Horses’ hooves, then wheels, clattered into the courtyard.
Suzanne nudged her mount outside and positioned them behind the stables. Her heart beat hard against the tight boy’s undergarment. The gold DeMint seal gleamed in the sun. Sure of who’d be inside, she resisted the urge to gallop away from the property. She and the mare waited in the stable’s shadow.
“Monsieur DeMint! Welcome. Let me help.” The stableman’s forced cheerfulness was evident to Suzanne. Did Madame’s son recognize the falseness in the tone?
“Did the women arrive, Gaston?” Paul’s voice was hoarse, ragged. He sounded drunk, or recovering from the effects of too much alcohol.
“Madame Richelieu and her daughter?” She knew the stableman didn’t consider her a woman.
“Of course. Isn’t that what I said?”
“Oui, monsieur, both are resting on the servants’ floor.”
Madame’s son launched into a fit of obscenities. “Get that housekeeper here to make a proper room up for her downstairs.”
“Oui, monsieur, so sorry, I’ll take care of the chamber right away.”
Suzanne knew he had no intention of locating Mrs. Boudreau.
“Gaston! Come help Monsieur DeMint to his room.”
“I don’t need any help. Just bring my satchel up to my room later. There better be food for when I wake up, too. Didn’t sleep at all…” Another round of profanity ensued as Paul explained that they, too, had been interrupted by the riot outside Paris. “Don’t rouse me until dinner is ready tonight.”
“Oui, monsieur.”
“My friend is coming—Monsieur LeFort. He started on horseback and should have been here before me.”
Oh, Lord, no, Pierre. But was Maman wrong?
“He hasn’t arrived.”
“Not surprised. Probably stopped in Paris to find one last young girl to spoil. He pays well for that privilege. Imagine he’ll become richer yet once Mademoiselle Richelieu becomes his bride. At least if she remains as childlike as she appears now.”
Her stomach plummeted toward the ground beneath the mare. The perverse man he spoke of was Etienne’s older brother. Hot with shame, she rejected the feeling—Pierre should be ashamed, not she.
But Pierre LeFort wasn’t yet here. With that blessing in mind, she exhaled loudly in relief, her horse shifting beneath her. She patted the mare’s neck. Pierre’s delay gave her at least a few hours to get a head start. As soon as the heavy doors to the chateau closed, she ducked her head and directed Bella onto the trail through the woods, leading to a good country road. Energized, she noticed every detail as they rode.
The new green buds on the trees, tiny white flowers peeking up from the undergrowth, birds flying, gathering for their nests. Fresh green growth, moist dirt, and humus were the best perfume she had ever inhaled. They smelled like promise and freedom and hope. A light breeze caressed her cheek, as though her mother was giving her a last kiss goodbye, blessing her.
Grand-mère’s rosary nestled against her chest, swaying as she rode. Non, c’est impossible—but it was possible—she’d removed her marquise grandmother’s beautiful topaz when she’d washed. And left if behind. While costly, the necklace was of far less value than Maman.
~*~
Aachen Cathedral, western Germany
The tower of the Palatine chapel beckoned to souls seeking sanctuary and to the weary, like Johan. Flanked by tall buildings on either side, the chapel courtyard overflowed with flowering trees. Sunny blue skies, dotted with puffy white clouds, cheered him. Brick paths, bordered by fresh spring grass and tulips, led to the high arched entrance of the Palatine chapel, the concave area above the doors filled with stained glass geometric designs. The workmanship was unbelievable, so perfect was its execution. The domed top of the chapel, dark with triangular sections, was most unusual. What must it be like to build such a magnificent homage to God?
Something about the cathedral stirred the core of Johan’s being. His father said the Rouschs were descendants of the man, the king, who’d built this German cathedral. Johan didn’t want to see his bones, though. Keeping Charlemagne’s bones as part of a shrine, struck him as wrong. He’d not say anything to his uncle about that, though.
Johan searched the perimeter for a barn for his horse and finally spotted the low white building far out to the back, the green field behind it filled with horses. He approached a short priest, whose white hair floated in wisps around his dried-apple face.
