Time for Eternity (31 page)

She stepped in and shoved the knife into his loins near his right hip. The resistance of the flesh was heavenly. It almost dulled the pain in her gut. In her empty womb …

The cry that bounced off the ceiling in the tiny room was her own. She knew that. Under the eaves in the servants’

quarters. No midwife, only Nelly, the simple girl who swept out the kitchens to attend to her swollen belly. The screams
that tore at her were half for the pain and half for the hatred of the handsome face that had got her here and of the
laughter from the fine sots who had taunted her all these months for her growing belly even as they threw her down in the
hay and shoved their cocks into her. Let them rot in hell for what they’d done! Bringing a baby that looked like one of
them into the world was the last thing she wanted. The pain took her, and tore at her. She felt like she was splitting apart.

“Here it come, Marta.” Nelly was excited.

“Noooooo!” she shrieked. But it was too late for resistance. The baby slid out between her thighs, a bloody bundle still
connected to her by a slimy cord, into Nelly’s waiting arms.

“He’s beautiful, he is, Marta.”

But all she felt was empty. There was a hole in her middle that would never be filled.

She shook her head to clear it. She didn’t want to remember that time. But maybe taking her revenge would make her forget.

She pulled the knife from his hip. The bastard felt that, now didn’t he? His breathing was ragged, and the torches caught a sheen of sweat on his body. A deep satisfaction rolled through her.

“It wasn’t the last time one of them took me,” she said. Her voice was remarkably calm. “The daughter of a groom spends a lot of time on her back in the hay. When they got tired of using their cocks they sometimes used broom handles and pistol barrels. ”

She hadn’t even known what that would mean, except for the pain. “And that baby—every time I saw it, it reminded me of those aristocratic bastards.” That had been the worst of it …

It wouldn’t shut up. It just cried all the time, wailed and wanted and wailed some more. “Let me pull at your tits. Clean
the shit off my backside. I’m cold. I’m hot.” It was always something the thing wanted. And it wasn’t hers. It was theirs,
all of them. It had the black hair of the Duc of Berry, and a little pinched face. How was she supposed to love a thing like
that? Her father said it was a judgment on her that it looked so pinched and frail. He was always telling her to feed it. But
her nipples were sore from it pulling. It seemed to have a hard time getting milk. Maybe because she didn’t want to nurse
it. She didn’t want it to have any more of her than it had got already.

She sat, sometimes, down at the millpond at dusk when the birds rose in swirls over the water. She laid the bundle on
the ground and tried to let the water soothe her.

But it cried. It always cried. She couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t get any peace. Not even at the pond at dusk. The thing
looked like the damned Duc of Berry. That was the problem.

It was getting darker. The pond was still and calm. She couldn’t see that it looked like the damned duc. That was good.

But she could hear the thing wail. It would never stop shrieking.

Unless she made it stop shrieking.

She could. She could make it be quiet. She picked it up, hating it. Hating how it had swelled her belly, and how people
had laughed or whispered, and how the other rutting aristos had plowed her with anything to hand because her belly was
an advertisement for her willingness whether she was willing or not.

She rocked back and forth on the bench by the pond in the growing darkness, and all the while the thing wailed.

She couldn’t stand it. She shouldn’t have to stand it. The whole thing was not her fault, it was theirs, all of them. And
then it was all so clear. She picked up the bundle and she walked into the water until the cold of it crept up to her cunt and
then she leaned over and held the bundle under the water until it stopped shrieking. It was so easy. Why hadn’t she done it
sooner? And then she walked back out of the water, and went home to blessed silence.

Marta breathed slowly, feeling the relief as she had felt it then. She realized she’d been talking all the time the memories took her, telling the Duc d’Avignon why he had to suffer. Now his face had a guarded expression, wariness over the pity in his eyes. Damn him. He was in no position to pity her.

She walked around the man whose black hair was so like the Duc of Berry’s. But the Duc of Avignon was naked, and chained and spread-eagled, waiting for her to make him pay for being who he was. She pulled the blade across his buttocks. So satisfying.

