“And so you content yourself with beating the girl and pandering for her?”
“Only if the price is right, monsieur! There’s no point in wasting such a tender morsel on a man who can’t pay the price! I wouldn’t want her to bring any bastards of her own into the world if I can help it!”
Philippe rose from his chair, his fists tight-clenched, his mouth a hard line. He had not thought such villainy could exist. Small wonder the girl was frightened and suspicious, trapped by circumstances and the misfortune of the times into a life of cruelty and horror. “How much do you want for her?” he rasped.
“What? For the night, monsieur? Again?”
“For all time! To be taken away from here!”
Baugin’s face crumpled, his voice a pitiful whine. “For all time? How can that be? We love her as our own flesh!”
Froissart sneered his contempt. “Yes, I know. How much?”
Baugin frowned, thinking about it. The girl was growing into a woman. Sooner or later she’d get herself into trouble with a passing farmer, or run off with one of the inn’s guests. Even now she could be carrying the comte’s seed. Why not make the most of it, before he lost the girl without a sou of profit? “Thirty crowns,” he said boldly.
“Ten!” said Froissart, his eyes burning, and put his hand on his rapier.
Baugin shrugged. Good riddance to the brat.
Ninon was brushing down the comte’s horse in the courtyard when he strode out to her, his handsome features still taut with anger. “Gather your things,” he growled. “You are to come with me!”
She turned, her blue eyes wide with surprise. “When shall I return here?” she asked.
“Never, by God. Never!”
She gave a cry of joy and put her hands to her mouth, her eyes sparkling with sudden tears. It must be a dream! Her noble hero…and he was taking her away. He was truly taking her away! She giggled and sniffled in turn, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand.
“Come,” he said gently. “I would be quit of this evil place.”
“Wait…monsieur…” she murmured, shy and flustered all at once. “I have a kitten…I cannot leave…do you suppose…?”
“If it can endure the ride, bring it along in a sack.”
It took only a few moments for her to collect her belongings: a quilted jacket, a tattered shawl, a spare apron. An ivory comb her father had given her, a bit of lace her mother had painstakingly reembroidered. Her kitten, its tiny head poking out of a small sack, fastened securely in her skirt pocket. She sat behind Froissart on the horse, her arms tightly about his waist, and never looked back as the inn disappeared from view.
They rode in silence for most of the morning. Ninon could scarcely drink in every sight, every copse and stream and lush meadow as they passed. The world was newborn to her dazzled eyes, gilded with the aura of freedom, sweetened by the love that filled her heart.
They stopped at length in a leafy glade hard by a small brook. Froissart unpacked a loaf of bread and some dried beef from his saddlebag, taking a portion for himself before handing the rest to Ninon. When he had eaten his fill, he leaned back against a tree and watched while she fed her kitten.
“What is your surname, Ninon?” he asked suddenly, remembering what Baugin had told him of the girl’s past.
“Guillemot.”
“Your father?”
“No. My mother.”
“And who was your father? Baugin said he was a marquis.”
“Yes.”
“His name…?”
She shook her head. “No, monsieur, if you please. I do not wish to say. He was a good man. I would not have you think ill of him. He loved us very much.”
An angry growl. “And did not provide for you?”
Her blue eyes flashed. “He gave us his affection! It was enough.”
“Mon Dieu! His affection…Pah!”
“Please, Monsieur de Froissart…” She looked as though she would cry, the little bird retreating once again to her nest.
He frowned, suddenly abashed. Who was he to judge a man he had not known? And hurt the girl in the bargain. “Will you call me Philippe?” he asked.
She blushed furiously and cast down her eyes.
He smiled at such innocence. “Will you?” he teased.
“Yes.”
“Yes…what?”
“Yes…Philippe.”
“Rosamunde could not have said it more sweetly,” he said, and watched her blush again. His face darkened with a sudden thought. “Your stepfather…How old were you when he…” He cleared his throat. “He said he tried to rape you. How old were you?”
She looked stricken. “Only just fourteen,” she whispered.
He cursed himself for a fool. He had gone too far again. Filled with remorse, he watched her silently, seeing the distant look in her eyes as she cradled the kitten in her lap.
Only just fourteen. It had been the day of her fourteenth birthday. She had tiptoed about the inn all morning. Her mother had had a bad night, weeping in pain, tossing and turning in agony on the bed that her husband had long since ceased to share.
Baugin had begun to drink at dawn. By the time he caught Ninon in the barn, his eyes were glassy from the ale, and his frustrated passion was evident by the bulge of his breeches at his groin. She had struggled against him, kicking and screaming; he had thrown her down to the straw-covered ground and fumbled impatiently with the fastening of his garment. Then he had cried aloud and cursed sharply. Through her tears, Ninon had seen the wet stain spreading on the front of his breeches, his seed spilled prematurely in his anxiety to have the girl, to tame her bold spirit once and for all. Sprawled beneath him, she had begun to laugh hysterically, her fear making her all the more shrill and giddy. Enraged, he had slapped her face again and again.
