Louisa Rawlings (43 page)

Girard was now beside himself with rage. “You common oaf!” he shouted. “How dare you insult the woman I’m to marry?”
 

Pierre stared at him as though he were seeing him for the first time. His eyes scanned the ruffles, the laces, the bits of ribbon and braid, every fastidious detail. “You painted puppy dog,” he sneered. “You callow sapling.
Marry
her?” He laughed contemptuously. “I wonder if you’ll know what to do with her when you get her into bed!”
 

Girard turned purple. He waved his hand, signaling furiously to his servant. The gardener swung the hoe at the back of Pierre’s legs, knocking him to the floor. Girard darted forward and began to kick at Pierre’s prostrate form.
 

“Stop it! Girard, stop it!” Rouge tugged desperately at his sleeve. She succeeded at last in pulling him away. Breathing with difficulty, Pierre rose slowly to his feet. His face was twisted in pain, but his eyes had not lost their murderous glint. God in heaven, thought Rouge. If they stayed until Pierre had recovered himself, he would begin again to insult Girard, and only
le bon Dieu
knew what would be the consequences of such folly! She moaned and put a hand to her head. “Take me away, Girard,” she said. “I feel faint.” She had meant it as a ruse, but her head was truly beginning to spin. It had been too much, to see him again.
 

Saint-Esprit bent to her, his anger cooling. “My dear, you do look pale. Come. A glass of wine. That will restore you.”
 

“And…the miller?” she ventured.
 

“My men will see to him. Come along.” He led her through the passageway to the staircase. Above was a long gallery, handsomely furnished, that looked out onto both courtyards. Rouge found that she was still trembling; gratefully she allowed Girard to lead her to a chair. “I’ll see to the wine,” he said.
 

She leaned back in the chair, her shaking hands fingering the ring that Girard had returned. She felt sick with confusion. He loved her. He despised her. Oh, God! She had thought the wounds were beginning to close, that she could forget him and do what must be done. Now she felt her heart torn open once again, pouring forth grief and regret. What must he think of her now?
 

And she
had
meddled in Angélique’s life. If she’d had any sense—instead of thinking like a romantic fool—she would have instructed the girl in her duty to her father, and saved them all the pain.
 

Girard came hurrying back into the room, followed by a servant bearing wine. “Damn the man,” he said petulantly. “I scuffed my boot on the stones, kicking the lout!”
 

She hadn’t the strength to rebuke him. She sipped at the wine he handed her, pulled out a handkerchief, and dabbed at her forehead. She was glad to see that Girard had opened a window over the stable yard. She felt as though she’d suffocate, for all the coolness of the day.
 

“Take off your hat,” he said. “You’ll be more comfortable.”
 

She nodded, took another sip of wine, then put down her glass. Lifting her hands to her hair, she removed her hat and looked about for a place to set it.
 

Girard had already dismissed the servant. He reached for the hat and took it from her. He smiled tenderly. “My poor Rouge. Such an unfortunate meeting. But this should cheer you.” He crossed to the window and waved her hat in the opening so the red plume bobbed back and forth.
 

“What are you doing with my hat?”
 

“The peasant will guard his manners after this!”
 

“Name of God!” She leaped from her chair and rushed to the window. In the courtyard below she saw that half a dozen of Saint-Esprit’s men were dragging and pulling Pierre to a large whipping post set into the ground. Though his hands were now bound firmly in front of him, he was struggling violently; it took the efforts of all the men to subdue him. His shirt had been partially torn from his body, leaving his back and shoulders bare. Off to one side, with Pierre’s horse and wagon, stood Jean, the cabinetmaker, his face dark with helpless resentment. Was not every nobleman master in his own domain?
 

Rouge gasped in horror. Pierre looked up at her, his expression filled with hatred; then the men wrenched him away and tied him to the post, stretching his arms above his head.
 

Rouge whirled to Saint-Esprit. “Damn you, Girard! How can you do this? And you used
my
hat for a signal?”
 

“I wanted the rogue to know for a certainty that he was being punished for his affront to you.”
 

“But he’ll think that
I
willed it!”
 

“So much the better. He’s a damnable thief and villain, who has wronged you!”
 

She glanced frantically out of the window. One of the men was now approaching Pierre with a whip. “He’s not a thief! I gave him the ring!” she said in desperation.
 

She saw the flash of jealousy in Girard’s eyes. “Had you given him a thousand rings—or any other favors—his insolent tongue has earned him a beating. He’ll soon learn that a cat may not look upon a king, nor a peasant aspire to an aristocrat!” He leaned out of the window and called down to his men: “Ten strokes for my lady!”
 

The whip whistled through the air and cracked against Pierre’s smooth flesh. A bloody line appeared on his skin. Rouge flinched, as though she’d felt the stroke herself. “I beg you, Girard!” she cried. She was trembling violently, on the edge of panic.
 

“Don’t be squeamish,
ma chère.
He’s only a common clodpoll, and not worth your distress.” His eyes narrowed. “Unless you care for him.”
 

The whip fell again. Pierre’s body twitched. Sweet Jesu, thought Rouge, I shall die! But Girard was clearly jealous. If he thought she cared for Pierre, it would be all the worse for him. She forced herself to control her agitation. She took another sip of wine to calm herself, and even managed to smile at Girard. “Have a little pity,” she said. “The man once saved me from a vicious assault.”
 

“He insulted you,” pouted Girard. “And me as well.”
 

She tried not to see, to hear, that the lash had fallen again. Nor the muffled curse from Pierre. “Bad manners don’t deserve a whipping, Girard. Else every peer of the realm would wear stripes.”
 

He shrugged in unconcern, then smiled his satisfaction as the whip once again cut across Pierre’s back.
 

