Chapter 3: Stranger in a Strange Land
Her pallet tonight was only a slight upgrade from her cell back in New Orleans. The hay itched all over, especially with the new woolen dress and petticoats he made her wear. The smell of manure hung stagnantly in the cool air. Ruddy light came from a pair of dying torches on the far wall. Her right wrist was shackled to a heavy iron cistern. In that respect, the cell had been much better.
The shackles were new, and her wrists were already raw. Adrien hadn't taken any chances since her aborted escape attempt a week ago. He hardly let her out of his sight anymore. You like freedom, sable one? Do you?
Freedom had been only too brief. He'd found out, somehow, caught up to her like a hound on the trail of fresh blood. How did he always know? But he had known, and when he'd caught her, he'd shackled her right away, then threw her into the dark, tight confines of a coal bin. She'd screamed and sobbed for at least an hour before he came back for her. After that, escape had barely crossed her mind.
When Adrien did leave her by herself, she was left safely hidden in a stable, sometimes with a few drowsy horses or mules. Tonight was one of those rare occasions for solitude. The barn was empty, but the stench of its former inhabitants remained. She didn't want to sleep. The dreams came then, and whatever waking nightmares she faced were only half as terrifying.
The only thing left to do was to simply sit and think.
Outside, she knew the moon was nearly full, which meant she had spent almost two months in Old France (strange, how she called it that.) No two nights had been spent in the same place since the port city of Bordeaux, so her impression of her new home was a fragmented one. By day she sat, hands tied, in the back of the wagon, watching the scenery change from marshlands to autumn forests or open fields. Some things never changed: the men she had seen so far were by and large the same lowlifes as back home. So were the ones she had beaten already.
Every night it was the same: at a local tavern or meeting hall, he'd brag that she, hardly more than a girl, could beat any challenger in a fair fight. When they had finished laughing, Adrien set the odds and bets were placed. Then she fought like a demon against any strapping blacksmith, farmer's son or miller foolish enough to take her on. They never laughed in the end.
She'd long since recovered from the beating inflicted on her back in New Orleans. In fact, she'd never felt stronger. Adrien was no healer, but the Basque bosun on the ship that brought them here was. He'd set her dislocated shoulder properly, and given her a root to chew on both for seasickness and the pain of her sore ribs. He was also the only man who had ever held his own against her in a fight. Adrien had insisted she train with "the Basque," whose name she'd not learned. A lean, cagy veteran, he had worked her hard each day. He'd taught her some new moves, and some of his own strange language. She'd gradually come to trust him.
He hadn't, of course, been able to do anything for her face.
With her unshackled left hand she reached up. Her heart sank every time she caught a glimpse of herself. The wounds had healed into a jagged maze of scars and ridges, rough like oak bark. The scum who'd attacked her had made it so she'd never be beautiful again.
"Not so pretty anymore, is she?"
"Even the lepers won't want to do her."
"'S what she gets for killing Garamond and Talbert, the bitch."
Two months later, and she could still hear their taunts as if it were yesterday.
She had taken to wearing an indigo cloth as a mask, so that only her lips and lower jaw were visible. Adrien called her "Bandit" now nearly as often as he called her "Sable." Her old name was already a distant memory.
The barn door creaked, and Sable sat up instinctively. No one else knew she was here.
"Come on, pretty thing, have you not slept? We've got an early start this morning."
His voice sent a shiver through her. He would not dare lay a hand on her; he was no fighter. But some things were much worse than pain. He could put her back in the coal bin.
Sable's eyes fell upon her captor's belt. It jingled as he walked, his pouch full of silver and gold. "A good take, as always. Tres magnifique." He smiled. "Are you not tired?"
She was exhausted and sore, but would not give him the satisfaction of knowing it. "Mostly hungry. Did you bring anything?" she asked.
"Did I bring anything?"
She swallowed hard. "Did you bring anything for me, Monsieur?" The last word was poison in her mouth.
"That's a good girl." He tossed her a hunk of dark bread. "Still warm, that."
The bread was delicious; she wolfed it down, wishing there were more. "Where are we off to today?" she asked him.
