Chapter Twenty
Troyes to Paris
November 1617
Anne stared out at passing woodlands and farms from her carriage window until her fellow passengers begged protection against the cold. Anne obliged by winding down the leather covers. In the stuffy confines she wondered why she’d waited so long to return to Paris. Every hour she drew closer to him reinforced how much she had missed François. Mixed with her keen anticipation she could not help feeling a soupçon of doubt. Both Bridgett and Isabel had forced her to see how unacceptable Olivier’s actions were. She knew she’d been lucky to survive, and then to recuperate. But how could she live by herself? She had to tell François everything. Only he could understand, or at least feel some of the same incomprehension. She was lonely, so achingly lonely, without François, the only man she could imagine trusting. While Isabeau and Bridgett had supported her she had healed. That period of friendship and nursing had finished. Now, she would find her brother and build a new life. But how could she explain Olivier’s actions to François? What would be his reaction? Would he be angry? Would he be sympathetic?
Over and over in her mind she repeated the events of the last year. Her thoughts spiralled, she could not stop them, through the course of her whirlwind courtship, her dream romance, and her beloved husband’s few months with her. Again and again, she drove through the rutted path of how she had tried so hard to please him, to be his Comtesse, with all the nobility he could lend her. How she had met the Comte’s business partners and entertained the most important people of the province. She had charmed the most taciturn of men and flattered the grandest of doyens. And all the while she continued to do her best to help the estate’s unwell and dying tenants. And Olivier had seemed pleased with her wifely duties. Everything he taught she obeyed, he often said how she impressed him with the quickness of her wit and poetic mind. Wit and poetry! And the joy of her pregnancy …
And his disgust.
And his murderous rage.
Ah, no, she must not give into that dread misery.
Her thoughts were dangerous and, keen to avoid the well-worn furrow of ‘if only’, she tried to find interest in the passing landscape. Soon she opened the cover again, trying to shield her companions as much as possible. It was cold, of course, with the land dusted with snow, but the sky was as blue as her sapphire. Under her gloves she had that ring turned into her palm so only the thin silver band would show on the outer should her hands be seen bare. She wore it on the other hand to her gold wedding band, a ring she played with now and then, only aware she could not remove it. She had vowed to obey and honour her husband and she would do so now, even if he was repulsed by her, he was still her husband. And now she had the ruby, that most dangerous hollow jewel, to add to her decorations. She prayed she had no need of it.
Surreptitiously she wiped a tear from her face, hoping the other passengers hadn’t seen, and stared out at the passing trees and the empty fields. They crossed and re-crossed the Seine and her tributaries many times during the journey, rumbling over large stone bridges and clattering over small wooden gangplanks. She saw the neat houses and barns of the villages along the way, pristine, covered by ice-white blankets. She heard the horses’ hooves and, through the body of the carriage, felt the rolling metal frames of the wooden wheels grinding the road with a reliable heaviness. She was comforted by the mere rhythm of travel, the jolting and urging forward, leaving Olivier behind.
Unless, she thought, he was in Paris. She pulled her veil over her face. She must not be anywhere he might be. She would not go to the Louvre this time. But what if they should meet, accidentally on the street? She told herself he would not recognise her. He wouldn’t expect to see her. She was dead.
Anne shook her heavy thoughts away. Soon she would see François, and he would know what to do.
The elderly couple and one other older woman in the carriage seemed happy to let the world slip past them as they each pondered their private reasons for this long journey to Paris. When they stopped for dinner and rest at the hotel, the lady was grateful to share a bed with Anne. She said she was nervous travelling by herself. She was going to see her daughter who had just given her a fourth grandchild. The lady loved her grandchildren so much she had to tell Anne all about them. In detail. From Artus’s funny little turned-up nose to the terrible tantrums that Noel suffered. She was not sure the children were eating the right kind of foods. Nay, she was not sure the nurse maid was suitable at all. She was thinking she should move to Paris, to be with them all, and help her daughter, but she was not certain her son-in-law would like the idea. ‘You do have to be careful with some men, do you not?’
