Lysette Read online

  Half a score of armed men appeared, in blue and yellow uniforms that marked them as the town militia; their presence momentarily diverted the rabble from Duvalier. Lysette ducked her head down as the square filled with the crack of musket fire, sharp and loud even above the din of the screaming mob. The carriage had lurched violently as the unreined horses, terrified by the sounds, had reared up in panic. With a jolt that had sent Lysette flying across the seat into the arms of Monsieur Gossault, the carriage had careened into the marketplace, scattering carts and baskets and tables piled high with goods. It had ploughed into a mound of cabbages, rolled wildly and unevenly over a large sack of turnips, tipped precariously on two wheels and overturned with a splintering crash, where it lay in an upside down heap, its wheels spinning crazily, while the horses, released from their harness, had fled in every direction.

  Dazed and winded, Lysette had found herself face down in the coach, her cheek pressed against what had been the inside roof of the carriage. Her arms were tangled in the velvet draperies, and a heavy weight on her back made it almost impossible to move. The weight stirred, groaned, whispered in a terrified croak that she scarce recognized as belonging to Monsieur Gossault.

  “Mon Dieu! Wife! Are you there?”

  From the mound of pillows beside Lysette there emerged a soft bleat. “Armand! Help me! Let us leave this terrible place!” Madame Gossault struggled to move and sit up, while her husband, shifting his weight to help her, pressed more heavily onto Lysette’s back until she thought she would suffocate.

  “No, no!” she hissed. “Stay where you are! We are safe here! Would you brave that mob? No one has seen us in here! Look!” Easing her shoulders partially from under Monsieur Gossault (and she had despised one single fat hand on her body!), she indicated the carved openwork that ran along the top and bottom of the windows. Pressed low against the roof, they had peered out onto the square. The militia had been dispersed: one or two brightly clad soldiers lay face up on the cobblestones, their cheerful blues and yellows now dabbled with great gouts of scarlet, the colors intensified by the somber sky. The rest of the militia was nowhere in sight. Occupied with something on the far side of the market, the throng was indifferent to the ruined carriage. Indeed, the drabness of the sky and the dark brown of the tumbled velvets virtually obscured the interior of the coach and its occupants.

  “Yes, ladies,” said Monsieur Gossault, beginning to recover his courage as well as his voice. “We would be well advised to remain here as long as we must. It will be soon enough to leave when the madness has passed. Let us be as comfortable as possible.” Carefully they had shifted about, rearranging the pillows and draperies, until all three lay prone on the inside roof, side by side, well hidden from view.

  There was a sudden shout of laughter from the mob. Having routed the last of the militia, they had turned their attention back to Duvalier. The crowd parted to make way for him, and Lysette caught her breath in dismay. He had been stripped naked, his hands lashed firmly in front of him with a stout length of rope, by which means he was being paraded about the square; his body, already discolored by bruises and scratches from the first onslaught, was now assaulted afresh. Blows rained on him from all directions as he passed—fists and clubs and rocks—and once the edge of a hoe caught him in the small of his back and drove him to his knees. He struggled to rise, but the brawny young farmer who held his tether jerked savagely on the rope and sent him sprawling, face in the dirt, arms stretched cruelly in front of him. Not a sound escaped his lips. Painfully he rose to his feet to continue his stumbling progress through the marketplace, the tugging rope leading him on. A peasant woman, her eyes burning with a hatred fired by years of desperation, flew at him, a feral cry on her lips. Her fingers clawed at his raw flesh, gouging bloody furrows, while she shrieked and cursed in a strangled voice.

  Lysette had shuddered. It frightened her—the fury of the mob, the angry despair and bitterness that pulsated in the square, a living thing she could almost taste, feel, even here in her hiding place. Like a great boil it had festered and putrefied, needing only the appearance of Duvalier to lance its rawness and release its poisons.

  Salt! The cry of salt on a hundred lips. Half a dozen sturdy peasants had appeared, trundling a large barrow piled high with sacks of salt, bragging of how they had fought off the guards at the Royal warehouse, that no one need ever pay for salt again. With a glad cry, the crowd had pressed forward, laughing, cheering, ripping open the sacks of salt, filling bowls and pans and pockets with the precious stuff. It was market day with a vengeance. The women retrieved their baskets and turned to the ruined stalls and carts, forgotten until now, and ransacked and pilfered freely as though Duvalier’s presence had removed all moral constraints. The market took on a festive air, as people laughed and joked, scampering among the wagons, filling their arms and baskets with fruits and smoked joints and salt—the King’s salt. Duvalier, forgotten in the hungry rush for the food, sagged with exhaustion, his face revealing for the first time the agony he had suffered.

