Dreams So Fleeting Read online

  “Ninon! Where is that slut?”

  This time the voice was high and shrill. Blanche, la Bique. The Hag, as Ninon called her in her conversations with herself. Her stepfather’s wife. Ninon closed her eyes, fighting back the tears, remembering the sweetness of her own mother’s voice. No! She would not cry! They would not break her spirit!

  “I spit on you, Hag,” she whispered, then laughed bitterly. She should be grateful to la Bique. Her mother had been scarcely cold in her grave before Baugin had taken that whore Blanche to wed. He was a ruttish man, full of ugly lusts and foul ways, cursing the many months of celibacy he’d endured while Ninon’s sweet mother lay dying of the cancer that grew in her body. At least Blanche had kept him busy this last year (to judge by the animal sounds that came from their small chamber off the common room), and he had seemed not to notice or care as Ninon’s body grew and developed. Still, she was glad that, at fifteen, her breasts were still small, and that the Hag shrieked with jealousy each time a passing farmer’s wife caught Baugin’s eye.

  She reached the crumbling shack at the top of the hill. “Are you there, my sweet?” she whispered, and was greeted at once by a soft mew. Stepping over the barricade of rotting planks she had placed across the open doorway, she reached down and picked up a small bundle of warm fur. Sitting on the dirt floor, she cuddled the kitten tightly against her shoulder. “See what I have brought you! It was all I could save, my precious.” While the kitten purred and snuggled against her neck, she pulled a crust of bread from her apron pocket and broke it into little pieces, dropping the bits into the jagged shard of an old crock she had managed to scavenge as a water dish. When the dry crust had sopped up enough of the water to be soft, she set the little cat before its supper, stroking the animal as it ate hungrily. Several large crumbs had clung to the rough linen of her apron; with shaking fingers she plucked them off and popped them into her mouth, then stopped, shamefaced. The poor creature was as hungry as she was, and at least she could look forward to a thin soup tonight. She ferreted out the last of the crumbs from her apron, carefully adding them to the cat’s meal. When the kitten had licked the last corner of the dish, it looked up at her with soft eyes and meowed loudly.

  “Hush, my dearest! They must not hear you! He thinks he killed you all. That pig. That villain! Do you know what I shall do someday, my love? I shall put him in a sack, and throw him in the stream, and laugh…the way he laughed…” She stopped and took a deep breath, willing away the tears. She must harden her heart. Tears were for weaklings, for cowards. If she was to survive in this evil world, she must be cold and hard, giving back hatred for hatred until she was strong enough to leave, to be revenged for all the pain and grief she had suffered.

  A sudden breeze blew through the open doorway, ruffling the kerchief tied about her copper-colored hair, caressing her cheek, tantalizing her nostrils with the sweet odors of new grass and apple blossoms. She stood and went to the door, and watched the swallows take their last dizzying flight into the pink dusk before settling in for the night. She had almost forgotten how beautiful April could be. The château of Bellefleur had always seemed more beautiful in spring, with the blossoms of the fruit trees casting lacy shadows across the old stones.

  “Papa,” she would say, “will you lift me on your shoulders? I want the flowers from the top of the trees. I want the prettiest flowers!”

  Laughing, her father would hoist her in his strong arms, tossing her up until she squealed in fear and joy; then he would set her firmly on his shoulders so that she might fill her arms with fragrant blossoms. Afterward, she would sit on his lap. “My little Ninon will always have the prettiest flowers,” he would say tenderly, stroking her cheek while she broke off small bunches of the blossoms and twined them in his golden hair. And they would laugh together because he looked like a god of the woods with his crown of flowers: Oberon, king of the forest creatures.

  It did not matter to her that her mother did not bear his name or his noble title; of all his children, she was the most beloved. His aristocratic wife, the haughty Madame la Marquise de Bellefleur, chafed at the mistress and the illegitimate daughter who lived in her home and supped at her table, enjoying the privileges that were hers by right and law. It was not uncommon, of course. Unless they were lecherous villains, most noblemen kept their mistresses openly, acknowledged their bastard children—educating and raising them as the equals of their legitimate offspring—and bequeathed lands and sometimes even titles to them. But the marquise could not forgive Ninon and her mother for being first in her husband’s affections.

