The Mark of the King Page 4

  Under the watchful eyes of dozens of guards, they threaded through couples bedding on the ground outside the inn and joined those already in the stable with the horses and cattle. The eye-watering stench of slop and manure gagged Julianne. Dust danced in the glow of the guards’ lanterns. Even the privacy of darkness was stripped away.

  Face knotted with disgust, Simon searched for a patch of hay to claim. Julianne followed him, gaze flitting from the saddles and harnesses hanging on the wall to a bird’s nest perched atop a beam—anywhere but at the prisoners on the ground. From within and without the stable, wails rose up from the girls of good character, handpicked from Salpêtrière.

  Simon pointed to an empty space in the shadows, beneath rafters gauzed with cobwebs. Heart beating frantically, Julianne lowered herself to the floor. Disappear, she told herself, but the straw refused to swallow her whole, and she could not imagine herself away. Horses stomped in their stalls. Guards threatened to shoot. Chains jangled. Virgins shrieked. The debauched groaned with pleasure. Some men laughed and slung ribald comments like dung, but not Simon. The very air reeked of livestock and lust, fear and pain.

  “Please,” she whispered. “I’ve never—” Straw needled her back as she lay against it, and she hugged the blanket more tightly around her shoulders. Closed her eyes, tears streaming from beneath her lids, and felt Simon lie next to her. “Pretend you love me,” she rasped, desperate for gentleness though she was surrounded by brutality. An extravagant ruse, she knew.

  Simon turned her face to his and brushed the tears from her cheek with his thumb. “They will pay for this.” His hand cradling the nape of her neck, he pressed a kiss to her forehead, her cheek, the tip of her nose. His lips met hers tenderly, almost compassionately.

  Hail Mary, full of grace. Our Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Pray for us. . . .

  Chapter Four

  LA ROCHELLE, FRANCE

  JANUARY 1720

  A damp wind knifed through Captain Marc-Paul Girard’s grey-white uniform coat and the long-sleeved blue waistcoat beneath. Seagulls circled and swooped among the masts bristling in the harbor. At the water’s edge, he scanned the imposing height of the centuries-old Saint-Nicolas Tower from below.

  “I’d like to inspect the prisoners, Sergeant.”

  Sergeant Rousseau placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. “They are well provided for, Captain. Divided into several chambers and given soup and bread each day of the four months they’ve been here. Once you go in there, their stench won’t leave your nose for days.”

  Marc-Paul eyed the young man as church bells chimed in the distance. “Just the same. I will inspect my charges.” His assignment in Paris complete, he had come to the port city of La Rochelle to embark on his return voyage to his post in Louisiana. The Company of the Indies had granted him passage on one of its ships in return for his assistance maintaining order with the prisoners they’d purchased for the colony.

  Rousseau nodded. “Very well, Captain. I’ll join you as soon as I finish paying the cook for their soup and bread.”

  Marc-Paul stopped at the guardhouse to leave his sword before ascending the dank stairway. He knew better than to meet the new colonists wearing a weapon.

  Unwilling colonists, if Marc-Paul wasn’t mistaken, and more was the pity. He understood the dire need for Louisiana settlers, but this way of collecting and pairing them was downright dirty. And jailing them in the same tower where the Huguenots had been held when Protestantism had been outlawed—with scant food to eat, at that—certainly didn’t endear France to these people. He understood that the Regent, ruling on behalf of nine-year-old King Louis XV, jumped at the opportunity to rid the country’s streets of criminals, vagabonds, and orphans. But did John Law suppose they would suddenly become stable, industrious farmers upon being transplanted to the colony, and loyal to the country that treated them with such little care?

  Eyes adjusting to the darkness, Marc-Paul’s blood ran hotter in his veins with every step. The only thing a group of people like this could produce was more work for him and the rest of the soldiers stationed in the colony. The Superior Council settled disputes on an official level, but it was up to the military to keep order in New Orleans’s streets—if one could call them streets at all.

