The Disdainful Marquis (26 page)

Most of the diners finished, puffed at their pipes, and then grudgingly left the warmth of the taproom and made their way upstairs to their rooms. The heat and a full stomach should have made Catherine drowsy enough to curl up to sleep. But the heat had thawed the anesthetic of cold from her leg, and the pain was sufficient to keep her sitting upright in distress. The hour grew later, and she sat almost alone by the fire, rocking unconsciously to the beat of the throbbing in her foot. The warmth had made her feet swell and the boot was now like some medieval torture device. Catherine was in agony, both in spirit and body. Her every impulse told her to strip off the boot and be done with the pain. And her every thought told her that James had been right and on no account should she part with it. But the walking and the heat were taking their toll, and she felt her leg would burst.

The interior misery she was suffering had become so acute that she did not take note of the altercation at the desk in the little front room for some time. But finally the sound of raised voices reached her pain-deadened ears and she looked up. She could see the front entrance clearly from her seat. The landlady was shrieking at a troop of men who had straggled in. They were a bad-looking lot, Catherine thought. Some wore uniforms that were tattered and grimy. Some wore work clothes. But they were tough desperate-looking fellows, and Catherine shrunk into herself, looking at them.

Even with her poor grasp of the local patois, the sense of what they were shouting at the woman was clear to her. These men were traveling to Paris, they protested loudly. For they had heard that their emperor was returning. And they were volunteering to be of service to their country again. One great fat fellow was roaring that the emperor would be very displeased with a female who denied free room to his soldiers. The woman shouted back, equally loudly, that as far as she knew Louis still sat upon the throne and no one was going to take over her inn as housing for an army that didn't exist. She was not turning over her establishment to the rag and tag of an army without orders or compensation.

Catherine listened to the battle rage. The gross fellow who was the evident leader of this disorderly troop finally banged some money down disgustedly on the counter. And then, to Catherine's horror, the landlady pointed to the fireplace and to Catherine.

“
Allez. Avec l'idiot,”
she said.

The troop of men, grumbling, coughing, and cursing, made their way into the taproom. Catherine was afraid to budge, so she simply took her portmanteau, put it on her lap, and tried to look as insignificant as possible. The men eyed her, and then disregarded her and began to call for food and wine.

After they had eaten, they sat and continued to drink and talk. Catherine was desperate for sleep, for an end to the pain in her foot, but she was afraid to close even one eye. The fire was dying and the night advanced. But terror kept her wide awake.

As she sat there, hoping that they would soon settle down to sleep, the fat man who was their leader looked over to her. He shouted at her in a rough patois. She was not sure what he was saying, so she simply sat still, hoping he would lose interest. But he rose and came over to her. He was huge and unkempt, with a burgeoning belly and a sly look in his eye. He shouted down at her. She drew back, both from the violence in his voice and the dark heavy smell that emanated from him.

Then, to her horror, he reached down and lifted her by the shoulders and threw her aside. She stumbled against the edge of the fireplace.

“Je dors la,”
he grunted, and, sitting where she had been, he took her portmanteau and began to open the straps on it.

It was sheer despair that caused her to launch herself soundlessly at him, clutching for her portmanteau in a frenzy. He waved her off with one large paw and kicked out at her. When his booted foot connected with her aching leg, she heard someone howl in a high keening scream of pain, and only when she fell, cradling her leg, did she realize that it had been she herself who had made that terrible cry. The tears were streaming down her face as she watched him begin to undo the other strap, and she was sobbing in earnest, when she heard an incredibly familiar voice say in French, “So this is how brave Frenchmen disport themselves.”

The landlady bustled into the room, clucking.

“Non, non. Ce n'est pas bien.”

Catherine, looking up from under the brim of her hat, saw in the wavering light of the drying fire, as best she could through misted eyes, the tall straight figure of the Marquis of Bessacarr striding into the room. Jenkins, she saw, was behind him.

