by Edith Layton
James came out of the stable looking very pleased with himself.
“Here,” he whispered, bending over her, “Jacques believes you to be the son of a friend of mine. The less said, the safer your head. I decided to name you Henri, in honor of your friend Beaumont.” He laughed. “And I thought ‘Gris’ would be a nice short last name for you. Now,” he continued, putting a bit of paper in her pocket, “there is your note. It says, as best as Jacques could pen it: ‘Here is my son Henri. He visits his grandparents, M. and Mme. Gris, in Dieppe. Please see him safely there, he has not much wit.’
“And now,” James said, rising, “here are our horses. They’re too good for peasants such as us. But we have to stir stump. I have to be back at work by evening. That’s when the old woman stirs. So mount up and we’ll be off. You can ride, can’t you?” he said suddenly, in her ear.
Catherine eyed the huge black mare she was to ride and swallowed hard.
She nodded. She had ridden back in Kendal, when Mama had been alive. But always sidesaddle. Still, she thought, as James threw her up atop the horse, she would do what she had to.
Seeing her there, clutching the reins with whitened knuckles and struggling to stay right, James nodded.
“You look just as you ought,” he grinned wickedly. And as they rode off, he laughed to himself, watching his companion struggle to stay upright. “Just as one would expect.”
It seemed to Catherine that they rode for hours. But she knew that it was only her body protesting her means of transport. The horses steadily made their way through the crowded city streets, and when the crowds began to thin, she thought she could see James relax. “Now, we must travel,” he called to her, and they picked up their pace.
By the time the sun was high in the bright afternoon sky, Catherine didn’t know which part of her anatomy ached more, her feet or her seat. But she was curiously happy, even in all her discomfort. Once they reached open country, she even found herself humming in time with the beat of the horses’ hooves. She wanted to whisk off her absurd hat and sing. For she was free. The air was cold and sharp and clean against her face. The decision had been made. And it did not matter what sort of a fool she looked, for no one knew her. And in her anonymity lay her safety and her passport to freedom.
She was almost sorry when James drew the horses in at a farmhouse and signaled her to dismount.
“I will go and make arrangements for the horses to be watered here. Then we’ll walk to the inn where the diligence stops. For it never hurt to be extra careful,” James said consideringly. “These nags are too good for the likes of us and you never know who notices such things at an inn. So we’ll hoof it there ourselves. I’ll collect the horses on the way back.”
While James went to the back door of the farmhouse, Catherine leaned upon a wooden fence. When the farm wife came out to look at the horses and glanced curiously at Catherine, she quickly drew her hat brim down further and gazed at the ground.
James dickered with the woman in his rough French, and then he came back to Catherine and slapped her on the shoulder, almost knocking her from her feet.
“Allez idiot!” he roared, “Il est tard. Allez, allez.”
She strode after him and breathlessly kept pace with him till the road turned and they were out of sight of the farmhouse.
“Did you have to be that convincing?” she complained, limping quickly after him.
“It does grow late,” he said worriedly, glancing at the sky, “and she wanted to offer us some cider and a bite to eat. But I couldn’t risk it. It wouldn’t do for me to be gone when Beaumont comes. He’ll twig to me in an instant when he finds you’re gone too.”
Catherine felt extremely guilty. For she hadn’t realized the penalty that would fall to James if it were discovered that it was he who had helped her. So she merely nodded and tried to keep pace with his long strides. Her feet burned in the tight boots, and her right foot felt as though it were afire with each step she took upon her secret cache of coins. But she knew it would be selfish and dangerous for James if she slowed her pace, so she held her lips together tightly and forced herself to match his steps.
As they walked, James offered advice.
“It might be crowded on the road. And if it is crowded, there are always folk who’ll take advantage of a half-wit. So push yourself. Wave your note around if they tell you there’s no room in the coach. Someone’s bound to take pity on you. You look sad enough. But remember, don’t speak. Don’t trust anyone. Keep to yourself till you get aboard an English ship. Keep that portmanteau by your side. Sleep on it, if you have to. And don’t take off that boot. That’s your bank account.”
Catherine puffed along with James, nodding at his every suggestion. The cold afternoon eased her pain. The ground was so cold, and the sole of her boot so thin, that her right foot was numbed and the pain seemed bearable. She would board the diligence and suffer quietly. But, she vowed, the first thing she would do aboard ship, even before she took off her hat, would be to rid herself of her accursed boots.
The inn was a sorry-looking place, Catherine thought, as they came to it. It was weathered, in need of a coat of paint, and grimy. James sniffed disparagingly as they passed the pungent odor of the stables. There seemed to be a great many people, mostly peasants and tradesmen, milling about in front of the place and talking loudly to each other.
“Stay by my side,” James whispered urgently as he mounted the steps to the entrance.
Once inside, James pushed his way through a group of angry-looking farmers and went up to a high desk. A harassed, very fat woman was arguing loudly with a red-faced farmer. James waited until the farmer had finished his argument and stomped off before catching the woman’s attention by rapping a coin on the desk. He flipped the coin repeatedly in the air as he held a whispered conversation with her. Catherine could not catch his words, but he, too, seemed to be growing angry. Finally, he sighed and flipped the coin at the woman, who caught it adroitly and then moved on to speak to another patron.
