by Leda Swann
Her baby had been wronged by Pierre de Tournay as much as she had ever been. Thanks to its father, her child would be branded a bastard and shunned by people with more piety than charity in their hearts.
She would have her revenge on Pierre – for her father, for herself and for her child.
As she walked through the icy fields, the glimmerings of a plan started to form in her mind – a plan that would allow her to rescue her father and avenge herself on his enemies. It was a daring and audacious plan to be sure, and not guaranteed of success, but the more she thought about it, the more possible it seemed to her to be.
With an intoxicating feeling of excitement brewing in the pit of her belly she walked home again through the snow. She had been foolish to give up and long for death. Better by far it was to act like a man and get revenge on those who had wronged her. Then she could live at peace with herself once more.
She grew stronger along with the child in her belly. They needed milk from the village – she fetched it on foot, carrying it back on her shoulders like a peasant woman. They needed firewood to keep the chambers warm in the bitter cold of winter – she gathered huge branches in the woods, dragged them inch by slow inch back to the house, and hacked at them with the axe until they were in small enough pieces to fit on to the fire. She liked to hack at the wood, though it gave her blisters that made her hands red and raw. With every blow that she struck, she let loose the anger she felt at her lover’s betrayal, until the wood chips fell like furies under her onslaught.
She even rode on the donkey into Lyons, disguised as a portly merchant, to sell more emeralds to Justin. She knew he could not help but notice her swelling belly, but he made no comment. She was grateful to him for his forbearance. She had no wish to advertise her shame.
Emeralds were fetching a good price in some quarters of Lyons. She bought some cheap in a tatty shop she came across in a poor area of the city, and sold them to Justin for a good profit. Emboldened by this success, she kept her eyes and ears open for a good bargain. Her father had taught her much about the quality of gem-stones, and she made few mistakes. Soon she had obtained a small stock of her own and was making a small profit on her trades.
She loved the feeling of success it gave her, earning a living, paltry as it was, honestly as a trader. Her father’s wealth would stay in the safe where he had placed it, waiting until she had rescued him from imprisonment. She would not squander a penny of it, but keep it for him to start life afresh with.
She firmly squelched any suggestion that her mind might make to her in her darkest moments that her father was dead. He could not be dead. She would never believe it. Not until she saw his lifeless body with her own eyes would she even entertain the possibility. She would revenge him, and rescue him, and all would be well again.
All this time she turned over the plan in her mind, slowly thinking over every aspect of it, letting it mature until it was ripe and ready to be acted upon.
Her belly grew apace, until she could no longer comfortably ride the donkey to Lyons to trade emeralds. She concentrated on building the strength she would need to carry out her plan. She walked every day until she couldn’t walk any further and her legs became wiry and lean. She chopped firewood for the entire house to keep them through the winter, making the muscles in her shoulders strong. She grubbed in the garden, digging up the rock hard icy ground until her arms ached. Spring came and she took to the river to swim, glad to have the weight of her child taken off her legs for those brief moments.
When her child was near due, she made one last trip to Lyons to sell emeralds. Justin scolded her for coming into town in her condition – the first time he had ever made a direct reference to the child she carried inside her. She smiled at him, thinking how much more he would scold her if he knew what she was planning. “I needed the money. I will not be back for a while.”
He glanced at her belly and nodded as if he understood what she was telling him. “Will you not tell me where I can find you? If something happens, you will need someone to look after you.”
She shook her head. She would not embroil Justin in the mess she had made of her life. “I have Suzanne to look after me.”
“She is only a servant.”
“She may be a servant, but she is also a better friend than most.”
“I am your friend, too, Courtney. Do not forget that.”
“I thank you, Justin. I will not forget it. Fare thee well until we meet again.” Even as she said the words and rose to take her leave, she wondered if she ever would see him again. She was going to take another path that would lead her into danger and could well mean her death, but she would not shrink from it for all that.
She barely made it back to her house in the country in time. Halfway home, she was gripped with sudden pains that made her cry out. The pains grew steadily worse as each hour passed. Soon she could no longer even ride the donkey, but had to walk beside it, holding on to its mane, doubling over in agony as each pain struck.
By the time she staggered up to the door of her country house, the pains were coming every few minutes and her whole body was running hot and cold in a sweat.
Suzanne and the cook helped her upstairs, laid her on the bed and undressed her. She was incapable of doing anything else for herself.
For the next few hours she floated in and out of consciousness, exhaustion repeatedly claiming her for a moment’s sleep, but pain waking her once more to the land of the living. In this state she lay, barely knowing whether she was still alive or roasting in the flames of Hell, and only wanting the agony to cease.
In the early hours of the following morning, her son was born. She took one look at his sweet face, pink and wrinkled as a newborn’s was, cradled him in her arms against her chest to keep him safe from harm, and slept.
She did not idle long, even after such an ordeal as the birth of her son. In a few days she was back on her feet again, determined to reclaim the body she had lost in the last heavy days of her pregnancy. In between feeding her son and rocking him to sleep, she forced herself to the point of exhaustion, working herself until she was as lean and able to endure as ever she lad been.