But there was more. He must know the real reason he must suffer. She would tell him.

Avignon blinked in horror. She had killed her own baby because it reminded her of the man who had raped her. Or maybe it reminded her of all the men who had raped her. The world was cruel. Men were cruel and women too. He understood her pain.

He pitied her. But he could not forgive her cruelty, not just to him, but to the many she betrayed to the guillotine only for being of the class she blamed for her pain. He would get no mercy from her. He hissed as he felt the blade slice across his thigh. She moaned in satisfaction.

“A girl like I was has nothing to call her own—no one who cared about her,” Croûte whispered in his ear. “I got to thinking that a baby is the only thing a woman
can
have of her own. The only thing that’s safe to love. So I decided I wanted a baby after all.

One I got by design, not from some bastard noble who took me whether I wanted him or not. So I found a stable lad I rather fancied. He didn’t fancy me, but I knew how to get round that. A man will stick his cock in any likely hole. I let him fuck me and fuck me for nearly a year, because I wanted a baby from that nice little cock of his. Something
I
used
him
to make.” She laughed.

It was high and it went on too long. Finally she sobered, gasping. “Wouldn’t you know? Those aristo bastards had ruined me for making babies, so the doctor said, and I’d killed the only one I’d ever have.” She wiped her eyes with her arm, and left it across her face for a moment.

The guards had turned to stone behind her. They stared ahead, seeing nothing, and he was willing to bet if they could have closed their ears they would have.

“So I had nothing. But then the Revolution came along, and I found a way to get back my own,” she said, taking her arm away and throwing her head back. “The aristos are paying for what they did to me. My legacy won’t be anything as insignificant as a baby. I’m going to leave a whole new world, one where aristocrats can’t be cruel to citizens just as good as they are. Wealth will be redistributed. Everyone will be equal.”

Croûte was naïve. The world was the world. “You’ve not changed anything. There will always be hierarchy. You are the new aristocrat, more equal than others, torturing people, killing them, just because you can.”

She laughed and shook her head, the laugh more normal this time. “For the greater good, not for my personal enjoyment.”

“You aren’t enjoying this? I can smell your cream. You want to rub yourself as you torture me. You’re sick, Croûte.”

He thought that would make her angry again. But she shrugged. “I get pleasure from righting the wrongs your kind has been committing for centuries. What better way to combine pleasure and the greater good? That’s not sick. It’s justice.”

“You have become what you hate most. I’ve seen it before.” A thousand, thousand times before. “You don’t want to change the world. You just want your share.”

“I leave the philosophy to my little lawyer.” She held up her knife to the light. Blood dripped on her hand. “Now, let’s start the questions again.”

Françoise hurried down the Rue de Rivoli toward the Conciergerie, eyes filled with tears of frustration. She ’d been to three of the men she’d met at Henri’s soirée Wednesday, including the young poet who had so admired her. No one would do anything for Henri. They feared the committee too much; Robespierre had imprisoned Henri, nothing would save him. They told her so repeatedly. The impoverished vicomte advised her to emigrate. The general, in creaking stays, offered her carte blanche on the spot since she would need a new protector. Slapping him for his impertinence probably did not further her cause.

All that time wasted and she was no nearer to freeing Henri. She had to see him. Maybe he’d have an idea how she could help him. Gaston had given her fat roulades of gold coins to bribe the guards. He had wanted to come with her, but she convinced him he mustn’t be seen to support his former employer. The household’s only chance was to portray the duc as a vile master who had taken advantage of them.

Thinking what they might be doing to Henri had her frantic. Had the drug worn off? Or maybe he had already escaped in a whirl of darkness and she was worrying for nothing.

He can’t draw his power until the drug is out of his system.

“I’m not speaking to you,” she whispered, pushing through the late afternoon as it turned into evening. She should never have acquiesced even to drugging him. Still, the voice seemed to know a lot about Henri. “Can the drug wear off enough for him to feel what they are doing to him, and yet he can’t draw his power?” That would be the worst of all worlds.

