Louisa Rawlings (30 page)

“I am cursed—God save me if I’m not—by this fool, this dolt, this crack-brained bufflehead! ‘Cosme,’ says I, ‘we will bake additional loaves, enough and to spare, for the May fair.’ ‘Yes, Master Billot,’ says he. But does he tell me there will be no flour left for the Monday baking? And what am I to do?” He cuffed the side of Cosme’s head. The rat winced.
 

Pierre indicated his sacks of flour. “Spare poor Cosme,” he said mildly. “I told you. You can buy what I’ve brought. Save for one
setier
of flour that’s promised to the pastry cook Longpré.”
 

Billot eyed him with suspicion. “And what will you charge me?”
 

“What I always charge. Ten sols the
setier
.”
 

Show me the flour.”
 

Pierre shrugged and untied one sack. “It’s good flour, I can assure you. From Grezel’s grain.”
 

Billot squeezed a handful of the flour in his palm, grunting in satisfaction as it formed a solid pellet. “So much for the top of the sack,” he said, “but what’s in the bottom? Cosme.” He motioned to his journeyman.
 

At the word, the rat darted forward, pulled out a small knife, and slashed a hole in the bottom of the sack. The flour, dense and fine, clearly of good quality, scarcely escaped from the cut.
 

“Merde!”
exclaimed Pierre. “What the devil did you do that for?”
 

“I’ve never known a miller who didn’t cheat, if he could get away with it.”
 

Pierre’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve never cheated you, Billot.”
 

“Because you need my trade. And you grind the wheat I bring you. But
this
flour was meant for the villagers. How am I to know how much is wheat, and how much sand? Cosme.”
 

“Now, by God,” growled Pierre. “If he puts his knife to another sack, I’ll put my hands to his throat! The flour is good. Do you want it or not?”
 

“Well,” grumbled Billot, clearly intimidated by the dangerous gleam in Pierre’s eye, “I suppose so. Cosme will fetch a wheelbarrow.” He pointed to the sack with the hole in it. “I leave that one for Longpré.”
 

“Damned if you will.” The voice, deep and sepulchral, belonged to a tall, mournful-looking man with a stubble of beard that made his long jaw appear blue. The pastry cook Longpré? thought Rouge. Though he scarcely seemed the type for such a trade! Longpré turned to Billot. “I’ve already paid LeBrun for a full sack. Not one that will lose half its flour before I’ve carried it a dozen steps!”
 

For answer, Billot made an obscene gesture. “Your father was a thief.”
 

At the insult, Longpré roared and leaped at Billot. The baker quivered in fear, scurrying behind the hapless Cosme. Only Pierre’s quick intervention saved the rat from a deadly blow of the pastry cook’s large fist. Longpré spat in Billot’s direction. “Your wife is a whore who sleeps with half the village!”
 

Billot made a move to defend himself against this outrage, then thought better of it. He clutched at his hat, smacked Cosme on the side of the head, and stormed off through the crowd, shaking his fist at Longpré and threatening to take him to law for such slander.
 

His face bland and benign, Pierre called out to the retreating baker: “Send Cosme with the wheelbarrow and the money as soon as you can.”
 

Watching at a little distance, Rouge suppressed a giggle. It was all so comical; far more exciting than being at Versailles, God knew! She could tell by Pierre’s expression that he was fighting to keep control of his emotions, to stifle the laughter that seemed about to bubble to the surface. She leaned against a stall, out of sight of the wagon, waiting until she could recover herself and Longpré had taken his flour and departed.
 

“You see how the pig shames me? He’s a clown, fit only to be mocked!” came Jacquelan’s voice, low and urgent.
 

Rouge stiffened. The woman clearly had no shame herself! After such an insult to her husband (an insult of her own making!), it was madness to seek out her lover for all the world to see.
 

It obviously had occurred to Pierre as well. “Go home, Jacquelan. You shouldn’t be here.”
 

