By Honor Bound (20 page)

Chapter Nineteen

After a morning of brilliant sun and moderate temperatures, the snow had begun to melt. Dark patches of earth blossomed from beneath a thinning blanket of white. Naked tree branches dripped crystalline beads of water. As the afternoon wore on, however, the sky clouded over, and the elongated droplets became icicles. Once again the world froze.

Madame Campan tugged on the leashes to hurry her charges along. Though the sky was dark, it was too cold to snow. She shivered and pulled the shawl more tightly about her shoulders.
At least the wind isn’t blowing
, she thought gratefully and quickened her steps as she entered the Forward Court.

She saw him immediately, although it was a wonder she recognized him. His skin was pale, features haggard. There was dark stubble on his chin, purple bruises beneath his eyes, and his long hair tangled at his shoulders. It looked as if he hadn’t eaten or slept in days, and her heart went out to him.

Philippe’s dark eyes bored straight into her. There was no way she could pass him without stopping. And she did not feel even the tiniest prick of disloyalty. There was more to the story than had been told, and it was about time someone heard it.

The dogs greeted Philippe joyfully, but he ignored them. He held out his hands imploringly to Madame Campan.

“Please,” he begged. “You must help me.”

“I intend to,” Madame Campan stated flatly. She took one of his outstretched hands. “Come with me.”

Gray. Everything was gray. Barely an hour after they had left Versailles and headed north, the sun had disappeared behind a solid wall of sullen clouds. It was as if all light, all life, remained behind in Versailles and she was headed into a world, a future, of bleak desolation. It hardly seemed to matter.

The coachman had stopped for the night at an inn along the Paris road. She had eaten her solitary dinner in a corner of the public room near a roaring fire and retired early. She had risen in the dark and was waiting for the coachman when he hitched the horses at dawn. The journey had commenced.

They had traveled all day, skirting Paris. The farther north they went, the darker and colder it became. They passed through villages where the cottages seemed to huddle together against the winter chill, columns of smoke rising uniformly from each chimney. The only sound was that of hoofbeats on hard-packed, frozen ground, and the only sensation was the constant, biting cold.

On the afternoon of the second day, almost twenty-four hours exactly after she had left Versailles, Honneure saw the sea for the first time. The carriage road made a gradual turn to the right, until they were headed nearly due east, and suddenly there it was on her left. It was as gray and somber as the sky. Looking down at a wide, sandy beach, she saw lazy waves breaking in a white foam upon the shore.

They rode beside the water for some time, then turned slightly away, to the southeast, and climbed a hill. Trees lined the road and soon surrounded them completely. The cold and dark seemed to weigh upon Honneure.

There were no signs of life in the forest, not a squirrel or fox, not even a bird. From somewhere nearby she heard the harsh, cheerless cry of a raven, but the voice was disembodied. The road deteriorated, and Honneure was forced to brace herself with hands pressed to the carriage’s interior walls. A misting rain began to fall.

Was the frigid, dismal afternoon lightening? Honneure turned her attention to the view outside the window.

The forest had been left behind, although trees still bordered the road. But they were trees in orderly rows, small trees, with bare, gnarled branches twisting upward toward the somber sky. On Honneure’s right they stretched upward to the crest of the hill; on her left they fell away down to the sea. Apples. They were passing through an apple orchard.

Honneure’s pulse quickened slightly. She must be nearing her destination.

“The gentleman’s name is Armand Tremblay,” Madame Campan had said to her gently. They had been sitting together in the dauphine’s salon. “He is a distant cousin of Madame Thierry. He owns a large and prosperous apple orchard near Honfleur, in Normandy, and he has recently lost his wife. He does not know the details of your plight. Madame Thierry’s message to him merely said you wished to live a quieter life away from Court. He is eager to wed again and readily agreed to his cousin’s suggestion. We have been fortunate, indeed, to find such a suitable, respectable placement for you. And so quickly.”

Fortunate. Yes. She was fortunate.

Through dull eyes, Honneure watched the orchards give way to a grassy expanse. There had been no snow, or it had melted, and the grass was long and surprisingly green. The road turned upward to the right, and she saw a rock wall. The coach passed through an open wooden gate, and the horses slowed.

They were in a farmyard. There was a long, low barn of gray stone with a thatched roof. Across from it was a modest, timbered house, its roof also of thatch. The coachman climbed from his bench, opened her door, and pulled down the steps. Ducking through the low door, Honneure exited the coach and stepped onto dark, bare earth. The door to the house opened.

