by Leda Swann
“Ah, I see I must not talk about it. You soldiers, with your secrets. I am sure we women would not know where to turn to without you to guard our borders. We would be overrun with Spaniards in no time at all.”
Miriame raised an eyebrow and smiled a secret smile. “Maybe so.”
The Marquise sank gracefully down on to the sofa and gathered her skirts close to her. “At any rate, I am glad to see you are back in Paris again, safe and sound after your adventures.”
“I am glad to be back, too, and in such fine company as yours.”
The Marquise fluttered her fan in front of her face. “How can you bear to be a soldier? Are you not terribly frighted in battles when you have to face your fearsome enemies?”
“It is a soldier’s duty to be brave.”
“But to be so brave as to fight another man unto the death?” She shuddered delicately, and patted the seat beside her invitingly. “Come sit down beside me on the sofa and tell me - have you ever killed a man?”
Miriame perched herself on the edge of the sofa, as far away from the predatory Francine as she could get. “None who did not deserve to die.”
“You are so brave to face the enemy for the sake of your womenfolk.” She sighed in admiration. “Have you never been wounded?”
“Only a scratch.”
“Oh, you have been hurt?” the Marquise cried. “Tell me where that I may shower it with the kisses of a friend and healing prayers.”
Miriame obligingly rolled up one sleeve and showed the Marquise the scar she had received when she had fallen over on the cobbles as a child and cut her arm through to the bone.
The Marquise’s fan fluttered double speed. “Oh, you poor thing.” She took Miriame’s arm in her hand and touched the scar with feather light kisses from the top to the bottom. “Was it a Spaniard who did this to you?” she asked, looking up at Miriame through her eyelashes. “He must have been very fearsome to get so close to you and wound you so badly.”
“A huge Spaniard with eyes the color of coals and a beard as black as night,” Miriame agreed, reclaiming her arm and rolling her sleeve down again. “But I had my revenge. I chopped him up into little pieces and flung them to the crows. He did not live to boast of his deeds.”
The Marquise gave another delicious shudder. “Tell me some more stories about the battles you have fought in. Tell me about how bravely you fought against the enemies of France and won through in the end. Oh, do tell me everything. I am quite dying of longing to hear your stories.”
Miriame obliged, telling one tall tale after another of bloodthirsty deeds and heroic bravery. She would rather tell stories than have any more scars kissed, that was for certain.
At one point, during a particularly bloodthirsty part, she felt Francine’s hand creep into hers, as if she was frightened. She was not fooled – it would take more to frighten that woman than a tale of terror. The time had come for a strategic rearguard action.
“Then he thrust his sword at me, like so.” She leaped off the sofa again and matched her actions to her words, mimicking the cut and thrust of sword play as she continued with her story. It took more energy to amuse the Marquise this way – but she felt much safer than she had while sitting on the sofa by her side. She was far less in danger of being pawed to death.
Francine clapped her hands in delight as Miriame capered and pranced in front of her. “Oh, Jean-Paul, how very brave of you. I swear you must be the bravest Musketeer in the whole company.”
Miriame’s powers of invention finally ran out, as did her breath. After a succession of battles, she sank back to the sofa again and glugged the glass of wine that Francine had poured for her. “Thank you, Madame,” she said hoarsely. “Fighting is thirsty work.”
“You made the battles come alive for me.” Francine’s eyes were wide with wonder. “It was as though I had battalions of troops storming through my chamber as you spoke. I swear, I was quite frightened at the tales you told.”
If Francine had been truly frightened, then Miriame would eat her hat – cock feather and all.
“Shall I read you a story, now?” Francine offered. “I could read you the romance that you picked up the very first time you came to see me in my chamber. You were quite engrossed in it when I arrived, as I remember. I was quite jealous of the book, the way it held your attention so closely. Maybe if we share it together...”
“I would be honored, Marquise, if you would read to me.” At least with the Marquise’s mouth engaged in reading she wouldn’t try to kiss her.
The Marquise picked up the book from the low table and began to read aloud.
Miriame was soon lost in the rhythm of the words, imagining herself traveling with the hero on his ship, looking out to sea, feeling the motion of the waves rocking the wooden planks under his feet, as he returned to his beloved France and the woman he loved above all others.
The Marquise’s voice grew softer, and then petered away all together. She let the book fall on to her lap with a sigh. “I wonder what his love must have been feeling, looking forward to seeing him again after all that time.”
Miriame was recalled back to reality with a thump. “She had most likely lost interest in him long ago.”
“You think so truly?”
“Of course. What woman would pine her life away for her lover over the seas when she had twenty more ready to take his place in her bed.” She was in the mood to be surly – she had liked the Marquise’s reading far more than she liked her conversation.
“You think women are fickle and inconstant lovers, who would not be true to the one they loved?”
“Fickle and inconstant?” Miriame looked into the Marquise’s wounded, blue eyes. Really, the woman should be on the stage. She had missed her true calling as an actress. “Yes, I do believe they are.”
The Marquise sighed and dropped her eyes from his face. “You do not have a very high opinion of my sex, I fear.”
