Chapter Twenty-Two - Her Lawfully Wedded Husband
Lille Prison, 1617
Standing beside her accuser, even though he was safely behind bars, Anne cracked open, crying in full force, mucus and tears dribbling over her face. But still she felt she had to explain everything to François’s brother, imprisoned as he was, on his own high ground. He had to understand the feelings she’d held in check while she travelled towards her only hope. She could barely breathe as she snuffled, ‘If only you knew how much I looked forward to seeing him!’
‘For help now, too, of course. What is it? Money?’
‘Monsieur, you’re wrong. You’ve always done me wrong. Can you not, as a gentleman, step back from your incessant accusations!’
‘Help you? In one heartbeat I would help you out of this world! You alone are to blame for my imprisonment here in this dark cell and for my aching heart as I see my mother weep for François!’ He turned suddenly and began to shout. ‘Jailor! Here! See here, the prisoner who should be behind bars! Halloo, there! Attend at once! Jailor!’
Anne, weeping and faint, retreated, before she saw with terror the way to her escape was barred, not by the jailor, but the jailor’s son, Hugo. He went pale and whispered, ‘Anne.’
Anne and Hugo stared at each other while Evert continued to shout, ‘Arrest her! See her evil genius! See her disguise as a virtuous woman! Seize her!’
Hugo took in the circumstances of the Executioner’s ranting and railing at once. As he reached for Anne’s arm he turned to the Executioner, now red in the face and clinging with his hands to the bars of his cell, ‘Stay, Monsieur, surely you don’t imagine you can kill her by words?’
‘God’s blood, I wish I could! I wish she’d come closer! I’d spit poison letters down her pretty throat one by fatal one!’
Hugo turned as he was about to quit the jail, ‘You’ve had a bad dream, Sir. Forget this scene.’
The Executioner cried out, ‘François!’ They could still hear him ranting as they walked away. ‘That she should live, my honest brother die, is a travesty. Perversion!’ Even as they were out of sight his insane words followed them, ‘I swear, I will kill you! Beware, Anne de Breuil, I am coming for you, vile slut!’
Without pausing, Hugo led Anne, gasping for air, out of the prison corridor and into a small alcove by a flight of stairs.
Still, Evert sounded like a madman. ‘Arrest her! At once! Poisonous vermin! Kill her!’ Did he fling his desk and chairs to the walls? For cacophony and pandemonium echoed through the stone tunnels as Hugo led Anne through the corridors.
Anne shuddered as they left the wretched place. She clung to Hugo’s arm. She foundered in her grief. Never had she expected that François wouldn’t be there. Never had she felt more alone. And yet, who was this who gave her his arm? And where did he lead her? And what would be the cost?
Hugo led her through the labyrinth of winding corridors at the rear of the prison. He had to bend his head as they went through small doors and finally entered a suite of rooms that Anne guessed must house his family. She looked around the place and wondered who might live there. His father, of course, but what of his mother? If not a wife, then what woman might care for them? The drawing room was clean and well presented. A fire lay set, pale and cool in preparation, in the grate.
Anne noticed hangings of fine green brocade over the walls next to the windows. The furniture was solid and clean. Portraits of serious people hung on the walls, both men and women, perhaps ancestors of this young man employed in lighting the fire. Anne watched him as he took her cloak and hung it in a small closet in the foyer. Then he led her to a chair and saw her comfortable. He went out of the room to fetch her a glass of wine which he carefully placed on a small table by her elbow.
Anne smiled up at him, nervously. She dared not stay, but she had no clear plan and Hugo was in charge. What would he do if she tried to run? He’d catch her in the blink of an eye. But would he try? He was hovering, too close, and what of the other residents here? At any moment, his father might appear, or another, Anne could not tell.
She must get back to her hotel, to gather her trunk with all her belongings. Or, could she go, wherever she would, and simply leave everything behind? She’d prefer to take them. She needed at least the jewellery. She looked around her, trying to think of some way out of this trap wherein she found herself, looking for an inkling of an idea.
She’d counted on François to be with her. Now, she had no idea how to survive by herself. François dead. And hung by his own hand. Oh, Blessed Virgin. She realised she had started to move her hands towards her throat, hoping the neckline of her chemise under her collar remained high enough together to hide the faint marks that still haunted her. She brought her hands together in her lap. How strange that she could have been dead from hanging at the same time he had chosen to wind some stuff around his own neck, and swing. What was in God’s mind? How could this have happened? Oh, François!
Then, after the first shock of the news, she felt a flash of anger. How dare he? What of his eternal life? How would he suffer? When she needed him most, François had chosen to leave this world with her in it, alone. She thought his actions cowardly. She picked up her glass of wine to control her emotions and wondered when the jailor would return. She looked at Hugo, who watched her with keen intent. She realised he, too, would be guessing when his father, the jailor, would come home. Anne could see Hugo swayed in the same quandary as herself. He could easily arrest her right now. Or not.
Anne knew the jailor would be a very different man to the boy. Hugo must have seen many criminals, it was true. He had seen poor desperate felons who truly deserved their punishments. But Anne? A beautiful, well-dressed lady? She saw how he looked at her. No, here was something she could shift in his heart. She had done it before - by accident - before, when she was an innocent nun. Now, she was a scarred widow and she looked at the young man objectively. She could make him help her.
Hugo had helped her before, this was true. But now he may well regret it. He may feel guilt. He may now wish to do his father’s job properly, whether from filial duty or from fear of his father’s heavy hand. He also had the Executioner ranting and railing back in his cell to contend with. He had weight on him to do the right thing now and clap her in irons.
But he did not. Not yet at any rate. Not yet.
