Chapter 9

Sidonie was almost lulled to sleep by the rhythm of the horses’ hooves when something struck the coach with a loud bang.

‘Do you hear that?’ Madame Tachard asked.

‘What, my dear?’ said Monsieur Tachard.

‘Listen.’

Sidonie could hear nothing other than the sound of the wheels and the jingle of the horses’ tack.

‘Brigands!’ Monsieur Tachard shouted, pointing to the window.

Sidonie pulled back the curtain and among the clouds of dust churned up by their horses, she saw four riders approaching at full speed. Monsieur Tachard pushed her back into her seat.

‘Stay back. They may have pistols.’

‘What shall we do?’ said Madame Tachard.

‘Remain calm,’ Monsieur Tachard replied, fighting to keep his seat as the coach increased speed. ‘The coachman will know what to do.’

While the coachman attempted to outrun the brigands, Sidonie held on to whatever she could to prevent her body from violently striking the sides of the carriage. Several tense minutes passed but to no avail. Hope was snatched away by an uneven rhythm of pistol shots and cries of ‘Halt!’ The coach came to a staggering stop. Sidonie flew back into her seat while Monsieur and Madame Tachard flew forward. They were struggling to separate themselves when the coach shook and a terrifying face with a scar running from crown to chin appeared at the window.

‘Get out,’ the man ordered.

Sidonie and Madame Tachard were pushed protectively behind Monsieur Tachard, who exited the coach first. The coachman remained at his post, a musket aimed at his chest by a second stranger, while a third man ransacked the contents of their luggage.

There was no sign of Olivier. Could he have been thrown from the coach when it stopped suddenly? An undercurrent of concern tugged at Sidonie; she unexpectedly found herself worrying about him.

‘Not much here,’ said the brigand going through their belongings. ‘Just a lot of clothing, not much of value.’

The man with the scar appeared to be the leader of the group. He had a pistol in his hand that he kept pointed at Monsieur Tachard. ‘Keep looking. There must be something of value.’ He turned to the fourth brigand, who was dismounting. ‘Take the women’s jewellery.’

‘Now, I must protest at that,’ Monsieur Tachard said.

The leader closed the space between them. ‘I don’t care what you think.’

Sidonie neither owned nor wore any jewellery. The fourth man checked her wrists and pulled at the neck of her gown to see if she had anything beneath the garment. She flinched at his touch, but he quickly moved away from her and towards Madame Tachard. The older woman’s eyes widened as the brigand approached her. She clutched her hand to her throat and screamed.

‘Help! Someone, help me!’ she called and, much to everyone’s surprise, tried to run away. After only a few steps, she tripped over her feet and landed heavily on her chest. It drew the attention of all four brigands, including the one with a musket trained on the coachman. Taking advantage of the distraction, the coachman produced a pistol from beneath his seat and fired – a loud bang. All eyes snapped in the direction of the sound. One of the brigands fell to the ground.

‘Get him!’ the leader shouted to his remaining gang. While he stayed with the passengers, the other two men ran towards the coachman, pistols extended.

Monsieur Tachard took the opportunity to leap at the leader, tackling him, the man’s pistol discharging as they fell. Sidonie dropped to the ground reflexively, where she saw Olivier. He had landed in the scrub a short distance away and was staggering to his feet. The fall must have stunned him because he tripped several times as he ran to help the coachman – who seemed to be hoarding an astonishing number of weapons, which he fired one after the other at the two brigands attempting to reach him.

Monsieur Tachard and the leader were rolling in the dirt, making it impossible to tell who had the upper hand.

When the coachman’s pistols prevailed over the two brigands, Olivier changed course and rushed to assist Monsieur Tachard by throwing himself on top of the scarred leader. Despite having two men attempting to subdue him, the leader managed to roll away, his hands closing over the discarded pistol before pointing it straight at Olivier.

‘Watch out!’ Sidonie cried.

Lying on his back, Olivier only had time to cover his face before the brigand fired his weapon.

Sidonie screamed but it went unheard as a second shot rang out only seconds after the first. A look of surprise flashed across the leader’s face before he crumpled to the ground. Behind him stood the coachman, smoke emanating from his weapon. He walked over to the body and kicked it twice.

‘That’s the last of them,’ he said.

Sidonie hurried to Olivier. He lay on his side, arms tucked tight around his midsection. Placing her hand on his shoulder, she attempted to move his arms and look for any injuries. He cried out in pain. She pulled her hand away. It was stained red with blood. She tore open Olivier’s doublet and shirt, exposing his shoulder.

‘Does anyone have any water? Or spirit?’