Stomach growling, Johan regretted eating all of his food so early on in the journey. What he would give for a hot, steaming bowl of Mutter’s onion soup with a little loaf of crusty rye bread slathered with butter.
“How can I help you, my son?” The voice was as crackly as the man’s face.
“I’m here to see Father Vincent. I’ve brought gifts from well-wishers in the Palatinate.”
The man crooked a gnarled finger at him. “You’re his nephew, aren’t you?”
“Ja.” His stomach rumbled loudly.
The priest laughed. “Come, I’ll bring you to him and get you food and drink.” He motioned for a younger priest in a rough brown robe. “Take care of this animal, will you?”
The other man nodded and led the horse off.
“Danke…” Johan called after him.
“You may call me Father Marcus.” His wizened face uncrinkled when he smiled so broadly. “And what should I call you?”
“Johan.”
Soon he was seated at the priest’s table, a loaf of crusty French bread accompanied by soft cheese spread over it. He prayed. Dear God, take care of all Your lambs and Your goats and us people, feed us, protect us, and give us safety today and travel mercies to those making their way to this sanctuary. And, Lord, make me able to do anything You would have me do, for Your glory. Amen.
When finished, Father Marcus led Johan to the cathedral.
“You’ll find Father Vincent through there in the confessional.” The priest pointed forward and Johan retrieved the letter from his pocket.
Citrus oil scented the air as Johan entered the building adjacent the sanctuary. He tried to walk softly, but his heavy boots made that impossible. No one was in the area reserved for the choir, though he could have sworn he’d heard singing. The saints’ images smiled down at him in the large empty building. Arched windows in this Gothic section extended high overhead.
How insignificant he felt in the midst of this beauty. But God wouldn’t call him inferior, Scripture told him this. Tipping his head back, Johan gazed up at the center of the octagon, at the fabulous mosaics. The beautiful statue of the Lady of Aachen seemed to smile at him as did the Christ child in her arms. Candles flickered in the Barbarossa chandelier. “Mein Gott, You are so good. May I always do Your will.”
From somewhere nearby a door clicked open.
Johan turned in the direction of the sound—the confessionals.
Someone shuffled across the mosaic floor, the edge ofk** a cassock visible behind one of the ancient pillars. Candles flickered overhead and in the walls’ recesses.
Sunlight broke through the side windowpanes and illuminated his great uncle’s face in a golden glow.
“Nicholas?”
“No, Uncle, it’s me—Johan. Mutter sent me.”
“Johan.” He grasped Johan’s hands. “Thank God. I have something I need you to do for me.”
~*~
Backside in agony, hands burning, and face chapped from the wind, Suzanne rode her newest mount, a chestnut gelding, through the countryside toward Grand-mère’s holdings. Suzanne couldn’t ride further today—she must rest. If the King’s guard or Pierre searches for me, would they also look at the countryside manor?
As she emerged from the tree line, the estate lay before her, the chateau’s white stone shining a beacon in the bright sunlight. How incongruous that after all that had happened, the house remained the same. She’d expected the mansion to be in ruins.
A white-haired man, Monsieur Kull, cut tall flowers and placed them
tenderly in a basket, as if Grand-mère were still alive and he was bringing them to the house for her pleasure.
Suzanne half expected her grandmother to come out to greet her. Perhaps this was all a horrible dream and she’d wake any moment. She dismounted.
The gardener held out his arms. “The King’s Guard was here, mademoiselle, but they left this morning. We told them we hadn’t seen you. We spoke the truth.” Monsieur Kull glanced nervously around the property before taking her arm and guiding her toward the chateau. “They searched the grounds. Strange, they were but a few men and didn’t possess military bearing—very sloppy.”
“Monsieur Kull, I need to rest before I go on.”
“Oui, let’s feed you and then get you to your room.”
“Merci.”
“And I’ll have someone take care of your horse.”
After partaking of fruit and sliced ham, and tending to her personal needs, they’d climbed to the darkened third floor, where none of the doors to the rooms were open. The high mahogany bed hailed from the Caribbean—where she’d believed Etienne would take her.