“Now why does a grown man torment a child, do you think, Jenkins?” the marquis drawled in English.

“Let it be,” Jenkins said, with a worried look at the men in the room. “And for God's sake, let it be in French.”

“We are not yet at war, Jenkins,” the marquis said. “There'll be time enough for that.”

The man who held Catherine's portmanteau put it down and slowly stood up. But she saw, from where she crouched on the floor, even when he stood up fully, the marquis still towered over him. In a caped driving coat, immaculate, disdainful, and straight, the marquis presented a picture of authority and command. Though hate glittered in the other man's eyes, he was the first to drop his gaze, and he walked back to the fireside and threw Catherine's portmanteau at her.

He muttered something about the boy being only an idiot. And the landlady began to explain rapidly to the marquis, Catherine surmised, who and what Catherine was.

“Pauvre petit,”
the landlady cried, helping Catherine to her feet. Then she went on to assure her in many ways, by shouting loudly and by hand signals, that she was to go back to her seat by the fire, that the kind gentleman had interceded for her, that she was safe now. Then she turned and scolded the other men, who looked at her sullenly.

The marquis looked around him.

“And how long do you think it will be, once we are in our rooms, Jenkins, before they take extra good care of the poor lad?”

“Let it be,” Jenkins repeated. “You surely don't intend to stay the night down here to watch over some wretched simpleton?”

“Hardly,” yawned the marquis, “but, as I recall, there's a spacious hearth in my room as well. I'll let the lad spend the night there. For these oafs will tear him apart by morning, just to revenge themselves on me, if I do not protect him now.”

“Surely not,” Jenkins said, genuinely appalled, “for he's flea-ridden, or worse.”

“I didn't say my bed,” the marquis said coolly. “I said my hearth.”

Jenkins shook his head in demurral, and Catherine stood still and watched as the marquis explained his plan to the landlady. She beamed at him and hastened to Catherine.

“Allez,”
she shouted in Catherine's ear.
“avec le gentilhomme. Allez. Allez,”
she screeched as Catherine stood frozen to the spot

Still, Catherine noted that the marquis did not look at her again. He merely turned and went to the stairs and began to go up. Jenkins turned once and shook his head in disapproval. But the men in the room grumbled to themselves, and Catherine knew she would be safer away from them.

As she mounted the stairs behind the marquis and Jenkins, she realized that neither of them had seen through her masquerade, and that the light was dim, and she would be expected only to curl up and sleep by a hearth. And, she thought wildly, she could be gone by early light. Safe from the marquis and from the brutes below stairs, for they were traveling in the opposite direction. Gratefully, she limped up the stairs in the marquis' trail. For a moment when she had recognized him and heard the firm assurance in the deep voice, she had longed to throw herself upon his mercy and reveal herself. But then she remembered where he had last seen her, and what James said. But tonight's safety would do well. She hugged her bag to her chest and entered the marquis' room as quietly as she could.

His room was spacious and well appointed. It was obviously the best the inn had to offer. The marquis flung off his cloak and sighed.

“This will be my sheet for the night, Jenkins. I expect these bed linens are inhabited. Perhaps they contain more livestock than the garments of that poor soul over there.”

“English?” Jenkins asked with a lifted eyebrow.

“The poor creature hardly understands his own language. Do you think him fluent in English?” The marquis laughed.

“Right,” Jenkins said, and then, seeing Catherine sidling toward the fire, he said softly in French, shooing her, “Sit, sit. Go to sleep. Go to sleep, boy.”

Catherine obediently put down her portmanteau and, gathering herself up in a small heap, lay down upon the stone hearth with her bag as her pillow.

“Take off your hat, child,” Jenkins said again in French, reaching down.

Catherine sat bolt upright and clutched her hat tightly to her head.

“He's terrified of us. Let him be,” the marquis said.

“Gladly,” Jenkins said stiffly, “but I'll sleep with my door open, for I think he's not above theft.”

