The Pride of the King

by Amanda Hughes

  She told him how brilliant he was in business and feigned fascination while listening to him explain the fur trade. Gautier was arrogant, and Lauren knew exactly how to play to his vanity although the praise and flattery were not entirely insincere. Lauren was truly attracted to the aristocratic Frenchman. His long, dark hair, intense black eyes and haughty attitude appealed to Lauren, and she felt lucky to be sexually attracted to her mark. It was a pleasing change after the elderly gentlemen, fops and dandies of Duke Street.

  During the long days of midsummer, Julien and Lauren would picnic by the lake or sit on the galerie dining and watching the sun go down. Lauren was constantly near him, sitting on his lap or in a passionate embrace. She had never known a lover so skillful yet so demanding.

  Sometimes James St. Clare would come into her mind, and Lauren would push his memory aside, choosing the familiarity of this man from her own world. Lauren was satisfied with herself. She felt confident that Gautier was infatuated with her, and it was time to set the hook and convince him there were good easy profits to be made selling smuggled goods to the residents of Fort Frederic. She was pleased with herself thus far even though it had not been much a challenge.

  At last it was time to introduce him to the financial advantages of smuggling. Lauren decided to make all of his favorite foods one evening, clean the cottage thoroughly and polish his best boots. She dressed in his favorite gown, put fresh flowers on the table and had his favorite dish bubbling in a pot. She even made a fancy apple dainty, placing it on a footed cake plate. When she put the feast before him she expected delight, instead he raised his eyebrows and chuckled.

  “What is it?” asked Lauren her eyes wide. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Well,” he said.

  “Did I do something wrong?” she questioned.

  Julien pushed away from the table, picked up the dish and took her hand leading her into the kitchen.

  “My Darling.” he sighed. “I know you try, but you have forgotten again. I prefer beef in this dish, not mutton. No harm has been done, dearest but--” he bent over and scooped the food into the swine jar. “Please make it over.”

  Lauren stammered, “I--I am sorry, Julien. I thought--”

  He placed two fingers on her lips and shook his head. “No need to apologize, little one. Simply make it over correctly. I understand these things can be difficult for you.”

  Lauren blinked in disbelief but said nothing.

  “I’ll just finish up some paperwork while you correct it,” he said and left the kitchen.

  Lauren put her apron back on, rolled up her sleeves and remade the dish with beef, cursing Gautier under her breath the entire time. They did not dine together that night, and Lauren returned to the Moreau house early.

  Everything about the evening shook her confidence. She tossed and turned all night wondering if she had been too smug, too self-assured and too careless. She had not even begun to groom him as a contact for The Pride of the King, and he was finding fault with her. Lauren vowed to get back into his good graces immediately, and the next time he spoke of the war escalating with England she would suggest the need to make a liaison with a smuggling operation.

  The opportunity arose several nights later when Julien explained that business was always bolstered by war. Lauren asked him if Fort St. Frederic could ever be cut off from the supplies of Montreal. He said that it was a possibility. “We will see serious bloodshed here before the year is out. The French and the British are posturing for formal declarations of war.” They were lying on his bed, arms and legs entwined and he reached out, tracing the lines in her brow. “Don’t worry about it. These things should not concern a female.”

  “I hope we never have to the live austere, plain lives of the British subjects.”

  “What?” Gautier said while he kissed her neck.

  “The King restricts and taxes everything in New England. It is so different from New France. Those self-righteous Protestants, they frown on all luxuries, forbidding what we take for granted. So the average person is forced to buy from smugglers. It is a way of life down there. In fact, the family who helped me get here has ties to smugglers.”

  “Yes,” Julien chuckled. “Those gypsies, it wouldn’t surprise me.”

  He pulled her close and said, “If it becomes necessary, I too would deal in the black market especially if we were cut off from Montreal. There is no disputing English powder is superior. I have heard there is money to be made in such traffic, especially weapons. It is good to know if there is a blockade we can still maintain our way of life here at the fort.”