"If I told you that, it wouldn't be a surprise, would it? Here, have some milk. You have to keep up your strength," he added, producing a skin. As she gulped down her breakfast, Adrien took a seat on a three-legged stool. "Now, before you and I leave this morning, I think you should tell the rules again. I feed and clothe you, I look after you, so is it so hard for you to obey just a couple of rules?"
Sable glared at him with purest hatred. "I already know them," she muttered.
With a quick swing, he knocked the milk skin out of her hands. "Indulge me, won't you? Or do you want another hour in that coal bin?"
Keeping her eyes lowered, she spoke in a monotone. "I am to obey you and not question your orders. I will not try and escape. I'll only speak when spoken to. I am never to attack anyone except my opponent."
"And?"
"And I'm not to fight dirty," she added.
"That's the most important one. It makes me look like a cheat. Tonight I didn't think I'd be able to collect!"
Her smile was grim; she smiled so rarely now. "I don't think that Gerard will be a father any time soon."
"Indeed," said Adrien, not laughing. "I'm going to take that shackle off now. Are we going to do this the easy way, or do you want to be punished?" His eyes gleamed unpleasantly in the torchlight.
She'd already decided. "Monsieur, please remove it."
He did so; the shackle fell loose and Sable rubbed her wrist gratefully. "Now ready the wagon and our supplies. I've something I must attend to. We leave before sunrise."
"Why before sunrise?"
Adrien smiled his most dangerous smile. "I don't want some poor milkmaid coming here and finding you. She'd probably die of fright."
They were well to the southwest of Lestrelle by sunrise. He always planned it that way, if only to avoid the losing fighter from the night before and the bettors who were much lighter in their wallets. If he ever had a destination in mind, her master never told her. It would not have mattered, anyway: she was as out of sorts here as if she'd been on the moon. He had been born and raised here. Here and there she caught some unfamiliar place name from a passing traveler or a signpost. The only constancy was the rattling of the wagon over rutted roads and the brisk, swirling wind from the west.
Shivering, Sable pulled her cloak tighter around her. In all her years in Nouvelle-Orleans she had never needed woolen clothing, much less a cloak. Summer here was long since over. There were no mosquitoes that she could tell, though; that was certainly a small blessing.
Normally talkative as a magpie, Adrien was strangely silent during the long days on the road. Was he afraid of being recognized? Perhaps, she thought, although they never spent two consecutive days in one town and left early each day. Maybe a guilty conscience. In almost four months knowing him, though, Sable had yet to see anything that would break his resolve.
They took a rest at midday next to a stone bridge over a creek. The sturdy cob was unhitched and allowed to drink and graze in the meadow. Lunch was more of the dark bread and goat's milk for her. Adrien pulled out cheese, a pear, and a flask of red wine. For a few minutes they sat in silence, then she spoke.
"Why did you bring me here?"
He bit into his pear. He must have been in a good mood, for he did not ask to be addressed properly. "It's a mutually beneficial situation. You provide me with a good stream of income; and I save you from certain death."
His voice did not have its usual jocular tone, which meant he was not being entirely truthful. She pressed him. "Monsieur, may I ask what your life was like in New France? Before you found me?" A little agreeability on her part couldn't hurt.
Adrien had told her little about himself in four months. He was, as he had said at the outset, one hell of a survivor. He was also a master of disguise: his repertoire included the Capuchin priest, a Norman fisherman, and a forgotten noble from some obscure Burgundy family. He'd not once been recognized here for all his supposed notoriety. She saw how his lean face furrowed in thought as he pondered the question.
"It was much as it is now, sweet bandit. Traveling from town to town, never claiming any of them as my home, making a living from the recklessness of foolish men." He paused to sip at the last of the wine. "Strangely curious today, aren't we?"
She hung her head. "No, I'm only curious about the past. I know so little of my own."
He gave her one of his enigmatic half-smiles. In this situation he could be hard to read. "The past is behind us now. I suggest you concentrate on the future," he said, gesturing to the sun. "Time waits for no one. We still have far to go, sable one."
"Where?"