  Ah, Dieu! thought Lysette. Perhaps now they will be satisfied. Mayhap they will leave him in peace. But she had not reckoned on Duvalier’s aristocratic pride: incapable of humility, he had marshaled his flagging spirits, drawing himself up to stand tall and dignified, scorning his pain and humiliation. Goaded thus into fresh fury, the mob had resumed its torments. With a ferocious shriek, an old hag had brandished fistfuls of salt in Duvalier’s face, then had pelted his ravaged flesh with the stinging substance. Others took up the sport, coating the bloody gashes and open wounds with salt. Duvalier, his body rimed with the searing crystals, never flinched. Determined to wring a cry of pain from those soundless lips, a word, a response, anything, a husky young man, a deserter from the Army, planted himself before Duvalier, taunting him with coarse oaths while the crowd fell back, sensing a new and more dangerous game, a deadly challenge that went beyond mere physical torments. The man cursed Duvalier’s ancestors, questioned his paternity and called his wife a whore, his jibes couched in the foulest language. Hauling on the rope that still bound Duvalier, he jerked up the poor man’s arms, thus exposing his naked genitals. Look. See, he had said, pointing in mockery, while Lysette had wept for shame in her hiding place. The Royal commissioner was not a man, he had said, but a woman, fit only for other men’s use. He would show them, he said, how a man treated this woman who hid in men’s clothes. To the salacious pleasure of the mob, he advanced toward Duvalier, fumbling with his clothing, the front of his breeches already swollen in anticipation. Duvalier’s haughty face, stiff with contempt, stopped him in his tracks, flustered, cowed, burning to regain his dominance. With a strangled curse he swung his ham-like fist into Duvalier’s groin; the commissioner gasped and staggered backward, his face drained of color. The crowd was hushed, waiting.

  And then, incredibly, Duvalier had smiled. The smile of a nobleman nearly out of patience with his vassals, but still tolerant. A patronizing smile. The young man, enraged, had whirled to a ruined butcher’s stall, snatched up a large knife and, in one ferocious stroke, had parted Duvalier’s head from his body.

  Madame Gossault had gurgled weakly and Lysette had buried her face in her arms and wept. She could hardly bear to watch as the mob, cheering and singing, had marched around the square, banging on tin pots and brandishing the long pike which now held Duvalier’s bloody head. Someone had found a dozen hogsheads of wine, abandoned by their owner, and the gaiety mounted to a delirious frenzy as the afternoon wore on.

  And then Madame Gossault had begun to gag and choke. “Armand! Nom de Dieu!” she had croaked. “I cannot breathe! I shall be sick! Is there no escape from this horrible place?” And she had sobbed in terror.

  Soothing his wife as best he could, Monsieur Gossault had raised himself up from his hiding place and scanned the market, assessing their chances of escape. To be sure, the rabble was now at some distance from the carriage—their snake-like parade winding in among the stalls and carts, the head of Duv
alier bobbing high above their ranks—and one side of the coach let out onto a portion of the square that was now empty. Lysette had urged them to stay, not to risk the back alleys where hostile and drunken peasants might yet lurk. But Madame Gossault had been adamant. They had pushed open the heavy door and crawled out, shutting it again on Lysette, and scurrying down a small dark street next to the square. With a sigh, Lysette had watched them go, then resettled herself in the carriage, half glad for their leaving because it gave her far more pillows and draperies within which she could burrow. Hearing the parade turning back once again toward the coach, she had pressed herself more firmly to the floor, her head comfortably placed so she could peer through the open carvings, and adjusted the heavy coverings. Odd. She had noticed at that very moment that the velvets smelled of the open road: dust and clover and sweet grasses.

  There had been a sudden piercing shriek, and the Gossaults had come running into the middle of the square, pursued by the ravening horde. As Lysette had watched in horror, the women, their thin and hungry faces sharp in contrast to Madame Gossault’s overfed bulk, had swarmed about her like locusts, pulling the rings from her fat fingers and ripping the jewels from her ears, while she screamed in pain and terror and clutched at her torn and bloody earlobes. Then they had turned upon Monsieur Gossault, beating and kicking and pummeling, as though he were some lump of clay to be molded and reshaped.