  “Oh yes,” she murmured, snuggling next to him. “It is comforting to know we can find the right people if the time comes.”

  * * *

  The following night, Lauren lay awake, waiting until all sounds of movement died down at the Moreau household, and then she laced her stays, pulled on her gown and crept down the stairs of the loft. With a lantern in her hand, she searched the road, but all was quiet. She started toward the windmill looking up at the dark giant keeping vigil for the French at Fort St. Frederic. Shortly after she had joined the community, Lauren learned the windmill housed six swivel canons which served as the first line of defense for those at the Fort. The mill had two purposes as it stood over the lake; to grind flour and grain for the residents and to guard one of the greatest forts in New France.

  Lauren shivered as she stepped inside the door of the mill. Her lantern cast long, swinging shadows into the room, and she fully expected someone to jump at her from the darkness. Instead, memories assaulted her. The last time she had been in a windmill, she had been wandering the countryside in the colony of New York alone and with child. She had been homeless, starving and near death.

  Taking a deep breath, Lauren squared her shoulders and climbed the stairs, holding the lantern before her. When she reached the top floor, she stood by the window, held the lantern up and waited. Straining her eyes in the darkness, she saw nothing but the vast emptiness of the lake and the woods around it. She continued to hold the light to the window for a few more moments, then dropped her arm and went down the steps and out the door to wait.

  It was not long before a figure darted out from the trees and dashed toward Lauren. She felt her heart pounding as the man approached and yanked her roughly into the windmill. She held up her lantern to see the messenger. Davi Blasco pulled his cap off and asked breathlessly, “What information do you have?”

  “Davi!” she exclaimed. Lauren had not expected to see a familiar face. Memories of that violent night by the campfire flashed before her eyes. He looked drawn and fatigued. She had no doubts that he grieved for his brothers.

  “There have been many taking turns watching for your light,” he explained.

  “I have a contact,” she whispered.

  “Good. Who?”

  “He is a visiting merchant from Montreal. He has a large business in the fur trade.”

  “His name?”

  “Julien Gautier,” she responded. “And I will have him ready soon to strike a bargain.”

  “Very good,” Davi responded. “Anything else?”

  “That is all,” Lauren said. “Your mother and sister, are they well?”

  “They are.”

  Lauren felt her palms perspire, and she asked, “And Captain St. Clare. How does he fare?”

  “He is well and in Albany, on business with a woman there.”

  Lauren’s stomach tightened. “What sort of business?’

  “He tells me nothing. I must go,” he replied, pulling his cap on and putting his hand on the door.

  “Is there anything you need?” he offered.

  Lauren whispered, “No,” and he was gone.

  * * *

  The rest of the night Lauren tossed and turned. She cursed herself for asking about St. Clare, yet repeatedly her thoughts returned to him. She remembered the way he ran his fingers through her hair, the urgency of his kisses, but most of all she remembered how
safe she felt in his arms.

  Lauren doubled her efforts to please Julien. She felt she was getting close to making her final move. The next step would be to introduce him to a representative of The Pride of the King. Then they would begin to place and receive orders. Large amounts of money would be exchanged and Julien’s greed would prevail. She knew money was more important to Gautier than anything else, and once he realized there were great profits in illegal traffic, he would become an eager customer.

  Julien had been attentive and affectionate toward Lauren again for weeks without incident until one afternoon he came home early, greeted her with a kiss and slipped his hand inside the material of her gown, pulling out her pocket searching the contents.

  “What are you doing?” said Lauren pushing him back. “What are you looking for?’

  Gautier did not respond, dropping her pocket and turning to lift the lid of a Dutch oven in which Lauren was baking a pie. “Did you miss me today?” he asked as he was bending over smelling the pastry.

  “Of course I missed you,” she said with a scowl, tucking the pocket back into the slit of her gown.