The man appeared to be well past middle age. He was thin, almost gaunt, with a pronounced stoop. Thin, gray hair straggled across his head. But he walked steadily toward her. There was an expression that might have been a smile on his thin, pinched lips. His brown eyes were as bright as a sparrow’s, and they flicked over her from head to foot. He stopped directly in front of her.

“I am Armand,” he said in a surprisingly strong voice. “And you will be Honneure Mansart.”

She could only nod.

Again his eyes traveled the length of her body. They lingered for a moment on her bosom and slender waist. Then he turned abruptly to the coachman and waved an age-spotted hand.

“Off with you! Begone! You were paid in advance!”

The coachman scurried to remove Honneure’s trunk from the top of the coach and dropped it unceremoniously to the ground. Moments later the horses trotted through the gate, and with a sick, sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, Honneure watched the coach disappear down the road.

“You’ll do,” Armand said with a throaty chuckle. This time Honneure had no doubt the man was smiling. But there was no humor in his expression.

The sinking feeling turned to outright dread.

“Since this is a marriage of convenience,” Armand went on, “I find it convenient to get it over with as soon as possible. The ceremony will be tomorrow. You can bring your trunk into the house.” Without another word he turned and walked away.

Honneure hesitated, but no one else appeared. There did not seem to be any servants. Armand walked inside and closed the door without looking back.

She was caught in a nightmare. This had to be a nightmare.

Picking up one end of the heavy trunk, Honneure began to drag it toward the house.

The dauphine raised both hands and pressed them to her mouth. Her blue eyes were wide with horror and distress. Even Madame Campan’s expression did not remain undisturbed.

“Philippe, dear God. How horrible. How
could
they?”

“We all know very well how,” Madame Campan put in. “The real question is, how do we undo the harm?”

“It’s all my fault,” Antoinette cried suddenly. “If only I had listened to you sooner. How can you ever forgive me, Philippe?”

He dropped at once to his knees at the princess’s feet. “Just tell me where she’s gone. Lend me a horse. Let me go after her.
Please
.”

Antoinette and Madame Campan exchanged quick glances. Anguish etched itself into the dauphine’s delicate features.

“She has gone to Normandy,” Madame Campan said at length, softly.

Philippe jumped up and turned to the older woman. “Where? Where in Normandy?”

“Near Honfleur, but …”

“Just tell me exactly
where
.”

Madame Campan sighed and closed her eyes. How could she tell him?

“She has gone to the farm of a man named Armand Tremblay,” she continued finally. “It lies to the west of Honfleur. But wait … wait, Philippe … Listen to me!”

Philippe paused in his flight toward the salon door.

“Please understand that we were only trying to protect Honneure. The best way we knew how. She … she has gone to Normandy to … to wed Monsieur Tremblay.”

His blood seemed to freeze in his veins. “What?”

“I’m so sorry, Philippe,” Antoinette said, finding her voice at last. “But it seemed the only way to keep her safe from the king. And it seemed so ideal. She won’t even be a servant anymore but wife to a respected and wealthy far—”

“May I take a horse?”

“Philippe …”

“
May I take a horse
?”

Antoinette flinched and Madame Campan started to protest, but the expression of stark desperation in Philippe’s dark eyes stayed her. She looked at her mistress, her own gaze beseeching.

The dauphine nodded. “Of course. Take the swiftest mount in my stable. Take the Lipizzan mare if you wish.”

Philippe started to leave but turned and swiftly crossed to the princess. Once more he dropped to his knees at her feet. Though he knew it was not proper, he took her small hands in his own and pressed them briefly to his lips.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you.”

“Go with God, Philippe. And ride like the wind.”

Chapter Twenty

The weather had not relented. Under glowering skies, Honneure climbed up in the farm wagon and sat next to her husband-to-be. The boy who had appeared earlier that morning to feed Armand’s few animals and muck the stalls stood in the yard. He watched them roll through the gate, and then he ducked back into the barn. It was as if he was the only other person in the world beside herself and Armand. When he disappeared, Honneure was alone again with the only other human on earth, a stranger. The man she was about to marry. The nightmare went on and on.

The wagon rumbled and bounced along the rutted road. A few snowflakes fell but melted rapidly. Armand did not speak. He did not even look at her. Honneure supposed she should be grateful.

Their evening together had been strained and silent. With curt gestures and a few half-grunted words, he had indicated that she was to make him dinner. She had done so, though she had not joined him at the table. He had not seemed to care.

“You will sleep tonight in that room,” Armand had said as she had emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a linen cloth, and pointed to one of two doors off the small sitting area.

The room was small and spare but clean. There were lace curtains at the single window, yellowed but intact. There was a plain, pine dresser with a pitcher and basin, a simple, sturdy chair, and a bed. Honneure had lain down without even undressing or opening her trunk. When next she had opened her eyes, a pale light was falling through her window.

