by Leda Swann
Miriame forced a grin at the solemn farewells. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll come to no harm with the thought of all those golden pistoles waiting for me to claim my share of.” She wished she could feel a fraction of the confidence they showed in her. She was under no illusions as to the difficulty of her self-appointed task. Still, she had the glimmerings of a plan that might, just might, prove to be her savior.
If she made it back to Paris alive to claim her share of the pistoles, she would be luckier than she deserved.
Barely had the other two dropped out of the window when Miriame heard the tramp of boots up the stairs and a gruff voice shouted through the door at her. “Open up in there.”
She would have to make all three of them as impatient and as angry as possible for her plan to work. Impatient men were careless men, and angry men were even more so. Besides, the longer she delayed them, the greater the chance for Sophie and Courtney to get well away. If she were to fail and become the victim instead of the victor, every moment she could win for them gave them an extra chance, however small, of life.
She put on her best bored voice. “Who might you be that I should open my door for you?”
“It doesn’t matter who I am. Open the door or I’ll break you into pieces.”
Obviously the Count, and not to happy to think of his wife in a bedchamber with another man. Miriame would have laughed if her peril had not been so great. “Temper, temper. Surely you gentlemen will not mind waiting until I put on my boots.”
She made a few shuffling noises as if putting on her boots, and then taking them off, and putting them on again. Finally, when she felt she had played that card for all it was worth, she stomped around on the floor with noisy satisfaction. “Ah, that’s better. Now just let me put on my jacket.”
“Open up in the name of the King, you fool.” Not the Count this time, or Rebecca’s killer, but the third one. Time to make him angry, too.
“You do like saying that, don’t you,” Miriame said, choosing her words to be as offensive as she possibly could. “Does it make you feel big and important? I suppose a gutter rat like you must needs have something to make him feel that his life has meaning.” She heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Still, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until I have attended to my hair before I let you in. A gentleman must never been seen, even by gutter rats, without his hair dressed.”
It worked even better than she had expected. She had evidently touched a sore point. He was positively growling with rage through the door. “I shall kill you for that, you little weasel.”
Time to insult the Count again. She needed at least two of them to rush at the door in a rage to have any hope of success. “You’ll have to wait just a moment longer, I’m afraid, for the killing to start. Just let me button up my breeches, and I shall be right with you.”
That hit the right note. There was a sudden stampede of feet as one of them, if not two, rushed at the door to batter it down.
She had to judge it just right, not too soon and not too late. Just as the assault on the door began, she unlocked it and whipped it open with all the speed she could muster.
Sophie’s husband was taken by surprise by the sudden opening and he lost his balance and fell. The third man, a huge man with no neck and legs like tree stumps, tripped over him and tumbled to the floor.
Knife in her hand, Miriame sidestepped them before they had hit the floor. Rebecca’s killer, not as angry or impatient as his fellows, was still on his feet.
He saw the knife in Miriame’s hand and went to draw his own with a snarl.
Miriame had spent her time wisely. She was fast, faster even than he was, and he had not expected such an attack.
Before his knife was half out of his scabbard, Miriame had grabbed him by the hair, bent his head back, and sliced her knife over his exposed throat.
For a moment it looked as if nothing had happened. Had her knife been too blunt? Had her careful planning been wasted? Was he even now about to turn on her with a roar and cut her down where she stood? Then there was a gush of red as his lifeblood spurted out to puddle on the floor.
“That was for Rebecca,” Miriame hissed into his ear.
She saw his eyes grow wide for a second, as if he struggled to remember the particular sin that had doomed him now, and then they glassed over into insensibility.
She shook him gently, but there was no response. His whole body had become as limp as a piece of string. There was no strength left him, not even enough strength to keep up the flow of blood from the wound in his throat. He was dead. Rebecca’s killer was dead.
She had expected to feel relief, even a measure of triumph. Instead all she felt was emptiness, as if all her thoughts and feelings had disappeared into nothingness.
The dead man’s corpse was leaning against her, her body the only thing keeping it upright. With a shiver of disgust, she pushed it away from her. It fell through the door and into the room with the two others, who were even now just struggling to their feet. For their sins, they could keep him company a while longer.
She pulled the door to and locked it, ignoring the howls of protest that came from the other side of the door. She had done what she could – killed her enemy and delayed the others without harming a single hair of either of them. The rest was up to Sophie and Courtney. She could do no more.
Her hands were covered with blood – his blood. She gave a grimace as she wiped them as best she could on the floorboards. She had to get out of this place. She had killed a man here, on this very landing. The place stank of blood and death and horror.
She ran down the stairs and into the kitchen with shaking legs. “I’ve a bet on with the gentlemen upstairs that they won’t get out of that chamber inside an hour,” she said and she tossed the landlord a gold coin. “Whatever they say, don’t let them out before then, would you, my dear fellow.”
The landlord winked as he pocketed the coin. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Monsieur.”
“The loser of the bet pays the reckoning, so make sure you get what we owe you from their pockets before they leave,” she added, forcing a grin. She had no time for explanations if he were to become suspicious.
