The Mark of the King Page 3

  Contradictions tangled together in Julianne’s mind as quickly as she tried to unravel them. Head aching, she looked intently from one prisoner to another, willing herself to divine the heart of each man.

  Impossible.

  And then one of the men caught her gaze and held it, almost conspiratorially. His face was gently lined, either by age or by weather, and bronze enough that he could not have been in prison long. He smelled of salt and earth and woodsmoke. Beneath his shirt-sleeves, his muscles retained their masculine curves—another sign that he’d not spent much time stagnating behind bars yet. A sign, she hoped, that he also retained more of his humanity than those whose bodies had wasted away.

  “Hurry up,” called a guard. “Many are waiting!”

  It was such a small gesture, to offer her hand to this blue-eyed prisoner with the frank gaze. As she did so, Julianne felt as though she were stepping off a plank, bound and gagged. But she’d made her choice, and he accepted. The touch of his skin as his hand swallowed hers sent a charge through her body. It was not attraction that shuddered through her, but finality.

  Together they moved to the end of the line and waited for the rest of the matches to be made. She could barely hear above her galloping pulse. She looked at the man she had chosen and wondered what a life with him could offer. Could they navigate the colony as partners, though they were only together by force? Would he support her desire to practice midwifery? Would he turn to alcohol for solace like her father did?

  His eyes met hers, and he gave her hand a light squeeze. Bending to her ear, he whispered, “Courage.”

  The first word between them. Julianne nodded and managed a shaky half smile. It occurred to her that one day they would tell their children this story—of the moment in which they met and married all at once. Children! She pressed her cold hands to her burning cheeks to cool them. The prisoner rested his hand on her shoulder, and she wondered whether his instinct ran toward protection or possession. Or both.

  As soon as the last couple was paired, a priest appeared at the altar, made some remarks about holy matrimony, and instructed the grooms to repeat after him, inserting their own names into the space he would allow. As nearly two hundred grooms recited the vow at once, Julianne strained to hear the name of her new husband.

  “Simon?” she mouthed to him as the priest gave instructions to the brides.

  He nodded. Simon. She would have to learn his last name—and hers—later.

  She straightened her bonnet on her shorn head, retied the strings beneath her chin. It was her turn to recite the vows, and Simon leaned in to hear her choke out, “Julianne.” Silently, he formed her name on his cracked lips.

  Tears blurred her vision. She was falling. Flailing. She felt stripped by his gaze already. Around them, prostitutes grinned and puckered their lips while pauper girls hung their heads, shoulders slumped in shame. A waif-like orphan stared unblinkingly through her blond hair. Overhead, a sparrow chirped madly as it fluttered among the beams in the vaulted dome, and Julianne gritted her teeth. She too knew what it was to feel free, only to realize she was trapped instead.

  In a fleeting moment, the priest pronounced one hundred eighty-four husbands and wives joined together in holy covenant, though surely God himself would not call this forced mating holy. If any took the opportunity for a nuptial kiss, Julianne could not tell. Her hands, still in Simon’s large ones, stiffened, as did her arms, holding him away from her in case he thought to lean in. She did not allow herself to look at his face, lest he see it as an invitation, but instead made a study of his hands. Callused. Weathered. A boatman’s, perhaps.

  Her body remained wooden, rooted to the floor, but inside she felt as though she were being pulled under by a current too strong to fight.

  The couples were instructed to leave the church and continue the long journey to the port city of La Rochelle, where their ship waited. The resemblance to the animals being rounded up two by two for Noah’s ancient ark was not lost on Julianne.

  Near the door, a notary in a black silk robe and white powdered wig bade couples to make their marks on their marriage certificate. “The document will be kept safe in a lockbox on the ship and delivered to the Superior Council on your behalf upon your arrival in Louisiana.” He handed a pen to Julianne, who signed her name. That such a proceeding could actually be binding was unthinkable.