“Bread and honey will suffice for today,” Armand had informed her when she had entered the kitchen. “But don’t think you will get off so easily any other morning.”

That had been the extent of their conversation up to this moment. When he had left the house, she had known he expected her to follow, and she had. She had seen the boy, the horse hitched to the wagon. She had climbed in. Now she was on her way to her wedding.

Honfleur was a seaside village. Several cottages surrounded a protected harbor. Small fishing boats rocked at their moorings. The streets were cobbled, and the wagon bumped noisily and uncomfortably toward the stone church. The horse’s shoes clanged on the stones.

At least there were people. Honneure looked down on them as they passed them in the wagon. They were dressed in bulky, winter peasant clothes. Some eyed her with mild curiosity. Most ignored her. A few nodded respectfully at Armand.

The priest in the church appeared to have expected them. A tall, spare, balding man, he greeted Armand with quiet dignity, then turned to Honneure.

“You are the bride, Honneure Mansart.”

“Yes, Father.” She dropped a small curtsy. The priest smiled at her with genuine warmth, and she felt something within her begin to thaw. A prick of emotion deep within her breast reminded her she was alive.

“You have come from the court of Versailles, I understand.”

Honneure nodded but did not allow her mind, her memory, to go back there. She could not bear to.

“Armand has told me your desire is to lead a simpler life, here in the country.”

Again, she nodded. The priest’s gaze bore into her, and it took all her willpower not to look away. He knew there was more to her story, a great deal more. He was giving her a chance to tell it.

But she would not. The past was dead and gone. Her future might be grim, but it was hers. It was all she had.

“I do indeed wish to live my life away from the Court,” she said, looking the priest straight in the eye. That much, at least, was true.

“You were a servant, were you not?”

“Yes, to the dauphine,” Honneure replied with pride. “She is a kind and generous person. It was with her blessing and her aid that I was able to come to Normandy and be … be respectably married.”

“And you join in this union with Armand Tremblay of your own free will?”

Honneure glanced at the man beside her. He was old enough to be her grandfather. So, however, was the king. At least this man offered marriage, refuge. What did age matter? It mattered as little as love. It mattered not at all.

The pain of the betrayal, the shock and grief, were still there, stuffed down deep within her. It was a ball of fiery agony that would consume her if she let it. She felt it pushing at her, putting pressure on her throat, making it impossible to speak. She swallowed, took a deep breath, shoved it back down. Honneure licked her dry lips.

“Yes. It is my voluntary decision to wed Armand Tremblay.”

“Very well.” The priest nodded solemnly. “Then let us waste no more time.”

Philippe knew the mare would run on until she died beneath him. It was her nature. Long favorites of the Viennese court, Lipizzans were the chosen mounts of officers riding into battle. Their agility enabled them to perform incredible maneuvers, both offensive and defensive. More importantly, their intelligence and loyalty had saved many a rider’s life. The mare would do whatever he asked of her. But could he ask her to die?

The wind rushed in Philippe’s face, and the ground sped past. She could go on a lot longer, he knew. Her ancestors had been bred and raised on the Slovenian-Italian border, where the grass of the karst was poor in nutrients but good for horses’ bone structure. The result was a breed prized for its strength and stamina.

But she was winded. Foam flying back from her mouth flecked her withers, and her white hide was dark with sweat. He couldn’t ask her for more. He just couldn’t.

The mare slowed to a collected canter, then dropped down to a trot. Her head was low, her neck so tired she could no longer hold it up. Philippe pulled her to a walk.

Steam rose in the cold air from her shoulders and flanks. Her sides heaved with the effort to breathe. Her nostrils flared wide and red, and smoke puffed from them rapidly. Philippe halted her and felt her knees try to buckle. He slid quickly from the saddle.

They were on a lonely, tree-lined road deep in the heart of the country. Philippe stroked the mare’s streaming neck and looked about him for signs of life. In the distance, to the north, he thought he saw wisps of rising smoke. Honfleur? As the mare’s breathing slowed and quieted, he thought he could hear a rushing sound strange to his ears. He had never seen the sea before but had heard it described. Was that what he was hearing now? The rush of the sea against the shore?

He was close. But was he in time?

The mare would cool faster if she walked. And he would be moving forward. He could not stop, not now. He had to reach Honneure before it was too late.

It was over, done. She was Madame Honneure Tremblay.

The priest blessed them. Armand pulled something from his pocket and pressed it into the father’s hand. He nodded his thanks. The bridal couple turned, walked the long aisle, and left the church without fanfare. Without joy.

