The King's Daughter (20 page)

Miraud sniffed the air and growled; his fur stood on end. Jeanne put her hand firmly around his muzzle and silenced the animal.

Suddenly she sensed that she was surrounded. She could fire a shot to call Simon and Mathurin who were cutting wood near the house. This signal would alert the enemy at the same time and start a race between the two groups. At stake was her life and, most of all, that of her children.

Without letting go of the dog that was trembling with anger, Jeanne whispered an order. “Children, hide here in this bush and don't move. When the Indians are gone, Nicolas will count to ten two times, then take Isabelle by the hand and run to the house. Do you understand, Nicolas?”

“Yes, Mama,” the child answered in a low voice.

Though his enormous eyes were filled with terror, his voice was steady.

“After you warn Papa, hide in the house. Quickly. Go inside and don't move. Even if you hear me yell, you must not come out until the last Indian has gone.”

The branches closed over the crouching children. Jeanne replaced the leaves and rubbed out the footprints with her hand.

As tense as a deer on the alert, she waited. At her side the dog broke loose. A voice called out. The Indians must have been very sure of themselves to dare speak, they who usually glided as noiseless as shadows.

They appeared at the other end of the clearing between her and the house, blocking her escape route. There were four or five of them, and their headdress, which Mathurin had described a hundred times, proved they were Iroquois. They seemed unfamiliar with the territory; they glanced around as they talked quietly among themselves. Not for a second did Jeanne think of hiding. The Indians' piercing eyes would have quickly discovered her, and a search party would ensue that would turn up her two children.

Motionless, she blended in with the foliage. In spite of that, one of the Indians pointed her out. Now was the moment to act. With a cry of terror, Jeanne pretended to panic and turned circles, imitating the mother partridge's trick. Then she picked up her skirt and scurried off into the forest calling Miraud, who followed her against his will.

As she had planned, the Iroquois took off running and went past the children without seeing them. The way was clear for them to take refuge in the house.

The children were saved; now it was time to save the mother. Jeanne devoted herself fervently to doing just that. To encourage her pursuers, she kicked up an awful row. Then, saving her breath, she ran with long strides, cursing her burdensome skirt. She released the dog who turned around and faced the Iroquois, granting her a few seconds' respite. She took advantage of it to fire a shot into the air to alert Simon. She hated to waste her only bullet, but there was no time to turn around and aim.

The dog had fallen silent. Was he dead? Footsteps pounded behind her. There she stood at the ravine Nicolas had plunged into. Her desperate plan had led her there, as if that abyss could offer her safety.

She jumped between two bushes, threw herself on the ground, rolled on her stomach and, without a backward glance, let herself slide down the steep slope. This time she didn't try to slow her pace, and the stones that tumbled down and accompanied her descent didn't stop her any more than did the brambles that caught her dress.

Above, her pursuers were momentarily confused by her disappearance. They were in enemy territory. The woman had sounded the alarm. Was it worth the risk of following her into the ravine?

The sound of breaking branches, then shouts growing nearer, announced that help was on the way. A lone Indian let himself slide down after Jeanne. Less hurried than she was, he broke his fall and studied the way down.

Once he reached the bottom he turned around slowly, searching the hard stones and the tangle of dead trees for traces of his victim's path.

Up above, Simon had wings. Alerted by the shot, he picked up his gun without dropping his axe and bounded through the forest. Limp, forgetting his infirmity, was right behind him. Rouville met the children on their way back to the house; panic was on their faces, but he didn't slow his pace. Gansagonas would intercept them and take them back to safety. It was Jeanne he had to find. He, too, fired a shot into the air to tell her he was coming.

The alarm signal had come from the north. In that direction the path bordered the ravine. With unfailing instinct he hurtled along, leaping obstacles, making as much noise as possible and letting out his death cry, his specialty when he attacked. It always helped to rattle his enemies.

The last Iroquois wheeled around and waited for the assault. With a sudden turn Simon dodged him, leaving him to Mathurin who was coming along more slowly but making just as much noise.