“Madame Vachon and I will hide you here. We know about your papa.”
She ducked her chin.
“I’ll leave this door ajar in case you call out for me.”
“Merci.” Suzanne lay in the soft bed, under the down-filled comforter, inhaling the scent of dried flowers.
Sleep evaded her. She opened her eyes as a sunbeam glinted gold off the hilt of a sword hanging on the opposite wall. A Spanish sword taken from the Netherlands when they were under Spanish rule. Grand-père’s. Slowly she slid out from beneath the comforter, not disturbing the bedding. Lowering herself beside the intricately carved bed, she got on her hands and knees and crawled beneath it. Old Spanish gold and silver pieces of eight, saved by her great-grandfather, lay hidden in a leather pouch, tucked inside a wooden box Grand-mère had given her. She stretched through the dust, secured the container, and dragged it toward her.
Releasing the pouch, she tucked the gift inside her pants. Lying still for a moment, she thought she heard horses’ hooves beneath her window. In the darkness, she remained stretched out, waiting.
A crash sounded two stories below, as the heavy front door was thrown open at the front of the chateau, banging into the walls. She flinched, her heartbeat ratcheting up.
“Where is the rider? Who came in on that fine gelding?” A man shouted this question. It sounded as though several other men stamped their feet.
“Messieurs?” Cook’s plaintive question echoed up. “That horse belongs to the gardener’s nephew.”
They didn’t respond.
Either that or she couldn’t hear them. Suzanne froze as heavy footfalls pounded upstairs to the second level. One after the other, every door on the long hallway was thrown open.
She cringed with each echo. Clutching her beads, hands shaking, she began to pray. Dear Lord, be merciful. Save me.
“Come on!” Steps clamored to the third level.
She shivered, awaiting her own door’s mistreatment. It banged against the wall, crashing something to the floor, which shattered. Her floor creaked with stealthy footsteps.
“Looks like a girl’s room. Check carefully.”
Thank goodness, she hadn’t disrobed, nor slept. The thick covering on the bed wouldn’t reveal that the sheets had been disturbed. Candlelight flickered on the toes of two pairs of boots, visible beneath the bed frame.
“Nothing, no one up here.”
“I’m tired of this nonsense. I want my pay and to go.”
“Monsieur LeFort can sort this out himself. We’re done with this now. I say we return to Paris.” The soldier coughed. “Enough time wasted in this musty old place.”
“Oui, she’s his problem from here.”
Trembling, and taking short breaths through her itchy nose, Suzanne was sure she’d sneeze again. As they slammed the front door to the chateau, she sneezed loudly.
4
Dinner with Madame Vachon and Monsieur Kull the night before brought order to Suzanne’s mind, as did the full night’s rest.
The poor gardener slept right outside her door, should anyone come.
Bathed, her hair clean and pulled back, and donning a fresh set of young men’s clothing set everything aright, at least for the morning. Suzanne set out across the field to the barn to see Fury, Guillame’s black stallion.
“Good morning, mademoiselle!” The stableman called out, the jaunty red scarf around his neck bobbing. “Your brother’s horse is ready whenever you are. I go to enjoy Madame Vachon’s excellent breakfast now.” He bowed slightly, and then headed for the back entrance of the chateau.
How she’d love to take Fury all the way to the colonies with her. Impossible.
Hooves tramped the dirt.
Suzanne stepped behind the edge of the barn and peeked out.
A dappled-gray gelding trotted up the road to the estate, his rider seated straight and high in the polished saddle, a gilded L glistening prominently near the pommel.
She gasped. Etienne’s favorite horse, a gift from his parents for his last birthday. But the rider was too broad, sat too low in the saddle, to be her beau.
Pierre LeFort rode the gift horse. So, he’d taken Etienne’s gelding, too, as he did everything else.
Suzanne shuddered. She ran to the back of the stable to Fury’s stall, and willed her heart to stop hammering in her chest. She bent and took a slow breath. Think. After ensuring her hair all remained covered by her cap, she grabbed a pitchfork and began to muck out the stall, the black stallion nuzzling her pockets, searching for food. Suzanne Richelieu would never have cleaned a stable.
