Chapter 2: A World Apart (Three Months Later)
For Gaston de Valois, life was always good, but it was at its best in late autumn. Crisp, clear mornings on horseback, warm apple or pear cobbler every day, spending the lenghthening nights telling lewd jokes and singing tavern ballads by the fire until the wee hours. And of course, it was the very best time of year for hunting.
The iron grey stallion grazed placidly in the clearing. His rider had been tracking the same buck for over an hour now. The animal's tracks led into a thick tangle of woods. So did the hunter's.
Gaston loved many things, but nothing so much as the thrill of the chase…or else a brief reflection of his devastating good looks and impressive physique. Today he had brought only his favorite longbow, a full quiver, and his own immeasurable confidence. The deerhounds (or worse yet, Lefou) would have sent the buck galloping away in a heartbeat. Today he wanted whatever challenge the forest offered, and just maybe another trophy to show off back home.
A track here, then another. Not far now.
The deer were rutting; any good hunter knew that even without seeing the score marks their antlers had made against the trees and the increased number of hoof marks. Any other man in town might have been able to bag one just through blind luck.
But Gaston was not just any man, and this was not just any buck. Only a man of his supreme talent was up to the job.
The buck's tracks showed it to be a big one. He finally sighted his quarry drinking from a stream. Even from where he stood he saw the buck's crowning glory, and he gaped despite himself. At least ten points by the looks of it, and enough good meat to last a month. Throw in a great story the other guys would tell and embellish for a while, a gorgeous trophy for the tavern, and the buck looked just about perfect. It was clearly oblivious it was being followed. Of course, ignorance was no excuse for mercy.
His steps were nearly silent as he sidled closer and closer. Years of practice had honed his tracking and stealth, and despite his big frame Gaston possessed the grace of a dancer. A broken twig or the crunch of a dried leaf would betray him. His feet sidestepped them all. Even his breath was held silently in check.
One hand reached up to the quiver on his back, drawing a single arrow. Too thrilled at the prospect of the kill even to exhale, he nocked it, then pulled the string taut. The shaft pointed directly at the buck's heart, he sighted, and…
"GASTON! Hey, Gaston, where are you?"
The arrow zinged away into the trees. With a quick pivot, the big buck bounded effortlessly away. Blue eyes blazing with fury, Gaston threw down the empty bow. Merde! He knew that voice; how the speaker had found him this deep in the woods he would never know. Maybe a bit of the dumb luck that seemed to be going around these days.
"Lefou, I'm a little busy right now," he said through gritted teeth.
Grace and power were nowhere to be found in the other. Lefou came crashing through the underbrush, covered in debris and gasping for breath. "I…I came to find you. I thought, um, you might need my help…" He gulped as he saw a familiar expression cross the hunter's face.
Gaston seized the smaller man by the collar and shook him like a rag doll. "I told you last night, not once, but three times, that I was going deer hunting. Alone. Not goose, not rabbit or squirrel. Get that through that thick skull of yours next time!" Furious, he tossed Lefou away. The little man landed face down in a half-congealed puddle.
Well used to Gaston's outbursts, Lefou wiped the mud from his round face and smiled idiotically. "Well, okay. Sorry about the deer, though. I bet you'll get it next time. No one could get it but you."
Nothing lifted one of Gaston's dark moods faster than flattery. He tried to suppress a grin. "Of course! Why do you think I came out here by myself?"
"Yeah, Gaston, you're the greatest hunter in the whole world."
"I know, I know." He dismissed Lefou with one gloved hand. "So what is it that's so important? I thought you hated this part of the woods."
Still muddied and covered with leaves, Lefou stood. "No kidding! Wolves, and bears, and…you know, a witch!" His knees trembled comically.
Picking up the longbow, Gaston laughed. "Still believe in those silly bedtime stories, huh? I've been out here a thousand times by myself. No witches, I guarantee." He slung it over one shoulder. "I have no idea how that story got started, anyway. Probably some stupid farmer or shepherd who got lost out here." He sounded convincing enough, but he did not laugh now.
"Well, Gaston, you know, I wanted to ask you about the party. Who are you gonna bring, anyway?" Lefou asked eagerly.
Gaston's "surprise" birthday party was hardly a surprise to him; there were few to be had in Ste.-Eulalie. The whole town had been gossiping about it for weeks now. He supposed the only surprise left was which lucky girl would get the pleasure of his company that night.
The hunter shook his head. "Plenty of girls, only one me. I guess that's the problem. They just can't measure up to perfection!"