Rouville stepped over the struggling forms of an Indian and Miraud. Near the ravine two of the enemy stood side by side to face the unleashed fury of Simon de Rouville in combat.

He hit one Indian over the head with the butt of his long musket, sending him toppling into the void with a loud scream. The other Iroquois threw himself on Simon, who had jumped aside so his momentum wouldn't send him into the ravine.

A gunshot behind him proved that Limp and his Iroquois had finally met. Simon and his foe rolled on the ground a few inches from the abyss. Each one was trying to send the other over the edge. The two fighters dropped both tomahawk and axe, useless in hand-to-hand combat. The thought of Jeanne gave Simon new strength. His forearm, pressed against his adversary's throat, was slowly choking him. The Indian was trying to push back Simon's head with his palm. His right hand, caught in Simon's iron grip, was nailed to the ground.

Limp burst onto the battlefield, hopping on one foot, using his musket as a crutch. He was out of breath but still full of spirit. He pulled his knife and limped forward. It had been a few years since he had taken part in a fight, despite his bellicose spirit. Simon and he were old comrades-in-arms and fellow adventurers, and they had shared many dangers together. They understood each other with scarcely a word being spoken.

“Leave this one to me,” Mathurin said, panting. He raised his dagger over the Indian who was temporarily stunned by the pressure on his neck.

Without a word, Simon released his man. He rolled aside and let himself slide into the ravine as quickly and recklessly as his wife had a short time before.

At the bottom, he called “Jeanne” once, briefly, then he listened.

Near her hide-out, Jeanne had heard the loud and horrible fall of the body tumbling from above. Already her pursuer had reached the bottom of the ravine. Cowering under the tall tree where she had spent a night with Nicolas, she lay low, holding her quick breath and praying Simon would arrive before the Indian found her. Her only weapon was a dead branch, since her musket and knife had disappeared in her tumble.

She spotted the man's legs. He was searching for her systematically, without a word; only his panting breath gave him away.

Jeanne had heard Simon's call but did not dare raise her voice. The Iroquois stood between them, knife in hand. She retreated another inch and, crouching at the bottom of the hole, she waited. No sound reached her ears. She had the feeling this senseless adventure was all a dream, that the sun could never shine on such horror. Was this the same panic the mother partridge felt last summer when she turned circles to lead her enemies away from her endangered babies?

Jeanne, who had borrowed the mother partridge's trick, would have liked to ask her for her courage as well. She clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle a scream of terror. The branches parted. Her breath caught in her throat as a triumphant face with implacable eyes loomed before her.

Despite the stick she was waving, the Iroquois grabbed her wrist and twisted it, making her drop her club. In one sudden movement that propelled her to her enemy's feet, Jeanne felt herself being pulled from her hiding-place.

“Simon!” she finally cried, recovering the faculty of speech too late.

She was filled with rage at the thought of dying so stupidly just when she had found happiness, when the sky was so radiant. The friendly sun glanced gaily off the blade raised over the king's daughter, who was fighting like a wild beast, biting, spitting, swearing. Her hair in her eyes, she struggled for all she was worth. Her enemy gave ground, then again the hand grabbed her and shook her. All claws out, she managed to clamp her teeth onto a wrist. She did not hear the voice that was calling her. A resounding slap that sent her breathless to the ground brought her back to reality.

Simon was on his knees in front of her, straddling the body of the Iroquois.

He gasped, “My God, your teeth are sharper than a wolf's. And where did you learn that language?”

Blood was flowing from his wrist, but little by little a dazzling smile spread across his tense features. He had just remembered that he and his trapper friends had been his gentle wife's professors of profane eloquence. The student was no lady, thank goodness. Who needed a woman who put on airs in the forest?

Weak and defenceless
after
the danger, Jeanne let herself be carried in his familiar arms. Man and wife were both literally in tatters, their clothes torn and their arms and legs skinned.

This time the climb was slow and painful. Mathurin was waiting for them at the top, furious with himself. At the last moment, his Iroquois had slipped between his fingers.