  Footfalls echoed behind him, and he turned to find four armed soldiers. They were mere boys, these guards, and looked proud as peacocks. Marc-Paul was not impressed. Youth may look fine in a uniform, but untested courage counted for naught. At age thirty, he had served France for twelve years now. He’d seen boys aplenty come under his command as cocksure as you please, only to run away from hardships. And it was his job to mete out the consequences.

  “Open it.” Marc-Paul stood aside as one of the young men unlocked a heavy wooden door. As soon as it groaned open on its iron hinges, the smell of human waste and decaying straw assaulted him. Jaw tense, he swallowed the urge to gag. “Who is responsible for the condition of this chamber?”

  “We report to Sergeant Rousseau.”

  “I’ve been in stables that were cleaner than this,” he growled. “The simplest of minds knows how to muck out a stall.”

  One of the young men shifted his weight beneath the insult. “These are prisoners, sir.”

  “They are people. Now, two of you fetch a rake and fresh straw immediately. Go! You other two, remain outside.”

  Marc-Paul entered the chamber, and shut the door again behind him. As he moved along the perimeter of the room, large eyes set in gaunt faces blinked at him. Well cared for indeed. His opinion of Sergeant Rousseau was falling by the minute. By his estimate, forty prisoners occupied the small space, both men and women together, and he remembered that they’d been forced to marry in Paris before they made the journey. Another grand idea to settle the colony posthaste. If these prisoners despised every man in French uniform, he would not be surprised.

  “Pardon me, officer.” A woman approached him, stepping over sleeping forms as she came.

  “Captain Marc-Paul Girard. How can I be of service?” Realizing that the chamber’s filth would be among her chief concerns, he added, “I’ve just ordered fresh hay to be delivered immediately. What else concerns you, madame?”

  “A delivery of a different sort.”

  Her eyebrows arched above her intense grey eyes, and Marc-Paul had the unsettling feeling he had met her before. Of course he could not be blamed for not recognizing her if he had. Her hair covered her head in short, honey-colored waves. By the way her gown hung on her frame, she had clearly lost significant weight.

  “Captain,” she was saying, “one of your prisoners here is with child. It would appear your plan to populate Louisiana is developing just as you hoped.”

  Marc-Paul wanted to explain that this wasn’t his plan, that he had far more sense than the profit-chasers running the Company of the Indies. He would never yoke men and women together like animals and expect them to couple, and he would never plant unmotivated, disillusioned prisoners in New Orleans when what they needed were farmers willing to work. But like a mute, he said nothing, mesmerized by her arresting gaze. Surely I’ve seen her before.

  “The longer we languish here in the tower, the more danger she and the baby will be in when it comes time to deliver. I’d much prefer to deliver the child on land. And not, if you please, here in this room. My patient deserves better than that, and so does her wee babe.”

  Now it was Marc-Paul’s turn to lift an eyebrow. “Your patient?” He looked for some hint of a jest.

  “Julianne LeGrange. I’m a sworn midwife, trained in Paris.”

  Recognition flickered, but he could not be sure. He schooled his features to reveal nothing while he absorbed the color of her eyes, the silk of her voice, the smallness of her delicate hands. It couldn’t be. . . .

  She was asking him how long they could expect to be detained here an
d what sort of supplies would be available on board in the event she should need them for the birth. Somehow he formed a reply that must have satisfied her, because before he knew it, she nodded in acknowledgment and returned to her place on the floor between a woman sitting cross-legged and a snoring man whom Marc-Paul assumed to be Julianne’s husband.

  The door clanged open, and Sergeant Rousseau strode in, sword swinging in the scabbard at his hip. A nauseating mix of insecurity and bravado billowed behind him. Marc-Paul watched from the side of the room as Julianne’s husband jolted upright. By the time the two armed soldiers entered as well and slammed the door shut behind them, LeGrange was on his feet like a mad bull ready to charge.

  “Well, Your Majesty, what an honor to have you in our presence!” LeGrange snarled.

  Julianne stood beside him and laid a hand on his arm. “Simon.”

  Shaking her off, LeGrange stormed over to Rousseau. “The bread was moldy. Couldn’t eat it. Think we wouldn’t notice?”

