The room was dim when they entered it: one candle on a small table, a second on the mantelpiece. The fire had been allowed to die down; the night was warm. Besides, Baugin was not about to waste fuel and tallow, even on a noble guest. It was enough that he had not watered the wine—as was his custom—and had scarcely asked for more money than the food and lodging were worth.
Froissart was sprawled in a large armchair next to the table, a mug of wine in his hand. He had removed his spurs and his rapier, his sash, and his coat with its wide lace collar and cuffs. His voluminous shirt was thrown open at the neck, exposing a triangle of tanned flesh, and he spun his plumed hat aimlessly on one finger as he sipped at his wine.
“Well?” he said to Baugin, tossing his hat carelessly across the room to lie beneath the foot of the large bed.
Baugin bowed politely. “Monsieur le Comte. I have brought you the wench. She will please you, I’m sure. But…” he smiled a conspirator’s smile and indicated the basket of kindling next to the fireplace, “you must not hesitate to take a stick to her if the lass proves troublesome.” He bowed again, tugging politely on the sparse curl at his forehead, and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.
Froissart took another swallow of wine and stood up to look at the girl. He had scarcely paid her any notice all evening. Silent, sullen, grunting her compliance with every command given to her—she had not spoken even once! Now, his eyes slightly unfocused from the effects of the wine, he studied her more carefully. It was difficult to see her clearly in the dim light, but her whole pose, the attitude of her body, seemed defiant and angry—scarcely the willing bed partner he wanted and needed tonight. Damn! Why had he let the landlord talk him into this situation? He hadn’t really been that interested in a woman at first. Now, having paid for her, anticipated her, encouraged his sluggish body to spring to life in preparation for her, he saw that the wench stood there like an animal poised for flight, her darting eyes hostile and suspicious.
“Well? What are you waiting for?” he said, annoyed, impatient now.
Ninon took a step backward. She had been prepared to be passive, trusting him to be gentle with her; but seeing him like this, swaying slightly from too much wine, his eyes lustful and almost cruel, made her stomach turn. As he put down his wine and reached for her, she cringed away from him.
“Damn you, girl,” he growled, “I want what I paid for!” His hands clamped about her shoulders to pull her to him, but she raised her fists defensively and pushed against his chest, whimpering softly as she felt herself drawn ever more tightly into the circle of his strong arms. His fingers were tight and cruel on her flesh; there was no gentleness, no pity in him. He would take what he wanted, crudely, selfishly, with no thought to her pain or grief. With a desperate cry she tore one arm free from his grasp, and turned to pull away from him; his clutching hand caught at her chemise, ripping it away from her shoulder and back.
“Name of God!” he cursed, seeing the ugly welts on her flesh. He grabbed both her hands in one of his and dragged her, unresisting, to the table. As he lifted the candle and played the light across the scars of beatings, old and new, she hung her head as though she feared he would not think worthy a girl who merited such punishment. “Look at me!” he commanded, holding the candle before her face. Reluctantly she lifted her head. “Merde!” he swore. “How old are you?”
A timid whisper. “Fifteen.”
“Mon Dieu! I wanted a woman! Not a child who had to be beaten into obedience!” He laughed ruefully and released her hands, throwing himself back into the armchair and lifting his wine cup to his lips. “It seems I am fated to be unfortunate in love!” He took a long drink of wine and leaned his head back, closing his eyes wearily. He sighed. “Go away. I shall not need you tonight.”
Ninon adjusted her torn chemise so that it covered her shoulders, and watched him with tender eyes, seeing the pain on his face, the handsome mouth that drooped in misery.
Froissart opened his eyes. “What? Not gone yet? I said you may go, child.” Ninon shook her head stubbornly. Froissart laughed. “What is it, my silent bird? Do you want to stay?” She nodded. “In my bed?” he said more sharply; then, “I thought not,” at the sudden look of panic in her eyes. “Is it that he will beat you if he thinks I sent you away in displeasure?”
She nodded.
Froissart shrugged. “Stay, then. And you might as well be useful. Pour me some more wine and help me off with my boots. If you are quiet…” his eyes glinted mockingly, “I shall tell you the story of my lost love.”
Ninon refilled his cup and knelt at his feet, tugging at the high boots, pulling off the decorative lace-edged boot hose that covered his fine silk stockings. As she ministered to him, he rambled on, his words hardly meant for her; the wine had loosened his tongue, and the tale he told was only to ease the pain in his heart.