The one Miraud had intercepted so effectively was not to be found either. His flight was marked by bloodstains.

The big dog, his shoulder gashed by a tomahawk, agreed to be treated by Jeanne. She gave him a grateful kiss on the forehead.

The two seasoned coureurs de bois studied the fallen Iroquois and came to the conclusion it was probably an isolated group of young braves. Impatient at not being able to prove their valour in official raids, they had smeared themselves with war paint and ventured into the territory at the most dangerous time for them, when the hunters were working their fields and could defend their families.

It was safe to say that this was an isolated attack, not likely to be repeated. Just to be sure, Simon sent for Anonkade and another Huron, and he entrusted them with the safety of his family for the winter.

33

THE CANOE
glided silently between two walls of flaming trees. Once again, October was celebrating its passage with an orgy of fantastic colours.

Sitting in the bottom of the boat between two close-mouthed Indians, Jeanne compared this present voyage with last year's. At that time she hardly knew Monsieur de Rouville and had studied him with mistrust. Now she knew him, loved him and was flying to his rescue.

Simon, her Simon, was somewhere in the forest, seriously wounded. The Hurons with whom he hunted had come to fetch the healer. Carrot-Top had sent them, while he stayed with his leader. It was impossible to drag any information out of these Indians of Algonquin origin, whose dialect she couldn't understand.

They had come forth like shadows, conferred with Anonkade and waited patiently while their passenger assembled some clothes, blankets, her medicine bag and her two remaining cotton petticoats.

Nicolas loaned his cap again.

Dressed as a boy, draped in her cape and carrying her wolfskin coat, Jeanne took her place in the canoe without knowing where she was going or what she would find when she got there. Either the Indians were fond of Simon or else he didn't have long to live, because they paddled day and night without stopping, relieving each other in the back while one of them caught some sleep in the middle. Sitting in front, Jeanne lamented her lack of experience that rendered her useless.

Fervent prayers rose heavenward. Once again, Honoré Chatel, Mother Berthelet and François were asked to intercede.

“Grandfather, Grandfather, tell God not to call Simon to his hunting paradise right away. Give me a few more years, a few more months. Leave him with me.”

When the canoe headed towards the bank of a little river at the end of the afternoon of the second day, there was nothing to indicate the presence of a camp.

The Indian tied the canoe to a branch and made a sign for Jeanne to jump out. In an instant the baggage was unloaded and the large canoe hidden and invisible. As silently as possible, on a thick carpet of dead leaves, the three of them moved into the forest. Weighed down by her bag, which she clutched as if it were a life preserver, Jeanne walked forward like an automaton. In her imagination she had already reached her journey's end, and she had pictured every possibility that might await her so none could disconcert her.

Carrot-Top was blocking the way, but he stood aside and spread the branches. A stream ran between the fir trees. At the foot of a birch stood a shelter made of skins and bark, ten feet long and six feet wide. Nearby was a campfire, the crossed branches above it supporting the iron pot indispensable to all campers.

With a glance, Jeanne asked Carrot-Top the question her lips did not dare speak. He motioned to the shelter, lifted up the skin door and said simply, “He's waiting for you.”

Putting her bag on the ground, Jeanne bent and knelt beside the injured man stretched out on a bed of leaves. She had been prepared for everything except this emaciated, bearded face, these closed eyes sunk into their sockets, this mouth contorted with pain, this rasping, irregular breathing.

Simon was lying on his back. His long thin body, naked to the waist, was covered with an old blanket. His arms were stretched above his head and fastened by the wrists to a leather strap that encircled the trunk of the birch. He turned his head ceaselessly from side to side, and pulled at the bonds tearing into his flesh.

Indignant, Jeanne was already taking out her knife to free him when Carrot-Top, who had squatted down across from her on the other side of Simon, motioned for her to stop.

“It's necessary. Without it, he tears off his bandages in his delirium and hurts himself. Also, often he doesn't recognize me and he attacks me. He's still very strong.”