  Rousseau grimaced. “I didn’t think your palate was up to distinguishing the difference.” Fists on his hips, the sergeant cocked his head and sniffed at the prisoner with an arrogance that galled even Marc-Paul. “However can you taste anything at all with that horrid stench fouling everything in your reach?”

  Without hesitation, LeGrange laid his left hand on the sergeant’s stomach and with his right drew out Rousseau’s sword. Jumping back, he flourished it like a sabre. “Take one more step. I dare you.”

  Rousseau should have known better than to enter the chamber armed. From the periphery, Marc-Paul watched the sergeant’s face flame a livid red as he shouted for the return of his sword. Men who had previously been sleeping now roused and stood, cheering LeGrange on. The soldiers snapped into action, shouldering their muskets and training them on the prisoner. The forty people in the chamber now sat on a powder keg.

  Unless Marc-Paul could diffuse it.

  “Simon, they’ll shoot you. You cannot win this fight.” Watching her husband’s profile, Julianne kept her voice low and controlled, a counterweight to his recklessness. She did not want to see Simon shot, and neither did she want to see a ball miss its mark and wound anyone else.

  “If you don’t stand with me, wife, you are against me,” he shouted, his gaze still riveted on the sergeant and the soldiers.

  Pulse trotting, she stepped closer to him. He was putting everyone at risk. “Simon, please, there are women here.”

  He rounded on her, slashing the air in warning. “Stay back!”

  Fire sliced through her upper arm before something warm and wet plastered her woolen sleeve to her skin.

  “You’re bleeding!” someone gasped.

  “He cut his own wife!”

  Julianne covered the burn with her hand, and it came away sticky and crimson. She clapped her hand over the wound again, squeezing the separated skin together. For a split second she locked gazes with Simon and read in his eyes that he hadn’t meant to harm her. But he’d drawn blood just the same.

  The mood shifted in the room, and Simon was no longer hailed by the rest of the prisoners as a hero. Someone pulled Julianne back. Denise, the pregnant prisoner, whispered caution in her ear.

  The soldiers stepped forward, waving their flintlock muskets in wide arcs, and the men who had begun surrounding Simon fell back, leaving him exposed.

  Rousseau spoke. “Soldiers—”

  “Stay your firelocks.” Captain Marc-Paul Girard drowned out the sergeant’s voice, and Simon pivoted toward the captain.

  As Simon swung the sword up over his head, the captain barreled into his chest, knocking him against the wall behind. The air audibly left Simon’s lungs, and the sword clanked against stone as he pushed himself away from the wall.

  “Drop it,” the officer said, but Simon only laughed and raised his arm again, pointing the sword at Captain Girard.

  “Go on and take it from me,” Simon taunted. He thrust the blade at the officer, and Captain Girard dodged, scattering prisoners out of the way. As the two men circled each other, Simon’s filthy linen shirt flapped open to his chest, contrasting starkly with the well-groomed officer in spotless uniform.

  In the corner of Julianne’s eye, the soldiers kept their flintlocks trained on her husband. The cocking of hammers amplified in her ears.

  “Stay your firelocks!” Captain Girard repeated without taking his eyes from his opponent.

  In the split second that Simon shifted his gaze to the muzzles staring him down, the captain lunged, pummeled his fist into Simon’s kidney, then grabbed the elbow of his sword arm, shoving it away. Silver flashed as the blade arced through the air and connected with Captain Girard’s shoulder, slicing through his coat. With his free arm, Simon landed a blow to the officer’s cheekbone.

  “Simon, stop!” Julianne screamed. In his desperation, he would cut down an officer and be killed for it just as quickly. Denise hooked her arm through Julianne’s and held her fast to the spot where she stood.

  “Afraid to fight an even match?” Still holding tight to Simon’s elbow, Captain Girard grabbed his wrist as well, immobilizing the sword, and slammed him into the wall again.

  “Do I really look that stupid to you?” Simon hissed.

  All at once, Captain Girard released Simon’s elbow and crashed his fist into Simon’s nose, cracking the bridge and knocking his head hard against the stone. His eyes rolling back, Simon groaned and slid to the soiled hay as the officer swiped the sword from his grip. When Simon began struggling to his feet, the captain plowed his fist into his face again, rendering him unconscious.