“Damn their prying eyes. What care I? But we could be rich, you and I, Pierre. A miller married to a baker—what could we not do? With our trades combined, we’d have all our desires—a fine house, and gold, and a life of ease! Think of it, my love! Cosme would run the bakery, and you could hire a
garde-moulin
, and we could go to Paris, Orléans, wherever we wanted!”
 

“And your husband?”
 

“I’ve told you. Say the word and he could be dead in an hour!”
 

“And I’m to countenance murder for the sake of gold in my pockets, name of God?” Rouge could hear the disgust in his voice.
 

Jacquelan’s voice dropped to a seductive murmur. “No. Agree to it because no one else can stir your passions like I can. Do you remember the night under the stars…” Her voice dropped lower still. Rouge could no longer hear the words, but the caressing tone made her blood boil. She hated Jacquelan; her heart filled with a sharp jealousy that took her by surprise. She tried to think rationally. He had a right to his life; they were still almost strangers; she’d be gone in another week or so. It made no difference. The emotion that gripped her was not susceptible to reason. Damn the hussy, who had lain with him shamelessly! She tugged at her chemise so her full bosom swelled above the lace, patted the curls at her temples, and stepped out from the shelter of the stall, prepared to confront her enemy.
 

Jacquelan’s hand was on Pierre’s arm. At sight of Rouge she sucked in an angry breath, then glared at the miller. “Could you not leave your ‘cousin’ at home for the day, damn you?”
 

Rouge smiled. “Madame Billot. How nice to see you again.” Her voice was like silk.
 

Jacquelan opened her mouth to speak, then kept silent, her jaw hanging slack, her eyes widening in surprise as she stared at Rouge. She whirled to Pierre. “You whoreson,” she whispered, and slapped his face. She turned again to Rouge. “I’ve not done with you yet,
cousin
,” she spat, and pushed her way through the jostling throng.
 

“Name of God,” said Rouge. “What was that about?”
 

He looked shamefaced as he rubbed his cheek. “It was my fault. I forgot until I saw what she was looking at.” He indicated his neckerchief tied about Rouge’s silvery curls. “Jacquelan trimmed that for me.”
 

“Dieu!”
 

He shrugged. “Well, it’s not your concern. I’ll smooth her ruffled feathers after you’ve gone.”
 

She felt another stab of jealousy. “If the bloodthirsty creature matters that much to you, by all means
do
!”
 

He scowled. “I’m not proud of my baser instincts. But I’ll not apologize to you, either. It’s none of your concern.” His voice rumbled with anger. “As for the charming Jacquelan…for all her bold talk, she has no taste for murder by her own hand. She’ll give her heart to the man who’s willing to kill Billot for her.
I
wouldn’t kill a maggot in the grain for her. Now”—his expression softened—“as soon as Cosme comes to pick up the baker’s flour I’ll have no more business in the market today. Are you ready to eat again?”
 

He was right, of course. It
was
none of her concern. Hadn’t she been angry when he presumed to lecture her on Arsène and her life at Versailles? She nodded. “Yes,” she said. “As usual, I’m hungry. But first I want to give a message to Barnabé Grezel.”
 

“Are you yet interfering in that matter? What are you up to now?”
 

She waved him away. “Never you mind.”
 

He rubbed his chin. “Be careful. Ruffec can be dangerous. He may be the most contemptible
hobereau
, the poorest, lowest country squire on the aristocratic ladder, but he’s no fool. And he’s playing for high stakes. I’ll meet you at the Red Bull in half an hour.”
 

At the edge of the square Rouge found Barnabé and told him Angélique’s message and the site of their rendezvous. She was delighted to see his open face light up with joy. “I’ll wait all the day for her, if I must!” He gulped and blushed, his expression betraying his thoughts.
 

Rouge put a soft hand on his arm. “She may not come. Only if she can escape her father. But…she’s very young, Barnabé. Only fifteen. Treat her gently.”
 

He looked surprised. “I worship her! I would die for her.”
 

Rouge watched him go off in the direction of the Baron de Ruffec’s château. She was filled with envy. Ah, well. She sighed and shook off her melancholy. At least her perfect day would see happiness for one pair of lovers, if she could manage to separate Angélique from her father. She touched her amulet, murmured a prayer, and went to find Pierre.
 