Then her mother was there, leaning against the doorframe, gasping, her eyes black with horror in their hollow sockets. She had cursed him, called down on his head all the saints. “If you stain my child’s virtue,” she had croaked, “my phantom will return to haunt you!” Ninon had caught the flash of superstitious fear in Baugin’s eyes as she scrambled to her feet and ran to her mother. “Sweet Ninon,” her mother had whispered, and crumpled to the ground.
Ninon stirred herself and lifted the kitten in her arms, stroking its soft fur against her cheek. It still echoed in her brain from that terrible morning—the sound of her own heartbroken sobbing. She looked up. Philippe was watching her with pity in his eyes.
“Poor little bird,” he murmured, “you need never fear again.”
They rode all afternoon, heading south toward Dijon and his château. When Ninon began to droop tiredly, Froissart insisted that she ride sideways before him, that she might lean against his chest and sleep, if she were so minded.
“We shall stop for supper by and by,” he said. “Near Troyes. But I fear we shall lose the light ere we arrive. Sleep for now. I shall wake you.”
She snuggled against his chest, feeling secure, protected. There was a smell about him, compounded of sweat and leather and masculinity, that was more heady than the sweetest perfume she had ever breathed. She closed her eyes, listening to the rhythm of his heartbeat, feeling her own pulse quicken. She supposed he might want to make love to her tonight. She smiled to herself. Was it only last night that she had been afraid of his touch? And then he had kissed her this morning. Her first kiss, intoxicating, thrilling, his mouth parting her lips, his tantalizing tongue possessing her mouth, invading that warm recess in sweet imitation of the very act of love itself. Whatever he asked of her she would do, without fear. With her whole heart. Sighing softly, she drifted off to sleep, knowing she would love him till the end of her days.
“Come, Ninon. Here we are.”
It was dark. By the light of the early-rising moon, Ninon could see that they were before a large gate set into a wall that seemed to run on for some distance in either direction. Philippe dismounted and helped Ninon from the horse. Still groggy, she soothed
the kitten, who had begun to mew softly. There was a large bell to one side of the gate. Froissart tugged at it and waited, smiling down at Ninon.
“Are you hungry?”
She nodded. “Indeed, yes.”
“They will feed us well. Ah, here is someone!” A light appeared on the other side of the gate, illuminating their faces.
“Monsieur de Froissart! We had not expected you!” A woman’s voice, sweet and low.
“Am I not welcome, Sister?” His voice was gently teasing.
The gate swung open. “You are always welcome, Monsieur le Comte. I shall fetch the reverend mother.” A slender nun stood before them, holding a torch, her linen wimple bright in the light.
“I have brought a young girl, Sister Solange. Think you there will be food enough for both of us? Or will you do without, to oblige me?”
“Le bon Dieu will provide, monsieur.” She smiled, and a dimple appeared in her cheek. “Does He not give me patience each time you tease me?”
He laughed. “But only think how it strengthens your nature to deal with such a wicked man as I! If one is exalted by adversity, Sister, then surely you should be the abbess ere long!”
Sister Solange shook her head in mock dismay. The man was hopeless. Her eyes lit on Ninon, drooping beside him. “The poor child looks exhausted. Let me fetch the reverend mother.”
As she hurried off to a low building set against the wall, Ninon turned questioning eyes to Froissart. “The reverend mother?”
“She is the abbess here. This is a monastery of the Visitandines, Sisters of the Order of the Visitation. The abbess is my cousin.”
There was a stir at the door of the building. Several torches and half a dozen dark-robed figures appeared, moving across the clearing. A large and imposing woman sailed majestically toward them, her hands held out in greeting.
“Philippe! Cher cousin. We did not think to see you again this year. After the Netherlands, one would have thought you would be in Paris wooing your Rosamunde once more.”
A heavy sigh. “No. I am returning to my château of Marival, and a life of contemplation.”
“There is much to tell, I think. I have never known you to forgo your pleasures for contemplation! But who have you brought me?” The abbess cupped Ninon’s face in her hand, smiling kindly at her. “Sweet. And very tired and hungry, n’est-ce pas? Put your horse in the stable, Philippe. We will talk after this child has been fed and bedded.”
In a sleepy mist, Ninon allowed herself to be led by gentle hands to a dining room in the guest quarters, where she sat, head nodding forward, and tried to eat the food put in front of her. From there she was taken to a small cell in the dormitory. Her eyes saw only the narrow bed that beckoned. Her own bed. She had not slept on a bed of her own since her mother died. She curled up on the soft mattress, the kitten snuggled against her breast. She had dreamed of the joy of sleeping with her little cat, but it was a luxury, a freedom, she had not ever thought to enjoy.
And all because of him. Her golden hero. How many days before we reach his château? she thought. And drifted off to sleep.
A gentle hand was shaking her awake. She opened bleary eyes to the sunny morning to find Sister Solange smiling above her.
“Hurry, child. He is leaving.”
“What?” Ninon blinked and shook her head. Sweet Madonna! She was scarcely ready to go.
“Monsieur le Comte. He is leaving, and wishes to say good-bye to you.”
Ninon leaped from her bed, her eyes wide with shock and disbelief. “Where?”