Maybe.
A pause.
Probably.

Françoise began to run.

At the guardhouse, there was the usual long line of supplicants. She fought her way to the front, over loud protests and pointed elbows. She waved to the young guard with the lank hair and luxuriant mustachios who had already been the recipient of her largesse.

“Oh, ho.” He grinned. “Come a-visiting, my sweet?” He pulled her from the line.

She palmed an entire roulade and let him see it. “Henri Foucault, Duc d’Avignon.”

The guard’s eyes widened. He looked around to be sure that his fellows were engaged in playing piquet. “That visit, it would be dangerous, mademoiselle.”

“And therefore worth the exorbitant price I am willing to pay.”

The guard’s eyes darted around the vestibule and the little stone courtyard that contained the guardhouse. He nodded brusquely.

She handed him the roulade. He stared at her from head to toe. “Have you brought anything you should not have?” Before she could answer, he chuckled, pocketing the roulade. “What matter? He could not hide anything you brought him. But the guards at the cell, they will need encouragement as well.” He raised his brows.

She nodded. It was dangerous to let him know she had more money on her. But what else could she do?

He motioned her toward the corridor leaving the vestibule. “Come with me.”

Françoise hurried after him, practically running to keep up with his long strides. They wound their way into the bowels of the old palace, past the teeming cells noisy with sobbing women, crying children, and the supplications of those nearest the bars. One cell was totally dark and quiet except for low moaning and wet coughing. It smelled like putrefaction. She tugged on the guard ’s coat.

“What is that cell?”

He chuffed a bitter laugh. “Those won’t live to visit Madame G. Infected wounds, bad lungs—they’re dead already except in name. A quick end would be a kindness.”

She stared over her shoulder as she hurried forward. Pray to God, Henri never had to be put in that cell. And she found herself glad that Henri had gotten out Monsieur Navarre and his son Emile. She had no idea where they were at this moment. But it had to be better than this vile place. She almost ran into the guard’s outstretched arm. He had stopped stock-still.

“Shhhhh,” he hissed. Ahead she heard the tromp of feet, some masculine laughter. The guard pulled her into a side corridor they had passed a few feet back. She expected him to wait until the guards passed and venture out. But instead he hurried down the narrower hallway, lined with smaller cells on either side. She followed him down two sets of stairs, ever deeper. Her courage started to fail. Was the guard just taking her to some remote spot to rob and rape her?

The corridor no longer held any cells. Only stones that dripped and sweated. For all she knew they could be under the Seine.

How many prisoners had screamed over the years in this prison? She’d heard that Ravaillac had been tortured to death here for assassinating Henri IV in 1610. The walls seemed to ooze with pain absorbed over centuries.

At last they came to a long, straight corridor. Around the broad shoulders of her guide, she saw that a room widened out, almost like a cave. It was lighted by torches. Men in blue uniforms splashed with red cuffs and lapels crisscrossed in front of the heavy iron grate of a cell.

“Well, my fellow
hommes d’affaires,”
her guard announced as he strode into the room. “Allow me to introduce a lady who will change the month of July for you.” He turned and swept an arm toward Françoise, who lurked in the shadows of the corridor.

She took a breath. All three men stopped where they were and turned toward her.

What are you waiting for? This is what you wanted.

She fumbled in her reticule and broke two roulades inside as she stepped into the room, her gaze drifting toward the cell. She saw a form in the shadows, pale, hanging in chains, its dark head drooping on its chest.

She swallowed. She dared not think about Henri. “Gentlemen.” She nodded greetings.

“You’ll get us sacked or worse, Ravelle,” one of the older guards said. The others looked either stricken or uncertain.

“Ahhh, you are a coward, Orteaux.” He beckoned to Françoise and pointed to her reticule. She took out a handful of coins and held them so they glistened in the torchlight.