Now that her babe was born, and she was fast regaining her strength once more, it was time to put her plan into action. Abandoning the house in the country when he was scarcely a fortnight old, she hired a carriage and headed for Paris, taking along only Suzanne to be his nurse. The other servants she left in the country house to look after it and keep it safe until she could return.
In the outskirts of Paris she found a small cottage covered with honeysuckle vines on a plot of land just large enough to keep a cow, fatten a pig, and have some chickens. It was far enough away to keep her secrets safe from the prying eyes of the city friends she soon intended to make, but close enough for her to ride there and back in a day to visit her precious son when she was not otherwise engaged. With the money from the emeralds, she bought it outright and hired a local girl to keep it clean and tidy. There she stayed while she regained the strength she had lost during the birthing and her son grew fat and strong on her milk.
It almost broke her heart to wean him and leave him behind in Suzanne’s tender care, but her plan called out to her. Before she could rest in peace with her son, she had a father to rescue and her own honor to avenge.
Chapter 5
Courtney adjusted her hat to a more rakish angle as she rode along, her other hand tight on the reins. She was still uncomfortable on the back of a horse – the boy she had carried in her belly had stopped her from riding more than the slow, solid little donkey for many long months and she was out of practice.
A fine Musketeer she would make, she thought to herself with a wry laugh, terrified of her mount and as slow as a nun on a mule. She was determined that she would not let such a small matter stand in her way. Her quest would not wait any longer. She had a father to rescue – and to avenge.
She turned back to wave one last time at Suzanne and her young son. Her
eyes were watering when she turned to face the road ahead again. She dashed away the tears that threatened to fall with an impatient hand. Tears had no place in her life -–they were a weakness she could no longer afford. For her son’s sake, she must go on. She would rescue her boy’s grandfather from the living hell where he was imprisoned and kill the man who had betrayed them all. Only when she had accomplished her goal would she be able to rest in peace in the country with her beloved son.
Her heart beat faster as she approached the outskirts of the city. For a whole year she had been waiting and preparing for this moment. The moment was nigh when all her preparations would come together to give her the justice she craved – justice for her father slowly going mad in the Bastille, justice for her broken love, and justice for her son who would never know his father.
As well as the cottage in the country where Suzanne and her son stayed, she had also furnished herself with a lodging in Paris, suitable for her new life as a Musketeer. Compared with her old house in Lyons, it was small and humble indeed, but it was the best she could find close by to the barracks. All other Musketeers, she was informed by the landlady in rather aggrieved tones when she hinted a complaint at the lack of light and air in the apartments, even the Captain of the Musketeers himself, could not boast of such spacious and elegant lodgings. She doubted the claim somewhat, but they would do her reasonably well. She hoped she would not need them for too long.
The barracks were fast approaching. She checked her moustache one last time. It was glued on tight and should last at least a week. She had a supply of them in her bag, and Suzanne had showed her how to make new ones. She was not quite as proficient as Suzanne yet, but she made a passable effort.
She threaded her way amongst the soldiers in the barracks, feeling highly conspicuous in her tan breeches and brown jacket amongst the blacks and reds of the uniforms of the King’s Guard. She kept an eagle-eyed lookout for her enemy, but Pierre de Tournay was not among those she saw. She was both glad and sorry: she could well do without his disturbing presence while she introduced herself to her Captain and her new comrades, but her soul was possessed with impatience to see justice done on him. She had waited for justice for a whole year – she could not contain her desires for a single moment longer.
A young red-haired soldier who seemed barely old enough to wear breeches, let alone carry a sword, pointed out the Captain to her, D’Artagnan of the King’s Guard. With a sickening feeling of apprehension in her heart but her face as calm and composed as if she had not a worry in the world, she approached him, papers in hand.
“Captain D’Artagnan,” she said, briefly doffing her hat. “William Ruthgard at your service, Sir. Please accept my letters of introduction.”
He gave her a shrewd look, took the papers she held out to him with a grunt, and scanned the pages with a quick eye. He mumbled to himself as he did so. “The Count of Languedoc? Who the devil is he? I don’t remember any such damned fool count, I’m sure of it.”
She said a silent prayer that the forgery would fool him into accepting her. She had written them herself with a fine hand, purporting to be a Count, an old acquaintance of the Captain’s, recommending her for a soldier.
He finished reading and fixed her with a direct look. “You want to be a Musketeer?”
She saluted him with a steady hand. “With all my heart, Captain.”
He indicated one of the buildings with a wave of his hand. “I like to see enthusiasm in a soldier. You’ll do well enough. Get your uniform from the quartermaster, set yourself up with lodgings in Paris, and be here at daybreak, soldier, to learn your duties.”
She did not bother to suppress her smile of exultation as she strode away. She had passed the first hurdle as easily as supping a pint of ale. She was in. Justice would soon be hers.
