Louisa Rawlings (69 page)

He had the grace to blush before he followed her out of the coach.
 

On the road before them, blocking the carriage, was a cluster of men, perhaps seven or eight. They were heavily armed with pistols and cutlasses, and their faces were hidden behind large masks. Trivelin had done his job well; they looked for all the world like they might have come from Austria that very day. At sight of Rouge one of the men cursed and turned away in disgust. “This isn’t the one. And from the look of that wench, we’ll have slim pickings.”
 

One of the others pointed to Chartres. “He might have a fat purse. And a ring or two. Come on, my popinjay, let’s see what you have.”
 

He moved toward Chartres. Just then the woods erupted with noise. Shouts and yelling, as though half the king’s army were descending on them. The bandits whirled to find Pierre and Colinet bearing down on them, roaring at the top of their lungs. In that moment the footman pulled back the canvas, stood up on top of the coach, and began to fire his two pistols at the brigands. Pierre and Colinet leaped from their horses and drew their swords. The coachman fired, and received an answering bullet that just missed his head.
 

After a few more exchanges of fire, during which two bandits screamed and fell to the ground, the pistols were empty. Rouge cowered against the coach and watched as swords and fists replaced guns. Chartres fought with a savagery that was understandable; he might still salvage his reputation if there was no proof of his complicity. In a few moments he had run his sword through his man, and turned to attack another. Colinet managed to wound his opponent, while Pierre easily disarmed his.
 

When it was over, three of the assassins lay dead; the other four, muttering and cursing their wounds, were securely bound and sitting beneath the trees. Pierre’s footman had taken a bullet in his arm, and Colinet had a scratch across his cheek. Rouge sighed with relief. As soon as the intendant arrived, they could ride on to Rochenard and arrest the conspirators.
 

Colinet was clearly thinking the same thought. “I wonder how soon it will be before Monsieur d’Anjou arrives with help.”
 

Pierre sheathed his sword and moved toward the saddled horse. “I’ll not wait for them. I have business of my own with Falconet.” He vaulted into the saddle, his face grim.
 

Rouge gasped and ran to him. “No! Don’t be a fool! Don’t go alone!”
 

He leaned down from the horse. “I had no intention of going alone, wife,” he growled. Before she realized what was happening, he had looped his arm about her waist and swung her up in front of him. “Colinet,” he said, “I leave you in charge here.” He wheeled the horse around and galloped off down the road. Rouge’s hair streamed wildly behind her.
 

“Pierre! Name of God!” she cried. “What are you doing?”
 

“Returning you to your lover.” His voice was harsh in her ear.
 

“He’s not my lover!” She twisted to him, trying to read his face.
 

“Still the lying coquette, my dear?” The coldness in his eyes was colder than the wind that whipped at her face. It made her shiver.
 

“But the plot to kill Anjou… I didn’t lie!”
 

“I believe you. But you discovered the plot, my love,
after
you went willingly with that snake, Falconet.”
 

“Won’t you listen to me?”
 

She saw the haggard look in his eyes, the pain he tried to hide. “Madame,” he said, “I don’t care. I want no more lies. I came home and found you’d run to him. I’m not a fool! Your last spiteful words to me that night were of your love for Arsène.”
 

“But I didn’t mean them. I…”

“Damn you, hold your tongue!” he spat. “Every lying word sickens me more.”
 

Arsène was on the rolling lawn before Rochenard, entertaining his guests with his skills at the crossbow, when they rode up. His eyes blinked in shocked surprise at the sight of Rouge, but he recovered himself quickly. He smiled up at Pierre. “Monsieur de Villeneuve. You came to fetch your wife,
n’est-ce pas
?
And the pretty little thing rode out to greet you. How charming.” He glanced at Rouge—a secret look, filled with anger and regret. “I must have mislaid a key. How stupid of me.”
 

Pierre dismounted, reached up, and pulled Rouge from the horse. Taking her by the hand, he dragged her to Arsène and flung her down. “Monsieur de Falconet. Do you want my wife? I give her to you!”
 

