Distant Fires (7 page)

He did not acknowledge my presence, nor redirect his gaze from the pastoral painting by his side, but I was acutely aware that an undercurrent of chilly uncertainty and ill-feeling dredged the space between us.
 

“Do you find the scene agreeable?”  I asked, in an effort to banish it from thought. “A gift from my mother, many years ago.”
 

He made no attempt to answer, merely beginning to trace a groove along the chair arm, in silent abstraction. I found his attitude intimidating, and realised now I had not the courage to carry out my intent.  
 

Instead, I thought a discussion of the painting would be a suitably innocuous subject. “Indeed,” I continued, gesturing from my position on the divan opposite, “whenever I view this setting, it beckons me to my youth.  But then, ” I laughed, “time often obscures the deeper truth, for I really do not recall a sky as blue, or...wildflowers of that shade, nestled amid the grasses. It would appear,” I chuckled, “that, like the painter’s brush, we seek to make the past what it never was...enliven the shadows, in a single stroke...”
 

 “And yet,” he shot in, sardonically brandishing an accusatory tone, “to inspire reminiscence, such an image must surely mirror one’s...
personal
reality. In
truth, I would venture…” He paused, and then added, in a voice laden with irony, “that the viewer has purposely chosen to avoid comparison.”
 

I looked askance at this unsettling intimation, realizing the error in suggesting a topic that could be so easily twisted to his advantage.  His grey eyes were hard, and loaded with aspersion.
 

“Observe the maiden,” he said, harshly. “Her attire bears the mark of refinement. Why has she left her father’s home, her own society, to tread the open fields? Is it a rendezvous with nature she has sought? Or, could it be a surreptitious meeting with a friend?”
 

Heat enveloped me like a smouldering blanket. I felt such anger and shame at the truth he presented, and the venomous, impudent manner by which it was delivered. His contempt was palpable.
 

Leave...I must leave…
I thought, desperately fighting back tears of shame and censurability as I fled to the door.  
 

He outpaced me, managing to step in front just as I reached the handle.
 

“No,” he snapped, angrily forcing me to face him. “You are not going to elude me this time.” His eyes were ablaze in anguish and despair. “Tell me, Louise,
have you mastered the artists’ flare, for changing what you do not wish to see? Was it not I you needed once? I, whom you were drawn to, like the caged bird to open wing? Why did I struggle these many years, when I had call to do otherwise… Yes, I knew of your marriage. Felippe was my friend, and I was shattered to learn that you had so easily given him that which I so desperately yearned. When you refused to see me, I vowed someday, you would come to know what you had lost…” His teeth flashed in anger, as he vented his wrath. “I fought my way through the ranks, by my own hand, and now I sit shoulder-to-shoulder with your beloved husband. Does this please you?”  He ventured with more pain than sarcasm. “I do admit, it must be infinitely more attractive, than the love of a simple boy with nothing to give, but his heart.”
 

He paused for a moment, and the eyes which, seconds before, lit into me with such malice, gradually became wet with feeling. “Why?” He pleaded, plaintively, “Why did you not forsake your precious birthright, and come away with me... Was title and privilege so important? And for what?  This valued life? Strapped to a hopeless union... Living like...a nun. You hide your spirit behind a pious veneer, but I know the passion yet remains…”
 

He drew me to his arms with such ferocity that I could feel the blood pounding to my temples.
 

“Once, I showed you the meaning of freedom,” he whispered breathlessly, drinking me with his eyes in a blaze of passion, “And, only through me, shall you know it again…”
 

Suddenly, his warm, insistent mouth closed upon mine, arresting any attempt at protestation. His tongue probed deeply, hungrily, sending waves of rapture, long since dormant, through the whole of my being...  
 

My mind whirled with the sensations he engendered...his amber scent...the urgency of his caresses...I ceased to know where I was, who I was—all that seemed to matter was the feathery trail of his lips grazing along my throat to my shoulders, and then, the burning swell of my décolletage…
 

I caught my breath as his knowing hands sought the secrets of my body, roaming, caressing, exciting involuntary tremors of arousal...and the burning hardness of his thighs, arching against the fabric of my gown, urging my hips to undulate with an irrepressible will of their own.
 

“Louise...” he purred, in that husky voice of the past, nuzzling his sweet breath behind my ear. “I have suffered such torment, for want of you...and I vow, no power on earth shall ever come between us again.”
 

Time seemed to suspend itself, and then a voice, sounding low and disconnected, and far away, roused me to sensibility and panic. Outside the room, I was aware of voices: one relating an instruction to another. My heart plummeted in sickening realisation...Felippe!
 

Gasping and feverish, I tore myself from Armand in a release that left him stunned, and in doing so, propelled myself to the shadow of the far wall. The door opened.
 

“Terribly sorry to have kept you, my friend,” Felippe implored, rubbing his temple. “I trust the worst is over. I really must abstain from rich fare.” He chuckled wearily, slumping into his favourite chair.  “Where is my wife?”  He asked impassively, with a quick scan of the room. “Has she, too, been stricken by the ill-effects of our indulgence?”
 

Armand, I could see, was uncertain of a response.  
 

Fortunately, I spied a decanter on a nearby table, and hastened from concealment. “Brandy?”  I offered cheerfully, with an effort to steady my quaking limbs.  “Our guest was in need of refreshment. And you, Felippe?”
 

“Not for the moment, my dear,” he responded thinly, without looking up.  His face was wan, but free of any perceived wrongdoing. I felt an acute sense of self-approbation, at having both deceived and neglected him.
 

“Well,” I said, fighting for composure as I set the decanter to the table, “if you gentlemen will excuse me, I believe I shall retire, and leave you to your enjoyment.”
 