The first week in the barracks was hard enough to take the smile off her face again. She thought she’d become accustomed to a measure of hardship in the last twelve months, but life as a Musketeer took it to a whole new level. She had to work harder than she had imagined possible, until she was dropping with weariness.
Never for a moment did she consider giving up, though. Pierre had undergone the same training and the same hardships as she was undergoing now. If she were ever to take her revenge on him, she would have to do as well as he had done, and better.
Through it all she kept a lookout for Pierre, but she did not see him. Once she thought she glimpsed his friend, Charent, in the distance, but he was gone before she could tell for sure. She hoped to the bottom of her heart that Pierre had not left the Musketeers or been sent far away on a mission - she could not bear for all her preparation to come to naught. She kept her eyes and ears open to hear news of him, but she heard nothing. It would not be wise for her to ask anyone directly about him – she did not want to draw attention to her interest in him.
The first week passed, and then another. During the third week, she was returning to the barracks after a practice session with the rapier that had made her arms ache and her breath short when a hand on her shoulder made her whirl around. She found herself staring straight into the face of the man she had dreamed of seeing for many long months.
He looked the same as ever, she thought at first glance. Slightly older maybe, and thinner - gaunt even. Despite his newfound leanness, his hair was still as black as the ace of spades, and his dark moustaches were as curled and oiled as ever.
She had been preparing herself for this moment for a whole year. Schooling her face into immobility, she shook his hand off her shoulder and growled. “What do you want?”
He looked as white and shocked as if he had just seen a ghost. “Excuse me,” he said after a moment of silence. “I thought you were…I thought…I hardly know what I thought, but you looked so familiar to me. I suppose I thought I knew you, but it seems I was mistaken.” He doffed his hat. “Pierre de Tournay at your service, Sir.”
She had to swallow hard before she was able to speak. “I do not believe I know you, but I am William Ruthgard at yours.”
His face paled even more. “Ruthgard?”
She raised one eyebrow and let her hand rest gently on the pommel of her sword. She would let him see at once that she was not to be trifled with. “You mislike my name?”
He shook his head. “I once knew someone of that name. You look very alike.”
She shrugged as nonchalantly as she could manage. “It is a common enough name amongst the Flemish, and we are many of us fair-skinned and blond.”
He would not let the matter rest. “One jewel merchant, he was, in Lyons.”
With a quick prayer that he would swallow her tale, she trotted out the cover story she had invented if she were ever called upon to explain her uncanny likeness to herself. “My uncle Tobias Ruthgard used to be a jewel merchant in Lyons until he was imprisoned last year – falsely accused by the enemies who envied his success, I heard tell.”
His face grew whiter than ever until she was sure he was about to faint. “That is the man of whom I speak. And his daughter? What of her?”
She pasted a supercilious look on her face. “You have any particular right to inquire about my cousin?”
He shook his head. “No right at all. She was simply the most beautiful woman I have ever known. I hope her husband is good to her. I would hate to think she had been made to suffer for her father’s fault.”
She suppressed the guilty pleasure she felt at hearing him call her beautiful. She had fallen for his pretty words once – she would not do so again. “I do not know what became of her,” she said in her most offhand manner. “She did not ever wed that I know of – indeed, she disappeared from sight after my uncle was imprisoned. Rumor was she had been a Frenchman’s whore. Her reputation ruined and bankrupt as she was once my uncle’s wealth went to the King, who would want to wed her now?”
His face had gone gray with distress. “You do not know where she is or what she is doing now?”
She wanted to make him feel so
me measure of guilt about the way he had treated her. He deserved to feel guilt. “The best thing she could hope for is a position as a chambermaid to a family who would not care about her loss of reputation,” she said as casually as she could. “The worst – to make her living on the streets, I suppose. Many a woman has faced such a fate and survived somehow. My cousin is no different.”
His face was a mask of unbelieving horror. “You never tried to find her?”
She chose her words to hurt him as much as she was able. “She had disgraced the family by becoming a Frenchman’s whore. Why should I bother to look for her?”
He shook his head in disagreement, not able to comprehend such a fate. “When I knew her she was beautiful enough to attract a world of suitors - though she were penniless and living in the streets.”
She gave an ugly laugh. Had he consoled himself for his treachery with the thought that she would have married well despite his betrayal of her? She would not allow him to keep his illusions. “My canny Flemish merchant brethren are not so foolishly romantic as you Frenchmen. They think with their heads not with their hearts, and look for wealth, not for beauty, in a wife. My cousin has no dowry and no reputation and her father is disgraced. Even if a young man was foolish enough to want her for her looks alone, his father would not let him marry her without a dowry. She will never wed a respectable merchant.”
He passed his hands over his eyes as if he could not bear the pain of thinking about it. “I would have wed her once, but it is too late now. She would not have me, even if I could find her out.”
He was right. It was too late for him. He would not wed her, and she would have her revenge. She would make sure that he would rue the day that ever he met her.