She could bear no more. She stamped her foot in fury. “Put an end to it, or I’ll not speak to you ever again!”
 

He looked offended. “An unkind threat, my dear. Very well. You have only to stop it yourself.” He indicated her hat.
 

She snatched up the hat and waved it wildly in the window, sighing in relief as the whipping stopped and Pierre was cut loose. He glanced once at the window (and she with the signaling hat in her hand, dear God!), then allowed Jean to guide him, bent and obviously suffering, to one of the stables.
 

“Shall we ride now?” said Girard.
 

She stared at him incredulously. “You may find it a simple matter to ill-treat a man, then go on as before. But I’m made of softer stuff. I intend to go to my room and rest. Perhaps I’ll find it in my heart to forgive your cruelty.” She glared at him and raced from the room. She had scarcely reached the corridor leading to her
appartement
, however, when she knew what she must do. She couldn’t let Pierre think that she had been the cause of his beating. Quickly she turned about and hurried down the stairs, finding an inner passageway that would take her to the stable where he had been brought.
 

The stable was large and dim, and smelled of straw and manure. There was a large mound of dung that seemed to have been freshly raked into a corner, indeed, it still sent up wisps of steam into the cool morning air. Rouge shivered. Near a window, facing away from her, Pierre sat hunched over on a stool, his arms on his knees. Beside him on the ground was his coat, what remained of his shirt, and a basin of water that Jean was using. Scowling, the cabinetmaker dipped a small sponge into the water, wrung it out, and blotted gently at the red welts and bloody stripes on Pierre’s back.
 

“The bitch,” grumbled Jean. “I saw her waving the hat myself!”
 

“Let it be,” muttered Pierre. “Only staunch the blood so we can go. Will they need binding?”
 

“There’s only one cut that looks deep. We can find a surgeon to put a bit of plaster on it. But that bitch…I knew she was up to no good the minute I saw her.”
 

“
Merde!
Hold your tongue!” said Pierre. “Just get on with it!”
 

Jean shrugged and dipped the sponge again. Rouge moved quietly into the stable, catching Jean’s eye only just before she reached him. She put a silencing finger to her lips, took the sponge from him, and indicated that she wanted him to leave. He jutted out his chin, clearly unwilling to abandon his friend to “the bitch”; but when Rouge frowned and pointed to the door, he went reluctantly.
 

She turned her attention to Pierre’s back. The lash hadn’t cut the skin in too many places, but every raised welt and open sore on his dear flesh was a fresh wound to her own heart. She nursed him gently, aching to embrace those strong shoulders, that poor back. She touched a particularly raw spot and he flinched, inhaling sharply through his teeth. The thought that she was only adding to his pain was too much to bear. She choked back a sob.
 

At the sound, he started and turned, jumping up from the stool. “What the devil are you doing here?” he rasped. “Haven’t you done enough? Must you come to gloat as well?”
 

“It was not my doing, Pierre. I swear it!”
 

“Really?” The scorn in his voice cut like a knife.
 

“Why should I want to hurt you so? What kind of monstrous creature do you think I am?”
 

He grimaced and moved his back, flexing his muscles gingerly. The expression in his green eyes softened for a moment. “I haven’t forgotten the night I tried to rape you. I’ve thought of it often, with regret and shame.” The coldness returned to his eyes. “But perhaps you haven’t forgotten it, either.”
 

“What do you mean?”
 

“I mean that this”—he indicated his back with an impatient wave of his hand—“dear Rouge, was your revenge.”
 

“You can’t think that! I didn’t need to avenge that night. I didn’t hate you for it, though God knows I could have!”
 

“Then perhaps it was my declaration of love—a drunken lie, I do confess now. Perhaps you found that unbearable. Was that it? Was it too much for your pride to endure, that a humble miller should have sworn his love? Did it chafe at you until today, when you saw the opportunity to be avenged for such an insult?”
 

She stared at him in grief and anger, her thoughts whirling. Was it his own pride that made him now deny his love? Or had the weeks of bitterness since she’d gone turned his love to hate? She no longer cared. She yearned only to be free of this torment. “You’re a blind fool, Pierre,” she snapped. “Truth or lie, I give you back your love. I don’t want it!”
 

“Because I’m not willing to buy you as the others do?”
 

It was too much to endure. She felt herself carried beyond reason, frustrated by his blindness, by the hopelessness of their love. “Yes!
Yes
!”
she cried. “You’re not worthy of my love! I didn’t ask to have you beaten—I don’t care enough for that! But if I did, damn you, I would lay on a hundred strokes to repay your cruelty!”
 

His hand shot out and clamped around her wrist. He twisted it savagely, forcing her to her knees. She gasped in pain, struggling vainly to release his hold. “I’ll break that pride of yours someday, by God!” he said through clenched teeth. “You’ll kneel before me—like this!—of your own free will. With your pride in your hands. I swear it to you!” He released her hand and pushed her away from him. He reached down for his coat, threw it across his shoulders with a grunt of pain, and stormed to the door. “I’ll not forget you, Marie-Rouge de Tournières!” Then he was gone.
 

She knelt on the floor, sick with pain and dismay, and rubbed at her hand and arm. She would never forget him. She would never forgive him. She fought back the burning tears. She would never stop loving him.
 

“I thought I’d find you here.” She looked up. Girard was scowling above her, staring at Pierre’s torn and bloodstained shirt. “The lout should be glad to have escaped with only four strokes.”
 

“Help me up,” she said tiredly, giving him her hand.
 

He lifted her up, then swatted at a buzzing fly and looked around the stable. His narrow, pinched nose seemed to be rejecting the smells of the room. “You might have picked a nicer spot for a tryst.”
 

“I was concerned about the man, Girard,” she said.