Rouge crouched at Arsène’s feet, horrified. How could Pierre do this to her? She struggled to rise and fought back the tears of despair and shame. She looked up. In the distance she could see Chartres’s coach, and what appeared to be a troop of soldiers. The intendant.
 

Arsène had seen them as well. “So soon it ends,” he muttered. He looked at Pierre, a smile of malice on his face. “You give me your wife, monsieur. But, you see, I’ve already enjoyed her. I left my mark on her”—he pointed to Rouge’s breast—“just there. She’s mine.” He indicated his guests assembled on the lawn. “And all at Rochenard know it. I suggest you enlarge the gate of your château to accommodate the height of your horns. There won’t be a soul in all of France who won’t know that the great Villeneuve can’t hold his wife.”
 

Pierre’s face was carved in stone. “That braggadocio will cost you your life, monsieur,” he said through clenched teeth. “If the trollop wants to disgrace herself, that’s her concern. But when you flaunt it to me, besmirch
my
name, I’ll not countenance it!” He drew his sword. “Defend yourself, monsieur.”
 

Arsène glanced again at the distant troop. “With pleasure, monsieur. If I go, I’ll take you with me.” He laughed softly, his eyes on Rouge. “I knew you’d do me in, my sweet.” He pulled his sword from its scabbard. “And now, monsieur…”
 

Rouge watched in fear, trembling hand to her breast, as they began to duel. Pierre was skilled, and had already proven it once today against the assassins, but Arsène had the cleverness of an experienced fencer. One who hadn’t put his sword aside for the past five years. They moved about the lawn, feinting and attacking, as the other guests scurried around to keep out of their way. Arsène dropped his guard for a moment; in that second Pierre leaped forward and caught him on the fleshy part of his side, just below his ribs. Arsène gasped and clutched at his wound, falling back a step.
 

For a moment Pierre hovered over him, prepared to deliver the
coup de grace
;
then, his eyes filled with disgust, he lowered his blade and turned to Rouge. “For your sake, madame, I’ll spare your lover.”
 

It was too much to bear. Sobbing, she embraced him. “It’s you I love! Don’t you understand? I…”
 

There was a shout of warning from one of the guests. Pierre shook off Rouge’s arms and whirled just in time to deflect Arsène’s murderous blade, receiving the thrust instead through his thigh. “Damn you, Falconet!” he cried, and lunged. His sword pierced Arsène’s chest with a great spurt of blood.
 

Arsène gurgled, dropped his blade, and sank to the ground. “Thank you,” he whispered. He looked once at Rouge, closed his eyes, and expired.
 

Rouge’s head was spinning with the horror of it all. Arsène dead at her feet, Pierre limping away in anger while the blood streamed down his leg. She saw that the intendant was now almost at the château, and she prayed that his arrival wouldn’t initiate further bloodshed.
 

“You bitch! You whore!” Rouge turned to see the Duc de Bleyle bearing down on her. His eyes were bulging from his head, his face contorted in fury. “I knew you’d be trouble from the minute Falconet brought you here!” He pointed a quivering hand toward the troops. “Was that your doing, bitch?” He darted to the table on which Arsène had laid his crossbows, and picked up a weapon. It was loaded with an arrow and already braced for firing. He lifted it to shoot. Pierre swore and hobbled forward. With a violent thrust he pushed Rouge to safety. As she fell to the ground she looked up to see the arrow tear into Pierre’s shoulder. She screamed.
 

The assembled guests, frozen up till now, surged forward, some to see if Arsène could be revived, some to disarm the raging Bleyle, a few to lay Pierre on the ground and see to his wounds. Rouge pulled off her cloak to make a pillow for his head. She knelt beside him and leaned over, watching the red stain that spread on his shoulder beneath the jutting arrow. She knew enough to leave it in until a surgeon could be sent for. Pierre was conscious, but his eyes had begun to take on a glazed look. She smoothed back the damp curls on his forehead and tried to smile.
 