  Ninon’s father had died when she was twelve. She had never quite understood how the marquise had managed to cheat her and her mother of their inheritance. But her mother had been a humble seamstress on the estate when she had caught the eye of the Marquis de Bellefleur. With her scant education, she was scarcely a match for the widow’s lawyers. Ninon and her mother had managed to survive for more than a year in a small village near Reims, eking out a living with needlework; but the uprisings of the nobles against the young King Louis XIV and his Cardinal Mazarin, a movement known as the Fronde, had plunged the region into ferment and war, and the nobility into worsening poverty. There were fewer commissions for the fine embroidery and beadwork at which her mother excelled, and in which she had already begun to instruct Ninon.

  Ninon sighed, looking at her ravaged hands, raw and chapped, scratched and callused. She could scarcely hold a needle with these hands anymore. Her mother must have known she was dying when she married Baugin. Else why would she have yoked herself to such a coarse man? He had seemed kind enough at first, and the trade from the inn kept them well fed, but he was far beneath Ninon’s mother; the poor woman must have thought she was protecting her daughter’s future by such a marriage. How could she have known that it was the strength of her will alone that kept his true nature in check?

  Ninon closed her eyes and rubbed her hands across her face, wincing as her fingers touched her jaw where he had struck her this morning. “Oh, Maman,” she moaned softly, “I would that I had died with you.”

  No! She opened her eyes and shook her head, thrusting out a defiant chin. She would live, and grow strong, in spite of them! She would leave someday soon. If she grew to be beautiful, she would become a great courtesan; if she did not, she would live by her wits. After all, she was not an ignorant peasant, a helpless lump of common clay! They could not even read! She had copied her first Latin vocabulary at nine, and translated from the Greek at eleven. She smiled wistfully. How she missed her books. Even now, their memory sustained her. On the days when her back stung from the willow switch laid across her bare flesh, or her belly twisted in hungry pain because they had fed her supper to the pigs in punishment for some disobedience or oversight, she had only to remember her books and she was revived. She would recall the legends, the epic tales, conjuring up visions of fierce dragons and serpents; she would picture them gouging out her stepfather’s eyes, devouring the Hag down to the last greasy curl on her head.

  And often, when despair tugged at her heart, she remembered the romans and lais, the beautiful stories of courtly love and brave heroes that she had read time and again. She would play them out in her mind, or invent new ones, creating endless variations on the same themes. And always she was the heroine, living imprisoned in a dungeon, or a hostile country, or a desert island. Waiting to be rescued by the noble prince. In the tales she had read, he had always been dark, but she knew with unshakable certainty that her prince would be blond. Blond like her father. He would take her away, and they would live happily forevermore.

  “Ho! Innkeeper! You! Innkeeper!”

  Ninon started at the voice, and craned her neck to see the mounted figure who had just ridden into the innyard below. Sweet Mother of God! Could this be the man, the prince of her dreams, come to save her? He was tall, his long yellow curls spilling out from beneath his broad-brimmed hat. She could not see his face, but she knew he must be handsome. He was clad
in a long military coat that reached to his mid-thigh, and full breeches gartered below the knee to accommodate the high boots he wore. His garments were travel-stained and worn, but it was apparent from the broad silk sash about his waist, the diagonal leather baldric slung across one shoulder and cradling a fine rapier, and the gleaming spurs, that he was a man of property and nobility. Ninon’s heart leaped in her breast. He must be the man who would rescue her!

  Ah, Dieu. It was a foolish child’s dream, and she was a fool to cling to it. She tried to be reasonable, to think of practical reasons for her gladness at his coming—there would be additional food on the table tonight and she would not go to bed hungry for a change—but her foolish heart sang as she hurried to the large oak tree where she had hidden the kindling this morning. By the time she had reached the clearing in front of the inn, he had gone inside and Baugin was leading his horse to the stable. She shifted her armload of kindling, and was about to enter the inn when la Bique, her hair flying, came hurtling out of the door.