James drew Catherine aside at the entrance to the inn, near a large crowded taproom.
“Ahh, bad luck,” he sighed. “The diligence broke down further down the line. And it won’t come till tomorrow. So you’ll have to spend the night here. These others, most of them live nearby and will go home and come back tomorrow. But still others are staying overnight. So there’s no room for a rat, she says. You can’t sleep in the stable neither, for there’s a whole crew of rowdies putting up there, or share a room, for they’re all parceled out. So I offered her a pourboire and she says a little chap like you can sleep safe enough right there.”
James pointed to the massive fireplace that took up one whole end of the taproom. Catherine looked at him in puzzlement, a little smile on her lips, for surely he was joking.
“No, not in the fire, nit,” he laughed. “But on the fender there—it’s wide and brick, and there’s room enough to curl up warm there.”
The fireplace, Catherine saw, did have a wide brick lip that ran in a semicircle along its circumference.
“Not the best accommodations,” James shrugged, “but keep your hat on, curl up tight, use your carpetbag as a pillow and you’ll be safe enough. This side’s for the common lot. There’s private rooms on the other side. I gave her a tip so you could stay and she would see you on the diligence tomorrow. So,” he said, looking around him, “this is as far as I take you, sweet. I have to go now. But is there anything else I can do for you before I go?”
Catherine shifted from foot to foot in embarrassment. There was one other problem, but she did not know how to ask him about it. He saw her consternation and after a moment began to laugh. He cuffed her on the shoulder again.
“I’m a looby too,” he grinned. “Come with me.”
Keeping her head down, Catherine followed him out a back door near the steaming kitchen. There was a small vegetable garden and then nothing but a field of weeds. James picked carefully through the garden and led her around to
the side of the house. Two ramshackle outbuildings stood there.
“Go into the one on the right,” he whispered. “I’ll keep watch.”
When she came out of the little building, the smile disappeared from James’s face.
“See you don’t go in again unless there’s absolutely no one about,” he warned.
“I’d like to wash up,” Catherine whispered.
“Forget that,” James cautioned, leading her back into the inn and the taproom, “for it’s dirt that makes the man in this case. Now,” he said quietly, as he sat her down by the fireplace, “there’ll be a spot of dinner later. Then curl up and sleep. And then, after breakfast, board the coach and go. I don’t care if you have to ride atop it, go.”
“I’d like to pay you,” Catherine said in a very little voice. “You’ve been so very good to me,”
James grinned hugely, swept her into his arms, and kissed her soundly on both cheeks.
“Payment,” he said. “The French,” he whispered, “kiss all the time. Take care, Catherine, and luck be with you.”
She watched him go and sank down at her seat by the fireplace. Suddenly the light seemed gone from the day, and she almost, imperceptibly, shrank into a smaller shape. She was on her own, at last.
The afternoon passed slowly. True to James’s predictions, the crowd of people slowly filtered away, grumbling as they went. Still, the inn remained filled, but few people entered the taproom and those who did, ignored the simpleton sitting and staring at his boots by the fireside. As night came, it grew colder, and soon the landlady huffed into the taproom and brushed at Catherine.
“Allez, allez,” she roared, as people do at those they think are lacking in wit, as though volume alone will get their meaning through. “J’ai besoin d’allumer le feu,” she screamed, indicating the logs stacked in the fireplace.
Catherine stepped back from the bricks and let the landlady, puffing from exertion, bend to touch a match to the tinder. Soon a comfortable fire was roaring, and the landlady grunted in satisfaction. She waved at Catherine again.
“Asseyez-vous. Asseyez-vous,” she commanded, and, after what she deemed to be enough of a confused consideration, Catherine sat back down again as requested.
The taproom slowly filled, and a few tired slatternly-looking kitchen maids brought bowls of stew, tankards of beer, and bottles of wine out to the guests. One stopped and placed a bowl of stew and a glass of cider on the bricks at Catherine’s side. She smiled at the poor waif, and Catherine ducked her head and began to eat, badly frightened because she had almost said “thank you” without thinking.
Most of the diners finished, puffed at their pipes, and then grudgingly left the warmth of the taproom and made their way upstairs to their rooms. The heat and a full stomach should have made Catherine drowsy enough to curl up to sleep. But the heat had thawed the anesthetic of cold from her leg, and the pain was sufficient to keep her sitting upright in distress. The hour grew later, and she sat almost alone by the fire, rocking unconsciously to the beat of the throbbing in her foot. The warmth had made her feet swell and the boot was now like some medieval torture device. Catherine was in agony, both in spirit and body. Her every impulse told her to strip off the boot and be done with the pain. And her every thought told her that James had been right and on no account should she part with it. But the walking and the heat were taking their toll, and she felt her leg would burst.
The interior misery she was suffering had become so acute that she did not take note of the altercation at the desk in the little front room for some time. But finally the sound of raised voices reached her pain-deadened ears and she looked up. She could see the front entrance clearly from her seat. The landlady was shrieking at a troop of men who had straggled in. They were a bad-looking lot, Catherine thought. Some wore uniforms that were tattered and grimy. Some wore work clothes. But they were tough desperate-looking fellows, and Catherine shrunk into herself, looking at them.