Armand made to rise, but I waved him back. “Bon nuit, Monsieur, as always...a pleasure,” I smiled, inwardly groaning at the inference.
 

Our eyes seared with contact as fingers touched. “The honour was mine, Madam,” he replied, a hint of strain and sadness behind the curve of his lip.
 

I gave a slight nod and quickly withdrew, arriving at my bedchamber on the verge of collapse…
 

                                            ..............
 

Louise drew a heavy sigh as she moved from the writing desk to the window, drawing back the heavy drape. The day was warm and cloudless, such as she might have enjoyed a pleasant walk, had her turn of mind been favourable.
 

The gallery, which faced the east side overlooking the river, ran the whole length of the structure—about two fathoms broad—and paved flags, enclosed to the outside by iron rails, provided an agreeable walk. Looking out, she could see a number of soldiers mount the guard before it, both at the gate and courtyard, where drumbeat was frequently heard to indicate the coming or going of Felippe or the bishop.
 

Gazing down from her aerie, atop the three-hundred-and-fifty foot promontory, her chateau, representing the crown of France, was flanked by the residences of the wealthy citizens.
 

Here too stood the Seminary, Convent, Jesuit College, Hotel Dieu and the bishopric; their stone buildings and well-tended grounds sweeping to the rocky cliffs, overlooking lower town—the seat of bustle and activity in the trade and merchant classes.
 

To the fore, the mighty St. Lawrence, borne of the great lakes, wove like a wide blue ribbon from the west, past the cities of Montreal and Trois Rivieres, cutting a swathe before her, on entry to the gulf and watery expanses beyond. She noticed the many fishing boats dotting the
fast moving current, and thought how soon it would be before she, herself, might brave those waters, dodging the perils of a more serious opponent.
 

Much as she now desired to cancel her part in the journey, in light of the event the previous night, she realised that the urgency to proceed with it was now even greater. To become cowed by this unfortunate incident would serve to confirm his victory over her, and, if anything, bolster his pursuit. Like it or not, she must face him, and hope that, through time, the episode would be left forgotten. But what frightened her most was that the craving of her heart was of a different sort. She wanted him now, desperately, completely. But it was out of the question. Nothing short of death would part her from Felippe. In future, it would take every ounce of will to overcome this sinful lapse.
 

Soon...I shall see my son
, she thought, in an effort to cheer herself.  
All will right itself when I see his dear face.
 

Still, the final words of Armand trailed back to her, resounding with inveterate and ominous commitment.
 

...I vow, no power on earth shall ever come between us again.
 

She wondered, with intense dismay, just how far from earnest he might well be.
 

Chapter 5
 

The road before her was rutted and strewn with refuse as she trod, clutching a ragged piece of deerskin about her narrow shoulders, and blinking through the matted hair which fell in strings upon her tiny, tearstained face. Her attention was drawn to the silent, fair-skinned man, who now accompanied her on this journey to the unknown.
 

Only once, on lifting her from the canoe and away from the frightening faces of men, had he spoken to her, and although she understood his greeting, she could not answer.
 

She had been travelling for what seemed many days and nights, in the presence of these strange people; their rough, foreign words and coarse laughter filled her with confusion and uncertainty.
 

Where was the man who treated her with kindness?  It was he who found her, alone and numb with fear, circling the forest through the thickening smoke.
 

“Do not cry, little one,” he had said in Iroquois, as he bundled and carried her off. She thought he was a brave, who had come to take her to her mother.
 

“What is your name?” he asked, in an effort to quieten her, while placing her in the canoe with the three men.
 

“Shanata,” she replied, through chattering teeth. She wanted to ask more, but almost at once, they began to move out onto the water, and the man was no longer there. Soon she saw the distant fires of her village gradually fade from sight, denying all hope of answer.
 

From that moment, she had become like stone: Mute and unreachable. Incapable of understanding the meaning of these events, she was left to meekly follow where they led, and hope to be brought to her mother in due course. Looking up at the solemn young man beside her, she searched for a hint of reassurance, but found that it was not forthcoming.
 

She stared straight ahead, heedless of the gawking eyes which surrounded her; some had light skin, like the man, others resembled her family members, although they wore different clothing, and all of them—young and old, women and men—carrying containers from which they drank.  
 

Some stood in doorways, their bodies swaying back and forth, yelling or fighting one another on roadsides. Others were unable to walk a straight line.  They had hard faces, like the others. They made her feel even more afraid.
 

Unconsciously, her fingers clung tightly to the great hand. He stopped, as though he had only just noticed her, and with a gentle smile, lifted her spare frame into his arms. Resting her head against his chest, she experienced the weariness of one who is very old. She had not felt the warmth of physical contact for a long time, and for the moment, at least, she felt almost safe.
 

                                               ...............
 

Nicholas carried the now-sleeping child, in slow, measured steps. The faltering cadence of her breathing jolted his senses, filling him with both compassion and anger at the injustice that had led to it.
 

She was such a little thing...not much more than four, he supposed, but the covering of dirt made it impossible to say, with any certainty.
 

What he knew was that she had become the living evidence of a badly planned, ill-advised raid, for which he might in some way be held accountable.
 

Several weeks earlier, he was assigned his first mission, as Lieutenant of his company at the garrison in Montreal, to head a party into Iroquois territory, in reprisal for an abortive attack on a group of French traders. The orders given were to stalk them on their trading expedition,
northward. Having met with a company of colonial regulars guarding one of the supply routes in the area, Nicholas persuaded them to join in the pursuit. After travelling together, and failing to meet with their target, it was decided between him and Captain Charmion, leader of the regulars, which they would divide into two units. Nicholas chose a trail generally favoured by the tribes in the region, enroute to the St. Lawrence, as an ambush point, while Captain Charmion pressed to the south.