronach,’ Pierrick called. ‘Wait for me.’
David reined his gelding in. The sun was higher in the sky now, but still cast little warmth or colour into the cold day. He blew into his gloved hands.
‘Will you ride a little way with me, monsieur?’ Pierrick asked. ‘There is something I wish to show you.’
David inclined his head, and followed Pierrick as he rode along the frozen stream, the sun casting long shadows before them.
Pierrick led him into a deep shadowy valley, with tall pines rising up to rocky peaks. The rocks were all red. In the centre of the valley was a frozen lake. A bitterly cold wind clawed through the fabric of his coat. David buried his chin in his muffler. In Wales, the old folk called such an icy draught ‘the wind of the feet of the dead’.
At the far end of the lake, Pierrick dismounted, tying his horse’s reins to a thorny bush. David did the same, both curious and a little wary. Pierrick then led him in a steep scramble to a large outcrop of rocks at the top of the valley. From there, they could see across the dark lake and the forest to the open rolling farmland to the west.
