Retribution

Chapter Two:

Escape

Marguerite couldn't sleep, and this time, it wasn't because of the straw mattress that scratched against her back at night so she would wake red and itchy in the dawn. Her mind was running through all of the holes in her plan, and what she should do if her worst thoughts manifested themselves. She had to plan carefully. She could not afford for this to go wrong.

She listened intently for the snuffing out of candles, the hushing voices of the servants she shared an overcrowded room with, the closing scrape of the door, and then the heavy footsteps of the guards as they began their nightly rounds. She listened as one by one, each girl fell asleep, exhausted by the day's work. She waited, counting as minutes and hours passed, making sure that everyone was huddled under their covers before she made her first move.

Careful not to disturb Nancy, Marguerite crawled out of the bed, wrapping her thin shawl around her shoulders. The coldness of the stone floor seeped through Marguerite's thin stockings and froze the balls of her feet. Nancy's deep snoring wavered as Marguerite moved past her, and Marguerite was afraid that she had broken Nancy's slumber. She stood, and watched as Nancy tossed in her sleep, murmured to herself, and drifted back to her rhythmic breathing. After tiptoeing around the other sleeping bodies, Marguerite pressed herself up against the door, and listened for the hollow tapping of the guardsmen's boots.

As they drew nearer, she held her breath and closed her eyes. She prayed fervently that they would not decide to stop outside of the door and leave her frozen in place. The guards paused. Marguerite could feel her heartbeat vibrating along her body. What if they never left? What if she was stuck right in this spot until daylight came? How could she explain to Madame Arnault why she had fallen asleep in the middle of the work day?

Finally, the guards continued on. Marguerite breathed a sigh of relief and carefully opened the door a crack. She listened as the sound of the footsteps disappeared out of earshot, her heartbeat quickening as she stood rigid behind the door. Sensing it was safe, she pulled the door open wide enough for her to slip through. It stuck on its hinge, which made her pull harder on the handle until the door jolted open with a screech.

Her skin prickled as she eased herself through the doorway and gently closed the door. She hurried towards the laundry, darting in between pillars when she thought she heard the low whispers of the guards, or the slam of a door.

She made her way to the storage rooms, which had no windows to let the moonlight in, and were provided no candles to light the way. She felt her way in the darkness, past the soaps and scrub-boards, for her dress' hiding place. Where had she put it? She ran her fingers along the wooden compartments. Two shelves down, four shelves across, at the back. Grabbing the dress, she pulled it over her head, trying desperately to keep from knocking anything over while lacing it up. She reached in again, and this time her fingers brushed against the wiry hair of the wig. She pulled it from the shelving, and after fumbling around with her hair until she had it pinned up on her head, fitted the wig over it as best as she could manage.

From the laundry, Marguerite only had to slip into the courtyard and out through an archway to find herself in Hautefort's manicured gardens. Staying close to the dark shadow cast by the castle's wall, she edged her way around the building until she was just a mere six feet from the cover of the wall to the seclusion of the maze of hedging.

Canvassing the gardens to make sure she would be unseen, Marguerite skittered across into the maze and, keeping herself pressed to the darker side of the hedge, wound herself up in its twists and turns until she purposely found herself at a dead end. There she collapsed, her dress rustling about her as she made herself comfortable on the dewy grass. Wrapping her arms around her, she leaned her head against the thick foliage and watched the crescent moon slowly die. Marguerite closed her eyes, and let slip a single prayer that she would safely escape the castle and find a better life. The life that she was meant to have.

* * *

A loud clanging stirred Marguerite from her sleep and she awoke angry, until she realised it was not Madame Arnault standing over her and banging a pan, but rather the palace gates being pulled open, ready for the influx of courtiers. She had seen it enough times to imagine what was happening. They would be coming now, a grand procession of Comtes and Comtesses, Ducs and Duchesses, Marquis and Marquise, in their stately carriages with their golden coats of arms fastened to the doors and their liveried footmen hanging off the back. The lesser nobles would have to fight their own way in, past the rabble of peasants begging food and money and forgiveness from the palace guards, who would be trying their best to allow the nobility in while keeping the peasants out.

Marguerite moved around the maze until she came upon a bench. She nestled herself on it, keeping her posture straight, her hands quickly passing over her wig and bodice to make sure her disguise was in order. She would have killed for a glimpse at a looking glass to calm her fear. Stretching out her arms to relieve them of the aches she had suffered during the night, she proceeded to wait.