Thankfully, she truly was still weak and managed to weep nicely for him. He attended her carefully. He listened to her sobbing and fed her bread, with a little wine. She was hungry and managed to eat. She watched him between bites. He was attentive. He sat just a little too close. He said, quietly, ‘What happened to your tooth?’
In response, her tongue automatically sought the gap beside her left canine. Then, she did begin to cry. She couldn’t tell him. How strange Hugo should notice immediately what François had not. She remembered Evert and his fist. His final curse echoed through her once more. She had to leave this place, immediately. She did not doubt the Executioner’s word. He would kill her as soon as he was able.
She sipped her wine and tried to bring herself under control. Her emotions would get the better of her and she must shake them away. Anne’s senses were alert to every creak from the corridor, scratch at the wall or bounce of the window in the breeze. Was that a footfall in the corridor? She may not know where to go or what to do next, but something had to be done, and quickly. She looked at Hugo and smiled. He returned her smile with clear eyes. He was half in love with her already, she could see that. ‘Hugo. I don’t know how I can thank you.
‘No need.’ Hugo said the words, but his eyes and his body said a different story. He was all forward towards her.
‘Oh, Monsieur, but there is! I’ve thanked you in my prayers every night since you helped me escape from this place more than a year ago. I’ve always been grateful to you; you must know it.’
She saw he had no appetite to imprison her. She paused, wondering how she could push home this advantage. ‘I’m at a loss without François. I’m sorry to admit I don’t know what to do, Monsieur.’
When Hugo looked at her, Anne thrilled to see those big brown eyes so sympathetic.
‘Do you have some friend to help you?’ He asked, kindly, softly, ‘Can I take you to a place of safety?’
She looked at him, with great trust and sincerity, implying that he alone was her friend. She was able to get tears to well up in her eyes. She was quite surprised by her own acting skill, really, she hadn’t known she could do it so easily. Sister Catherine would be ashamed of her vanity.
She pressed on, affecting a humble demeanour, ‘I’m sorry to ask this of you, but I’ve suffered greatly since we last met. As you can see, I’m now a weak widow, with no friend in the world. You know, I could not bear it when Father Bellamy returned here and you know, too, that he has since died?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry, Anne.’
‘He came back here, to your father’s care?’
‘Yes, he volunteered himself at the gatehouse. At first we were glad, for Evert had been imprisoned on his behalf. It meant the nearest Executioner was at three days’ travel distance and my poor father had to execute two people before we realised that we could let Evert out to do the work and lock him up again. And then, thank the Dear Lord, François came back and took his place.’
Then Hugo realised how much Anne must be hurting from this recent revelation and watched her face. They sat in silence until Anne prompted him, ‘But not for long.’
‘No,’ agreed Hugo. ‘Not long enough.’
‘Did he leave a letter?’
‘No letter.’
Both Anne and Hugo looked at the floor for a time. It was terrible to Anne, to have to think of her beloved friend and brother so desperate that he couldn’t continue to live. But she did want to live, and she had to keep moving. She said, ‘So the Executioner has to pay for his brother’s crime?’
Hugo nodded. ‘Eight and a half more years.’
Anne was relieved to hear that Evert wouldn’t be travelling for some time. She was safe from his curse. She had time to get away and hide herself. ‘Where’s he buried?’
Hugo looked up, suddenly energised. He stood. The decision was made. ‘I’ll show you.’
She stood and Hugo led her to the closet where he rescued her cloak and carefully put it around her shoulders.
Anne let him take her by the arm and lead her to the exit. ‘Have a care, Madame, it’s slippery here by the door.’
The geography of the prison’s winding corridors had disguised how close to the outside world she had travelled. She took in a deep breath of fresh air. It smelled of freedom. It had rained and the frosty snow turned to slush underfoot. The sky was mottled ash.
Anne followed Hugo to the grave. A small cemetery lay a few steps away from the prison, up a gentle slope, heading to the treeline where the woodlands began. But, before they reached the formal cemetery, at the crossing of two tracks, Hugo slowed to a stop. He indicated a small mound with no marking. Anne shivered. While the remains of her own tiny babe lay in the sacred grounds of a church in Berry, François was buried alone in unconsecrated ground. And him a priest. She could not help but think of poor Maurice. How devastated he would be by this news. He could never hear it from her, she decided.
Glancing at Hugo and, receiving his unspoken permission, she knelt by the grave and prayed to the Virgin Mary to intercede for François with God, to help him find his way to heaven. Remembering she had a handkerchief in her pocket, she took it out, made as if to wipe her eyes with it and then reached down and, using the fabric both as protection for her hand and receptacle, clenched a small handful of soil. She twisted the corners of the handkerchief and knotted it safely. She placed it in her pocket, which swung elegantly at her side, and rose to her feet. ‘Oh, but this is a cold place!’
Concerned, Hugo moved closer to put his arm around her. When Anne’s backbone straightened, he slowly dropped his arm again. She moved one step away from him but smiled, modestly, looking up at him under her lashes. She found herself slipping back into her nun persona, and suddenly knew what she had to do. ‘I do understand that you ought to follow the rules and see me back into the prison, of course you should.’
He murmured, ‘I could not, for all the world …’
Anne could see he would like to continue with what he could do. She could see a proposal hatching in his eyes and watched him as, step by step, he was inching ever closer to her. ‘But, Hugo, I fear jail more than anything in this world. I wish I could help you obey your father and the law, but I feel that the Lord has divined a greater plan for me.’
Anne saw Hugo sink. He was full of wonder. He stared at her, rapt. She saw herself reflected in his eyes. She could see how beautiful she must look to him. He, who only saw low-lives, drunks, and whores. This must be what they had all meant, that she could make her living by her face.
Could she really escape this prison by using only the way she looked? She had to.