‘I do,’ Monsieur Tachard said. He propped his shaken wife against the wheel of the coach and began to rummage through the ransacked contents of their bags, producing a small silver flask and handing it to Sidonie.

She opened the cap and sniffed.

‘Spirit,’ Monsieur Tachard said. ‘Medicinal, of course.’

‘It will be now,’ she muttered, pouring the liquid over the front and back of Olivier’s wound. The ball appeared to have passed cleanly through his shoulder. The sudden pain brought Olivier fully back to consciousness, and he tried to push her back with his good arm. She slapped his hand away as she finished washing his wound.

‘If I knew this was all it took to be in your arms, I would have gotten shot earlier,’ he said, his voice strained by pain.

‘What an idiotic thing to say! You could have been killed!’ She noted how the colour had drained from his face. It was not a good sign. ‘What you did was brave. Foolish but brave.’

‘You think me brave?’ he said with that familiar smile.

She wrapped his shoulder with material torn from her skirt. ‘I do.’

His hand reached towards her face. ‘Your eyes are beautiful, like honey. Do you taste of honey too?’

She brushed his hand away.

‘If I could just rest here for a moment ...’ His voice trailed off and his eyes drifted shut.

‘We should be going,’ the coachman said, looking at the bodies of the dead brigands. ‘Before the scavengers come.’

Sidonie shivered, recalling the howls of the wolves she had heard, if not seen, that night she’d slept by the road. The rumours of the child killed by a werewolf still echoed in her ears, as did Olivier’s tale of the Beast of Auvergne.

‘We can alert the gendarmes at our next stop, and they can come and fetch the bodies,’ the coachman said.

Olivier stirred in her arms. ‘Don’t leave me.’

‘We have no intention of leaving you,’ Sidonie said.

Olivier smiled. ‘That is good,’ he said, closing his eyes once more.

They were one day from Dole when Olivier’s condition deteriorated.

Since the attack, he had been travelling inside the coach as there had been no question of him continuing as postillion in his injured state . After a restless night at a nearby inn, he had passed the morning unusually silent, drifting in and out of sleep.

They had been on the road for several hours when Sidonie noticed that his skin was especially pale and clammy, sweat gathering on his forehead.

‘He looks poorly,’ Monsieur Tachard said with concern. Madame Tachard had been wordless since the brigand attack, staring silently out of the window.

‘He needs help,’ Sidonie said worriedly. She leaned across and slid open the hatch that would allow her to speak to the coachman. ‘Monsieur Chéreau needs urgent medical care.’

The coachman paused for a long time before replying. ‘If we push on, we’ll be in Dole before nightfall. That will be his best chance for a doctor.’

Sidonie looked at the cast of Olivier’s skin. ‘He may not live long enough to see it.’

Another long pause. ‘The main road is the straightest way into Dole, but it’s not the fastest. I know a path through the forest. It’ll be rough.’

‘Is it safe?’ Monsieur Tachard asked.

‘No less safe than the road. Just rough,’ the coachman replied.

‘Take the forest,’ Sidonie said.

The coach veered off the road and headed towards the forest. The dense tree line came closer and closer until it seemed to swallow them whole. Branches whipped against the side of the vehicle, beating a furious and uneven rhythm. Compared to the wide-open countryside, the forest was claustrophobic, suffocating. Even the sun struggled to penetrate through the canopy of trees. The coach rattled and bumped for what seemed like an age until Sidonie heard a crack and the coach lurched to one side, coming to a sudden stop.

‘Broken axle,’ the coachman said, appearing at the window. ‘We’ll be going no further until I can fix it.’

Sidonie glanced at Olivier with concern. ‘How long will it take to repair?’

‘Hours. Could be longer. Best for you all to come out in case the coach falls with you in it,’ he said.

Sidonie and Monsieur Tachard carried Olivier from the carriage, supporting his weight between them, before settling him onto a soft patch of grass. Madame Tachard shuffled out of the coach after them, perching on a fallen log nearby and glaring at nothing in particular.

‘Is there anything you can do for him?’ Monsieur Tachard asked Sidonie.

She shook her head. If she had her uncle’s medicines or his knowledge, then perhaps she could do more. But here, in the middle of a forest, there was no apothecary to sell her what she would need, even if she knew what to ask for. And while there might be medicinal plants to be found among the leaves and branches, she would not be able to identify them.

Monsieur Tachard went to see if he could assist the coachman while Sidonie remained with Olivier. She tugged down the glove on her unscarred hand and pressed the back of it to his forehead. It was hot to the touch, but to her surprise he sighed gently. Glancing over her shoulder, she removed the glove and stroked his hair. The gesture seemed to bring him peace. It was the least she could do in the circumstances. Concentrating on Olivier’s shallow breathing, she did not notice that the sounds of activity near the coach had ceased.