Soon enough, the giggles of some of the ladies could be heard as they paraded around the gardens, passing gossip between them. Marguerite strained to hear their conversation, and longed to find them and join them. But she had to remain where she was. She had to stay until it was late enough for no one to be surprised by her leaving court so early. But she also had to leave before someone discovered her missing. It was hours after sunrise. Madame Arnault would already have everyone on the lookout.

Marguerite bided her time, creeping further and further out of the maze, until she could see the courtiers milling about the courtyard, and edge closer and closer to the castle gates. She waited until a large carriage halted before the gate and the guards asked its driver the obligatory questions. Taking the opportunity, Marguerite stepped out of the hedging, and hurried towards the gates.

Two of the guards turned from the peasants they were turning away and looked at her intently, their beady eyes filling her with dread. Marguerite was convinced they saw through her, and were at any moment going to take her by the arm and rip off her wig. But instead, they pushed the peasants aside and led her past them, and then Marguerite was out of the castle grounds. She had freed herself from servitude. She had freed herself from her mother. She had freed herself to live her own life.

* * *

Marguerite had thought that after spending three months of standing at a wash troth that she would be able to make the journey from Hautefort Castle to the manor quite easily on foot. After all, the castle was plainly visible from the surroundings of the house - it couldn't have been too far away. But as the sun rose higher in the sky, Marguerite's feet ached and she had only just reached the valley in between the two residences. She wanted to collapse down on to the soft grass and never walk another step. However, the thought of being caught and driven back down into the laundry - or worse, holed up in prison or sent to the criminal colony in the Americas - forced her to trudge up the hill.

Perhaps it had taken longer, because she had kept off the main road? Thank God there were no peasants farming in the fields she passed, no one to ogle and question why a woman dressed as a noble was traipsing around the countryside by herself. She could think of no reasonable explanation she could offer them. The sooner she stepped out of this gown and into her own clothes, the better.

Out of breath and her heart racing, Marguerite made it to the manor - a fugitive sneaking into a place that she was once driven to in a carriage. It had never felt like home. How could it have, when there were pig-sties in their very front yard? She had hated the manor the moment she had seen it. Auguste de Barbarac had never been rich like her father, the Baron de Ghent, had been, nor had he been as handsome. What had her mother been thinking, dragging her and Jacqueline away from the comfortable rooms in Avignon and out of the perfect life they had there to this dismal farm, this nothingness? Its only saving grace was its proximity to the castle, and with that the opportunity for an acquaintance with Prince Henry.

And there was never enough money. Her mother had expensive tastes, and liked to lavish gifts upon Marguerite, which she'd happily accepted. But then the manner of their living had diminished, and Rodmilla began to sell off servants and household objects to keep the balance. God knows they received little profit from the servants' stall at the market. Eventually, Monsieur le Pieu struck that bargain with Rodmilla, providing them with an income in exchange for having Danielle as his own servant, and taking the remainder of their possessions as insurance. But then Marguerite's own fortunes came crumbling down around her. No title. No marriage to Prince Henry. Hautefort she had managed, but the wrong side of it. She got condemnation and dirty linens, when she had been expecting adoration and gold.

Though Jacqueline seemed to have done well out of the situation. She was there now, being led about by her servants and shown how they mucked out the animal shelters, collected the honeycomb from the beehives, and tended to the gardens. That Captain Laurent was there, too, shielding himself from the dirt that flew at him, and shooing away the animals that came too close for comfort. His austere face broke into a smile as he looked at Jacqueline. Marguerite frowned. Was everyone to be happy but her? Why was her lot in life made so hard?

Pleased to observe that the majority of Jacqueline's servants appeared to be helping their mistress outside, Marguerite sneaked into the manor, and made her way up to her old room. She prised open the door. This was not her bedroom. Her old bed was still there, and her curtains still hid the windows, but the floor was swept clean. There was no armoire, no knick knacks on the table, no books laid out purely for the beauty of their covers, no gowns discarded on the floor. It was like she had never existed in this room. It was a room for houseguests now, nothing more.

She knew Jacqueline well enough to know that her belongings simply wouldn't be disposed. Jacqueline was utterly sentimental. But they wouldn't be inside the house, on display for all to see. Captain Laurent would have advised her of that. No, they'd be somewhere out of the way. Somewhere ... outside.