“But they are no more so than men.”
“I am glad you do not single out just women for your displeasure. But I am sure you would not be such a man as you describe. You would be like the hero of this romance here – true and steadfast to the woman he loved, come what may, how ever many years had passed before you could be with her.”
“You flatter me, Madame. I cannot claim that I would be any better than the generality of men – true when it suited me to be so, false when truth or fidelity no longer served my turn.”
The Marquise sighed again and shook her head. “You are over young to be so cynical. I dare swear that you have never been in love or you would never talk this way.” She raised her head and fluttered her eyelashes at Miriame. “Come, tell me truly, Jean-Paul. Have you ever known what it was to be in love?”
“Love? I am not sure even what love is, let alone if I have ever been in love before.”
“You would know it if you had ever felt that way.” She gave him a longing glance from under her lashes. “Love hits you all of a sudden, like a thunderbolt falling from a blue sky. You are powerless against its force. You can do nothing but submit to the feelings that overpower you.
“The one you love becomes the object of all your thoughts. You cannot eat or drink without thinking of him. You cannot breathe without thinking that he might be breathing the same air as you. You count each moment until you see him again, until your beloved is in your presence.
“Then, when he is there, shame and shyness hold your tongue hostage. A thousand times the words to describe how you feel for him are on the tip of your tongue, longing to escape, but always they elude you. You can say nothing, do nothing, but drink in the magic of his presence and hope he, too, feels the same intoxication that has robbed you of your senses.”
Miriame shuffled uneasily on the sofa. The Marquise was remarkably eloquent about loving. “Thank Heavens I have been spared such misery as you describe. I shall take care to continue to avoid it in the future. Loving someone cannot be worth the bother and the pain it causes.”
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br /> The Marquise took Miriame’s hand in hers and patted it softly. “Stay in the same mind for as long as you can, my dear Jean-Paul.” She wiped a solitary tear from her eye. “Indeed, there is nothing can match the pain of loving someone who does not, who cannot, return the feeling.”
“For sure, Marquise, I shall heed your advice.” She rose from the sofa and bowed to take her leave. “Duty calls me and I must unwillingly bid you au revoir for now.”
“You will come to see me again?” the Marquise asked, her eyes bright, the tears vanished for now. She unpinned a gold brooch in the shape of a horseshoe from her dress and pressed it into Miriame’s hand. “Take that for now, to remember me by. It will bring you luck, as it has brought me.”
Miriame closed her palm over the present. The diamonds set into the brooch cut into her palms. “Thank you. Marquise. You are too generous to a poor soldier.”
“Think nothing of it, my dear man.” She gave a soft, sweet smile. “Keep it, for my sake.”
Jean-Paul clasped Miriame’s hand in his as they walked along the banks of the river. For several weeks they had been meeting in secret whenever they could snatch an hour together. He would have given all his time to her, but she was wary and shy, and would not meet him as often as he urged her to.
He could not invite her back to his chamber, and she had never invited him to call on her at her home. No doubt she was afraid of him meeting her brother there. He did not press the point.
So they met in the church where he had first seen her and spent their stolen hours together walking along the river bank. The murmur of the water and the song of the birds gave them at least an illusion of privacy.
Ducks quacked to each other as they waddled along the path looking for food in the bleak winter grasses. They came curiously up to their toes, but he had nothing to feed them with. After a while, they waddled away again into the icy water, looking disconsolate. He watched them idly, the winter sun glinting off their blue and green plumage. How blessed he was to be in Miriame’s company. Each stolen hour with her gave him more and more pleasure.
He picked a sprig of early flowering blossom, tempted out unseasonably early by the warmth of the late winter sun, and tucked it into her hair. The dark pink of the blossom stood out richly against her dark hair. How could he ever once have preferred the sickly pink and white complexion of the false Marquise to Miriame’s honeyed gold? Poor foolish boy that he was. Now it was only the dark hair and golden brown skin of his beautiful Miriame that he desired. “You should warn your brother to stay away from the Marquise Francine.”
He felt her grip on his hand tighten for a moment, but she did not deny that she had a brother. The young scapegrace must have told her that he had already given that secret away. “Why is that?”
“He will be sorry if he does not. She will play him false, as she once played me.”
She smiled a little at his words. “My brother’s Marquise used to be your paramour?”
“Yes,” he said shortly. “When I was younger and more foolish than I am now.”
“She cast you off, did she?” By the mischievous look in her eyes, the wench was enjoying teasing him.
“Yes, she did. Once I had served my purpose she tossed me aside and went crawling back to the King.”
“You are jealous of his successor, then?” Her voice was tart.
He shook his head, marveling that he was not jealous in the slightest. Francine had brought him to Paris, and then freed him to find a woman who was more worthy of his love. Despite all her cruelty, she had done him good in the end. “I am not jealous of any man, least of all your brother. I felt it my duty to warn him for your sake.”
“For my sake?”
“Rascal that he is, he is your brother. I would not see him used and cast out as I was.”
She smiled indulgently at him. “Why don’t you warn him yourself?”
“I tried to once, but he laughed off my concerns. He does not know her as I know her.”