‘Something’s coming,’ the coachman warned in a harsh whisper.

There were wolves in the forest. They were not far from where the child had been attacked by a wolf – or if the serving woman from that inn was to be believed, by a werewolf. It was unlikely that a lone wolf would attack a small group, but a hungry and desperate animal might not consider the risk – especially when they could smell fresh blood.

The figure that emerged from between the trees was neither beast nor demon but, to Sidonie’s immediate relief, entirely human.

The young woman wore a veil that covered most of her head, leaving only her face visible. She carried a misshapen woven basket over one arm, her other hand rested on her hip, her elbow jutting out to the side.

‘What’s this here? Having trouble?’ she asked, her voice rough and husky but not unfriendly.

‘Good day to you.’ Sidonie hesitated, rising to her feet. Mademoiselle? Madame? ‘We have a man in need of urgent medical care. Is there a doctor hereabouts?’

The woman stared at her as if she had spoken an unfamiliar language, yet Sidonie was certain she had spoken with more care and calm than the situation warranted.

‘Could it be?’ the woman said, dropping her basket and hurrying over, her gaze still locked on Sidonie. Something flickered across her features, shifting her expression. Or perhaps it was the light falling through the trees and onto her face. She stopped when they were a handbreadth apart; her eyes were the same dark green as the moss growing on the rocks around them, and they darted across every part of Sidonie, scrutinising her face, her hair, her body. The woman was close enough that Sidonie could detect the scent of the forest on her skin – sharp, clean and earthy.

‘It could be. No. No, it cannot be.’ The woman reached forward with one hand as if to touch her face, and Sidonie flinched reflexively. She must have offended the woman, who pulled her hand back as if bitten. ‘You don’t know me, do you?’

Sidonie took in the shape of her eyes, the curve of her cheek, the faint lines around her mouth that spoke more of hard work than age, for despite the signs of wear on her skin, she and Sidonie looked to be of a similar age. And yet her voice was rough, uncultured, with an unfamiliar accent. The woman stood taller than most men Sidonie knew; that alone would have made her memorable.

The woman had been watching her expectantly, and Sidonie did not like to disappoint her, especially when she might be their only hope of help for Olivier. ‘I do not,’ Sidonie admitted reluctantly. ‘Do you know me?’

The woman smiled sadly. ‘Forgive me, mademoiselle. I must be remembering someone else. And I must disappoint you, for if you’re wanting a man of medicine, you won’t find one in the forest. Plenty to be found in town.’

‘How far is it to town?’ Monsieur Tachard asked. ‘By foot.’

‘You could walk there and back over a morning, faster if you run,’ the woman said. ‘I would not advise it, though, judging by the state of your friend there. Might I look at him?’

The woman did not wait for anyone to agree before she knelt by Olivier’s side and began sweeping her hands across his body, pausing at his head, chest and the site of the wound, which, much to Sidonie’s surprise, she bent over and sniffed deeply. ‘I can help your man,’ she said to Sidonie. ‘If you bring him to my home, I can heal him.’

‘Where is your home?’ Sidonie asked.

‘Not far from here. I can show you.’

‘Are you an apothecary?’ Monsieur Tachard asked.

‘I use herbs, tinctures, things taken from the earth.’

A wise woman then , Sidonie thought. Uncle Claude had placed little stock in what he considered ‘the meddling of foolish women’, but something about this woman told Sidonie that she could be trusted. ‘I will pay you, in coin, for your work.’

The woman laughed, a deep, full-throated sound. ‘I suspect you would insist even if I refused, not that I’m inclined to refuse good coin.’

Sidonie named a sum and the woman agreed. The coachman insisted on helping to carry Olivier, with the woman’s assurances that her home did lie only a short distance away. At Madame Tachard’s insistence, her first words since the previous day, she and her husband were to stay with the coach and baggage.

The woman had been telling the truth, for they did not walk long before they arrived at a small clearing. At one end stood a low dwelling cobbled together from stone and moss, with vines growing between the rocks. A column of smoke emanated from a sloping thatch roof, gently twirling into the sky. It had an otherworldly feel about it – as if they’d stepped from the world of God and into some other place. A faery world. Not that Sidonie believed in faeries – such stories were dangerous, even for children. But she did not feel in any danger here. If anything, the place had an air of welcome.

