Part 5 (1/2)
Surrendering to fatigue, he slept as a free man for the first time in ten years.
Ca.s.sie's mouth tightened as the snow became heavier. It was more than three inches deep and concealed the frozen ruts, making the ride a b.u.mpy one. She'd slept in her cart before in bad weather, and even ridden out a blizzard once, grateful for the warmth of her pony. But she'd rather not have to do that with two men, one of them in fragile health.
The weather did have the advantage of keeping people indoors. Once a hunched rider pa.s.sed them going the opposite direction, and another time she halted the cart while a farmer drove a small flock of sheep across the road. He ignored the cart and its occupants as if they were invisible.
Afternoon turned to dusk and the snow became deep enough to slow their progress. If they didn't reach their destination soon, they risked being bogged down in the empty countryside.
It was almost dark when Pere Laurent said, ”Turn left into that lane. It leads to Viole's farm.”
Praying that farm and niece would be as he believed, she turned at his direction. The area was indeed out of the way. They should be safe here, at least for a while.
The track climbed upward and the pony began foundering in the slippery snow. Ca.s.sie halted the cart and handed the reins to Pere Laurent. ”Please hold these.”
She climbed from the cart and went to the pony's head. Taking the bridle, she tugged the pony forward. ”I'm sorry for this, Thistle,” she crooned. ”You're such a strong, brave pony. Soon you can rest and I'll give you some of the oats in the back of the cart. Just a little longer, ma pet.i.te chou.”
Head down, the pony struggled forward again. At first the cart barely moved. Then it began rolling smoothly, reducing the strain on Thistle. Surprised, Ca.s.sie glanced back and saw that Grey had climbed out and was pus.h.i.+ng the cart from behind. The man was strong. And for a British lord, fairly useful.
The last stretch of track seemed endless. Ca.s.sie was numb with cold and slipped repeatedly. She was exhausted, not just from the trials of today but because she'd been pus.h.i.+ng herself since leaving England. She kept moving, one foot in front of the other, clinging to the pony's harness. She'd learned early that surrender was a poor choice.
She didn't notice that the track had leveled off until Pere Laurent said, ”We're here.” His voice was warm. ”It looks just as I remember.”
Ca.s.sie wondered tartly if that had also been in the middle of a blizzard. She couldn't see the farmhouse clearly, but smoke came from the nearest chimney and there was light visible through the windows. Even if the priest's niece, Viole, wasn't here anymore, surely the inhabitants wouldn't turn away strangers caught in such a storm.
s.h.i.+vering, Ca.s.sie made her way to the door and knocked hard. Only a moment pa.s.sed before the door opened a crack, revealing the face of a wary middle-aged woman. She relaxed a little to see another female on the doorstep. ”Who are you?”
”I'm Madame Renard. There are three of us, and we need shelter from the storm.” When the woman nodded, Ca.s.sie continued, ”If you are Madame Boyer, do you have an Uncle Laurent?”
The woman's face clouded and she crossed herself. ”I did, may G.o.d rest his blessed soul.”
A weary but amused voice said, ”Reports of my death were exaggerated, my dearest Viole.”
Ca.s.sie turned and saw the dark figure of Pere Laurent emerging from the cart, supported by Grey. Viole Boyer stared in disbelief. ”Mon oncle!”
She threw the door open and raced out into the snow and embraced the priest. If not for Grey's support, she and her uncle would have tumbled to the ground.
Pere Laurent didn't mind. Tears on his face and in his voice, he said hoa.r.s.ely, ”My darling niece, I didn't think I would ever see you again.”
The wind gusted, cutting to the bone. Ca.s.sie pointed out, ”This reunion will be even better indoors.”
”Oui, oui!” Madame Boyer took her uncle's arm and led him to the house.
Ca.s.sie asked, ”Is there a stable for my pony?”
A broadly built man who must be Romain Boyer appeared, drawn by the commotion. ”Pere Laurent, it really is you!” After a brief, intense clasp of the old man's hand, he said to Ca.s.sie, ”I'll take your pony to the stable and bed it down, madame. You and your companions need to warm yourselves by the fire.”
Ordinarily Ca.s.sie would have seen to her horse herself, but this evening she was willing to turn Thistle over to someone else. ”There are oats in the back of the cart,” she said wearily. ”Thistle has earned them.”
”Indeed she has.” Romain Boyer moved into the storm and took hold of the pony's bridle. ”I promise she'll be well cared for.”