  “Tie him up, soldiers.” The captain shook out his hand. “Sergeant Rousseau, expect consequences for losing control of your weapon.”

  Helplessly, Julianne watched the soldiers bind Simon’s wrists.

  In the next instant, Captain Girard was at her side, his eyes smoldering like charred pine. His cheek already purpling, he drew a handkerchief from his pocket, and she dropped her hand from her arm. She held her breath as he inspected her cut and waited for him to say something about the fleur-de-lys.

  “I’m sorry.” She nodded toward the split on his own uniform. “We have been treated very badly, and Simon . . .” But her explanation stalled.

  “A scratch” was all the captain said as he tied his bright white linen snuggly around her arm. “You will heal without sutures. You’re lucky it wasn’t worse.” He shook his head, exhaling a sigh that smelled of café au lait.

  “Lucky, am I?” Julianne met his brown eyes, silently daring him to lay such a label on her circumstances again.

  His lips parted, then closed again. He held her gaze as one in a trance, his dark brows knitting together. Swallowing, he looked away for a moment, regaining his composure. “I leave you with good news. We weigh anchor tomorrow.”

  Relief flooded her, suspending thoughts of Simon—at least for the moment. “We? You’ll take the voyage as well?”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  Slowly, her thoughts crept away from her injury and gathered somewhere else. “So you’re an officer in Louisiana?”

  “I am.” His gaze roved the chamber as he said it.

  “My brother was stationed there as a soldier a few years ago.” Julianne touched his sleeve, coaxing his full attention back to her. “I wonder, sir, if you may know him. His name is Benjamin—”

  “Pardon me, madame.” His tone, suddenly stiff, halted her speech. “You have blood on your hands.”

  Her mouth went dry. “What did you say?” she whispered, bristling. So he’d seen her mark after all.

  “Your hands.” The captain produced another snow-white handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to her.

  Julianne looked down to find her hands still slick with blood. Flustered, she nodded her thanks and pressed the crisp linen square between her palms. At least this time, the blood on her hands was her own.

  On the upper deck, Marc-Paul Girard pinched the bridge of his nose, as if that could do any
thing to relieve the ache beating like a drum against his brow. Yesterday morning, he had overseen the loading of the prisoners onto the ship. Two by two, hands tied behind their backs, they were marched from the Saint-Nicolas Tower around La Rochelle’s harbor to the Chain Tower, where they were put on small boats that delivered them to Le Marianne, the flute that would sail them all to Louisiana. At least, the ones who survived the voyage. Many of the new colonists were already so frail that the passenger list was sure to shrink along the way.

  Also on board, in addition to the carefree crew, were a few dozen German and Swiss peasants, lured from the countryside with the promise of their own land in Louisiana and assurances that their days as serfs were over. That their Lutheran and Calvinist faiths were tolerated by the Catholic French monarchy was one more indicator of France’s desperation to settle the colony. These farm laborers, at least, knew how to work the land.

  Now that the ship was beyond sight of the French coast, the prisoners had been unbound, with one notable exception. While most of the new colonists were free to move about the space belowdecks, Simon LeGrange remained chained and isolated in the cargo hold indefinitely. It wasn’t the thought of LeGrange that bothered Marc-Paul most now, however. It was the frank gaze of his wife with those eyes the color of the winter sky. Eyes he had seen before, set in another young and desperate face.

  “What’s ailing you, Girard? A touch of the mal de mer already?” In stark contrast to the sober mood of the passengers belowdecks, a sailor laughingly spread his arm toward a sea as smooth as watered silk. Without waiting for an answer, he jumped back into the dancing circle with the rest of the crew, all blissfully apathetic toward the plight of the new colonists they carried. Three violins and two flutes sang lively tunes.

  Marc-Paul didn’t feel like dancing, and it had nothing to do with the seasickness that normally sent him chasing after ginger water. Ignoring the merriment ringing in his ears, he strode aft and cast his gaze toward the limp sails. Both the revelry on deck and the dead calmness of the sea ran counter to his intemperate mood.