The Price of Honor (Canadiana Series Book 1)

by Susanne Matthews

  THE PRICE OF HONOR

  REVISED SECOND EDITION

  Susanne Matthews

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

  While many of the locations used in this novel are actual places and the historical figures represent actual men, all characters including the main characters and secondary characters, both French and Canadian Aboriginals are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead or actual events is strictly coincidental.

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my ancestors, the Poiriers and Marions, both living and dead, who left their homes in France to come to New France and contribute to the birth of Canada. We are a nation of immigrants, part of a wonderful mosaic, that makes Canada one of the best places in the world to live.

  Chapter One

  Caen, France, April 15, 1668

  Shoulders stooped, veiled head bent, Isabelle de Caen Gaudier swiped at the tears still coursing down her cheeks. Nodding her thanks to the priest and the men who’d resealed the family crypt, she left the cemetery, clutching her woolen cape tightly against her body, and zigzagged around the puddles, parked carriages, and groups of mourners heading to the governor’s lodge. How much more could the Good Lord expect her to endure? First her husband, now Papa...

  Many members of the court had come from Versailles to pay tribute to her father, including Jean-Baptiste Colbert. As much as she hated the practice, the funeral had all the makings of a grand fête. Thank God the king had sent his regrets. Had he been here, she would have to participate in the festivities whether she wanted to or not. One did not snub one’s king, especially not when he held one’s fate in his hands.

  Raising her tear-streaked face, she saw her step-mother dab at her wet gown as if it were some creature rescued from the sewers of Paris. Solange hated black and being forced to wear widow’s weeds sat poorly with her. Beside her stood the Chevalier d’Angrignon, one of the king’s favorites. Why was that weasel even here? It wasn’t as if he and Papa had been friends—far from it.

  Despite the somber occasion, the popinjay was dressed in the latest court fashion. His short, black square-cut jacket covered a baggy white linen shirt. He wore black Rhinegrave breeches—wide, loose pants with a long, square-cut panel hanging over them like a skirt. There were bunches of black ribbons attached by more rhinestones at his shoulders, elbows, torso, and knees, even at the sides of his high, floppy boots. His rapier hung at his waist, but the most ludicrous aspect of his dress were the spurs at the ankles of the wide-mouthed boots. A broad-brimmed black hat decorated by a white plume sat atop his wig, and in his left hand, he held his gauntlet-styled gloves. In concession to the rain, he’d added a long black cape that covered little.

  Isabelle craned her neck. Where was the tall, slender, heavily veiled woman in black who’d accompanied him? She shuddered. The man was a veritable Bluebeard. Sister Jacques used to enjoy telling the folktale about the man who murdered his wives and kept their severed heads in a cupboard. The chevalier had been married at least three times. News had reached the abbey that his third wife had died in childbirth last winter. He might not be collecting heads, but he had an impressive number of headstones to his credit. Was the missing woman in black his future bride? If so, perhaps she’d disappeared to save herself.

  Wrinkling her nose, Isabelle frowned. The king’s knights were supposed to be men of honor, but she doubted this man even knew what the word meant. He certainly didn’t understand decorum as he through back his head and guffawed at something Solange said. So much for the countess’s role as grieving widow.

  Her step-mother’s whining voice grated on Isabelle’s nerves, intensifying her throbbing headache.

  “Another garment ruined, even if it is an ugly one. I hate this place and its incessant cold, damp rains. I can’t wait to return to Paris.”

  “Solange, while I prefer Paris or Versailles myself, we all serve at his majesty’s pleasure.” He shrugged. “You’ll be at court soon enough. For now, Louis’s will be done.”

  Isabelle’s blood boiled. How dare that man use her step-mother’s first name. Her father was barely cold in his casket. To her further disgust, the chevalier took Solange’s ungloved hand and helped her up the stairs.

  Approaching the steps, Isabelle moved to the far left, hoping to pass unnoticed.