She shook her head. “My brother’s concerns are his own affair. I doubt he would listen to me any more than he did to you.”
He held her hand up to his heart and held her gaze with his own. “You are his sister. He would have to at least give you a hearing.”
“You are his comrade. Will he not give you a similar courtesy?”
Metin thought of all the times in the last few days that he had tried to collar the slippery young fellow. The boy had been avoiding him on purpose, slipping away out of sight as soon as Metin came near. “No, he will not.”
She did not seem to realize the seriousness of the situation. “You have tried to warn him. Will that not do to salve your conscience?”
No, it would not do. He had tried to befriend the lad for his sister’s sake, but the boy had responded mockingly to his overtures of friendship. He did not trust the boy, but neither did he want to see his heart broken as his own had once been. He looked deep into Miriame’s eyes, her rich, brown eyes. How could a sweet, pure woman like her understand the dangers that a woman like Francine held for the innocent? “A broken heart is not so easily mended.”
“I would not fear for my brother on that score. He has no heart. Certainly none for the milksop Marquise.”
“You sound very sure of that.”
“I am quite certain.” She gave a low laugh. “My brother will never give her his heart. He may be young, but he is not so foolish as that. He does not even like her and will never fall in love with her. You may be quite sure that he is using her for his own ends.”
He pressed her hand to his chest so she could feel the beating of his heart. He had no wish to spoil any more of their afternoon by talking of her scapegrace brother. “And you, sweet Miriame, are you as cold-hearted and unloving as your brother? Do you have a heart to give away?”
She looked at him then, her eyes soft and warm. “Once I might have said yes to your question, but I am not sure that I do any more. I am not sure that I do.”
Was she beginning to feel for him the same way that he felt for her? He hardly dared to breathe the hope even to himself.
He had seen her so few times, but already he felt as though he knew her to the very bottom of her soul. She was beautiful and brave, and loyal, too, even though her loyalty was wasted on her scapegrace brother. Her honesty could not be questioned, and her purity was in no doubt.
Ah, how he would like to help her to discard some of that purity that she wore around herself like a protective cloak. She was as skittish to his touch as an unbroken filly, first seeming to demand his attention, but skittering off in alarm when he was too hasty in his movements. One moment she would look at him with lips that begged to be kissed, and the next moment she would turn her head away to refuse him.
She shivered a little beside him as they walked.
He reached out and touched his finger to her cheeks. “Are you cold?”
“A little,” she admitted.
He put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer to him. Her body tensed up against his and then relaxed a little into his warmth as they walked along. He savored the small victory. Her capitulation would be all the sweeter for the time she had made him wait.
She was no lightskirt to be toyed with for a day or two and then discarded. Such a woman as she was demanded more respect than that. He would make her his mistress, set her up in her own apartments, pay her to keep herself for him alone. Once he had won them, he would never share her favors. He was not a wealthy man, but he would treat her well. She would have no cause to complain of him.
Neither would he have cause to complain of her, he was quite certain. Indeed, if he could win such a woman as his Miriame for his own, he would count himself a lucky man.
“What do you mean the brooch is a fake?” Miriame demanded sharply of the old man hunched over his shop counter in front of her. “It is real, I would swear to it, as I am a soldier.” She thumped her fist down on the counter and glared at him. “Do not try to cozen me, you old fra
ud, or it shall be the worse for you.”
The old man looked up at her with shrewd eyes set into his sunken face. “Storm all you want, Monsieur Musketeer, and it won’t change a thing. The brooch is finely made, I warrant you, and might fool one who knows little of these matters, but it cannot fool me. I will give you five francs for it for the sake of the workmanship. It is not worth a sou more. Take it to whoever else you may, they will say the same thing.”
Miriame gathered the horse shoe brooch into her gloved fist again and stomped out. She would not be tricked by such a blatant lie.
Two hours later she was back again. She tossed the brooch on the counter with a furious glare and held out her gloved hand. “Five francs, you said?” None of the other pawnshops she had been to had offered her more than three.
The old man gave a wheezy chuckle and counted out five francs into the palm of her hand. “What did I tell you? Nothing but a cunning fake.”
Miriame thrust the coins into her pocket and stomped out. Five measly francs for a whole tedious evening fending off the Marquise’s advances? Five francs? Had the brooch been real, it would have been worth five hundred or more. Bah! She had been bought with nothing more than a shiny bauble to placate fools and children with.
Still, she had to admit the Marquise had tricked her cleverly. The Marquise had asked her to keep it for her sake. Miriame could not now go and tax her with the worthlessness of the gift, thus giving away the fact that she had tried to sell it.
How cheaply the Marquise bought her favors. Copper burnished to look like gold and a few bits of cheap paste. She wondered if Jean-Paul had been cozened so shamelessly as she had been.
Metin had at least been given an introduction to the Musketeers for his efforts. That had cost the Marquise little enough but the trouble to write it. An excellent way of rewarding his service to her with something of immense value to him and nothing at all to her.
She had to admire the woman. She’d not met anyone for a long while who could get the better of her with such barefaced boldness and shameless ingenuity.
