Sinful

by Nathalie Gray

  A low growl escaped her. Charlotte counted the days before Sunday, praying she had one more than on the first ten counts. She did not. This meant barely three days before turning twenty-seven.

  “Happy birthday to me,” she snarled under her breath.

  Charlotte sat up straight. The deed to the distillery and every asset the Bourbon-Condé family owned belonged to Jean-Louis because he was male and older. Her parents, contrary to the sea of advice and against all tradition, had put Charlotte as alternate successor. In the advent of Jean-Louis’ death as was unfortunately the case, she would inherit everything…unless she married, in which case she would share legal power with her husband and his family.

  Charlotte looked down at her hand where the ruby flashed. She cursed loudly. That son of a whore!

  Guilabert must have known. He had to wed her before her birthday so he would become the owner of the Bourbon-Condé distillery, the male heir to her large fortune. He knew it.

  She punched the barrel in front of her. The dull thud sounded like a felt drum.

  Sunday. Three days away. Well, two and a half now.

  Charlotte jumped to her feet. She had failed in convincing Guilabert of his folly. Armand had often half joked, half proposed to have Renaud “take care” of the knight. As much as she hated him, she could not bring herself to have him, a friend, “taken care of”, no matter how perfidious and traitorous and sordid he had become. Since she could not get through to this brother from Rome, all she had left was herself. She had to find a way to make herself unavailable.

  There was no time to go to Spain. Too late for it now. Father Simon’s suggestion, though ludicrous only a couple weeks ago, looked so inviting now. But she had wasted the chance by being stubborn and a fool. Now she had to find something else. Where could she go no one either knew of or would not think of going?

  She made a mental tally of her family’s estates, striking them all from her list of possible hideouts. All involved gossipy servants, upstart nobles and folk looking to make good with the Church. She had to stay local. They would never think of trying to find her locally. A cousin lived not very far but she had children. Charlotte could not put them at risk. What if Guilabert resorted to even seedier tactics? So she had to find a place without families involved. Somewhere close, isolated.

  Then it came to her.

  “Of course.”

  Charlotte ran out from between the barrels and rushed up the stairs to her office. Once on the mezzanine, she sifted through the messy desk and among scrolls in their cases for the map to her Montmorency estate. It had to be there somewhere. She had seen it only recently when Armand had begun complaining about the river level. Muttering under her breath, she caused quite a mess as she searched for the map. Then with a stifled yelp of triumph, she pulled it out of a container labeled Map of Montmorency, 1316 and rolled her eyes. Right there where it should have been and labeled.

  It was over forty years old but still accurate. She pulled it out and slapped it flat on her desk. Running her fingers over its leathery surface, she followed the river downstream until she came to a fork. There. Half a day’s ride. No more.

  Her mother’s family a long time ago owned this small château then mostly used it as a hunting lodge after they moved to a larger one. The place was deserted now. In fact, it was naught but ruins really. She had been there only once. A small, open-air chapel, part of the keep and some underground portion. It was mossy, overgrown and far away from anything else.

  It would be perfect.

  All she had to do was stay there out of sight until her birthday three days away. Then she could come out and take full control of the family business, of her own destiny. No one would be able to do a thing.

  But they would know. Guilabert would try to stop her. She had to be discreet. Only Armand would know. Perhaps Renaud as well. She would ride out in the night. Armand would be back before the next morning. No one would suspect a thing.

  And to say she’d almost let herself be convinced to marry Guilabert—despite his lukewarm opinion of such union—and settle her parents’ and everybody else’s concern about the headstrong female progeny! The thought made her shiver.

  Nerves made her fingers tremble over the map. She was running away. Like a coward. Like Jean-Louis.

  The thought had barely registered in her brain that she pushed it away. This had been his way of dealing with their parents’ deaths. She should not judge him so harshly. She kissed his ring and prayed for forgiveness. It was not his fault. It was Guilabert’s. He had forced her to flee her own home, had enlisted the help of the mighty Vatican to help get himself a rich wife. He was the cowardly one. Not Jean-Louis.