"But it's two days away. How about one of the Beaulieus? They've been bugging me all day, trying to get me to get in a good word for them." Lefou blushed; he had always been enamored with the pretty triplets.
It was certainly a thought. They would have given anything to accompany him. But the same problem remained: choose one, and have the other two complain all night. Just a typical night at the tavern, really. Besides, there were plenty of other girls in the village, just not that one who really caught his eye. And he really wanted a special evening on his birthday.
He turned back in the direction where the grey stallion waited. Lefou, ever faithful, trotted beside with the quiver. "Hey, I'm sure you'll find a girl in time. They're a sou a dozen for a guy like you."
"Right." Gaston answered without looking back. But his brows were still knitted into a frown.
Half an hour at a good pace brought the two men back to the clearing, still afire with plenty of autumn sunshine and late-season color. Tybalt, the big grey, raised his head and nickered at the sight of his master. He remained exactly where Gaston had left him. Lefou's pony mule was nowhere in sight.
"I thought you said you finished training that little nag of yours?" Gaston asked, grinning.
"Osbert! C'mere, boy!" shouted Lefou, trying to whistle and failing. "Think you could help me look?"
"You're the apprentice ostler, idiot. You find him."
"But where are you going?" Lefou sputtered.
In one fluid motion Gaston mounted his steed. "See you back in town. I've got a girl to find."
Laughing merrily, he galloped away.
The little ostler sighed. It was already a long day.
No master could have painted a more tranquil scene than the one Gaston surveyed. Ste.-Eulalie lay nestled amidst vast stretches of golden wheat and pasturelands to the east, the forest and its glorious autumn colors to the north and west. The foothills soared purple and majestic in the distance. Even from here he heard the bells of the village chapel proclaiming eleven o'clock.
He hadn't gotten the buck, true, but for just a moment it didn't seem to matter. There would be other times for hunting, but precious few days like this until spring. A troop of geese soared far overhead in a "V," hurrying toward the warmer lands to the south. Without a musket, Gaston could only watch as they flew honking by.
Below the horse and rider was an open field of sunflowers, their dark faces following the light. A warm breeze made them dance.
"What do you say, fella? You up for it?" asked Gaston, rubbing the horse's neck. The grey had not yet broken a sweat. He whinnied in anticipation.
Horse and rider thundered down the ridge into the sunflowers, golden petals and rough stalks flying everywhere. The buck may have escaped today. But there would be another day.
Tybalt drank deeply at the trough; Gaston treated himself to a ladleful of icy water from the fountain. A brisk morning had turned into a pleasantly warm afternoon, and both were now sweating freely.
The town square was alive with the daily gaggle of merchants hawking their wares, farmers, animals of all kinds, and wives doing their errands. A gangly teenage shepherd and his scruffy collie tried to keep several dozen sheep from straying. Hooves clattered, chickens clucked, a throng of children played tag and laughed. Everyone who could do so was enjoying the last, glorious warm days of the year.
"Bonjour, Madame Jocard! Some rosy apples for you today?"
"Ah, Monsieur, I must say that hat suits you."
"Take home some of my flowers! Make your wife happy!"
"Francoise, give me back my doll or I'll tell Papa!"
Some days the hunter found comfort in the peace and serenity of the woods. But mostly Ste.-Eulalie herself comforted him: he knew her faces, her sights and sounds, even her familiar smells so well. Things remained the same every day, and everyone knew their places. Townsfolk who passed gave him a friendly wave or "Bonjour." All the young women, and many of the older ones, tried to sneak in a playful wink and a flirtatious word or two. The townsmen he acknowledged with a nod; he flashed his dazzling smile to his female admirers, usually receiving a swoon and a sigh in return. Like his father before him, Gaston stood proud and tall, a figure the village men could seek to emulate and the women could dream to marry.
Like shooting fish in a barrel. It's almost too easy.
When the stallion had drunk his fill, Gaston led him to the livery stable just across from the tavern. His was the largest stall; the horse's name was carved upon a wooden plaque over the door. Hungrily Tybalt dropped his nose into a bucket of oats.
Gaston smiled to himself. He had hoped his new mount would stay inky black like old Apollo. As a weanling Tybalt had begun to turn iron grey. Like a thunderhead looming on the western horizon, with the speed of lightning to match. And he was only four years old, just coming into his prime. He was perfect just the way he was. Gaston rarely settled for less.
"Haven't seen Lefou around, have you?" came the gruff voice of Edouard Thierry, the ostler.
"Last time I saw him he was chasing that damned Osbert again," Gaston answered, not taking his eyes off Tybalt.