‘You do, indeed, Madame.’ Secretly, Anne felt the little knife safely tied over her stocking. She was not nervous. After their repast, Anne slept well, perhaps because she kept her cummerbund of valuables close to her skin all night. The lady hardly snored at all. In the morning, the four passengers breakfasted together with the driver and his groomsman who reassured their passengers it would not be as long a day as Paris was now only five hours away. They would stop to refresh the horses once more on the journey and then, at the seminary, Anne could, at last, see her brother again. She could not imagine what he would make of her story.
When the lady discovered Anne could play piquet she opened her little travel bag, produced a pack of cards, and commenced removing the lower value cards at once. A tray table was created from a board used by the driver. After some trials the lady and Anne sat opposite each other with the board balanced upon their knees. The game commenced, with much jostling and tipping of cards, and the time passed in a haze of calculation and tricks.
Eventually, Anne lost interest in cards. Outside the window the stature of buildings grew, and the hubbub of business increased in volume. Anne’s anticipation and excitement rose, much as it had on her first visit to Paris. Here was possibility and hope, and François! Children and mangey dogs followed the carriage for as long as they could run. Here was the thick smoke-filled air she remembered from her last visit. The coachman agreed to drop her right at the church of Saint-Nicolas du Chardonnet. She alighted from the carriage with a nod to the groom who took her hand to bring her down the steps, and a happy wave to the card-playing grandmama. She looked up the path to the clergy house with excitement. Between the driver and his helpmeet, the trunk was delivered to the door, and she was filled with anticipation as the curate opened the door. She took a breath. Was Father François Bellamy available, please?
The curate was a miserable pale young man. His face seemed to have been squashed in at the sides, long, thin, and downturned in the process. His high voice squeaked, ‘Oh, dear no. Father François? No. No. He’s not here. No. Not now.’
What did he say? Anne stared at the man in front of her. She did not believe him. After all this time she only wanted to talk to François. She did not expect to have to communicate with other people. She felt exhausted and fought the flood of terror rising in her. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Oh, yes. He left some months ago. Yes. Months.’
Anne tried to hold on to the wall, to the doorway but felt her grasp weaken. ‘But, where is he?’
‘Oh, let me think, where did he go? To the north? Yes. Amiens? Yes. I can check for you, but I am sure he said … No, wait, was it Lille? Yes. Lille. No. I am almost certain. Yes. Lille. I can ask if you like?’
‘Lille?’ Of course, Anne thought, that was surely where he would have gone, for the same reason she had come to find him. His family.
‘Yes. Lille.’ The curate looked at her, in her fine gown, and down at the trunk on the step in front of him. ‘I think you’d best come in … Yes?’ He looked at her enquiringly. ‘Whom shall I say … ?’
Anne panicked, realising she had made a ghastly mistake. She should never have come to Paris. She courted danger, the risk of being discovered by Olivier. If he was here, and using his own name; she was in peril, not just of breaking her heart should she set eyes on the man she still loved, but of him killing her. What had she done? What would be best? Deep breath in, and she said, very quietly, hesitating, trying the words in her mouth, ‘Madame de Troyes.’
She was still Anne. But the married version. She twisted her wedding ring through her glove. She could not take it off. What meaning did that perfect gold circle hold now? Love without end. Until the finale. She felt hollow. She turned to look out at the street, tried to stay upright, shook her head, tried to keep the elongated curate in focus. Her breath came too quickly. She tried to breathe. Her laces were too tight. She felt jolting as if she were still in the unforgiving carriage. Her vision blurred. She had not eaten …
Paris 1617
She woke, lying on the same bed, the maroon curtains the same, the same Turkish carpets offered the same opulent warmth. She thought perhaps this room was where they always housed female guests. With what great hopes she had left this room behind as they prepared to move to Berry eighteen months before? A maid was sitting beside her, clean and pink like a little new mouse. This young girl jumped to her feet and said, ‘I must tell Father Froger you are awake.’ And, without any other words, she ran out of the room, with her skirts flicking just like the tail of a pretty pinky.
Anne saw the water jug and bowl across the room. She stared at it for a good while. She did not want to fall again. But her throat hurt, and she was terribly thirsty. Eventually her thirst overcame her terrors and she rose to her feet. She refreshed herself, using the chamber pot and washing well. By the time Father Froger tapped on the door, she was composed yet again.