He looked at her with a stranger’s eyes. “Rouge,” he whispered. He lifted a bloody hand, grasped the bodice of her chemise, and pulled it down. There on her breast was the mark from Arsène’s mouth. Pierre winced as though he’d been wounded yet again, then closed his eyes and slipped into unconsciousness as the intendant and his troops thundered onto the lawn.
 

The hours that followed were a nightmare. Distracted by her fear for Pierre’s life, Rouge managed to stumble out as much of the plot as she could remember, while the intendant, as the king’s representative in Tours, asked her questions that she tried to answer, though her heart was with Pierre. In the end, the intendant said that, until proofs could be found, he had no choice but to let the conspirators go home in peace. His men would confiscate Falconet’s correspondence, of course. Rouge urged him to notify Monsieur de Torcy, and to see that the Comte de Falconet’s
hôtel
in Versailles was searched as well.
 

Pierre had been put into Rouge’s bed while Colinet fetched a surgeon. As a maid carried in sponges and bandages and a basin of water, Rouge stripped off Pierre’s shirt, cutting it carefully around the arrow, and tore the leg of his breeches to expose the deep wound in his thigh. The surgeon arrived, shaking his head, and cursed softly at the sight of Pierre. He frowned and tugged at the arrow in Pierre’s shoulder; it pulled loose with a sucking sound that made Rouge cringe. She watched him work on Pierre’s poor torn body until the sight of the blood, and her horror and guilt at having led him to this—however unwittingly—sent her fleeing from the room. Colinet followed her into the antechamber, his smile gone. Awkwardly he put his arms around her, leaned her head on his shoulder. She sobbed until there were no tears left, then looked up to see him gently smiling again. “God will protect him, madame.”
 

She dabbed at her tears and sniffled. “Good, loyal Colinet. What would I do without you?”
 

The surgeon emerged from Rouge’s bedchamber. “He’s a strong man, madame,” he said, by way of comfort.
 

She gulped. “Will he…live?”
 

“The arrow wasn’t close to his heart, you understand, but it was a grievous wound. And the injury to his leg…”
 

She bit her lip. If he were to die, he mustn’t die here! “Can I take him home?” She hesitated. “It’s a long journey. Perhaps nine or ten hours.”
 

The surgeon shrugged. “The fever, of course, is the real danger. But it won’t be bad until tomorrow, or the next day. And then”—he shrugged again—“if he dies, he dies. Whether here or at home, it’s God’s will.”
 

She turned to Colinet. “What shall I do?”
 

He smiled as always. “We’ll take him home to Choisy. There’s a good doctor who can see to him. And it will be better for him. And for you, madame.”
 

Rochenard was now in a turmoil. Like rats on a sinking ship, the guests ran frantically back and forth, packing, calling for their coaches, eager to be as far away as possible from the taint of treason. And despite Prévost’s appeals and shouts and threats, the servants too had begun to leave. They shrieked and cried at the loss of their situations, all the while carrying off what they felt was owed them as their right: foodstuffs, wine, candles.
 

Rouge and Colinet managed to rig a crude bed in the coach, laying a plank across the seats on which they placed a straw
paillasse.
It was barely long enough to accommodate Pierre’s height, but it would serve. Wrapped warmly in a blanket, he stirred only once during the long journey. And then it was to curse Rouge softly.
 

The days that followed were agony. The wound in Pierre’s shoulder festered despite the poultices applied by Colinet’s doctor. Rouge sat by his bed for hours, while he writhed with the fever that gripped him, and listened to him muttering her name. And Arsène’s. Would she ever be able to explain the mark on her breast? Would he believe her if she did? The whole story of Torcy and her spying for him seemed such an improbable tale. Now that it was over, she half believed she’d dreamed it herself. How could she make Pierre understand?
 

She’d been ashamed of the bruise on her face from Arsène’s blow. As it darkened, she covered it with cosmetics, silencing Emilie when the girl would have questioned her about it. Her face was drawn and haggard, and she was troubled by a persistent nausea. But that was something she didn’t want to think about. Not now. Not yet. She sat by Pierre’s bed and watched him, murmuring a soft prayer, until her fears for his life—and her misery—overcame her. She wept.