Edouard, a stout older man, shook his head. "I've had it with that boy! He's never on time, always making excuses. You better get it through his head that his job is here, not nipping at your heels like an orphaned pup."
The hunter couldn't help but grin. "He's pretty good at that." He turned to Edouard. "His father wanted him to be your apprentice, not me. It's not exactly easy for him to groom Tybalt there."
It was Edouard's turn to smile. "I always said he would've done better just being the village idiot. But seeing as they got rid of the idea, I guess I'm stuck with him. He isn't too bad when he's actually doing his job, you know," he said.
"Everybody's got to be good at something. I'm just good at everything."
"That you are. You've become quite a specimen." The ostler chuckled.
"You wouldn't have seen Lionel, have you? I'm still waiting on that new halter."
"He stopped by this morning, said to come by the shop, that he was just about done."
"I'm on my way."
It was only a short walk to the saddler's; no two places in town were very far apart. Gaston always enjoyed the appreciative glances he got from the women as he strode past, even though he hardly acknowledged them anymore. The silversmith's and glassblower's stalls gave him the perfect excuse to admire his reflection. In fact, the only merchant who never acknowledged him was the little old bookseller. As if he counted, anyway, smirked Gaston.
"Pity for a poor fellow, good sir?" A figure, hunched over and draped in filthy rags, reached out a hand. Beggars and vagrants were few in remote Ste.-Eulalie. Gaston had never seen this one before.
He snarled and kicked out. "Get outta here! We don't need any more garbage in the streets!" The beggar went tumbling off to the side in a crumpled heap.
Dealing with Lefou is trouble enough, and now this? I'll have to have a word with the mayor..
Lionel the saddler, a bundle of scrap leather in his arms, ran straight into Gaston, apparently just as preoccupied. "Bonjour, Gaston. I've got that halter of yours. I…ah…was just taking this to…"
"Yes?" Gaston, amused, raised an eyebrow. Probably some birthday "surprise" he wasn't supposed to know about.
"Well, ah, never mind. Come on in and I'll show you."
The saddlery shop was among Gaston's favorite places in town. He inhaled, taking in the deep, rich smell of oiled leather. Lionel fetched the halter from his workshop. It was perfect, fine black leather accented with sterling silver. A single letter "T" was stamped into the browband. "So what do you think? Is it all right?"
"Perfect," Gaston said, admiring the fine craftsmanship. "It's great." He retrieved a handful of silver coins from a leather pouch. "Keep the rest. I'll probably stop back next week; I need a new belt pretty quick."
"Merci beaucoup."
The bell on Lionel's door rang again as the door opened. This time it wasn't a customer. "Bonjour, Gaston," said the pretty visitor, a basket of flowers in her arms. "I couldn't help but notice you were here."
"Hi, Marcelle." He grinned; she sighed deeply and batted her eyes. His eyes drifted to her chest. "Nice… uh…flowers you've got there."
Her laugh was like tiny bells tinkling. "Melisande. I guess the new dress threw you off." It was lavender rather than her usual green, although it had her preferred plunging neckline. She saw his eyes linger at her cleavage. "Can I ask you something? In private?"
"Yeah. I'll see you, Lionel."
"See you at the tavern," called the saddler.
Outside, Melisande pulled Gaston into the narrow alley between buildings. Her lips met his immediately. His hands strayed to her derriere; she did not resist. After a moment she pulled away, giggling.
"Hey, I was just warming up," he protested with a wink.
She put a hand to her face in mock outrage. "You're so naughty. I bet you already know all about your party."
"Hard to keep a secret when everyone talks about it all day," he said.
"So…have you decided to ask me yet?" cooed Melisande.
"Well, I don't know…" As he prevaricated, Melisande couldn't help smiling at how cute Gaston was when he pretended to think hard. "What about your sisters? I know I'm irresistable, but there's plenty of me to go around."
The blonde pouted and gave him her best wide-eyed expression. "I asked you first, didn't I?"
He returned her look with a rakish smile. "If you say 'please.' Go on, ask me again. I like it when a girl begs me."
"Melisande!" A high-pitched shout shattered the mood. "Come back here and get to work!" Marcelle and Musette, her sisters, were clearly annoyed.
"Ooh, I've got to go," she said, giving him one last peck on the cheek. She picked up her basket of pansies. "Are we on?"
"Friday night." Gaston kissed her delicate hand. "I'll be sure and act surprised."
Now that that was out of the way, he could really get ready. Off to the tailor, a quick chat with Musette and then Marcelle… and then, I could use a nap. Got to get some beauty sleep before Friday, after all.