She hurried back down the stairs and out to where the outbuildings were clustered together. The stables and the servants' quarters were out of the question - they were too full of horses and people to be able to store trunks of dresses and jewellery and shoes – leaving the storehouse as the only other option. Marguerite headed towards it, opened the door, and was faced with reserves of flour and grain, and vegetables that were not yet required on the manor's chopping boards. She was about to turn around and walk out, where out of the corner of her eye she spied a brass plaque mounted on a trunk, reflecting the sunlight that was streaming through the door.

She settled herself in front of it, and ran her fingers over the plaque, feeling the rough etching that spelled her name. She had made Rodmilla pay to have it affixed to her luggage, in case it went missing on the journey from Avignon to the manor. When Rodmilla had told her it was nonsense, and that all of the trunks would end up at the same place, named or unnamed, nine-year-old Marguerite had stamped her feet and demanded that it was the least her mother could do, since she was sending them to live in the wilderness.

She gingerly opened the clasp and lifted the lid of the trunk. It was filled with her old dresses and chemises. Gowns of russet and peacock blue, pale azure and burgundy - Marguerite longed to take them all with her. But she could only choose one. One outfit to last her until she could start rebuilding her life. One that no one would associate with her. One that she hadn't been seen wearing a hundred times. She knew the one she had to choose. It was a vile green thing in a harsh fabric that one of Rodmilla's friends from Avignon had given to Marguerite when they came to visit. She had wanted to throw it in the fire as soon as she had unwrapped it, but her mother had given her a stern look. It wouldn't have done to be impolite to a guest, and therefore it had sat for four years, squished behind all her expensive, pretty dresses. Now, it finally had a purpose.

She peeled off the stolen gown, and climbed into the green dress. Without the weight of the heavy fabric closing in around her, she felt better. Finding an old woollen cloak to throw around her shoulders, she reluctantly put all of her old dresses back in the trunk.

She certainly could not keep the gown and the wig, now lying on the ground sodden with sweat. Someone would give a description of the missing items, had probably already done so, and if they were found on her she would most definitely be arrested. She would have no chance to fool the guards with batted eyelashes and a quickly spun story. Should she burn them? She examined the dress and the wig. The dress may burn all right, but the wig would make the most acrid stink, her whereabouts would immediately be betrayed to anyone on the hunt for her. And she didn't have the time to stay and watch them be consumed by flames.

And what of her hair? She'd be recognised instantly now that she had foregone the wig. She fumbled about in her trunks for anything that would eradicate the yellow from her hair, but could not find a single jar that would perform it for her. Casting her glance back further, she located her mother's belongings, also neatly ordered. She quickly found a container of gunk she recognised as being the one Rodmilla used to cover the greys in her hair that betrayed her age. Marguerite fingered a dollop, feeling the cold cream slide between her fingers. She quickly unpinned her hair and applied the cream along its length, pleading with it to work as she hid her hair under a snood. She tucked the container into the folds of her dress for future use.

It was well past time to go. The sun was beginning to burn orange - it would be dark before she knew it, and Marguerite needed to get far away from this place. Righting the mess she had created from rummaging through the trunks, she stuffed the stolen dress and wig into a sack, shut the door, and without taking a single look back at the manor, fled to the forest.

* * *

The sky was streaked with an explosion of pink and orange as the sun descended closer to the horizon. The colours were reflected on the surface of the lake, transforming it into something other than it was. Marguerite paused for only a moment to gaze at it, letting the sack she carried slip to the ground.

She had been on the move since her escape from Hautefort, and every last muscle in her body twinged with pain. Her eyes were heavy from lack of sleep. But she could not stop yet.

Each rock she heaved into the sack was heavier than the last, and Marguerite began to worry that she wouldn't be able to lift the thing, let alone throw it into the lake. But she needed as many rocks as she could find. She had to make sure that the sack would sink, and take with it any evidence that she had been in the area.

Tying up the opening of the sack, she stumbled her way towards the edge of the cliff where she knew the lake lay waiting to consume her stolen dress and wig. She stood on the cliff, as close to the edge as she dared, watching as ducks swam on the calm surface. Hefting the bag up, she struggled as she swung it back and forth before releasing it from her grasp. The ducks were sent flying as it tumbled down the cliff face and fell with a splash into the water, not two metres away from the side of the lake. Marguerite hoped it would be enough.