  Simon scratched an X onto the parchment. “LeGrange,” he said. “Our last name is LeGrange.” They stepped outside into the courtyard.

  No sooner had they left the church than a man was kneeling at Julianne’s feet. A cold metal cuff bit her ankle through her thin grey stocking. Another cuff was fitted on Simon’s ankle before the blacksmith chained them together. This, on the day of Julianne’s so-called freedom. Instead of wedding bells ringing their exit from the church, it was the clang of shackles locking into place.

  “Treat us like animals, will they?” The cords in Simon’s neck tensed. “Then perhaps animals they will have.”

  They set off at once for La Rochelle by foot, chains jangling with each step. A few carts remained in their service, carrying provisions and the new clothing, while the rest were returned to Salpêtrière.

  Shock muted Julianne as they walked. Only the sharp tug of iron on her ankle kept her from believing this was a dream.

  Chapter Three

  Feel nothing, Julianne told herself. Be as stone. But her heart still felt every shard of her shattered expectations and still burned with shame for what was to come.

  Rubbish floated in the gutter beside her as they threaded their way west through Paris. Only dimly did she hear the thrumming of the city now. Tears stinging her eyes, she did not look up to see the children begging their mothers for chestnuts or chocolate, or the carriage driver and wagoner lashing each other with insults and whips, or the beggars rattling coins in tin cups, or the woman on the corner offering café au lait for two sous. Her gaze was riveted on the shadows sliding over the road before her, shaped by her figure next to Simon’s. The flat grey forms joined together as one and then separated in turns, wrinkling over ruts full of last night’s rain and leaping upon the backs of anyone in their path.

  By the time the shackled brides and grooms reached the countryside, they still had not eaten or had any opportunity for rest. Julianne was nearly breathless from the building pressure she felt with every step.

  Finally, she said, “Wait.”

  Simon stopped and turned toward her. She could barely bring herself to meet his eyes. “I must . . .” She bit her lip for a moment, loathing her predicament. “I’m so sorry, but I need to relieve myself.” Humiliation scorched her face.

  “Don’t be sorry.” He pointed to a linden tree near the side of the road. “Can you make it that far?”

  She nodded but held her breath as they crossed over to it. Simon stood with his back to the tree, and with the chain pulled taut between their ankles, Julianne lifted her skirts and squatted behind its trunk. Tears coursed down her dusty cheeks as other couples and guards passed them on the left and sheep grazed in the field to her right. A masculine voice threw a vulgar jeer at her, and Simon shouted back in her defense. Julianne’s shoulders shook with furious sobs.

  “You all right?” Simon asked without looking at her.

  Standing, she wiped her damp cheeks. “I’m not hurt, if that’s what you mean.” She stepped closer to his side.

  “The devil you’re not.” His blue eyes roved from her bonnet to her shackle.

  A half smile bent her lips as they headed back onto the road.

  Simon ran his hand through his short hair, and it stood on end with dust and dirt. “Tell me, how did you come to be at Salpêtrière? You have too much modesty to be a woman of the night and too much mettle to be an orphan.”

  Julianne sighed. “Sentenced for a crime I didn’t commit.”

  Simon arched his brows. “Remarkable. Would you believe everyone in my prison was innocent too?” He grinned broadly, but she did not re
turn it. “If you’re not guilty, you didn’t deserve to be jailed in the first place, and you certainly don’t deserve exile.”

  “What are you saying?”

  He looked ahead and behind him before leaning in and whispering, “I’m saying we should fight. Take a stand. I’ve seen the way you look at the guards. The way you look at our chains. You hate what we’ve become just as much as I do. Put that hatred to work. I will.”

  Julianne turned a bewildered stare on him. “Have you weapons, Simon? Beyond your rage? What can you have that will give you an advantage in this?”

  In answer, Simon curled his hands into massive fists, then slowly opened them, palms to the heavens, his fingers bent toward the sky like claws. “Have men not been slaying men with no more than these since ancient times?”