He had loved his Rosamunde for many years, he said. She had teased and tormented him each time they met, at the Louvre Palace or Fontainebleau, unwilling to surrender to him until they should be wed. But each time he tried to hasten a betrothal, she demurred. She was too young, it was too soon, she had not tasted all the sweet freedom of maidenhood. But soon, she would tell him. Soon. He had volunteered for the latest campaign against Spain, releasing his frustrated passion in the heat of battle. And then a letter had arrived from her: she was anxious to see him at her château. Like a panting swain he had rushed to her side, leaving his troops, his lieutenants to make their way home without him. He had rushed to her side…to be greeted by her husband.
He had tried to reproach her for her fickleness, but she had pouted angrily. He had not come soon enough to her: her husband had swept her off her feet. He should be pleased for her; it was an advantageous marriage. And besides, she said, she had begun to find him tiresome these last few years.
Froissart held out his mug for Ninon to refill it. His voice was thick now, the words heavy and slurred. “I almost threw her down and raped her on the spot. The lying bitch…scarcely worth my life…” He looked up at Ninon bending over him to hold the mug steady until she had poured in fresh wine, and smiled wryly. “Little bird…silent bird…do you understand? Do you care?” His eyes were beginning to close, but he lifted his finger and ran it along the edge of Ninon’s thin face. “Poor little bird. So thin. Do they starve you as well? You must have my supper…there…my supper…for you, little bird…” His head dropped forward and the mug tipped in his hand, spilling the wine on his shirt front before Ninon could catch it.
She pulled the cup from his lax fingers and set it down, then struggled to pull his shirt off over his head while he grunted and mumbled, nearly insensible from the wine. She managed at last to get him to his feet, supporting him with one arm about his bare waist, while he leaned heavily against her and clung to her shoulders. Even as they stumbled together to the bed, she was conscious of the feel of his bare flesh against her. She had never been so close to a man’s body before; it was frightening and wonderful.
It was difficult to get him stretched out in the right direction on the large bed; more difficult still to pull the downy coverlet from beneath his body and tuck it around his shoulders, legs, and feet. He had surrendered to the wine, and now clutched the pillow for comfort as he allowed himself to drift off into a drunken sleep. The wretched man, thought Ninon tenderly, brushing a wayward curl from his forehead. That wicked Rosamunde, to break his heart so! He was so beautiful, his face so strong and noble. A man in the full flower of his youth and manhood—she judged him to be somewhere in his mid-twenties—how could Rosamunde have chosen another?
She sighed and roused herself. She could not spend all night watching him sleep! Pouring out a little water from the pitcher into the washbasin, she rinsed the wine from his shirt, scrubbing at the stains until she was satisfied; then she draped the shirt across the back of the armchair and pulled the chair in front of the fire. She threw another log on the fire and poked the embers until she had a cheery blaze going aga
in. By morning the shirt should be dry, though Baugin might scream at the waste of firewood. With loving hands she retrieved his garments scattered about the room, and smoothed them and folded them neatly before laying them across a small bench against the wall. She polished his dusty boots with her petticoat and set them near the bed, that they might be close at hand when he awoke.
She picked up his wine mug and put it on the table, then hesitated, her fingers poised above the half-eaten pigeon. He had offered it to her, but still…Foolish Ninon! She laughed softly. Great heroes were always noble and generous, and maidens never questioned their kindness! Sitting cross-legged on the floor, the dish of food on her lap, she stripped the pigeon bones clean with her teeth, savoring the sweet meat, then licked her fingers for the last morsels of flavor. She even washed it down with a bit of wine (I defy you, Baugin!). Sighing with contentment, she rinsed her fingers in the water she had left in the basin. She blew out the candle on the mantel, and carried the other from the table to the bed, that she might look at him once more as he slept, filling her eyes, her smitten heart, with the sight of him, before snuffing the candle and setting it on the floor. Like a loyal puppy, she curled up at his feet on the bottom of the bed, feeling honored to be near him as he slept. She lifted her skirt so that it covered her arms and shoulders like a cape, and tucked her legs under her linen petticoat, then smiled happily and closed her eyes.