  Now Lysette looked into Duvalier’s dead eyes and prayed for an end to the madness. She felt suffocated and sick, her body stiff from the hours she had lain in the coach, fighting down the nausea and the panic that threatened to engulf her. She no longer cared about the Gossaults, or Duvalier, or the soldiers who lay dead in the square; terror had focused her thoughts on herself alone, and if the torment of others would help to keep her safe in her refuge, so be it. She did not care. Let them go on beating Gossault’s lifeless body. Let his wife scream and cry. Let me be safe. Ah, Dieu! Let me be safe!

  Chapter Two

  The thin whip snaked through the air, tracing a wide arc, and crackled sharply against the fine cambric shirt. The Baron d’Alons, his wrists bound firmly to the whipping post, twitched violently as the lash cut across his back, but made no sound. Ten times the whip snapped, while the drummer beat out the count and the troops watched in stony silence, with surly faces and mutinous eyes. At length the sergeant at arms ceased his labors, coiled up his whip, and saluted his commanding officer.

  Seated stiffly on his horse, his steel casque resting in the crook of his arm, André, Comte du Crillon, nodded to the guards, who stepped forward and loosed the Baron’s bonds. D’Alons, his fine shirt now criss-crossed with scarlet, turned painfully and bowed to André, a wry smile on his lips, his eyes filled with understanding and even sympathy. Frowning, André withdrew a scroll from under his breastplate, unrolled it and read aloud to his troops.

  “‘From his Majesty, Louis XIII, by the grace of God King of France, to his officers in the field: It has come to our attention that certain of our troops, more especially certain of our officers, have seen fit to absent themselves without leave. Such disgraceful conduct must not go unpunished. Those noblemen who would bring disgrace to France and to themselves must be tracked down without mercy, stripped of their rank, privileges, and pensions, and subjected to whatever punishment may be deemed appropriate.’ It is signed by Louis, King of France, in this, the year of our Lord, 1636.” André’s blue eyes swept his troops, noting the sullen shuffling of feet, the worn cloaks and jerkins, the weary faces. He withdrew another piece of paper from his doublet. “I have here another letter from his Majesty,” he said, allowing his frown to soften a bit. “It is a personal letter to me, but it concerns all of you. ‘My dear André,’ it begins, ‘I send you my warmest greetings. Every letter that comes to me from the Prince of Condé is filled with praise for you and your brave men. Without their courage and fortitude, Condé could not have held the siege against the Spaniards at Dôle. I know that as loyal Frenchmen they will not hesitate to follow wherever duty leads them. I charge you, in my name, to distribute to each man a bounty of ten crowns when he is released from your service.’ The rest of the letter is personal.”

  André tucked both letters quickly into his doublet and slipped his casque over his blond hair, tightening the leather strap under his chin. He smiled in satisfaction as his men pulled themselves up with a new sense of pride, and the cries of “Vive le Roi!” filled the air. Grasping the reins in his gauntleted hands, he wheeled his horse sharply about, nodding briskly to his lieutenants and signaling the march to begin. Buoyed by the prospect of extra pay, the foot soldiers shouldered their pikes and muskets, their steps almost jaunty on the dusty road. From a little knoll off to one side, André watched them pass: good men, brave men, nearly five hundred strong. They had fought well at Dôle, holding the siege against the Spanish cannon, against the monotony of waiting until starvation or disease should force the Spaniards to relinquish the city. And then to be told, incredibly, that they must raise the siege! That they must march to Angoumois to battle Frenchmen! To kill their own brothers who were rising up in protest, armies of peasants who must be kept from banding together, lest France be plunged into civil war. André sighed deeply, his head sunk on his chest.

  “Liar!”

  André looked up quickly. A laughing face. A wide grin. A head of flowing orange curls and fiery mustaches, strangely cooled by pale gray eyes. A friend’s face.

  “André, mon ami! You are not only a liar, you are most probably a fool as well!” said Jean-Auguste, Vicomte de Narbaux.

  “What the devil do you mean, Jean-Auguste?” said André, guiding his horse into step beside Narbaux’s until the two friends rode side by side.

  “Let me see the King’s letter. No, no. Not the proclamation. I read that for myself. His…personal letter!”

  André laughed ruefully. “Well, it did begin ‘My dear André!’”

  “From Marielle?”

  “Of course.”

  “And the five thousand crowns?”

  “I have a banker friend at Limoges who will be happy to loan me what I need—at an exorbitant rate, of course! And if the grape harvest at Vilmorin is good this year, I should be able to pay him back with no difficulty.”