  “Where the devil have you been?” she shrieked at Ninon. “We have a guest!”

  For answer, Ninon held up her armload of wood, her mouth tight-clamped in defiance. She seldom spoke to them: they were hardly worth the effort. Besides, she knew how her silence maddened them, as if they guessed the words she spoke only to herself.

  “Stupid brat,” said the Hag. “Does it take you forever to gather a bit of wood? Are you as useless as your mother was?” She smiled in malicious pleasure at the sudden flash of anger in Ninon’s eyes, knowing she had drawn blood. She reached out a coarse hand and savagely twisted Ninon’s ear. “You lower those bold eyes, my girl,” she hissed, “or I’ll take a stick to you! Now go inside and stir up the fire and sweep the hearth. Monsieur will have soup as soon as it is hot. And a roasted pigeon if Baugin will wring its neck for me.”

  Ninon lowered her defiant gaze and nodded obediently, but her rebel’s heart seethed. Mayhap he will wring your neck as well, Hag! she thought, pushing past Blanche to enter the common room and deposit her kindling in the basket next to the stone fireplace. She turned to look at their visitor. He was sitting at the table in the center of the room, his shoulders slumped forward, his strong hands playing absently with the pewter mug of wine that Blanche had given him. He had taken off his large plumed hat and set it on the table before him, and now Ninon could see his face clearly. She had never seen anyone so handsome in all her life. He had a neat mustache and a small pointed beard as golden as the curls on his head, and the indifferent eyes that he flicked in her direction were gray-green and beautiful. And dark with unhappiness. She smiled shyly and fussed self-consciously with the wisps of red curls that leaped clear of her kerchief to cling to her forehead and cheeks. Surely he would find her charming and take her away with him! But he sighed and took a long draft of his wine and turned about to stare morosely out the open door.

  I curse you, stranger, she thought, knowing herself a fool and a dreamer. Why should he be any different, any better than any other creature in this godforsaken world? Than any other betraying man? Savagely she threw a large log on the fire and stirred up the coals, then swept the hearth free of the ashes with such vigor that clouds of dust rose up and sifted into the large iron pot of soup that hung on its hook over the center of the fireplace.

  For the next hour or so she worked ceaselessly, feeding the swine, plucking the pigeon that Baugin had killed, chopping wood in the innyard, dragging heavy buckets of water from the stream alongside the inn. Her stomach rumbled in protest, for Baugin had decreed that she was not to eat supper until their guest was fed and ushered to his room. The smell of the roasting pigeon nearly drove her mad as she bustled about the room, ladling out more soup for their visitor, fetching another loaf of bread from the panetière, the large carved breadbox that the Hag was careful to keep locked during the day. Baugin and his Blanche fussed over the great monsieur, bowing and smirking in oily pleasure as they inquired of his needs, asked his destination, and drew out his name and his pedigree with smiling obsequiousness.

  He was a great comte, Philippe de Froissart by name, on his way home to his château near Dijon. He had been fighting the Spaniards in the Netherlands in those intermittent battles that seemed still to be raging, even though the Peace of Westphalia had been signed six years ago, in 1648. Hurrying to fetch another bucket of water, Ninon frowned to herself. If he was a great lord, and had come from the battlefield, why was he alone? No retainers, no lieutenants? And if he was on his way home, why did he seem so filled with despair? She began to regret her earlier anger at him—perhaps he was as tired and unhappy as she. Even the heroes in the lais grew weary of being heroes sometimes. In the morning he would be rested. His heart would reach out to save her. In the morning.