  “Of course,” Solange answered, her tone simpering as she deferred to the king’s man.

  “For now, our duty’s here,” he continued. “Since the king has appointed me governor of Normandy, and you’re still the Countess de Caen, we must work together during this period of transition. We have matters to discuss that can’t wait.”

  Isabelle gasped, raising her hand to her mouth too late to muffle the sound.

  This pig was going to replace her father? She’d known the king would send someone quickly since Normandy and Caen were too valuable to be left without a governor—but this braggart?

  Her father’s personal fortune, including his shares in the French West India Company, might belong to her step-mother, but the title and the lands themselves, as well as their riches, could only be passed down to a male heir. Since Papa had no son—much to Solange’s dismay, no doubt—or grandson, it reverted to the crown and was the king’s to dispense of as he saw fit. It was just as well she’d decided to leave Caen and return to the abbey as soon as she could.

  The chevalier bowed his head, acknowledging her. “Madame, may I express my deepest sympathy for your losses? Know your welfare is my only concern, and I’ll endeavor to care for you to the best of my abilities.”

  What game was he playing? Unable to utter a word that wouldn’t be an insult and not wanting to make a public scene, Isabelle nodded, climbed the stairs, and entered the marble-floored foyer. Once she was back among the nuns, her welfare would be none of his business, and for that she was truly grateful.

  After removing her cloak, bonnet, and gloves, she handed them to a liveried footman who would see the items returned to her room, and brushed down the front of her damp gown. The simple black wool dress befitted a widow and orphan like herself. The only jewelry she wore was the thin gold band Pierre had given her.

  With the chevalier and countess in possession of the estate and Pierre accused of treason, stripped of his titles and lands, Isabelle was not only penniless, she was homeless—at least until the king decided what to do with her. Now that d’Angrignon oversaw Caen, she would petition his majesty to allow her to remain at l’Abbeye aux Dames with the Benedictine sisters until her bereavement period was over.

  As a widow and a member of the lesser nobility, one with royal blood, she was a pawn at the king’s disposal, a far too valuable commodity to ignore, and she knew it. More than likely, once her year of mourning was over, she would be contracted into marriage to cement an alliance for political gain. The king had allowed her to marry for love once, and now since that man had been accused of treason, his majesty wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. If she were lucky, she might grow to love, or at least like, her husband one day.

  No matter what proof the king’s men claimed to have, Pierre wouldn’t have betrayed her, their marriage vows, or the king. After her husband’s murder—she would consider it nothing less—Papa had begun making enquiries into the affair. He’d questioned the so-called evidence as well as the testimony of men employed by royal advisors including the Chevalier d’Angrignon.

  Had he found something? She would never know, not unless the king allowed her to leave the
shelter of the abbey and search for the answers for herself, but that was unlikely.

  How could her father be dead? He’d been healthy and strong, a man in his prime, and yet in a short while, he’d wasted away. It didn’t make sense. He’d always had the constitution of an ox, rarely even suffering from the colds that plagued so many in winter.

  Isabelle rubbed her temples in an effort to dislodge the throbbing there. The sound of her step-mother’s shrill laugh and clapping hands brought her back to the present.

  “I’m overwhelmed by his majesty’s generosity, given the circumstances.” Solange handed her cloak and bonnet to the servant waiting for them. “You are to be commended as well. Patience is a virtue, n’est-ce pas? Isn’t this wonderful news, Isabelle?”

  “Pardon, madame, but I wasn’t listening,” she admitted, sighing heavily, knowing another lecture was on its way.

  “Of course you weren’t,” Solange answered, her brow creased, her mouth a tight red slash in her over-powdered face. “You spend far too much time inside that head of yours.”

  Isabelle fisted her hands at her sides. The sooner she got away from these two, the better.

  “With Pierre’s funeral only three months ago and now my father’s, this has been a difficult morning for me. At the moment, I can’t imagine anything wonderful. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just go up to my room.”