The tavern had grown crowded with happy revelers. Rouge and Pierre ate quickly, then allowed themselves to be swept outside by the press of people who gathered under a large elm tree which, Pierre informed her, also served for a courthouse during trials. The village elders solemnly introduced the Baron de Ruffec to his own neighbors, after which Ruffec gave a flowery speech officially welcoming friends and strangers alike to the May Day celebrations. He seemed inclined to drone on, until a young farmer, his arms about two buxom milkmaids, cried out: “The Queen! We want a queen!” This declaration was followed by shouts and whistles from the crowd. Red-faced, Ruffec cut short his speech, to great applause.
 

The schoolmaster stepped forward and raised his hands for silence. A young man in a somber black suit, with freckles across the bridge of his nose, he seemed scarcely old enough for his important position in the village hierarchy. He bowed grandly to Ruffec. “We thank you, monsieur le baron, for your good wishes. As to the Queen of the May…” He bowed again, this time allowing the flourishes of his hands to include Angélique, who stood beside her father. “The elders have agreed that the
seigneur
’s
fair daughter should have that honor.”
 

Ruffec shook his head. “No. I must decline. Though I’m honored, for my daughter’s sake, she’s a modest creature who has assured me that she would prefer to spend the day with her Bible, in contemplation of
le bon Dieu
’s
boundless good works.” Angélique smiled weakly, her dark eyes betraying her disappointment.
 

The schoolmaster now called for nominations from the crowd. To the accompaniment of squeals of pleasure and many giggles, names were called out and young girls were pushed forward by their sweethearts. At last seven maidens stood before Ruffec and the elders, blushing and laughing and twisting their aprons with nervous fingers. “Is that all?” said the schoolmaster.
 

“No!” Pierre’s voice rang out loud and clear. Smiling broadly, he turned to Rouge. “My cousin,” he said. “I offer my cousin.”
 

She trembled at the warm affection in his eyes, silently blessing the old gypsy woman for her magic. “Pierre,” she whispered.
 

He laughed softly. “I thought to give you a memory to take back with you to Versailles.”
 

She stared at him, studying every plane of his strong face, the gold-flecked depths of his green eyes, the soft sensuousness of his mouth, while she prayed that this enchanted moment would never end. The village elders, having conferred with many mutterings and shakes of the head, now declared, through the schoolmaster, that they had reached a decision. The Queen of the May would be the miller’s cousin.
 

Pierre grinned. “I told you so.” He gestured to the applauding crowd. “They’re pleased, too. There’s not a soul who doesn’t know you’re the most beautiful woman here. Now go and get your crown.” He pushed her gently toward Ruffec, who held in his hand a circlet of spring blossoms.
 

Rouge pulled Pierre’s neckerchief from her head, preparing to receive the flowers. There was a gasp, a collective “Ah-h-h!” as her silvery curls were revealed. She smiled and blushed. Never in all her days at court, wearing her finest gowns, had she felt more beautiful. Because he had called her so.
 

She looked up. Jacquelan stood at the edge of the crowd, glaring at her. Rouge smiled again. Not even the other woman’s animosity could spoil the perfection of this moment. After all, why should she hate her? Then Jacquelan pushed her way into the crowd to Pierre’s side and slipped her arm through his. Deliberately, Rouge dropped the neckerchief and ground it into the dirt with the toe of her shoe.
 

Beaming, Ruffec placed the floral crown on her head; then, before she could defend herself, he swept her into his arms and kissed her wetly on the mouth. The crowd cheered and moved off toward the maypole, for now the dancing could begin in earnest. Only the village officials were left under the elm, crowding about as a serving girl passed among them with a tray of drinks. Ignored by Pierre, whose eyes had never left Rouge, Jacquelan flounced off to the maypole and fresh conquests. The schoolmaster stepped forward, indicating the elders. “The Council will greet you one by one, mademoiselle, and toast you in good wine, then escort you to the maypole. Will that be pleasing to you?”