His green eyes were hard. "If you ask me that again, I will not be so kind. Now, fill those water skins and hitch the horse."
The next few hours positively crawled by. Her master remained aloof and silent, not even once turning to look at her. The road had gotten progressively worse, forcing them to proceed at a slow walk. Late afternoon became humid and the wind picked up; with her sharp hearing, Sable thought she heard distant thunder to the west. Rolling farmlands had given way to the beginnings of mountains, the first high ground she had ever seen. There were no mosquitoes, but the gnats turned out to be much worse. With her hands bound, she simply gave up resisting after the first hour and tried to drift into a dreamless sleep.
Not many other travelers passed the wagon. Mostly they were going the other way, back toward Lestrelle. In and out of sleep, she was able to hear Adrien conversing with a tinker, who muttered something in his rough dialect about a haunted forest. As long as there are no gators, I feel safe enough. She rolled over and went back to sleep.
It was only the first splash of rain on her face that woke her. Darkness had settled in, and she realized with some surprise that she had actually slept for an hour or two. The sound of thunder was low and menacing now, and close at hand. The smell of a storm was all around. "What happened? Where are we?" she mumbled, rubbing her eyes and trying in vain to get her bearings. Raindrops fell harder now, tattooing them both.
"Quiet! Get that satchel; there's something in it I need," snapped Adrien.
A deafening clap of thunder drowned him out. The old horse shied in its traces, whinnying in terror. Now the heavens opened wide and sheets of rain cascaded down.
"Here," she shouted, already drenched in the downpour. They were swallowed in a sea of darkness, their lanterns the only islands of light. If Adrien knew where he was, he did not say. He hunched over a tattered parchment and his compass.
"We aren't far. If I am correct…" But he did not finish. Lightning zigzagged down and struck a lone pine tree. Crash! Panicking, the horse was off, galloping blindly along the rutted road.
Adrien made no attempt to slow the wagon. They thundered through the gloom, every hole in the road sending a jolt of fresh pain through her tired body. Sable grasped the side tightly and tried to hang on. She was only aware of the ferocity of the storm and wind as they assaulted her from all sides.
Without warning the wagon swayed violently. The cob let out a shrill neigh as it collapsed, its right front leg caught in a hole full of muddy water. Adrien pulled in the reins quickly; Sable closed her eyes, expecting to go flying into the night. In the end they simply lurched to an abrupt halt.
"Mon Dieu!" For a moment she kept her eyes closed, cursing under her breath. When she opened them, she remained safely in the back of the wagon. "What happened?" she called over the roar of the rain.
Adrien had climbed down and was examining the fallen horse. It lay on its side, sides moving in and out like bellows. "If we can get him up, he will be fine. He took a bad step."
His servant joined him on the ground, her cloak forgotten. "A livery? He'll need help."
He nodded. The rain had dampened his spirits as much as hers. "Take his bridle, sable one. I'll push from behind."
After a considerable effort, the horse was on its feet again. The worst of the downpour seemed to be over, but they stood with a lame horse and a loaded wagon in the middle of a field of sunflowers. Their food and supplies were soaked, and both lanterns had gone out.
"Wait, do you hear that?"
"Your young ears are far better than mine."
She did hear something over the receding storm; something familiar. It reminded her of…
"Church bells?" She took a tentative step. The sound was unmistakable even in the gloom. "Yes, I do hear them! This way!"
"Take the reins."
Half an hour later they emerged, drenched to the bone, in the square of a village. She had a hard time reading, but thought she had seen "Ste.-Eulalie" in peeling paint on a sign at the outskirts of town. It might have said "China" for all she knew or cared at the moment. The town was simply a place to rest.
The horse was limping with the heavy wagon behind. "Have you seen a stable yet?" asked Adrien impatiently.
"Try the tavern." She pointed to a hanging sign, her hands still tied. "Someone there will know."
"You know what to do, ma cherie. Stay hidden until I come back." He disappeared into the bustling tavern.
It seemed impossible with the horse and wagon, but she did not see a soul. Everyone in town was wisely indoors, enjoying a blazing fire and the pleasant warmth of ale, brandy or whiskey. With a hint of remorse, Sable tried to remember the taste of rum, her favorite. Like so many other things, it was nearly forgotten now.