  “Not me.”

  * * * * *

  Armand checked behind for what must have been the tenth time. His nervousness made her edgy.

  “Have you spotted someone?” she asked again.

  He shook his head. “I could’ve sworn there was someone right there at the end of the path.” Armand pointed to some bushes indicating the end of the mansion’s cultured grounds. Forest began afterward, thick and dark in the evening glow.

  “Must have been your guilty conscience,” she replied with a forced smile.

  “There’s naught wrong with what we’re doing, mistress. Had no choice, is all.”

  She nodded. “Still, I wish I didn’t have to drag you into this. I could make it there by myself, you know.”

  He shook his head fiercely. “And leave you to the wolves, I think not!”

  Renaud chuckled. She looked at the two men riding with her and her heart swelled with affection. Quite the pair, those two. As much as one was wiry, the other was massive. She wished she did not have to involve them in all the craziness. Still, things would look much gloomier without them.

  The path narrowed until they had to ride single file with Renaud in the lead at Armand’s insistence. As she watched the man’s thick back sway with his huge mount’s gait, she let the night air cool her spirit.

  Things could be worse. They had met no one in the usually busy house. Even the distillery was quiet after the unseasonably hot day. Charlotte was a bit worried about the river’s level, which had still diminished another finger or two. Her letter to her cousin must have reached Versailles by now and the Duke of Valois would do something. Bourbon was in high demand. It had to be protected. Even if his deeds would help the business as much as they would her personal situation, whatever he chose to do was better than naught at all. Unless he did do nothing as the brother had forewarned. What did he know, this man! She snorted.

  Brother Gautier. The name alone sent shivers up her spine. His hands, his ambrosial lips on her skin like sun-warmed silk. Throbbing pulsed high between her thighs and she shifted in her saddle. Now was not the time.

  Nor would it ever be.

  No, she thought, my life will be spent at the distillery, growing older until no one will be able to tell where I end and where the business starts.

  Just as well though, really, because men could not be trusted. Not with the Bourbon-Condé name in the balance. If only she could have found someone who did not care what she did or who she was, someone who would not have known her identity. She then could have fallen in love with such man, could have trusted him. Unfortunately, everyone knew who she was, could recognize her on sight. Anyone local anyway.

  “Watch out, mistress,” Renaud said from somewhere in front.

  She pulled on the reins just in time to avoid a large branch hanging across the path at an angle. Leaning sideways, she guided her mount under the obstacle then returned to the middle of the beaten path.

  “Good thing I’m short,” Armand muttered behind her.

  She smiled.

  “Are you sure you don’t want one of us to stay with you? Renaud could stay, so could a few others. They wouldn’t betray you, mistress.”

  “I know they wouldn’t,” she replied, twisting back to face Armand. “But Guilabert and Brother Gautier would notice. It’s bett
er if I alone disappear. Although I fear they’ll put pressure on you to tell them where I’ve gone.”

  “You just worry about yourself, Mistress Charlotte. I’ll take care of your suitor.”

  This frightened her deeply. Guilabert would no doubt fly into a rage. Brother Gautier, well, according to the knight, Gautier was another sort of man of God, one who apparently did not shy away from using coercion to reach his goal. With the size of hands he had and the way his knuckles looked almost filed down and covered with scars, she did not doubt Gautier could be a persuasive man. In fact, of the two, she feared the brother much more than she did the knight. There was also Lussier. The vicious little weasel would no doubt want to look good in Guilabert’s eyes.

  To their right, diamonds of light twinkled along the surface of the river. She saw its closest bank become more ragged, less definite, with the rate of the river lessening to a narrow, ten-feet-wide ribbon. Then a fork appeared in the river with the opposing bank going farther off into the darkness.