  Narbaux laughed. “Ah, if your men but knew the softling who lurks behind your scowl!”

  “What could I do? There are scores of my men who should have been released from service by now but for these uprisings. How else am I to keep them from open rebellion or desertion? And do not speak to me of softlings, mon ami! You yourself sent your own men home with a bounty. I’ll wager that did not come from the King’s coffers! And you have been in the field long past your obligation of three months! Why did you not return home with your men?”

  Jean-Auguste shrugged. “Someone had to keep you company and out of mischief! Marielle would never forgive me if I allowed another woman to look at you!”

  They fell silent for a minute. André sighed deeply. “I much regret Baron d’Alons!”

  “It could not be helped.”

  “Yes, I know. He had to serve as an example. Still…such a promising career…” André sighed again. “Well, we are all anxious to be home.”

  “Your boys are well?”

  “When last I saw them. Alain has just begun to talk, though I fear François will never allow him a word! And Marielle spoils them outrageously! Sometimes I think…” Crillon broke off abruptly as Jean-Auguste began to roar with laughter.

  “Has it come to this, then? Where once we spoke of war, now we speak of children! What is it…seven years now since your marriage? And each year my good friend becomes less and less a companion at arms and more a docile husband, gossiping over domestic trifles like a toothless crone!”

  “My dear Vicomte de Narbaux,” said André waspishly. “You had best beware the trap yourself! When you were still a Baron—you with that milksop’s face and bushy mustache—you were scarce a catch for any woman! Now that the King has
made you a Vicomte and increased your landholdings at Chimère, some poor woman, starved for love, may be persuaded to overlook your faults and take you well in hand! Truly, my friend, you should find a wife,” he added, more seriously.

  Jean-Auguste turned toward André, a wry smile twisting his lips. “I found one…once. Alas! She was already married to you! No, do not disturb yourself, mon ami,” said Narbaux quickly, seeing the look of distress on André’s face. “I have long since ceased to envy you for Marielle—she belongs to you. I envy you both for the happiness you have found!”

  Du Crillon laughed ruefully. “Do you remember how jealous I was of her?”

  Narbaux snorted. “I remember how often I saved you from murder, my hotheaded friend! Does jealousy still come between you?”

  “I do not know! Not for my part, you understand, but lately…Marielle…mon Dieu! I did not think my mistresses would return to haunt my marriage!”

  “But surely you are mistaken! Marielle? Jealous? It is hardly to be believed!”

  “Not jealous then…fearful. I have been away too much—she has too many lonely hours to dwell on what has been. When we parted, there was a strange uneasiness between us…a foreboding…” He sighed deeply. “Eh bien! After this campaign in Angoumois, I shall have the whole of the fall and winter to assure her that she has nothing to fear from the past!”

  “And if you fail,” said Jean-Auguste wickedly, “I shall most assuredly steal her from you this year! It is time I had sons of my own!”

  A terrified shriek split the air. Lysette, exhausted from terror, drained of strength by the horrible events in the marketplace, had begun to drift off to sleep; the scream jolted her awake and she shivered, half expecting to see a peasant face leering in at her. No one seemed to be noticing the carriage. The cry had come from Madame Gossault. The young deserter, the murderer of Duvalier, now quite drunk, was struggling fiercely with her, one hand clasped tightly about her ample waistline, the other tugging at the neckline of her gown. Hampered by his drunkenness and her large bulk, he soon realized that she was no match for him, and he began to roar with laughter, even while they battled, and cried out for someone to help him, to take pity on him. There was much joking and ribald laughter as the crowd gathered around; puffing with his exertions, the young soldier promised to share her with any man who would help him to subdue this fat cow. At length a red-faced farmer stepped forward, his face split by a toothless grin, and grabbed Madame Gossault from behind; his large hands on her shoulders, he dragged her backwards and pulled her across a large mound of turnip sacks, then held her down while she shrieked and kicked wildly. The young deserter had already dropped his breeches, to the shouting approval of the mob; those fat legs, savagely beating the air, gave him pause. But the rabble was not to be denied its satisfaction. With an ugly cry, their faces frozen into ferocious smiles, two robust women joined the fray, each to clutch a thrashing foot and part the fleshy thighs. Lysette watched in horrified fascination as the young man squatted before Madame Gossault and used her like a whore in some back alley. With each savage thrust of his loins she squealed piteously, and the crowd cried out in collective release, in climax to all the years of bitterness and frustration: “Ah! Ah! Ah!”