  Julianne’s breath skittered across her lips. “Was that your crime, then?” Murder?

  “Salt smuggling.” He dropped his hands, and she released a breath. Of all the crimes she could imagine, salt smuggling was almost virtuous. The monarchy used its monopoly on the sale of salt to charge extravagant prices, and salt smugglers sold it to the common people at lower rates. “I fight against injustice, Julianne. I hope that when the time comes, you’ll join me. I’ll be fighting on behalf of every one of these chained souls. Including you.”

  Julianne shook her head. “I wanted to go, just not like—”

  “Not like this,” Simon finished for her. Behind him, sunlight glinted on a gently waving field of wheat ready for harvest.

  “There is nothing left for me here. Don’t you want to leave all this behind? Begin anew?” She searched his face for some hint he understood.

  His eyelids flared. Lips parted in seeming disbelief. “In Louisiana? Are you in earnest?”

  “But Picard said—”

  “Lies. The Company of the Indies is desperate for colonists. Louisiana is a wasteland, cut off from France so effectively that once we are there, we’ll live more like the natives than Frenchmen, and always with the threat of Indian attacks. Have you heard how a scalping is performed? This is what you have to look forward to from your precious Louisiana. Not gold and silver, game and fertile soil. It is a land of despair, where the disappointment alone can kill you.”

  “Stop, please stop,” Julianne gasped. “My brother is there.”

  His gait hitched for a moment before resuming his pace. “Your brother?”

  “He’s a soldier stationed somewhere in Louisiana, last I heard. I will find him if it’s the last thing I do. He’s the only family I have left.”

  Simon bent down and snatched up a rock the size of an egg, tossed it in the air, and caught it. “I’m your family now.”

  As the sun dipped to the horizon, dread twisted Julianne’s stomach.

  Mounted guards pounded up and down the road where the couples trudged. “We stop at the inn at the top of this hill,” one of them shouted. “Some of you will sleep in the common room, some in the stable, and some outside. Those who sleep outside will have a turn indoors tomorrow night. In five days, we’ll be in La Rochelle, where you will all have shelter.”

  When Julianne and Simon neared the inn, they were each handed a lump of black bread and one thin blanket to share.

  “You two will retire to the stable for the night, where you will consummate your marriage.”

  Sweat beaded along Julianne’s hairline almost instantly. She and Simon were splashed with mud and coated with dust, like every other new colonist. The strongest smells of city and countryside clung to their skin like leeches. She covered her mouth with her hand to choke back both fear and revulsion. Gathering her composure, she clutched her bread with both hands. “I can’t,” she whispered.

  The guard’s mustache twitched. “He’ll help you.” He jerked his thumb at Simon.

  Julianne shook her head and clenched her teeth against the bitterness backing up her throat.

  “Now listen here, you little wench.” The guard shoved his finger in her face. “You were purchased for one reason—to populate. You’re good and married, and you will consummate that marriage on this, your wedding night. We have ways of putting you in the mood, if that’s what troubles you.” He tapped his musket. “That’s right. We’ll be watching the lot of you.”

  Julianne doubled over and retched on the ground. Terror crashed over her, swirled around her. Sinking to her knees, she gasped for air as she wiped the sick from her chin and rubbed her hand on the coarse grass. Warmth draped her shoulders and back as Simon covered her with the blanket. Her fingers fumbled for the edges, then pulled it tightly in front of her chest.

  “May we wash?” Julianne’s voice barely topped a whisper.

  “Whatever for?” The guard sneered. “Swine have always managed to mate just fine, covered in—”

  “Pierre!” Another guard approached, this one older. “If you find pleasure in this business, you’re not fit for it.” He turned and held his hand out to Julianne. So did Simon. Taking both, she rose unsteadily to her feet. “There is a creek just over there. You may wash in it. Pierre, if any others ask for the same allowance, grant it. I’ll guard them from a respectable distance myself. They won’t run. There’s no place they can reach before we catch up with them.”