  “Shortly,” the chevalier pronounced as if he had every right to order her around. “We must have a drink to celebrate our good fortune.”

  “I hardly think my father’s death is anyone’s good fortune, your grace,” she stated primly—well no one except his since he was now the governor.

  “Don’t be such a prude, Isabelle. Vincent wasn’t referring to your father’s death, but rather to the king’s bounty. You should be pleased so many came to honor my husband’s memory ... but perhaps celebration is the wrong word.” Solange smiled, but her blue eyes remained cold. “The chevalier brings news for you from the king.”

  “Has Pierre been pardoned?” she asked, suddenly filled with hope.

  The chevalier sneered. “Not likely.”

  He removed his cape and hat and handed them to the footman, before turning to gaze into the looking glass, one of the many Solange had brought into the house. The chevalier adjusted the dark wig set in waves that flowed down to his shoulders.

  For a man almost fifty, Vincent, Chevalier d’Angrignon, was considered handsome. He had a long, narrow face with a slightly pointed beard, smooth, unmarked cheeks, a Roman nose, and a full lower lip, the upper one hidden by a neatly trimmed gray mustache. What made him memorable were his deep-set eyes, the color of storm clouds. She’d seen a pair just like them the last time she’d been to Calais. The fisherman had trapped a shark in his nets, and the great white killer’s cold, dead eyes, the evil cruel eyes of a monster, were the same as the chevalier’s.

  “The king has settled your future as well as that of your cousin Sophie. I hope you’ll be as pleased with the arrangements as I am.”

  His smug smile made her skin crawl, and she fought not to recoil from him. She swallowed and licked her dry lips.

  “While I realize my fate is the king’s to decide, Sophie is a maternal relative without royal blood. Why has his majesty chosen to involve her in his plans?”

  “The king doesn’t answer to you, Isabelle,” Solange scoffed. “But he cares for all of his subjects. Without your father as her benefactor, Sophie is in worse circumstances than you are. This way, she’ll serve her king and country. Since you weren’t listening, let me repeat his majesty’s decision.”

  Solange replaced the chevalier at the mirror, adjusted her widow’s cap, and turned to face her once more, her eyes narrow slits, a self-satisfied smile on her face.

  Isabelle shivered.

  “Thanks to his majesty’s consideration, respect for your father, and generosity, Sophie will be going to New France as one of the filles du roi, the king’s daughters, who will provide wives for the male settlers in the colony. At the moment, Colbert claims the men outnumber the women five to one. She’ll have plenty to choose from. As far as you’re concerned, you’ll marry Vincent and become the Countess de Caen. I’m to be one of the queen’s ladies in waiting with a new title as well, Dame Solange de Poitou. Life at court suits me much better than this backwater place. We’ll both win. Isn’t it wonderful?”

  Mouth agape, Isabelle stared from her step-mother to the chevalier. Wonderful? It was anything but wonderful.

  “New France? He’s sending her to New France? Does Sophie have no say in the matter? Surely she still has some rights,” Isabelle cried, appalled that anyone would think this was a good thing for her cousin.

  Annoyance and anger played across the chevalier’s face.

  Isabelle clenched her teeth. Sophie going to the colonies alone was bad enough, but marry him? Never. She’d throw herself on the mercy of the king. He’d denied the man’s suit almost ten years ago. Why change his mind now? If the king wanted her married, why not to some Prussian or Russian prince? She could see no political advantage to this union.

  Solange frowned. “You doubt the king’s wisdom and generosity? Since I have no intention of supporting Sophie, would you prefer to see her destitute, living on the streets of Calais or Marseilles servicing the sailors who come into port? How long would she last before the pox took her? This way she’ll make a good marriage.”

  Goosebumps raced along Isabelle’s skin. She gripped a nearby table, afraid she’d pass out. Bile rose in her throat threatening to choke her.