The woman entered the cottage through a low door, bidding them to follow. It was dark inside, punctuated by smoke rising from the hearth that occupied almost one entire wall. Despite the small size of the entry door, Sidonie, the coachman and the woman all fit comfortably inside with much room to spare. The small windows added little light despite the brightness of the day, for a heavy canopy of trees shaded much of the dwelling. Once her eyes adjusted to the gloom, Sidonie saw that the space was rectangular, with doorways leading off the main area, suggesting at least two other rooms. Signs of poverty were all around them, from the mismatched furniture to the dung in the hearth.

‘Place him on the table, monsieur. And strip his clothing. To the waist will do.’

After the coachman followed the woman’s instructions, she jostled him aside to begin her examination. As she had done earlier, she placed her bare hands on Olivier’s body, showing no signs of embarrassment at touching the naked skin of a strange man. It reminded Sidonie of the way Uncle Claude had been with his patients – efficient and clinical. Then the woman did something Sidonie’s uncle had never done. She leaned so close to Olivier’s mouth that Sidonie thought for one terrible moment that she intended to kiss him. But no, she just sniffed around his mouth and then sniffed again near his wound. If that were not enough, she began to poke and squeeze the site of the wound, clucking her tongue as thick whitish fluid seeped out from the torn, angry flesh.

‘Fever rages through his body, and there is some sickness in the wound. Nothing I cannot treat. I will need to collect some things.’ She pointed at Sidonie. ‘You watch over him while I’m gone. If he takes a turn, shout for me. Send the other man to fetch water – there is a stream near here. Sponge drops into his mouth as often as he’ll take it.’

‘Will he survive?’ Sidonie asked, a note of worry creeping unbidden into her words. Olivier had been injured while defending them against the brigand attack. She could not help but feel responsible for his care.

The woman shrugged her shoulders. ‘I’ve no reason to think he won’t. The injury looks far worse than it is. And he’s young and strong. But things can change like that.’ She snapped her fingers.

‘We should pray to God for his recovery,’ Sidonie said.

‘If that will help you, then so be it. But don’t forget the water. God can only do so much.’ The woman left by the same door through which they had entered, taking her woven basket with her.

The coachman went to fetch the water, leaving Sidonie alone with Olivier. A lock of his hair curled across one cheek, and she resisted the temptation to tuck it behind his ear. His chest was smooth and firm, with only a sprinkling of hair the same reddish-brown shade as the hair on his head. She wondered what it felt like, if it was soft or coarse and wiry. And what it would be like to curl it between her fingers.

When the coachman reappeared, she jumped guiltily, tilting her head to hide her face from view, and the blush that would betray her curiosity. She need not have bothered, because he simply deposited the bucket of water at her feet and then went back outside. She could understand him feeling discomforted. Sidonie was used to houses that smelled like wood, wax, smoke, flowers or the odour of cooking. This place smelled like it was part of the earth. She wondered how a woman could live out here on her own, so far from anyone else, with no protection. She could not imagine such a thing for herself.

She soaked a sponge in the bucket of water, wrung it out and pressed it gently to Olivier’s mouth, releasing only a few drops at a time, as the woman had instructed. His mouth opened slightly, and she could see the pinkness of his tongue as it sought the droplets of water. She repeated this task until the woman reappeared, clutching her basket in one hand and a lump of wet clay in the other. Sidonie was about to ask her about the clay when there came the sound of a commotion outside. She could make out the coachman’s voice as well as that of an unfamiliar man.

‘He’s home,’ the woman said.

The man who appeared in the doorway was so large that even hunched he filled the space and blocked out almost all the light. ‘Apolline? You there?’ he said in a booming voice.

‘Yes, husband, I am here.’

Where the woman was lithe, he was hulking. Where she was soft and clean, he was hairy and covered in grime. He carried a brace of rabbits in one massive hand – freshly killed, judging by the blood that covered his hand.

‘Who are these people, Apolline?’ he asked, his eyes flicking between Sidonie and the coachman. ‘Do I know them?’

‘No, husband. They are strangers. They brought me a man to heal. They have given me coin too.’

His voice softened to a gentle rumble. ‘That’s my clever wife. Have you fixed the man?’

‘As best I can. Their coach needs fixing too. The man outside will show you the way. Take your tools and go now.’

The man looked around for a place to drop his rabbits before putting them on a chair. Then he left obediently. Apolline immediately removed the rabbits and placed them in a bucket she had pulled from beneath the table. She wiped the traces of blood left on the chair. ‘He’s good with his hands and should make short work of your coach,’ Apolline said.

‘My thanks. You didn’t have to do that,’ Sidonie said, imagining the reaction of Madame Tachard when she saw the large, fearsome man.

‘I know,’ Apolline said, glancing at Sidonie. ‘He’s a good man, you know. Don’t judge him by how he looks.’