He tipped his hat. “Thank you, Monsieur. I’ll be sure to do that.”
That business taken care of, Miriame strode to the stables. She thought for the briefest moment after riding hard after Sophie and Courtney, before deciding against it. She had no energy for a hard ride. England would have to wait for another day.
She mounted her gelding, feeling wearier than she had for many a day, and headed back towards Paris. She had killed a man in cold blood, slit his throat for no reason but that he did not deserve to live.
She had not gone far down the road when she was forced by the griping in her stomach to dismount. She knelt on a patch of grass by the side of the road and was violently sick. Again and again she was sick until there was nothing left in her stomach but bile, and even then she could not stop.
Evening had fallen before the clenching of her stomach and the shivering of her limbs quieted down for long enough for her to remount her horse and begin the long, weary ride back to Paris.
Francine raised her eyebrows in surprise. The Cardinal himself at her levee? What did he want? She knew full well that he would rather destroy her than pay court to her with the rest of her hangers-on. He had never made a secret of his dislike of her, and she had always cordially hated him in her turn.
He could not threaten her position now, not even with the trio of pretty nieces of his that he paraded around in front of the King at every opportunity. They had wasted every chance they had ever had of capturing the King’s attention, and now it was too late for them. Too late for them, and for every other young would-be whore who sought to share the King’s bed in her place.
The King had returned to her bed – and last night it had not just been to sleep. She was the King’s mistress again, in deed as well as in reputation. No cardinal could ruin her now that the King had returne
d to her.
She gave him a triumphant smile. “Ah, Cardinal. You have chosen to join the throngs of those who would ask a favor of me, have you?” She knew full well that any hint of such a reason behind his visit would infuriate him. “Come now, don’t be shy. Tell me what I can do for you today.”
The Cardinal limped over and sat down heavily in a armchair beside her bed. “I was hoping for some amusement, Madame, that is all.”
“Amusement?”
“Yes.” His smile was as slippery as the belly of a snake. “I hear you had a moment’s entertainment yester morn – some young man falling at your feet and vowing everlasting love to you, I believe?”
Damn the rumors for spreading so fast. She hoped the King had heard none of them. He was bound to be less than amused. “I don’t know why the footmen let him in,” she replied. “Some young fool who knows no better, I suppose, trying to get my attention by shocking me with his bad breeding.”
“I suppose the footmen were used to letting the young fellow, Jean-Paul Metin, was it not? into your bedchamber from times gone by,” the Cardinal suggested with a malicious sneer. “It was a natural mistake for them to make. You cannot expect them to have such a prodigious memory as to be able to recall off the tops of their heads which of your lovers are to be admitted and at which times.”
So that was his game. He sought to discredit her with the King by giving rise to rumors of her infidelity, did he? “You are ill-mannered, Cardinal,” she said, in a voice of warning. “No friend of mine would make such an outrageous claim against me.”
The Cardinal sniffed. “I am flattered, Madame. I had no idea you counted me among your friends. As for ill manners, I forgot that at certain times it is more politic not to speak the truth. I hope you will forgive me.”
She stared at him angrily, furious that he had the gall to insult her in her own bedchamber.
“I wonder if young Jean-Paul will prove more forgiving than his mistress?” the Cardinal continued. “I heard tell that he has certain letters in his possession, letters that could well prove awkward for the lady concerned if they were ever to surface, and the King should get wind of them.”
Francine felt her face grow pale beneath her rouge. It was true – in the first flush of her infatuation with the boy, she had written him a dozen or more indiscreet letters. What a fool she was to slip up in such a basic manner. She’d thought that the distance she was from the Court would bring a certain level of safety, that she could relax some of the standards for secrecy that she had set herself long ago.
Evidently the reach of the Court was far and wide, and the reach of the Cardinal even more so.
“Embarrassing letters?” she said, forcing a laugh. “How glad I am that I never write any.” He may as well know now that she had no intention of being caught in such a trap. Her discretion was well known. Let him know right now that she would deny all knowledge of the letters, were they ever to surface.
She wondered how on earth he had found out about them. Did he even now have them in his possession? Were his words a warning, a veiled threat not to interfere with his interests at Court, or he would do his best to ruin her?
He gave a smile that made her flesh creep as he leaned towards her. “Lie to me all you want, you painted whore,” he hissed at her in a whisper. “We will see if your lies can convince the King.”
She watched him limp out of her chamber with hatred in her heart for his vile, misshapen body and even more twisted mind. She would have to recall Metin the first – just until she knew what had happened to the letters. If he still had them, she would have to wheedle them out of him some how or other. If he had lost them, or worse still, sold them, she would at least know how to prepare herself for the worst.
She couldn’t imagine him ever selling her letters to the Cardinal, no matter how much he was offered for them. The priest was a fool if he was counting on that. Metin was too idealistic to do such a thing. However she had hurt him, he would not stoop to such behavior. It was foolishly naive of him, to be sure, not to take advantage of the tool her carelessness had put into his hands, but at least his foolish innocence worked to her advantage for once.