Snuffling, stamping of hooves, and tails flicking sounded through the barn.
From the corner of her eye, she sensed Pierre by the stall. “You there—come help me!”
Feigning being startled, she hurled a forkful of manure in his direction. Suzanne choked back a laugh.
Pierre jumped about, wiping at the horse dung that landed on his green brocade jacket and tan breeches. He waved his hat in the air as though to rid it of the filth. “How dare you, you insolent fool!”
“Pardon, I didn’t know you were there.” Her peasant boy’s accent sounded believable to her ears and she hoped to his, also. If only she would stop shaking.
“You imbecile, do you see any other stable boys within earshot?”
“Non, monsieur.” She pulled the cap over her eyes and bent her head obsequiously as she went about helping her tormenter.
“I’m here to retrieve Suzanne Richelieu from this estate. She’s my brother’s fiancée and I will bring her back to him.” His deceitful tone grated.
Suzanne stiffened. Her mind, clear after a good night’s sleep, recognized the lie. “Monsieur?” she feigned ignorance.
“Mademoiselle Richelieu? Where is she?” Pierre shouted, entered the stall, and cuffed Suzanne to the ground.
Stunned and in pain, she still held her cap to her head. No one had ever struck her. Ever.
Fury snorted and sidestepped toward Pierre, nostrils flaring.
Pierre backed out of the stall as Fury lowered his head and moved between him and Suzanne.
How she wanted to stare into Pierre’s face and read what she suspected was true–that this man betrayed her father, and thus, her now dead mother. And he would’ve done so with her brother had Rochambeau not called him. She needed Guy—him and his sharpest sword. For now, though, Fury performed an excellent job of keeping the monster at bay.
“Monsieur LeFort!” The stableman ran in through the back of the stables. “I’ll have the groom take care of your horse, but there are soldiers here who wish to talk with you.”
Oh, no, those two from yesterday—they’d come back. It sounded as if an entire regiment marched into the stable behind them. Did it include the two men from yesterday, and would they demand to see the phantom nephew?
She had to get out. Now.
“What happene
d to you, LeFort?” a cheerful voice called out.
“Looks like you took a tumble?” a different soldier taunted.
“And do you need help getting away from that stallion?”
Snickers, insults, and profane jeers continued until Suzanne took hold of Fury’s reins.
Pierre exited, cursing under his breath.
These soldiers were different men than the day before. Their uniforms were impeccable; boots spotless, whereas Monsieur Kull indicated the others were slovenly.
“What are you doing here, anyway, LeFort? We’ve been looking for you.”
“I could ask you the same question. What brings you so far from your camp?” These last two words were spoken like an epithet. Pierre was well known for being one of the few men to have successfully avoided service to his king.
Guillame, however, had been chomping at the bit to go for as long as she could remember.
“We, monsieur, were tasked to bring home the body of Madame Richelieu, for burial—something we had to strongly persuade your friend, Monsieur DeMint, to allow.”
How she wished to see her mother interred, there next to Grand-mère and Grand-père. But she couldn’t risk arrest. She mounted up and urged the horse into a trot, away from the stables. Suzanne gritted her teeth, awaiting a call from one of the soldiers or a shot overhead to warn her. Nothing. What would keep them so preoccupied with Pierre?
On she rode for what seemed like hours to her next destination. Chilled through by the damp forest air, Suzanne inhaled the blessed scent of wood smoke. She sighted the woodsman’s cottage as she exited the forest into the clearing. Suzanne patted the stallion’s neck.
Fury displayed his temperamental nature at every opportunity, and her arms and thighs ached from the constant effort she had to exert to control him.
Dread, her old companion, kept her mood in a dark place. Had Rochambeau betrayed their family, also? Had he sent Guy out to his death?
The arched doorway to the house swung out, a young man filling its frame, shaking his shaggy head of gold-brown hair. His dirt-colored clothing appeared shabbier than her own and much too small for his stomach and chest. But he had a presence.
Saving The Marquise's Granddaughter Page 5