Sidonie wanted to say that she would not do that, but it wouldn’t be true. ‘My apologies if we have put you in an awkward position. Will he mind us being in his home?’

‘There’s nothing to be sorry for,’ the woman said, emerald eyes meeting golden. ‘It’s my home too.’

Sidonie continued to sponge water into Olivier’s mouth while Apolline tore and crushed the herbs in her basket. The silence finally became too much to bear. ‘Thank you for helping us. Without your help, I honestly do not know what I would have done. And I don’t even know your name.’

‘Apolline, as my husband named me. Apolline Garnier. Are you married?’

‘I am not. Mademoiselle Sidonie Montot. It is a pleasure to know you, Madame Garnier.’

‘And I you, Mademoiselle Sidonie Montot,’ Apolline said, her words at odds with the sadness in her voice. She had finished grinding the herbs and now mixed them with the clay.

‘What are you doing?’ Sidonie asked.

‘Making a poultice. The sickness can get trapped under the skin. It needs cleaning. And then I have these,’ she gestured at the remaining herbs in her basket. ‘Meadowsweet and yarrow to boil in water for him to drink. It will help with the fever and the blood sickness.’

Sidonie had met apothecaries who dispensed tonics and potions, and it appeared that Apolline had the same skills. It seemed a strange place to find an apothecary – in a cottage in the middle of the forest. She had also never met a woman apothecary. Women were little more than tolerated in the world of medicine. Even a midwife must be careful not to overstep her boundaries. Even a woman’s particular complaints – including those of an intimate nature – were always directed to a male physician or surgeon, as it was professed in their circles that a man knew a woman’s body better than a woman did her own.

‘Open his mouth for me,’ Apolline said.

Sidonie did as instructed and Apolline produced a small bottle made of dark glass. She shook three drops into Olivier’s mouth. Within minutes his breathing stilled, and he settled into a deeper sleep.

‘What was that?’ Sidonie asked.

‘You have a lot of questions, don’t you?’

‘I’ve always been curious about medicines and healing. My uncle was a physician.’

‘Then you would know more than me.’

‘If only that were true. I wanted to learn. The blending of herbs and flowers to produce medicine is something that has long interested me.’

‘It’s powerful knowledge and a great responsibility too.’ Apolline flicked Olivier’s cheek but he did not stir. ‘It’s taken effect now. We don’t want him to awake for this. You should wait outside.’

Sidonie did not hesitate. ‘I’ll stay.’

Apolline smoothed the poultice across the wound in Olivier’s shoulder and began to slowly rub it in. As she did so, she squeezed, causing white fluid to rise to the surface. Sidonie took a cloth and wiped it away while Apolline kept squeezing. When the blood ran red with no streaks of white, she packed the wound with her poultice.

‘Help me turn him on his front,’ Apolline instructed.

She then repeated the process on his back, the exit wound. Finally, it was done. Apolline had no bandages, so Sidonie tore off linen from her already ripped skirt.

‘You’re a fortunate one,’ Apolline said, once Olivier was bandaged and resting comfortably.

‘How so?’ Sidonie replied.

‘Your man is handsome and young, also brave and perhaps a little foolish.’

‘What makes you think he’s mine?’ Sidonie watched Olivier’s eyelashes dance gently across his cheek. Some colour had returned to his face and his skin already felt less hot to the touch.

‘He’s here and so are you. You stayed with him. You look at him like a lover. Was he fighting when he was hurt?’

Sidonie flinched at the woman’s use of the word lover. She explained how they’d met and described the brigand attack. ‘He tried to help. Not many would have done the same in the situation. Foolish, yes. Brave, undoubtedly.’

‘As I said, fortunate.’

‘And he is not my lover.’

Apolline snorted. ‘As you say.’

It was difficult to track the passage of time within the cottage, but Sidonie did not think it had been more than an hour or two before the woman’s husband returned. He walked straight to Apolline. ‘The coach is fixed. They can go now?’

‘No, the man cannot be moved. He must rest here. The woman can go.’

‘I do not like to leave him,’ Sidonie said with concern. He had suffered greatly and was so vulnerable in his present condition. There was nothing of the charming young man in the pale figure before her. He had shown her kindness and attention, it did not feel right to leave him.

Apolline gave her a knowing look. ‘Have no fear. I won’t be taking advantage of his weakened state.’

Seeing the scandalised expression on Sidonie’s face, the woman laughed. ‘I jest; it is my nature. I promise to give him the best of care.’

Could she leave him with strangers? But then what was Sidonie to him, apart from another stranger?

‘He’ll be safe,’ Apolline promised. ‘Come back in three days and see for yourself.’