Visit Francine? Metin screwed up the note in his hand and threw it viciously into the corner of his chamber. Once upon a time, not so very long ago, a summons such as this would have set his heart to beating faster. He would have rushed to obey his mistress, hungering for an affectionate look or a kind word from her.
Not any more. He was beyond such foolishness now. He would not race to her side to be mocked and laughed at. He was not a toy she could discard with disdain one morning and then pick up again the next day when it suited her.
He winced at the mere remembrance of the shame she had made him feel. If she had been a man, he would have called her out for such an insult. As it was, he could only suffer in silence. But to return voluntarily for more pain? He shook his head. He would not be such a fool.
Then again, maybe she was truly sorry for the scene in her chamber. Maybe she had an explanation for it that would take the sting out of her words – an explanation that would end with them both laughing over the mistake. Did he not owe her at least the chance to explain it to him? Ought he to condemn her unheard?
He doubted there was anything she could do or say that would take away the sting of their last meeting. She had not been kind.
He had thought her perfect in every way: a poor, abused woman taken advantage of by the King and his minions. Not so. She clearly enjoyed the empty trappings of power that she enjoyed only while the King’s favor should last. She had opened his eyes for him to her frailty and to her selfishness. She had no wish to escape her life – only to take advantage of it while it should last.
For the sake of the love he had once borne her, he would go to see her to hear what explanation she could offer up to him appease him, but he would not hurry to her side. For the first time ever, she would have to wait upon his pleasure.
In the meantime, he would make it his business to find out more about the dark-haired beauty from the church. Miriame. It was an unusual name. It suited her. She was not like any other woman he had ever met.
Just as well Francine had shown him her true colors. He could talk with Miriame all he liked now without feeling as though he were betraying Francine.
He smiled to himself as he thought of Miriame’s red lips and the smoothness of her golden brown skin. He would like to sit by her side and pluck the red rosebuds out of her hair one by one.
She was so dark and mysterious that she fired his imagination. She would not fall into his hands like an over ripe fruit, as Francine had done. He wondered how many hands Francine had dropped into before his own. The thought made him shudder with distaste.
Miriame was no rotten fruit. She would not be easy to pick. He would have to lay siege to her, undermine her defenses, defeat the guardians of her honor, and carry her off at last.
How unlike the pink and white Francine was his dark-haired, black-eyed Miriame to look at. How much he hoped she would be unlike Francine in every other way as well.
He was sick of lies and deceit. All he wanted was the truth.
The Cardinal stared at the man in front of him. “Where’s Andre?” he demanded.
“Dead.”
This was news to the Cardinal – unwelcome news. The man was a villain and a fool, but useful enough tool to one who knew how to wield him. “Who killed him?”
The man shrugged. “No idea. The King sent him out on a mission and he never came back. Someone knifed him in a tavern just out of the city.”
“Damn the bastard who killed him. I was looking forward to that pleasure myself.”
The man in front of him twitched uneasily. “So, do you want me, then?”
The Cardinal leaned back in his chair and gazed up at the man standing in front of him. “Why did Andre lie to me?”
The man’s face paled. “Lie? About what?”
He shut his eyes. “Protesting your innoc
ence won’t help you, you know. Why did Andre lie to me about Francine’s lover – the one with the letters you were supposed to find for me and didn’t? Why did Andre claim he was dead?”
“He is dead. I stuck the knife in him myself.”
The Cardinal linked his fingers together and spoke in a soft, slow voice. “Are you calling me a liar?”
The man’s face was green with fear. “No, your Excellency. But---”
“Good. I’m glad you have that much sense at least. Unfortunately for us both, Andre has gotten himself killed, so I cannot take out my anger on him.”
The man nodded, barely able to stand on his feet with fear.
“I want those letters, and I want them now. I do not care what happens to the boy – he may live or die as you please – but I want those letters. You will get them for me.” He waved one bejeweled hand at the man in front of him. “You can only pray that you are a better thief than you are a killer. You knifed the boy yourself? Pah!” He spat on the ground with disgust. “Now go. I do not want to see you again without those letters in your hand. If I do, it will be the worse for you.”
Miriame made up a story of illness so severe she could not move out of her bed for her absence from the barracks. Her story was accepted without demur.
She wasn’t surprised. She still felt sick to the stomach whenever she thought about the rich red blood bubbling from the throat of Rebecca’s murderer. The sickness in her stomach showed on her face. Her cheeks were paler than usual, a sickly green-tinged pale, the unhealthy pallor of a worm that lives underground, never seeing the light of the sun.
She felt little better than such a worm. She had killed a man in cold blood. It was not an easy matter to forget. Neither was it an easy matter to forgive herself.
Her first day back on the practice yard, she scratched her opponent with the point of her sword and a drop of blood stained his cheek. At the sight of the blood, and the faintest whiff of its red metallic scent, she began to sweat and shake uncontrollably and she fell to her knees in front of everyone to be violently ill.