The door opened into a large, warm kitchen with bunches of herbs and braids of garlic and onions hanging from the rafters. A fire burned on the hearth and the warmth almost knocked Ca.s.sie out. She stood, swaying, too tired to think.
A young girl and a smaller boy appeared. Seeing Ca.s.sie's condition, Madame Boyer said, ”You need rest, Madame Renard.” To her daughter, she said, ”Light the fire and warm the extra bed in your room. This lady has brought my uncle home to us!” She turned to her son. ”Fill three porringers with hot soup, Andre.”
To Ca.s.sie, she said, ”Give me your cloak. I'll dry it by the fire. Please, all three of you, sit before you fall over!”
Ca.s.sie was used to taking care of people in her charge as well as horses, but she let herself be ushered to a chair by the fire. Pere Laurent sat on her right, and Grey withdrew to the corner, as far from all the chattering people as possible.
Andre ladled steaming soup from a pot on the hob into a wooden porringer, then hesitated, unsure whether to serve the lady or the priest first. Ca.s.sie gestured toward Pere Laurent. ”A priest has precedence over a female peddler.”
Glad to have that clarified, the boy handed the porringer to his great-uncle, then filled another and handed it to Ca.s.sie. She cupped it in her hands, her fingers tingling uncomfortably as they warmed. She was just finis.h.i.+ng the soup when the young girl returned. ”I am Yvette. Come, madame. Your bed is warmed and ready.”
”Merci.” Ca.s.sie set down the empty porringer and followed the girl from the warm kitchen, down a cold, drafty corridor, then into a small, warm bedroom with single beds on opposite walls.
”My sister, Jeanne, is married, so there is a spare bed,” Yvette explained. ”The one on the right is yours. Can I help you disrobe?”
”Thank you, but I can manage.” Ca.s.sie sat on the edge of the bed and tugged off her half boots and loosened her hair. She stood to remove her st.u.r.dy gown, then crawled into the narrow but comfortable bed.
Usually in France she slept with one ear c.o.c.ked for trouble. But this welcoming family and farmhouse were a haven, protected from all enemies by the storm rattling the windows and concealing the fugitives' path.
She was asleep before Yvette left the room.
Chapter 13.
It was still dark outside the frost-patterned windows when Ca.s.sie woke. She had the sense she'd slept only a few hours, but long enough to cure her exhaustion.
Wondering how her newly freed charges were faring, she dressed again. Yvette had left her half boots by the small fire so they were warm and mostly dry. After pulling them on, she returned to the kitchen, which was the center of life in most farmhouses.
The long room was empty except for Madame Boyer, who was mending by the fire. She glanced up, her happiness at the reunion with her uncle still visible. ”Ah, you look much better than you did, madame. Join me by the fire. Would you like more to eat? To drink? Perhaps some apple brandy, made right here on our farm?”
Ca.s.sie was about to say the apple brandy sounded good when she noticed a drying rack angled on the other side of the fire. Her cloak was draped over one end, thin tendrils of steam wisping from the heavy fabric. Hanging on the other end were the garments taken from the guard at the castle. She remarked, ”Wyndham is sleeping?”
Viole made a face. ”Pere Laurent and my family have gone to bed, but I cannot retire before your other man-I thought his name was Monsieur Sommers?-returns. He is bathing. In the farm pond.”
”What?” Appalled, Ca.s.sie stared at her hostess. ”He'll freeze to death! Surely the farm pond has iced over. How could you allow him to do such a mad thing?”
”Water flows in from a spring at one end so it doesn't freeze.” Viole rolled her eyes. ”I also told him he was mad, but he just asked most politely for soap and towels and a scrub brush. Uncle Laurent says he's English. That explains much.” She gestured toward the fire, which was burning low. ”I told him if he wasn't back by the time that log burns down, I shall send my husband out after him.”
The log was almost gone. Ca.s.sie reached for her cloak. ”Where is the pond?”
”Around the back of the house by the stables. It cannot be missed.” Viole set her mending aside and lifted a cloak from one of the pegs by the door. ”Take mine. It's dry.”
Ca.s.sie donned the cloak gratefully. ”May I have a blanket and perhaps some brandy in case I must pull that idiot's frozen body from the pond and revive him?”
Viole removed a small, squat jug from a cabinet, then a scratchy blanket from a different cabinet. The blanket was pleasantly warm from being kept near the fire. ”If you need help removing the body, come inside and I shall wake Romain.”
Ca.s.sie took the brandy and headed toward the door. ”Men! It's amazing mankind has survived.”