Chapter 5: Hunter and Hind

(Author's Note: I had no idea how to finish this story…until now. And finished it shall be.)

The tavern was a hive of activity that afternoon. In fact, it seemed that every resident of Ste.-Eulalie stood in or around the building. That was normal, considering it was Gaston's birthday, practically an unofficial holiday for the townsfolk. What wasn't normal was that Gaston, for once, was not the center of attention.

"What the devil?" he muttered to himself as he approached, dressed in his finest, and noticed that not a single eye was on him. Maybe someone had died. If they'd had the nerve to die on his birthday, he was going to be angry. But the mood was all wrong, he saw as he got closer. This crowd wasn't a crowd of mourners. They were excited about something.

A wiry, bearded man Gaston had never seen before commanded everyone's attention; he stood on a wooden crate in front of the tavern and spoke in a rapid patter. What the man lacked in looks or stature he made up for with his clear voice and charismatic delivery. Gaston even found himself stopping to listen for a moment.

"…the best fighter I've ever seen in the Old World or the New. Why, I've seen this one defeat three strong men at once…"

Gaston shook his head, annoyed now. Not only was this man stealing his thunder, he was clearly nothing more than yet another traveling huckster, trying to part honest farmers and merchants from their money.

"I suppose this fighter of yours could beat me?" he interrupted the man in a loud voice. Every set of eyes turned from the stranger to their hometown hero.

The man looked him up and down. "Not bad. How much are you willing to stake on that, monsieur?"

Not bad? Not bad? Who did this guy think he was kidding? Gaston felt his temper flare. "I don't need to place a bet to prove I'm the best," he spat. "Everyone in this town knows it already."

"Ah, but I am but a humble visitor. And my fighter has never lost," said M. Arsenault.

It was like watching a tennis match; the villagers looked from Gaston, whom they'd known for years, to M. Arsenault, then back. There was a moment of terrible silence. Gaston , shrugging casually, reached for the pouch at his belt. If he had to defend both his honor and his manhood to this shyster, just to save face in front of the whole town, he would do it. He was no coward.

"Fine. Not that I think I'll lose, but what kind of odds are you giving?" He held out a handful of silver.

Something about the way the man looked at him disturbed Gaston. It wasn't just his greedy glance at the coins, either. There was sadistic amusement in those dark eyes, and arrogance. This was a man used to getting his own way. And there was room for only one of those in Ste.-Eulalie.

M. Arsenault smiled thinly. "Let's say five to one? In your favor, of course, monsieur…"

"The name's Gaston de Valois. And five to one is a joke."

"Fine, then, M. de Valois, let's say ten to one. Bets will be recorded in this ledger and held in trust at this establishment. "

That opened the floodgates. Everyone, from the merchants to the bumpkins and the old ladies, seemed to be placing a bet in Gaston's favor. Silver, copper, and even gold pieces piled up rapidly. It had been an excellent harvest after a long summer that year, and everyone seemed to have at least a few sous to spare. In all the hubbub, Gaston noticed not one villager bet on this so-called invincible fighter. They had known Gaston all his life; knew he could wrestle a full-grown bear or wolf to the ground. They were no fools. He smirked to himself. This was going to be too easy.

Finally, everyone with spare money had wagered, the bets were recorded, and M. Arsenault shook hands with Mathieu the tavern keeper, who had agreed to hold the money in his vault.

"Very well. The fight will be at midafternoon, here in the square. I daresay my fighter will want some rest, as will I. Best of luck to you, M. de Valois," said the stranger, bowing.

I don't need luck. I am the best.

"Drinks all around, on me, when I win. And I will win!" Gaston announced loudly to the villagers, who cheered in unison. When he turned around to brag to M. Arsenault, though, the man had disappeared.

Gaston felt a tug at his coattail. It was Lefou, who had been strangely silent the whole time. Even the expression on the little man's face was solemn, or as solemn as a fool's face ever could be.

"What do you want? And where have you been?" Gaston snapped as the crowd began to disperse.

"I…um…" Lefou seemed incapable of speech.

"Spit it out!"

Lefou studied his scuffed shoes. There was clearly something on his mind, but whatever it was, Gaston couldn't tell, because Lefou merely said, "How about that fight, huh?"