“In the courtyard. Come. Let me take you to him.” She laughed gently. “You need not run, child. He is a devil, but he will not go before making his farewells.”
Philippe was already mounted on his horse, his plumed hat set rakishly on his head, when Ninon hurried to him. He leaned down from the saddle, stroking the side of her cheek with his gauntleted finger. “I leave you in the care of the good sisters, little bird. Grow into womanhood and be happy. You will be safe here until you can find your own way in the world.” He smiled warmly, his hazel eyes twinkling with mischief. “Name your cat ‘Philippe’ in remembrance of me. Will you?” he urged, as she still said nothing.
She nodded and cast down her eyes, that he might not see the pain, the beginnings of tears.
“Adieu, little bird,” he said. Urging his horse forward, he went out through the gate. He looked much as he had looked two days before, when he had ridden into her life. Jaunty, carefree, noble in his boots and spurs and plumes.
But she was no longer the same. Her body was free, released from the rigors and torments that Baugin had imposed. But hope and trust, newly awakened in her soul, lay in chains. She should have guessed he would betray her heart. Had life taught her any differently? Had any man ever done aught but break his promises? Her father, who had sworn to keep her and cherish her—how could he die? How could he leave them penniless? And Baugin—how could he seem kind at first, then prove to be a monster bent on her destruction? And now Philippe was gone. She would never trust a man again.
Never.
But he had rescued her, her golden paladin, her noble hero. For that, at least—despite the anguish in her heart—for that she knew she would love him forever.
Chapter Two
1657
“Sister Solange, has the post not come from the village yet?”
“It is still early, Reverend Mother. And Monsieur Moillon’s horse was limping when he brought last week’s letters. He might be late today.”
“I pray le bon Dieu all is well with him.” The abbess looked about the high-walled garden, seating herself on a low bench and smiling at the sunny morning. “How warm it is for March! I confess I thought we should not see spring this year.”
“Yes. After the snows in February…” Sister Solange shook her head. “Do you remember last month, the terrible blizzard on Ninon’s eighteenth birthday? What a storm that was!”
The abbess glanced across the gardens to where Ninon was already hard at work, spading the soft earth and raking it into smooth furrows to receive the first seeds of spring, cabbage and onions and peas. “There have been many storms in that young life, I’ll warrant.” She sighed. “But for all her silent heart that she guards so well, she has become a fine young woman. I would I could persuade her to stay with us and take the vows. There is warmth and sympathy in her. I have often been moved at the wonder of God’s mercies when I see her with the widows, broken in spirit and body, who come seeking sanctuary. Ninon ministers to them with a sweetness that would make the angels envious. And what a joy to watch her with the children from the village—an infinitely patient teacher.”
“And yet she is not a good Christian in her observances, Reverend Mother. She is often late for vespers, and comes to matins seldom.”
“I know. In some ways she has scarcely changed from the rebellious, guarded child that my cousin Monsieur de Froissart brought to us three years ago.”
Sister Solange laughed softly. “I confess that I have always been surprised at Monsieur le Comte’s generosity of spirit at that time! He is a charming man, of course—a good man, I hasten to assure you—but hardly a man to notice the wickedness of the world…nor to care! Forgive me, he is your cousin…”
“No. You are quite right. I suspect that Philippe himself was astonished at his own impulsive rescue of the girl from her stepfather. But for our convent, and the haven it provided Ninon, Philippe would in all likelihood have soon regretted his hasty action. Eh bien, I have not regretted it. I shall be sorry to see her leave someday. She possesses many talents that will make her life easier. Her fine intelligence, of course, and her musical skills. But her domestic training was not neglected; that is apparent. I am minded of the lace and whitework collar she fashioned for Monseigneur l’évêque, my lord bishop, upon his last visit.”
“Still, there is a strangeness about her that is difficult to fathom. Do you remember her fierce possessiveness with that cat of hers—how she would not
even let others feed it? And yet when the Vignot family sought refuge here from the plague last year—leaving Monsieur Vignot dead in the stricken village—Ninon gave her cat to the fatherless children, without a moment’s hesitation.” Sister Solange frowned in bewilderment.
The abbess nodded. “There is a goodness in her she fears to show, a goodness she hides behind her silence and her reticent ways. I would she had been willing to tell me more of herself. She has been hurt by life, poor child. We have earned her trust, thanks be to God, but…” The abbess looked up, hearing the sudden creak of harness and tackle. “Ah! Is that not the sound of Monsieur Moillon’s wagon? Mayhap there is a letter from my cousin today. He is an indifferent correspondent, despite my many letters to him. But I am surprised that he takes so little notice of my accounts of Ninon’s progress as scholar and teacher. More especially as her deliverance was due to his own efforts.”
“Oh, Reverend Mother. Perhaps he does not wish to be accused of the sins of pride and vanity in God’s eyes.”
The abbess laughed dryly. “Philippe has never worn humility well! I would think rather that he is far too concerned with his own secular pleasures to give much thought to the girl. But let us wish Monsieur Moillon a good morrow.”
Dreams So Fleeting Page 4