Outside the church Armand turned to her. “I hope you don’t expect anything else. Life goes on. We’ll go back to the farm.”

Of course she didn’t expect anything else. What else could there be?

As she climbed into the wagon, however, Honneure’s mind led her to a path she had previously refused to travel. All her thoughts up till now had been on getting away from Versailles, away from the king and Philippe’s treachery. Her focus had been on simply getting through the minutes of the day, one by one. All her strength had been given to becoming Armand’s wife, the wife of a stranger, an old man. And she had done it. It was time to look to the next test. She couldn’t ignore it any longer.

The shaggy cart horse leaned into the breast collar, and the wagon moved forward. A seagull screeched, and a group of them swooped low over the harbor. The odor of dried seaweed and rotting fish hung over the village like a miasma. Honneure looked away from it and down the long road back to the farm.

Her stomach grumbled, reminding her it was growing late. When they returned to the farm she would fix her husband supper from the dwindling supply of dried meat and cheese in his larder. She might have time to unpack her trunk. Then she would bank the fire, take down her hair …

Beyond that Honneure’s thoughts refused to go. She did not mentally open the door to her husband’s bedchamber and look within. She did not want to see what lay beyond the threshold. The hours would pass, night would fall, and she would do what she must. She did not have to dwell on it.

The journey back passed as silently as the journey out. When they pulled into the yard Honneure half expected to see the boy, but he was nowhere about. She climbed from the wagon.

“Help me unhitch the horse,” Armand commanded.

Honneure’s fingers were familiar with the harness. It took only minutes to free the old gelding from the traces.

“Take him into the barn. He’ll need hay. The cows, too.” With that Armand turned and headed to the house.

Honneure wasn’t sure what she had expected. Nothing, in truth. She had merely tried to keep moving forward. She had become Armand’s wife, but what did that mean? She supposed she was finding out.

The barn was low-ceilinged and narrow and smelled of musty straw. Three milk cows were tied to the far wall, a pile of hay was pushed into a corner, and there was a loose box stall for the horse. Honneure led him into the dark enclosure, gave him hay and fresh water, and briefly rubbed him down. These were familiar things, and she took comfort in them.

The early darkness was fast falling. Inside the house Armand sat at the table by the kitchen hearth.

“Light the lamps and fix us something to eat. In the morning milk the cows. If you don’t know how, the boy will teach you. But don’t depend on him. Now that you’re here I won’t be needing him anymore.”

Her position was clear. But she didn’t mind. She had always preferred to keep busy, and she knew the value of labor in soothing the soul. Honneure did as she had been instructed.

It was full dark, but there was a pale light outside the windows. Honneure looked out and saw the clouds had parted to reveal a nearly full moon. Armand followed her gaze.

“We’ll not need so many lamps with this light. Put them all out but one. Then bring me that bottle on the shelf.”

Honneure was getting used to Armand’s near constant directions. Once again she did as she was bid. The bottle, she noted, contained brandy. She put it on the table in front of her husband with one glass. He did not ask her to get another.

The evening wore on. The fire burned down, and the level in the bottle fell. Honneure watched Armand’s eyelids grow heavy. She prayed for them to close. Eventually, her prayer was answered. His head fell back against the chair, and he snored throatily.

Was it possible? Was she going to escape the trials of her wedding night?

Hardly daring to hope, Honneure eased out of her chair. On tiptoe she crossed the room and put her hand carefully on the door latch to her bedroom. Holding her breath, she slowly opened the door and slipped inside. Only when she had closed it again did she dare to breathe.

The room was dark, but moonlight illumined its features. Honneure quickly undressed, then let down her hair and brushed its shining lengths until they crackled. She pulled back the covers and slipped between the sheets. She closed her eyes.

Sleep would be impossible, she knew. Every muscle in her body was tensed, waiting. Her ears strained for the slightest sound. He would come to her in time. He must. It was part of the price she had to pay.

Honneure never knew when she crossed sleep’s hazy threshold. She only knew that the sound she had dreaded had finally come. Coverlet clutched to her breast, she sat bolt upright in bed.

There it was again. But the sound was at the window, not the door. And there was a figure just beyond the glass. She could see it clearly in the moonlight. Heart hammering, Honneure sat up. What new nightmare had been sent to torment her? What new horror was in store?

She wanted to scream, but her throat was paralyzed. If she could just make it to the door …

As Honneure rose and sidled past the window, prepared to make a dash, the figure suddenly seemed emboldened. He pressed both hands to the glass. He tapped on it, softly.

Honneure froze.

Something was happening inside her. The great ball of pain was struggling for release again. Now it pushed against her ribs, making it difficult to breathe.