  Simon’s arm circled Julianne’s waist as he guided her toward the line for drinking water. “Eat. Try, at least.” He motioned to the ration in her hand.

  She broke off a chunk of the bread but found it too hard to chew. Even the thought sent her stomach flipping all over again. “I can’t,” she said again, slipping the food into her pocket, and Simon didn’t press the matter further. At the front of the line, she sipped as much water as her nerves allowed.

  “To the creek?” Simon tucked her hand on his arm as he led her down to the water. Night was falling, and the temperature with it. Knee-high wild grasses tugged at Julianne’s skirt as she waded through them. The chain between their ankles scraped dully over the ground, catching on rocks along the way. By the water’s edge, she could hear one other couple splash into the creek downstream from where she and Simon stood.

  With trembling fingers, she untied her bonnet strings and uncovered her head. “I’m not accustomed to an audience.”

  “So I gathered.” Simon took the bonnet from her and dropped it on the stiff grasses. Mercifully, he made no comment on her shorn hair as he drew the blanket from her shoulders and laid that aside as well.

  When he pulled the bottom of his shirt up over his head, she turned away to take off her woolen dress and toss it near the blanket. Clad now only in her linen chemise, goosebumps covered her skin as she untied the ribbons holding up her stockings. She carefully rolled down the grey wool and tugged them from her toes.

  Hazarding a glance, she saw that, with no way to remove his breeches because of his shackle, Simon had simply peeled off his own stockings and leather shoes. “Ready?”

  Hardly. But Julianne gathered her chemise to her knees and waded into the creek, Simon beside her. Pebbles and sand squished beneath her feet. Silt burned her ankle where the shackle had rubbed the skin away beneath her rough stocking, and she sucked in her breath until the cold water numbed the pain. Closing her eyes for just a moment, she wished for her heart and mind to numb as well.

  Twilight stained the sky a deep purple, and a crescent moon hung brightly between pinpricks of light. Gazing at the rippling reflection in the creek, Julianne held her chemise away from her body with one hand, while with the other she rubbed creek water over her legs. She rinsed one arm and then the other, scooped water in her hand and let it spill down her throat and chest, washed the day’s travel—and tears—from her face. Pinching her nose, she closed her eyes, bent at the waist, and submerged her head in the creek. Cold sent a shock coursing through her. Standing straight again, she squeezed the water from her short hair with her fingers.

  “Finished.” Her teeth chattered with cold.

  His hair dripping wet, Simon offered his free hand to her as they climbed back onto dry la
nd. Moonlight skimmed his broad shoulders and back as he bent to pull his stockings over his feet and calves, and her face warmed with embarrassment that she should know his form so intimately already. Feeling far too exposed herself, Julianne snatched up her bonnet, filthy though it was, and covered her head before working her stockings back on, coaxing one up between her skin and shackle.

  “You’re even smaller when you’re wet. How old are you, anyway?” Simon plucked the blanket from the grass and wrapped her in it before he had a chance to notice her fleur-de-lys.

  “Five and twenty.” Considering most girls married by sixteen, she was well along in years. But between raising Benjamin, training to be a midwife, and a father too lost in grief to find his daughter a match, marriage had merely been a dream. “And you?”

  “The same. Surprised?” His grin drew faint lines around his eyes and mouth.

  “I would have guessed older, but not by much.”

  “I feel older.”

  Julianne nodded. “So do I.” But not old enough for this.

  Now that the challenge of bathing in the creek was behind her, dread filled her empty stomach once again. She had never been with a man, had never even seen one shirtless, aside from her brother. And standing so near Simon right now, she certainly did not feel like his sister.

  “Simon, I don’t—” Words failed her. She didn’t know how in heaven’s name she would survive what came next.

  “I know.” He draped his shirt and her dress over his arm, for there was no use getting fully dressed just yet. “It is beastly. But I won’t be.”