Father Froger’s thoughtful demeanour gave her confidence where, out on the doorstep, open to the busy street, she’d only felt fear. Father Froger came forward to embrace her, kissing either side of her face with genuine warmth. She looked at him nervously. What had François told the Father? She’d already given a false name. What fresh dissembling must now occur? She apologised for her rude interruption and fragility. He would hear none of it and reassured her they were only concerned for her health. She was pleased to inform him she was well recovered and ready for her onward journey.
When they were seated at the small round table in the room Father Froger told her, ‘I am sorry, Madame, it is true. Father Bellamy left us for family reasons. But I’m sure you will remember Maurice? He’s here, in Paris.’
‘Maurice.’ With a rush of gratitude, Anne asked to see the young man, adding, ‘I’ll not bother you for long, Father. I must follow Father Bellamy, but I would like the chance to see Maurice.’
He looked at her with too overt compassion. ‘Please don’t feel you must rush away on our account. We want you to regain your strength. You must be tired. He reported you had married?’
‘That’s true, Father.’ Anne worried she hadn’t prepared a strong enough story to excuse her outing into the world.
He hinted, ‘To an important nobleman, no less?’
Anne’s breath caught in her throat as she tried to remember how cheerful conversation was supposed to operate. ‘Ah, in his mind, Father!’
The priest understood, and grinned with her, ‘They say we’re all kings in our own castles, do they not?’
The merriment Anne feigned on her outer features made her think she was cracking in two. Inside she was screaming but she strove for conviviality. ‘That may be so, Father! Henri … ‘ The name of her own, dead, father slipped into her mind, ‘ … is a successful merchant.’ Surprised, her mind connected the name of her father with the name of the long dead king. Her father, her king. The son, Louis, the boy king she knew, and his dead falcon swinging by her jesses. The hanging bird. Her neck. She closed her eyes. Cleared her throat.
What did the man say? She struggled to stay focussed on this room, here and now.
‘From all accounts, very successful?’ Father Froger repeated himself. ‘You live in a chateau?’
‘I fear François may have exaggerated somewhat, Father Froger! I don’t think most would call it a chateau. Certainly, we are lucky to live comfortably.’ If they lived at all, she thought. Quickly, she borrowed some of Monsieur Allaire’s affairs to fit. ‘My husband’s growing a new business. He’s travelling, I believe he should be in Damascus by now … ’
‘Damascus! Great heavens! What a distance!’
Anne swallowed her grief. For all she knew her own husband may very well be in heaven. ‘He may go as far as Baghdad, looking for fine silks and other textiles to trade.’
Father Froger shook his head in admiration, ‘It is very far, Anne.’
Anne struggled with her emotions. If only Father Froger would stop talking about her husband. He could not know how far she had separated from the man she loved. He could not imagine her sorrow. She brushed away the tears that rolled down her face. She tried to bring herself into the here and now. What did the man want from her? She couldn’t remember other places Monsieur Allaire had mentioned in his travels and hoped the priest would be satisfied with this account. ‘I cannot say when I expect to see him next.’
The Father tried to change the subject, looking as though he understood her homesickness. ‘You thought, perhaps, it’d be an opportunity for you to do your own, more feminine, trade, here in Paris?’
‘That is so, Father,’ said Anne, grateful for the dignity he offered her, ‘And, to see my brother, of course.’
‘Of course. But remind me, I seem to remember your interest in fashion when you last visited?’
‘You are attentive, Father!’
‘My word, my dear, I haven’t lost the use of my faculties yet! Please, I insist you stay for at least a week to regain travelling strength. You might choose to see more of Paris? We should be charmed … ’
‘If I may just stay for this one night, Father, I should be delighted to accept your kind offer, but I feel I must follow my brother as soon as I can.’
‘Of course. In what other way we may be of service?’
‘Would it be possible to ask a curate to find me transport to Lille for tomorrow or as soon as possible?’
‘Indeed, that would be our pleasure.’
But Anne was terrified.
Was Francois safe? How could he evade prison?
And, how could she?