That brought Gaston back to the matter at hand. "Ha! You don't actually think it'll be close, do you? I'm going to wipe the floor with this poor guy. Now, let's hurry up and get home. I'm going to want some eggs and a slab of bacon before I fight." And before Lefou could spill whatever secret he kept, Gaston trotted off toward home.

"I, um, don't think it's a guy you'll be fighting," whispered Lefou to the now-empty space in front of the tavern.

"Ten to one?" Sable was incredulous. He'd never set such long odds before. She had a feeling she knew the answer already, but she asked anyway. "Who's the opponent?"

Adrien sipped thoughtfully at his hip flask. "That brute Gaston, the one all these poor sheep seem to idolize. Is there a problem?"

If the many painted depictions of the man at the tavern were any indication, there might be. He had to be nearly a foot taller than she and twice as heavy. This was no common blacksmith's apprentice or farm hand, either. This, she knew from the hunting trophies that adorned the wall, was a born killer with quick instincts. Still, Sable knew she couldn't let her fear show. Adrien, with his cunning mind, was more dangerous than even the most skilled hunter. She just shrugged and tried to sound casual.

"What's in it for me if I win against such long odds, monsieur?" she asked, deciding it was worth risking Adrien's temper for a bit of news. Her hands were still manacled and she'd been locked in the small room all day after her early morning trip to the stables.

His foxy face split into a grin. "As it turns out, I plan on giving you a cut on this win, sable one. Maybe twenty percent. If you keep winning, maybe we'll even talk about eventually buying your freedom. You are planning on winning, aren't you?"

She hadn't expected this news. Her eyes widened and she swallowed her anxiety. "Yes, Monsieur. I won't disappoint you."

"Get some rest. I'll be back to get you before sundown." She heard the key click in the door behind him.

After trying the door, which was indeed locked, Sable paced around like a nervous animal, which was just how she always felt before these fights. She was doubly so knowing there was at least a chance of freedom, though she guessed it was another one of her master's lies, and almost dismissed it out of hand. However, she was rested, for once; the beds were softer than anything she could recall in a long time. Even the food was tasty here. And there was something else. Ste.-Eulalie could have been any one of a dozen villages they'd barnstormed through in the last few weeks. But she knew it wasn't.

What was it about this little town? Why did she feel as if she somehow belonged here?

There wasn't much room to walk in the room, so she finally settled herself on the bed and stared at the painting over the small fireplace for at least the tenth time. She'd been fascinated by it all day. It depicted a fine chateau surrounded by trees. In the foreground, two children played with a spaniel. They looked happy, as if they didn't have a care in the world. The peaceful scene was almost able to make her forget her current predicament.

Stop your daydreaming. That place is for someone else, someone born to it. You are nothing but a whore's child, and an ugly one at that. Even if you had freedom, where would you go? What would you make of yourself?

Your fate is already sealed.

Sable buried her head in her hands and did something she hadn't done since leaving her old cell, something she would never let Adrien see. She wept. Maybe, if she were lucky, this Gaston would finish her off and send her to whatever chateau awaited the ugly ones when they died.

She was asleep almost before her head touched the pillow.

"You do know how to cook, I'll give you that," Gaston said through a mouthful of omelet. "I almost don't need a wife with you around."

Lefou had scurried from task to task once they'd gotten home. In his unofficial role as Gaston's valet, he cooked, cleaned, scrubbed, and otherwise kept the de Valois household running smoothly. He'd done so for as long as he could remember. Normally he'd have grinned happily at such a sincere compliment from his idol, but today something was bothering him.

It was the masked girl. The one he'd met in the stables. The one who'd shown him a bit of kindness. That was the one Gaston had to fight.

But why? She wouldn't stand a chance.

Gaston's loud finger snap brought Lefou back from his thoughts. "I said, I could use the rest of that rasher."

"Oh. Right."

Lefou didn't spend much of his time thinking. He was too busy both taking care of Gaston and learning the duties of an ostler. There wasn't much time left over for the sort of thing Gaston dismissed as "a dangerous pastime." So why was the strange girl…Sable, he remembered her name was… so much on his thoughts?