  “If his majesty wants her married, why not find her a husband here in France?” she argued, searching for a glimmer of sense in this insane plan. “She can return to the abbey and stay with me as she always has. We’ve never been apart, madame, you know that. Papa would’ve wanted us to stay close. He loved her as if she were his own child.”

  “I can’t imagine why your first husband would’ve allowed such a thing, but, considering what he did ... I’m not prepared to share you with anyone other than my children, Isabelle. You won’t be returning to the abbey. Our wedding takes place in Paris in a fortnight.”

  Isabelle’s world tilted, and she dropped into the closest chair.

  “Two weeks! But that’s impossible. I’m in mourning, for God’s sake. I should have a year at least before being ordered to marry again.”

  The chevalier’s mouth split into a mockery of a grin. His cold eyes narrowed. He stroked his mustache, and Isabelle saw the flash of lust in his eyes. She forced down the panic inside.

  “Unfortunately, my dear, you have no say in the matter. Political decisions require tough choices and sacrifice,” he said. “We must all bow to Louis’s will.”

  His voice, smooth and oily, reminded her of the snake charmer’s flute at last years summer fair.

  “I’m afraid your current name and widowhood are among the reasons the king has chosen to act so quickly. There are some who’ll use any excuse to discredit his majesty. You’re heart-broken about your father but caring for children—my sons Louis and Vincent, and Celeste, my infant daughter—will fill the void. Soon, we’ll have some of our own as well to keep you occupied. Since I know how much you love the country and the estate, after an obligatory time at court, you’ll return here with our family, and I’ll split my time between Versailles and Caen as the king commands. This arrangement will work well for both of us.”

  Isabelle swallowed the bile in her throat. The chevalier resembled a wolf licking his chops, knowing his prey was at hand.

  How could all of this have been arranged so quickly? It was true Pierre had been dead three months, but her father would’ve opposed such a union. Why the unseemly haste? Marriage to this man? It was all she could do to keep the contents of her stomach from spilling out onto his fancy boots.

  “Your grace,” Isabelle began. Lord Almighty, how was she going to get out of this?

  “Not now, Isabelle.” Solange indicated the guests coming into the foy
er. “We’ll discuss this matter privately. Jean,” she called to her secretary who hovered a few feet away. “Show our guests into the morning room—some will leave after light refreshment, others will remain for lunch. Have them attended to accordingly and prepare a chamber for the ladies to take care of their toilettes. I will join them shortly. As well, have wine brought to the small salon. Make sure a fire has been kindled in all of the hearths. This house is always so damn cold and damp. Shall we?”

  Huffing out a shaky breath, Isabelle followed her step-mother and the chevalier down the hall to the small reception room at the back of the house. This salon, her mother’s favorite, had always been hers, too. Furnished with family heirlooms brought from Navarre, when her mother’s grandparents had fled the region during the Basque Witch Trials of 1610, the room reminded her of happier days. Today, it failed to raise her spirits the way it usually did. She turned to the chevalier, determined to end this farce. A marriage to this man was not an option. She’d take the veil instead.

  “Your grace,” she said, wringing her hands in front of her, weighing her words carefully, trying to keep her terror under control. This man was the king’s favorite, currently one of the most powerful men in France, and she couldn’t afford to make an enemy of him. “I’m flattered by his majesty’s generosity toward me, and while I realize his word is law, I wonder if we might beg his indulgence? It’ll take at least a month for the banns to be read and for a proper trousseau to be made. Propriety demands I wear black to honor my husband. I would prefer not to be wed in so somber a color. Surely, we can wait nine more months? By then, I’ll be out of mourning and may accept your gracious offer.” Never, not in a hundred years. “For the moment, I’ll remain in prayer and seclusion.”

  “Ah, my dear Isabelle, how sweetly naïve you are. One does not tell Louis to reconsider his ideas. One simply obeys. While I realise this comes as a surprise to you, his majesty himself has made the arrangements, and this wedding will go ahead as planned. Nothing, short of your death or mine, can prevent it, and since we’re both healthy...”