  Julien turned and smiled at Lauren searching her eyes. “You know, I adore you.” He took her hand and led her to the bedchamber, and this time when they embraced Lauren felt as if Julien was punishing her, not caressing her.

  Everything began to change after that. Lauren did not understand what was happening, but she did know that Gautier’s grip began to tighten on her, and it was frightening. At first she thought he was simply being possessive and it was flattering, but as time passed, Gautier seemed to be watching her movements. He would come home early or stop by the Moreau home asking Madame her whereabouts. He knew nothing of her relationship to The Pride of the King, yet this sudden possessiveness could pose a threat if Lauren needed to send a signal from the windmill.

  Other things changed as well. Gautier seemed to find fault in Lauren more and more, pointing out flaws in her cooking and criticizing her housekeeping skills, but what infuriated her the most were his disparaging remarks regarding her appearance. Frequently he asked her to change her gown or fix her hair differently, chuckling and calling her tastes in fashion pedestrian. At first, the comments hurt Lauren, then after several weeks she grew resentful burying her loathing under an exterior of compliance and docile acceptance.

  Now more than ever Lauren needed to introduce Gautier to the contraband trade in case the relationship soured. She endured it all in silence, smiling sweetly yet watching and hoping the right time would arrive soon, and she could finish up. He expressed interest in meeting with her contacts, but insisted he do business first with the proprietor. This indicated to Lauren that he was indeed interested in a large-scale trade agreement, but it would be difficult to get word to James in time. The summer was waning and Lauren had no idea if St. Clare was still in Albany or moved out to sea. She knew she must work quickly before Julien returned to Montreal for the winter. Success was essential this fall, so she could return to the Hudson Valley to claim her land.

  Thoughts of her property were what sustained Lauren now. Late at night she would lay on her bed in the loft, arms behind her head and speculate about her future home; what it would look like, what curtains to have, flowers and vegetables in the garden and what sort of view there would be from the front door. Sometimes she even thought about owning some chickens, a horse or a dog.

  The days went by at a snail’s pace. She could not rush things. Acting too early could be disastrous and dangerous. Her carefree days of summer were gone, and she found it fatiguing and nerve wracking maintaining the charade of adoration for Gautier. The relationship that had been so carefree now had become draining and exhausting. In just a few months, she had gone from sincere passion for Gautier to complete disdain. She finally began to understand, to a small degree, the degradation Eugenie must have felt at the hands of Jean-Baptiste Aberjon.

  Not everything was painful and tedious though. Lauren enjoyed the good-natured company of Madame Moreau, and sometimes the women would share breakfast or sit and sew. One afternoon, the good woman invited Lauren to attend confession with her at the chapel in the fort.

  “At long last, Father Piermont has some help,” Madame Moreau, explained. “He has taken in an old priest who hears confessions for him. The man is a deaf mute and somewhat addled, but kind. He suffers from apoplexy.”

  Lauren put her sewing down and said, “Oh, what a shame.”

  Madame Moreau covered her mouth and giggled, “Being almost deaf makes him a perfect priest to hear confessions don’t you think?”

  “Madame!” Lauren gasped then giggled too.

  Several afternoons a week, the women would walk to the fort, cross the drawbridge and go to the chapel to say their confessions. One afternoon after they emerged from the chapel, Lauren told Madame Moreau to return home without her because she had a pastry to bring to Julien. Lauren climbed the steps of the citadel to the officer’s quarters where Julien did his business. The door was cracked but just as she was about to knock she overheard Gautier say, “St. Clare is nothing more than--”

  Lauren stepped back, startled. She put her hand to her chest. Gautier was speaking of St. Clare! She held her breath and listened.

  “Has anyone seen him since he left Albany?” asked Gautier.

  “No sir.”

  Goosebumps rose on her arms. Her heart thumped so hard she was terrified they may hear it.

  “Damn! We were so close to eliminating him at Warren’s Landing and here on the lake earlier this spring.”