Her master was quick to return. "You were quite right. Stables are just across the way. The man we need is Edouard Thierry."
Once inside, she surveyed what would probably be her home for the next few days. It did not smell of pigs or wet dogs, only grain and oiled leather. This was a well-run, hospitable place. Maybe she would not have to fight off the mice for a change.
"Good Lord, are you all right?" The ostler, seeing his visitors, dropped a set of horseshoes in surprise. "Your horse is lame."
"I have seen better nights." Adrien was smooth as always. He removed his sodden cloak. "I'll be needing a stall and board to let my horse rest. He met with an unfortunate accident on the road."
Edouard nodded. "That I have, monsieur. Lefou!" He snapped. "Sweet Mother, where is that boy? Never around when I need him."
Sable stood in the shadows, her cowl still covering her face. "Your daughter?" asked Edouard as he began to unhitch the injured, shivering cob.
"My maidservant," Adrien was quick to reply. "We'll also be needing a place for ourselves. Is there any good lodging to be had?"
"The best. Several rooms over at the tavern; they'll even throw in a croissant or two and tea in the morning. Ask for Matthieu Navarre." He stopped for a moment. "Monsieur, I don't wish to be impolite, but I take it you're from a ways away. Orleans, maybe?"
"Near Paris," said Adrien. "Originally. Nor do I wish to be rude, but we've had somewhat of an ordeal and we'd like to rest."
"I see. Your horse will be well taken care of. Bonsoir, and I'll see you tomorrow."
Adrien flipped him a silver coin. "And a good night to you."
Outside, the rain had dissipated, leaving a light mist in its wake. Sable had nearly forgotten her dress was soaked. All their supplies were in the wagon, and nothing dry remained. She only hoped she could sit by a fire for a little while tonight.
The tavern was still full of townsmen even at this late hour. She glanced around. No establishment in Nouvelle-Orleans was anything like this place. All manner of hunting trophies and antlers decorated the walls, many types of which were strange to her eyes. The floors were knotted pine rather than simple packed dirt. Some familiar smells were there: the bitter aroma of ale, cedary sawdust, and the stink of unwashed farmers, blacksmiths and laborers enjoying themselves after a hard day's work. She shuffled along behind her master, trying to hide her bound hands in the folds of her cloak. But no one so much as looked up from their drinking.
"Evening, Monsieur. What'll it be tonight?" The man behind the bar, whom they guessed must be Matthieu, spoke up. He was a middle-aged, friendly type with sandy hair rapidly going grey and a paunch visible beneath his leather apron.
"A room for tonight, maybe longer." Another silver coin appeared out of nowhere.
The tavern keeper retrieved a key. "Up the stairs, second on the left. You're soaked, Monsieur! Perhaps you'd like a fire. I'll have one of my nieces get one going. Musette!" He called to a pretty blonde who stood filling a tankard. "Stoke the fire in room three. Will you be needing any spirits, then?"
"Perhaps later," answered Adrien. He shepherded Sable quickly away.
A short while later, the fire in her room was roaring. Yawning, Sable peeled off her wet outer garments down to her slip, grateful to be in a warm, dry place at last. She kept the cloth tightly wound around her face.
Adrien entered the room holding a single candle. He too had removed his wet things, but had borrowed a dry shirt and pants from the tavern keeper. "You're not decent, you know," he said softly.
"I'm not a lot of things." She looked away and thrust her shackled hands toward the fire.
"Seeing as we'll be here a few days, and since you've been such a good girl," said her master, "I've decided you can stay in this room tonight. Don't get too comfortable, though, sable one. Tomorrow it'll be the stables again."
She was too tired to speak up or argue with him. "What about you?" she yawned.
"I'll be around, don't you worry. Sleep well," he said, and was gone.
Hardly believing her good fortune, she sat on the bed. It was well-worn, but soft and inviting. Anything but a straw pallet or hammock was foreign to her. Like a cat, she stretched and curled into a ball. Sleep came instantly, and she did not relive her torment that night.