  Renaud urged his mount to leave the path and enter the narrow river. Maneuvering the huge draft horse among the rocks, he soon cleared the river and meant to help Charlotte do the same but grinned and nodded when she crossed it faster than he did. Armand soon followed and the trio left the gurgling river behind them to enter deeper into the forest.

  Here night birds and other animals cried their shrill warnings. The foliage hung low from moss-covered branches and Charlotte had to lean over in her saddle several times to clear the low-hanging tree limbs and the strips of lichen, which resembled silvery, ragged drapes. Moist earth covered all other smells. Soon afterward, the moon poked out from behind the thick canopy of clouds and shone like new gold as they neared their destination.

  According to her old map, which she had copied and brought with her in her pack, the old château should not be too far off. A gentle hill separated her from it, if she guessed correctly. Yes, right there, she could see the treetops as the hill smoothed out and formed a narrow ridge. At Armand’s insistence, they stayed in the line of trees and followed the clearing right up to the plateau. On its downhill side, she could spot the whitened ruins jutting out of the vegetation like the broken teeth of some defeated monster.

  “Finally,” whispered Armand behind her. He urged his mount into a quick trot and came up to her. His wizened face looked worried but resolute. He nodded in silent support.

  “I should be perfectly safe here,” she said, more to appease him than herself. Then again, butterflies did make their apparition in her stomach. Her guts twisted in nervousness. She would be armed. Well armed in fact. She would be hidden from view. Would not need fire since the weather was still mild. All in all, this would be a perfect place.

  They left the clearing behind and drew nearer to the ruins. As per her patchy memory of it, the château itself was long gone, with only a few rows of stones poking out of the earth and one corner of the structure left intact. Trees and other foliage had taken root while all manners of moss had made the rough stones their home. More moss dangled from broken arches, toppled pillars. She stared in mute awe at the poignant remnants of a once-thriving home.

  “Here, mistress,” Renaud said, reaching up to take her reins.

  She gave them to him and slid off her horse. Through a large aperture in the smashed wall, she spotted the open-air chapel and its stone altar, now naught but a rectangular slab pushed on its side.

  While Renaud and Armand found the perfect spot to erect the thick canvas tent, she wandered to the chapel. Its wooden pews had long ago rotted away, but their former emplacement still held deep grooves where the massive oak beams had once been nailed. Part of the back wall where a circular hole indicated some sort of stained glass window, had crumbled into a mass of fist-sized rocks.

  She approached the quiet place and sat on a large piece of broken altar. In her imagination she could see the glorious colors, the velvety silence inside the small chapel. Birds must have sung their sweet song outside the round window while the celebrant chanted the Lord’s glory.

  Within moments, the eerie silence chased her out of the chapel. Charlotte looked behind at what had once undoubtedly been a beautiful piece of construction and sighed. If things went according to plan, if she could evade Guilabert’s greedy clutches, she would commission an accomplished artisan to rebuild this chapel and give it back its beauty and dignity.

  “All ready, Mistress Charlotte. It’s not what you’re used to, mind you, but should be comfortable all the same.” Armand cast a glance at the chapel and cringed. “Needs a bit of love that place, yes?”

  “It does. And I’ll give it its due when the dust has settled down.”

  They returned to the ruins, her new home, and found Renaud still fixing the tent’s flap, trying in vain to make it fall evenly to the ground. She stopped his fiddling with a hand. “I’ll need something to occupy me while I wait here.”

  He nodded, bowed and retreated to the horses.

  Armand’s eyes made a quick scan of her and she chuckled. “I’ll be fine.”

  “I know I’m just a doting old fool, child, but my bones keep telling me it’s wrong to leave you here all by yourself. Pray rethink having Renaud stay with you.”

  There was such affection, such concern, in his wrinkled eyes tears came to hers. Then it occurred to her he had called her “child”, something he had never done before.

  “I’ll be fine, old friend. But do take care of my distillery while I’m gone.” She pretended to sound cross.

  Without warning, he grabbed her in a tight embrace. Not a moment later, he let go and marched the short distance to Renaud, who waited with the two horses. Hers would remain here with enough food for four beasts his size. She would not be alone, not really.