  Someone was shuffling paper.

  “We must flush him out immediately,” Gautier ordered. “If I am to obtain the arms and luxury monopoly I deserve, he is not to infiltrate here before me. Now search the waters and the woods.”

  “The woman can tell you nothing of his whereabouts?”

  “No, I tried to set up a meeting through her, but she doesn’t know where he is. I had hoped she could lure him here.”

  “If you expressed an interest in trade with his organization would he come?”

  “No, I believe he would only send representatives. I have obtained the information I need from her. She is of no use to me anymore.”

  Stepping quickly but quietly down the wooden stairs, Lauren departed. She stopped at the entrance to the parade ground and looked around. There were soldiers everywhere and Indians loading carts. She knew if she ran, she would attract attention so she steadied herself, thrust her chin into the air and forced herself to walk casually to the gate.

  When she was out of the sight of the sentries she broke into a run for the tree line. Holding her skirts high above her knees, she struggled through the brush, branches and nettles finally stopping at the base of a huge white pine exhausted and terrified. Her chest was heaving and her heart felt as if it would burst. She told herself to calm down and make an escape plan quickly. It all was clear now. Julien was the one making attempts on St. Clare’s life. He wanted the lucrative smuggling venture here. She could not have entangled herself with someone worse. She cursed herself for being so careless and naive.

  Lauren examined all of her options. Traveling on the lake was impossible; she had no boat. Walking overland was feasible only with a guide, her only chance was to wait until dark, take a lantern to the windmill and hope someone from The Pride of the King would be watching. Even if it were not the appointed night, maybe Davi or someone would be there. It was her only hope. She must warn St. Clare and all those in The Pride of the King of the danger.

  Lauren waited in the woods until the sun went down. She thought she would lose her mind fighting the flies and the bugs. She sat on the pine needles in her shift covering her head with her gown. When the moon finally came up, it was merely a crescent, and Lauren was grateful. It shed just enough light for her to steal out of the woods and down the path to the Moreau home.

  It was late when she arrived at their home and she knew they would be asleep, so she eased open the door and slipped in
to the sitting room. She heard snoring from Madame and Monsieur Moreau’s bedchamber and in the dim light saw bundles on the beds by the fireplace. She knew these were the children. Lauren bent over the fire, lit a candle and placed it in a lantern. She took a towel to pass in front of the lantern to send her distress signal and slipped out, darting down the road to the windmill. It loomed large in front of her, and her hands were shaking as she threw open the door and raced to the top of the stairs. She started toward the window and stopped. The hair raised on her arms. She felt something. She was not alone.

  Suddenly, someone threw her against the wall. Her lantern crashed to the floor shattering. Pinned against the wall and gasping for air, Lauren heard Julien say, “You thought I was stupid!” Gautier put his hands on her throat. He tightened his grip, and she started to gag. “You little whore. The only way you’ll leave me is in a coffin.”

  Struggling for air, she reached up, grabbed his hair and yanked his head back with all her might. With the swiftness of a cat, she dragged her nails across his eyes, feeling his flesh tear. He let out a roar. Slipping from his grasp, Lauren dashed for the stairs, but in the darkness lost her footing. She stumbled once, found a step, but the momentum from running was too great. She lost her balance tumbling wildly down the stairwell. Sprawled at the base of the steps, dazed and injured, Lauren tried to stand but slumped back onto the floor, losing consciousness. When she woke up, she was bound and gagged, lying in a prison cell at Fort St. Frederic.

  Chapter 36

  Repeatedly Lauren would dream of Eugenie. The girl was hanging from the gallows, her muscles twitching in the final moments of death, her face covered in the hideous leather mask. Lauren would awaken with a start, covered in perspiration and sit up in the tiny prison cell hitting her head on the ceiling of the vault. Desperately she would grope her face and neck, then drop back down onto the soggy straw. There was no leather restraint covering her skin, and no noose was around her neck--yet.