The room was chilly and lit with the first streaks of daylight when Philippe de Froissart awoke. He shivered and sat up, rubbing his bare arms and shoulders, and ran his tongue around his parched lips. He scratched at his neat beard, absently smoothing it with his fingers. Where the devil was his shirt? The wine. He’d spilled his wine on it. That was it. And the little bird…had she stripped it off him? He closed his eyes tightly. It was too hard to think. Damn the teasing bitch Rosamunde! She was scarcely worth getting so drunk for. He opened his eyes again and glanced about the dawn-lit room. There was his shirt, on the chair near the fireplace. Easing out of bed, he made for the chair, stopping at the washstand to slake his thirst from the pitcher of water and splash a few drops on his sleep-stiff face.
The shirt was clean and dry, he noticed as he slipped it over his head and tucked it into the low waistband of his breeches. He was used to such courtesies in his own château, or when he traveled with his own servants, but alone on the road, subject to crude and chancy amenities, it was a pleasant surprise. He shook his head. That strange little bird. Why would anyone want to beat the girl so? Every child was raised by the rod, of course (he himself had had many a sore rump in his boisterous youth), and—it was pleasant to contemplate—had he married Rosamunde, he would probably have lifted her skirts as often to lay his hand across her bare bottom as to make love to her. It was a man’s duty to discipline those in his care. But the little bird…she had been beaten savagely, cruelly. And not just that once. It made his blood boil, wondering what kind of animal the innkeeper could be, to treat the girl so.
When he crossed back to the bed to retrieve his boots, he saw her asleep there, curled up on her side, her face hidden by her hair. Gently he sat beside her. She sighed and stirred, turning in her sleep so the curtain of her hair parted to reveal her face. He nearly gasped aloud. By the clear light of morning, with her features relaxed in peaceful slumber, she was achingly beautiful. Her skin was very pale, clear and almost translucent, the bones beneath fragile and delicate. The hair that swirled about her head in tight curls and ringlets was a soft coppery red, almost pink where the frizzled wisps caught the light. Her sooty lashes lay beguilingly on the sweet curve of her cheeks; Philippe found himself wishing he could see what color were her eyes. But it was her mouth that drove him mad. Pouty, full-lipped, deep crimson—it lay like a bruise on the pale blossom of her face, waiting to be soothed, to be tasted, to be ravished. Enchanted, he stroked her parted lips with his fingertip, feeling the warmth of her breath on his hand. She started, and opened her eyes. Blue eyes. Clear and pale. They focused on him in recognition and remembrance and she relaxed, smiling gently so he could see the edge of her white teeth, the pink tip of her tongue. He felt the juices begin to stir within him. What a lovely child! Bending down, he kissed her gently, then deepened his kiss to taste the full sweetness of her honeyed lips. Her mouth, soft and ripe, was not a child’s mouth. He kissed her until he had no breath left; then, panting raggedly, he lifted his head to see her gazing up at him, her blue eyes shining in adoration.
“If you want me, I’ll not fight against you,” she whispered.
“Sweet bird!” he breathed, and gathered her into his embrace, clutching her tightly to his heaving chest while his hands roamed her back and shoulders, and his searching tongue probed her yielding mouth. Impatiently he tugged at her chemise, his burning fingers aching to touch her cool flesh, to feel her stretched out beneath him. He cursed as his hand caressed her naked shoulder and she flinched in pain. The feel of her tormented skin, the long welts under his fingertips, jolted him back to reality. Mon Dieu! What was he thinking of? She was just a child! It was Rosamunde he wanted. Rosamunde…who would never be his.
He jumped up from the bed, and paced the room to hide his guilt and shame, breathing deeply while his passions cooled and his throbbing loins returned to a semblance of normalcy. “The day grows apace, child,” he growled. “Have you no chores before that villain of an innkeeper decides to thrash you again?”
She sat up and readjusted her chemise, hurt and mystified by his sudden rebuff, by the sharpness in his voice. Without a word she rose from the bed and straightened her skirt and petticoat, then—the humble servant once more—shuffled to the table and picked up the tray with the remains of his supper.
He frowned. “Think you it is six of the clock yet, girl?”
She nodded in answer but said nothing.
Damn! He had not meant to be so abrupt. She must think his anger was on her account. How could she know he was cursing his own lewd appetites that would ravish a sweet and trusting child? “What do they call you, girl?” he said more kindly.
“Ninon.”
“Well, Ninon. You were a good valet de chambre last night. Will you help me dress this morning? Will you tie my sash for me?”