Even with her poor grasp of the local patois, the sense of what they were shouting at the woman was clear to her. These men were traveling to Paris, they protested loudly. For they had heard that their emperor was returning. And they were volunteering to be of service to their country again. One great fat fellow was roaring that the emperor would be very displeased with a female who denied free room to his soldiers. The woman shouted back, equally loudly, that as far as she knew Louis still sat upon the throne and no one was going to take over her inn as housing for an army that didn’t exist. She was not turning over her establishment to the rag and tag of an army without orders or compensation.
Catherine listened to the battle rage. The gross fellow who was the evident leader of this disorderly troop finally banged some money down disgustedly on the counter. And then, to Catherine’s horror, the landlady pointed to the fireplace and to Catherine.
“Allez. Avec l’idiot,” she said.
The troop of men, grumbling, coughing, and cursing, made their way into the taproom. Catherine was afraid to budge, so she simply took her portmanteau, put it on her lap, and tried to look as insignificant as possible. The men eyed her, and then disregarded her and began to call for food and wine.
After they had eaten, they sat and continued to drink and talk. Catherine was desperate for sleep, for an end to the pain in her foot, but she was afraid to close even one eye. The fire was dying and the night advanced. But terror kept her wide awake.
As she sat there, hoping that they would soon settle down to sleep, the fat man who was their leader looked over to her. He shouted at her in a rough patois. She was not sure what he was saying, so she simply sat still, hoping he would lose interest. But he rose and came over to her. He was huge and unkempt, with a burgeoning belly and a sly look in his eye. He shouted down at her. She drew back, both from the violence in his voice and the dark heavy smell that emanated from him.
Then, to her horror, he reached down and lifted her by the shoulders and threw her aside. She stumbled against the edge of the fireplace.
“Je dors la,” he grunted, and, sitting where she had been, he took her portmanteau and began to open the straps on it.
It was sheer despair that caused her to launch herself soundlessly at him, clutching for her portmanteau in a frenzy. He waved her off with one large paw and kicked out at her. When his booted foot connected with her aching leg, she heard someone howl in a high keening scream of pain, and only when she fell, cradling her leg, did she realize that it had been she herself who had made that terrible cry. The tears were streaming down her face as she watched him begin to undo the other strap, and she was sobbing in earnest, when she heard an incredibly familiar voice say in French, “So this is how brave Frenchmen disport themselves.”
The landlady bustled into the room, clucking.
“Non, non. Ce n’est pas bien.”
Catherine, looking up from under the brim of her hat, saw in the wavering light of the drying fire, as best she could through misted eyes, the tall straight figure of the Marquis of Bessacarr striding into the room. Jenkins, she saw, was behind him.
“Now why does a grown man torment a child, do you think, Jenkins?” the marquis drawled in English.
“Let it be,” Jenkins said, with a worried look at the men in the room. “And for God’s sake, let it be in French.”
“We are not yet at war, Jenkins,” the marquis said. “There’ll be time enough for that.”
The man who held Catherine’s portmanteau put it down and slowly stood up. But she saw, from where she crouched on the floor, even when he stood up fully, the marquis still towered over him. In a caped driving coat, immaculate, disdainful, and straight, the marquis presented a picture of authority and command. Though hate glittered in the other man’s eyes, he was the first to drop his gaze, and he walked back to the fireside and threw Catherine’s portmanteau at her.
He muttered something about the boy being only an idiot. And the landlady began to explain rapidly to the marquis, Catherine surmised, who and wha
t Catherine was.
“Pauvre petit,” the landlady cried, helping Catherine to her feet. Then she went on to assure her in many ways, by shouting loudly and by hand signals, that she was to go back to her seat by the fire, that the kind gentleman had interceded for her, that she was safe now. Then she turned and scolded the other men, who looked at her sullenly.
The marquis looked around him.
“And how long do you think it will be, once we are in our rooms, Jenkins, before they take extra good care of the poor lad?”
“Let it be,” Jenkins repeated. “You surely don’t intend to stay the night down here to watch over some wretched simpleton?”
“Hardly,” yawned the marquis, “but, as I recall, there’s a spacious hearth in my room as well. I’ll let the lad spend the night there. For these oafs will tear him apart by morning, just to revenge themselves on me, if I do not protect him now.”
“Surely not,” Jenkins said, genuinely appalled, “for he’s flea-ridden, or worse.”
“I didn’t say my bed,” the marquis said coolly. “I said my hearth.”
Jenkins shook his head in demurral, and Catherine stood still and watched as the marquis explained his plan to the landlady. She beamed at him and hastened to Catherine.
“Allez,” she shouted in Catherine’s ear. “avec le gentilhomme. Allez. Allez,” she screeched as Catherine stood frozen to the spot
Still, Catherine noted that the marquis did not look at her again. He merely turned and went to the stairs and began to go up. Jenkins turned once and shook his head in disapproval. But the men in the room grumbled to themselves, and Catherine knew she would be safer away from them.