“I wouldn't worry,” the marquis yawned. “At least not about him. But I think we ought to speed up our pace a bit. That's the second group of volunteers I've seen headed for Paris. The moment hostilities arise, we are fair game. I disliked to stop over here, but I refuse to ride through the French countryside in the dark of night. Tomorrow, if all remains the same, we'll leave the horses and get on the coach. With luck, we'll reach England before the week is out. And then let them march on Paris all they wish.”

“Aye, lad. I think they'll accommodate you. But pray it's after we're safely asea.”

The marquis and Jenkins continued to talk softly about lists and plans and plots while Catherine lay quietly at the hearthside.

She would very much have liked to have done with the whole scheme and was itching to leap up and tell them who they shared the room with. She yearned to have the burden of escape taken from her shoulders. But, she reminded herself as sternly as she could, it was in seeking the easy way, the comfortable way of life, that she got into difficulty. It was time that she took responsibility for herself at last. She sighed heavily.

“The boy's aching for sleep,” the marquis said, hearing her gusty sigh. “And, for that matter, so am I. I give you good night, Jenkins. We have a long day tomorrow.”

Jenkins shot Catherine a suspicious look as he went quietly into the connecting room. Once there, he did not close his door all the way.

Sinjun blew out all but one candle by his bed and lay himself down upon the cloak that he had draped over the unreliable sheets. In the semidark, he could only make out the outlines of the poor boy's form by the dying fire. Satisfied that all was quiet, Sinjun lay back and rested his head against his laced hands.

All was done, he thought. The lists lay sewn firmly in the seams of his coat. Now there would be a reliable guide as to whom they could trust, whom they would have to name enemy, and who would sell to the highest bidder. A smile touched his lips as he thought of the list. There was really no need for it, he knew them all by rote. And as for highest bidders, his thoughts wandered to the man he knew ached to arrest him on any premise. If he could leave this benighted land before the emperor returned, there would be no need of the list, and if not, he thought resignedly, he could find a way at least to get the list out safely. It was not as if there was anyone in England who would mourn long for him—it was not as if his oblivion would matter at all. He felt a twinge of despair and pushed the thought firmly away as he had trained himself to do. He was wide awake. Company in his bed would eventually bring sleep, he thought. But the serving wenches below stairs looked in as sad a state as the linens his cloak protected him from. And as for that female in Paris—his lips wrenched into an unpleasant smile—she had probably been long gone to a higher bidder. Sinjun lay back silently and waited resignedly for sleep to at last steal over him. It would be, he thought, a long wait.

Catherine sat up slowly. It had been a long time since she had heard any movement from the marquis. She had lain still for a long time—she could endure no more. Her leg ached with a steady throb that began to encompass her whole body. Whatever James had said, she knew she must get her boot off. She would take her money and conceal it somewhere else upon her person, for no one, she told herself, should really be expected to endure such travail.

The sound came to Sinjun's ears immediately and his face twisted into a disgusted grimace. He raised himself slightly and looked over toward the boy. The fool was sitting up, slightly hunched over, and the sound of his rhythmic panting was clearly audible. Sinjun lay back and gave himself points for his own idiocy. Jenkins, of course, was right again, as usual. See how he was repaid for a moment of compassion. Sinjun had spent his boyhood in boarding schools, and he had traveled in the thick of many various armies. Lovely, he thought grimly, I give the waif a safe harbor and he repays me by using my room to abuse himself in. Ah well, he thought angrily, at least it won't go on for long. And I think I won't tell Jenkins in the morning, for it will delight him no end.

But after several long laboring minutes had gone by, the fool of an idiot was still at it. Sinjun wondered at his perseverance, for the harsh breathing went on, not only unabated, but considerably louder. Slowly, with the stealth that had surprised many enemies, Sinjun raised his long body from the bed and padded slowly on light feet to see what the devil was going on. He felt a moment's self-recrimination when he saw that the poor fool, far from attempting to enjoy himself, was merely struggling to get his shabby boot off.