  Armand looked back once and waved quickly. The pair then mounted their horses and had soon disappeared through the trees.

  Relative silence settled over her. Leaves rustled in the venerable trees overhead while small animals went on their nightly activities. She hoped she had not disturbed some feisty squirrel that would make it its personal quest to be rid of the bothersome two-leg. The last thought brought a smile, and as Charlotte scanned her new home, her spirit was lifted higher than it had been in months, years perhaps.

  Here among the trees and animals, she stood a chance. Freedom was within her grasp. All that was needed now was a bit of time and some good fortune. Which of the two she would need the most remained to be seen.

  With a light step, Charlotte entered the tent that would be her home for the next few days.

  * * * * *

  Gautier nodded when the farrier thanked him again. He stepped out of the blacksmith’s shop, having just finished replacing a set of supporting posts, and was making his way back to town when he saw them.

  Guilabert looked positively fuming. What was up with him now?

  “Brother,” the knight said, barely waiting to be within earshot. “A word with you.”

  The edge in his voice triggered a clanging of alarm in Gautier’s keen senses. He nodded and followed the pair past the enclosure behind the tavern. Sun hailed him as he rounded the corner of the building and turned back to face the two grave-looking knights.

  A tic tugged at Guilabert’s eyelid. “She’s gone.”

  “The baroness?” Gautier asked.

  “Yes. She’s left Montmorency. The fool she keeps as overseer won’t even let me approach the damned place. He’s put guards about the distillery. But I know she’s gone.”

  A prickly sensation fluttered at the base of Gautier’s neck. She had left town. He had warned her and she had fled. This was how his sense of fairness was being repaid. What a fool he had been.

  “You don’t seem surprised,” Lussier remarked acidly.

  “Why should I be? She’s a canny woman. Of course she’d leave before Sunday.” He gave a pointed glance at Guilabert, who stared daggers back at him. “You wouldn’t have naught to do with her disappearance, would you?” The thought
alone scared him more than he cared to admit.

  Guilabert’s angular face flushed. He hissed a curse that would have shamed a sailor. “You’re not in any position to make accusations, Brother. I’m not the one who was sent here from the Vatican to deal with a problem…you were.”

  “And I intend to take care of it.”

  Lussier snorted. “I wonder what the cardinal will think of his esteemed envoy. Letting a woman—a woman—wriggle out of his fingers.”

  The fingers in question curled into a tight fist. Gautier took a deep breath to calm his nerves. Nothing would be accomplished by letting this fool see how much the words stung.

  Guilabert seemed to relax and even managed a tight smile. “We’re all weak men, aren’t we, Brother Gautier? I mean, this woman is strong and beautiful and cunning. Any man would be impeded in his judgment. That’s what they do, women. Surely His Eminence won’t take it too hard that his emissary weakened—”

  Gautier closed a block-like hand over the other’s throat, ending the tirade. “I’ve had just about enough of your foolishness. I don’t yield to guilt, threats or pride, especially not from the likes of you. I could break your neck with one hand, right here, right now, before anyone,” he threw an askance look at a twitching Lussier, “could do anything about it.”

  “Unhand me, you filthy bastard,” Guilabert hissed, his voice barely above a whisper.

  Gautier did, shoving the knight away. “Cardinal Lanteigne will be apprised of this latest event, as he has been before. When I do find her—and I will—she’ll be married. With any good fortune, I’ll be on my way back to Rome by next week.”

  The entire time, Lussier shifted from one foot to the other. Gautier made sure he never let this one out of his sight as he took a step back and folded his hands inside his sleeves. The dagger felt cool and comforting. “I have work to do.”

  “If you don’t find her, I’ll make sure the cardinal recants your recruitment into the Order of Raphael, you won’t even be a lay brother anymore. You’ll be a mere artisan once again, without status, commission or title. The true bastard you are. Then I’ll spread the word around, you’ll never find work again.”