He shoveled the last of the crispy bacon from the skillet onto Gaston's plate, which the hunter devoured with relish. Guessing this was a good time to ask, Lefou asked, "Hey, Gaston, what kind of girl do you think you'll want for your wife?"

Gaston wiped the back of his mouth and laughed. "A pretty one. What else is there? Too bad most of the girls around here are indistinguishable from the cows and horses."

Lefou persisted. "No, I mean, what kind? Don't you want somebody who's kind of sweet? Gentle?"

"Why do I need that? I want a wife, not a nanny goat. And what's gotten into you, anyway?"

He couldn't bring himself to say. Through many years of growing up alongside Gaston, the most important lesson Lefou had learned was never to argue. He was usually rewarded by a well-placed fist when he did. So, wanting to avoid any blows, he just chuckled and poured more cider into Gaston's flagon.

"Nothing. Just asking, you know? You think I might ever find a wife?" The words were out of his mouth before he could stop, and he immediately regretted them.

Instead, Gaston just laughed even harder. "When pigs learn how to fly and the sun rises in the west, maybe. Now get upstairs and put out my buckskin leathers and my favorite boots. I've got a fight to win."

Lefou felt the words he wanted to say stick in his throat again as he scurried upstairs. It seemed as if Gaston would just have to discover the secret for himself.

When he did, he was going to get angry. And that never worked out well for Lefou.

The atmosphere around the village square was that of a festival. Everyone was there, and a few of the more enterprising villagers were hawking apples and other treats. The clamor of voices turned to cheers when the first person saw Gaston approaching. He swaggered the way he always did. In his scarlet leathers, he looked in every way the hero.

Maybe, he thought, my birthday will be the best one ever when I make everyone a bit richer.

Lefou trotted at his heels, needing two strides for every one of Gaston's just to keep up. He hadn't said a word since they left the de Valois house. Nobody, as usual, noticed him.

Adrien Arsenault was there, too. Gaston hadn't seen him just a moment ago. How did he manage to do that? It didn't matter, anyway, because soon the man would be gone, his fighter defeated, and everyone would be celebrating in the tavern. Still, Gaston had to hand it to him: the man knew how to make an entrance.

"Shall we?" he said with a sly smile.

"Glad to. Too bad you didn't allow side betting on how long it would take me to win," Gaston said, shaking the man's hand and trying not to crush it.

After a short discussion with Mathieu and the mayor, M. Rousseau, it was agreed no referee was needed. This was not to be a fight to the death, but merely a contest of submission. Mathieu announced Gaston's name as the town champion, and another cheer went up. It took several minutes for the noise to die down enough for Adrien to speak.

"So, where is he? This fighter of yours? Did he decide to forfeit when he saw me?" Gaston suggested with a laugh.

"Come on out, cheri."

The villagers, who had whooped and cheered a moment before, were suddenly silent. The figure walking toward them from the stables was…

"A girl?" Gaston bellowed in equal parts bafflement and anger. "I'm not fighting a girl. What kind of trick is this?" He wheeled around and glared at Lefou, fury in his blue eyes. "You knew about this, didn't you?"

The little man's mouth was moving, but no sound came out.

"I'll deal with you later."

"You're not telling me you're scared of this slip of a girl, are you?" Adrien said, that annoyingly playful tone in his voice.

"I'm not scared of anything!" Gaston shouted.

Adrien leaned in. "Then prove it."

A moment of deadly silence passed. Then, a voice from the crowd shouted, "Gaston, you can take her!" Another joined in, then another, until the entire crowd was chanting. Fight, fight! They had come to see a melee, and many had wagered their entire savings on the contest. Gaston knew that this was just as much about protecting their honor as his own. He couldn't let them down. If that meant pounding some peasant girl into oblivion, so be it.

Besides, he saw, she was hardly a beauty. Long-limbed, flat-chested, with a mask covering most of her angular face. It wasn't as if she had a husband or swain who would miss her. Still, the one thing that drew him to her were her eyes. Dark, luminous, focused. They weren't the eyes of a helpless hind but those of a feral she-wolf. Something fierce shone behind that mask. Gaston had seen it hundreds of times in the faces of his cornered prey who didn't go down without a terrible struggle.

Still, a girl stood no chance against him.

"Let the fight begin!" called Mathieu, and the crowd cheered.