  When she returned to the inn with her bucket of water, Blanche and Baugin were leading Monsieur le Comte up the stairs to his bedchamber, bearing a fresh jug of wine and the roasted pigeon, which Froissart had decided to eat in the solitude of his own room. Ninon hurried to the table. The pot of soup had grown quite cold—a thin coating of congealed fat lay on its surface—and there was very little left. The fine gentleman had eaten a great deal of it, and Baugin and his wife had nearly finished the rest, but Ninon gulped it down ravenously, spooning it into her mouth with the large serving spoon, then running her finger around the rim of the pot to get the last few drops. She ate most of the bread they had left for her, saving out a small piece for her kitten’s breakfast, then rinsed the bowls and spoons and pot. She filled the pot with fresh water and set it on its hook, but away from the heat of the fire, so that all should be in readiness when Blanche wished to make the morning gruel.

  She swept the hearth once more and finished the last of her chores, ignoring the Baugins, who had come downstairs again and were sitting together at the table, whispering to each other. She unrolled her small, straw-filled pallet and laid it on the floor before the fire, kneeling for a moment, hands clasped together, to say her silent prayers. She untied the knot of her kerchief at the nape of her neck and shook her hair free, running her fingers through the dense copper curls. When she kicked off her wooden and leather mules, she noticed that one of the straps had begun to rub against her stocking, making a small hole that would have to be mended. No. Not tonight. She was too weary. Her shoulders ached and her head was throbbing from hunger. Curling up on the straw pallet, she was soon fast asleep.

  A sharp kick in the ribs jolted her awake, and she rose to her knees, snarling. Her stepfather was glaring down at her; beside him the Hag grinned in pleasure.

  “Pull in your claws, you hellion,” growled Baugin, “and listen to me. There is a task I would have you do. The seigneur seemed unhappy. I thought to cheer him up.” He smiled suddenly, holding up a gold coin in his fingers. “His good cheer has earned me an extra crown. At first he was reluctant, but I told him it was not good for a man to sleep without a wench beside him!”

  Ninon jumped to her feet, shaking her head vigorously, fear and anger burning in her blue eyes. “No! No!”

  “Go to his lordship!” rasped Baugin. “He craves a woman tonight!”

  “No,” she whispered, backing away, horror clutching at her. He could not be like other men, her golden hero, filled with lust and animal hunger! She had always known it would happen someday: that a man would look at her and see the budding woman, and violate the purity that was one of the few gifts she had to give. But not him, sweet Madonna! Not him! To be used like a whore by the man her heart still dreamed of as her deliverer…

  “No,” she said again.

  “Dare to defy me, you slut? Do you still hold yourself above me?” Baugin snarled and reached for the sapling switch that rested against the mantel. Instinctively Ninon dropped to the floor, curling herself into a tight ball as the twig whistled in the air and snapped sharply across her shoulder blades. She could feel the sting of the blows through her thin chemise, and she wrapped her arms about her head to protect her face from his anger. Let
him kill me, she thought bitterly, then cried aloud as a particularly savage blow caught her on the shoulder.

  “Name of God, Baugin,” hissed Blanche, “will you draw blood? And still the stubborn fool will tell you nay! Let me speak to her.”

  “How can your words avail? The bitch only understands a beating!”

  The Hag laughed softly. “Watch.” She dropped to her knees beside Ninon, tugging at the girl’s hair to bring the young face close to her own lined visage. “Listen to me, whore,” she whispered. “I am not a fool. I know where you go. Unless you do as you are told, I will lead Baugin to that shack you guard so carefully up on the hill. He will drown your little cat as he drowned all the rest. Do you want that?” Ninon gasped in terror and shook her head. “Then get you to Monsieur le Comte and do all that he asks of you. It is a small price to pay for your little friend, n’est-ce pas? You see, my dear,” she said to Baugin, as Ninon rose unhappily to her feet. “Sometimes a few gentle words will move the most stubborn of children. Take Ninon to our guest. And question him well in the morning. If he is pleased with the wench, mayhap it is not too soon to begin to let her earn a few extra sous each time we have a well-to-do visitor.”

  Sick at heart, Ninon allowed her stepfather to pull her up the stairs to the comte’s bedchamber. What does it matter? she thought. Perhaps it was always God’s will that she should be a harlot. And the comte would be kind to her. He seemed kind. Sweet Madonna, let him be kind!