She smiled in gratitude and put down the tray, bustling about to fetch his clothing, to fold the lace edge of his boot hose over the tops of his high boots, to button his military coat, and, standing on tiptoe, to brush the shoulders free of dust and lint. As she stood before him, head bent, adjusting the loops of the taffeta sash that she had wrapped twice about his waist and tied over one hip, he idly stroked the line of her collar bone, scowling down at the red marks on her pale flesh.
“Why do you stay, child?”
She stepped back and looked at him, her clear eyes and measured words showing an intelligence he had not suspected until now. “Where shall I go, monsieur? Every day, I see them pass on the road, the wanderers who have left their villages, their ruined farms, in search of food. Shall I join their number? I go to bed hungry, true enough. But my bones do not stick out from my flesh, like those of the men and women who pass by. Sometimes Baugin chases them off with an ax handle when they try to steal a pigeon, and sometimes we find them just down the road, their souls flown to God’s heaven, their bodies stripped bare of every rag by the other unfortunates who have passed them by. Shall I be one of them?” She sighed and turned away from him. “And then…we are bound together by God’s laws and the laws of man, he and I.”
“Mon Dieu! Is he your father?”
“No. My stepfather.”
“And she? Your mother, then?”
Ninon sneered. “Sweet Madonna! La Bique? No!” She turned back to him, her eyes suddenly soft. “My mother is dead. But…she was his wife.”
“And so you stay.”
Ninon shrugged. “For now.”
“Do you wish to leave?”
“God knows I must! And soon. Else if I stay…” she broke off, the thought unfinished.
�
�If you stay…?” he urged.
“I shall most likely kill him one day.”
Froissart stared, surprised again by the stubborn pride, the sharp intelligence behind those frightened, guarded eyes.
“I have chores,” she said. Picking up the tray, she left the room.
By the time he descended the stairs into the common room, she was outside in the bright sunshine, her glorious hair bound into its kerchief, her shoulders curved into their usual posture of servility as she shuffled about in the yard to tend the pigs and fetch the morning’s wood. Filled with anger, Froissart watched her for a moment through the open door, then scowled as Baugin hurried toward him, smiling and fawning.
“Good morrow, Monsieur le Comte! One hopes you had a pleasant night. Will you take breakfast now?”
Froissart nodded coldly and seated himself at the table, while Baugin and his wife set before him gruel and sausages and sweetened wine. Well watered, he noted with contempt, adding that fact to the long list of outrages that he had already catalogued against the innkeeper. When Ninon returned to the room, Blanche gave her a sharp command, and accompanied it with a rap to the girl’s ear. Ninon glanced quickly at Froissart, her face crimsoning with shame, and fled into the yard. His eyes followed her out the door, then, scarcely able to hold his tongue a moment longer, he turned to Baugin.
The innkeeper smiled, blind to the rage that boiled behind Froissart’s frozen countenance. “I see you cannot keep your eyes from the girl this morning, monsieur! She pleased you, then?” He continued smoothly, as Philippe choked on his words, unable to speak, “A pretty little thing, is she not? A trifle stubborn perhaps…but a nice piece of goods to warm a man’s bed, eh? I broke her in myself, I did! As good as her mother she was,” he laughed, low and ugly, “though not nearly so willing!”
Froissart stared, incredulous. “You took your own wife’s daughter?”
Baugin looked hurt, hearing for the first time the note of disapproval in the comte’s voice. “What was I to do?” he said, suddenly defensive. “Useless wife…lying in that bed, puking and dying…all those months…no good to a man! And that pretty little brat of hers, prancing about, high and mighty—like she was better than me! Just because she was some marquis’s bastard! I didn’t grow up in some fancy château, and drink sweet cream and eat strawberries, but my mother and father had a priest to say the words over them! Treating me like a common peasant the way she did. The little slut! She should have been grateful I married her mother when the marquis died and his family threw them out. So I took the brat! She wasn’t so fancy then, I can tell you, crying and hollering…” He stopped, seeing the look of horror on Froissart’s face. “Well,” he stammered, “I…I didn’t really rape her. I…took pity on her at the last minute, and changed my mind. It was just to teach her a lesson, you understand. And then her mother died, and I haven’t touched her since.” He was clearly pleased with his own pious restraint.
Dreams So Fleeting Page 3
