Chapter 5

‘Get out of the way!’

Sidonie barely had time to move off the dirt road before a young man came thundering past on horseback. He snatched the cap from her head, dropping it a short distance away before whooping and hollering in the direction of the city. Stomping her feet hard enough to track mud onto her skirt, she collected her cap and brushed off the worst of the dirt before restoring it to its rightful place.

It was the third time she had been forced from the road. After the first, she’d regretted her decision to leave Paris in such haste. The early morning air had been cool and fresh when she’d walked through the city gate. But by now, the sun glared down at her, slicking her skin with sweat, and she wondered if some madness had gripped her. It was unlike her to be so spontaneous; her routines were well established, her life well ordered, everything carefully designed to maintain an efficient and genial household where she was safe and content. That had all ended the moment Hubert Dampmartin had struck her to the ground. The pain in her hip had settled to a dull ache and a reminder that this was a situation she had no hope of managing nor any way of controlling. A decision made in haste was not necessarily the wrong one. Even if it did mean she’d left the city without securing transportation and now must travel by foot to the nearest coaching inn in hopes of booking passage on a diligence coach. She would walk the entire eighty leagues from Paris to Dole if she must, although she hoped it would not come to that. If only for the sake of her boots. They were her only shoes.

As the horse and rider faded into the distance, she retrieved Uncle Claude’s battered brown leather travelling bag from where she had dropped it. To pack a lifetime within one bag should have taken her longer, yet in the end there were few decisions to make. There was no room for want, only need. A clean chemise, stockings and gloves, and her best gown in a shade of green that reminded her of leaves in springtime. It was the nicest garment she owned and would be necessary to make a good first impression on her aunt. The rest of the space was taken up with a skin of water, what remained of the pork pies she’d purchased the day before, bread, some dried fruit given to her as a condolence gift, and the remaining apples from her larder. Aunt Eloise’s letter also rested securely within. When she’d first tested the weight of the bag, it had seemed manageable; however, the weight soon began to pain her. If only she could strap it to her back.

The hope of reaching a coaching inn faded when streaks of orange and purple painted the sky, and it began to grow cold. She spotted a tree a short distance from the road. That would have to be her bed for the night.

The open space seemed impossibly vast to someone who had spent most of her life in a city, where it was never silent and where she was never alone. There was nothing familiar about the trees, nor the sound of birds calling to each other while the sun slowly sank from view. Sitting down with her back resting against the gnarled trunk of the tree, she opened her bag. The pork pie took away her hunger, but not the other gnawing feeling in the pit of her stomach that she had made a terrible mistake in leaving Paris. And yet, what was she truly leaving? A house, yes, but not a home. A home needed life and love. Her childhood home had been such a place. Even though it was little more than a collection of memories now – placing her unscarred fingers under a chicken to get its egg, a warm hand stroking her hair, the scent of summer rain on parched earth, and a jewel the colour of the sky at dusk. Sometimes, if she closed her eyes, she could feel the weight of that jewel in her hand. She was certain it had once been in her grasp. Where it had gone, she did not know, could not remember.

Having constructed a pillow from her bag and a blanket from her cloak, she lay down at the base of the tree and closed her eyes.

At some point in the night, Sidonie became aware that she was no longer alone. In an instant she awoke fully, muscles frozen in place as she tried not to make a sound. Glancing around revealed nothing, but something moved out there in the dark. It did not attempt to silence its presence, which meant it had little to fear. Bandits operated along these roads, robbing travellers of their goods – or worse. There would be deserters from the war, desperate for coin, food or a body to warm them. The crimes of both drew in other predators from the forests and mountains. Scavengers, hungry for meat. They were not particular if the meat still lived. She tried to push these thoughts from her mind. Tried to ignore what lurked in the dark. Tried to tell if it came closer.

A loud, mournful howl rose in the distance. The call of a wolf. Its howl was taken up first by one, then two, then three other beasts – near enough that their howls echoed in Sidonie’s ears. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to move, not to breathe too deeply, not to make a sound that would attract the wolves to where she slept beneath the shelter of the tree. At any moment she expected them to leap out of the shadows, to feel their warm breath on her skin, their teeth tearing at her flesh. Only when it became clear that the beasts had gone and the howls had receded into the night did she dare to take a full breath and uncurl her limbs, stiff from being held tight for what had seemed like hours.

It took a long time to fall asleep once more.

The coaching inn’s painted sign depicted three black cats and it swung gaily in the early morning breeze. It was attached to a single-level dwelling with freshly painted white walls and dark wood trim around the windows. The inn looked clean and respectable, a welcome relief after Sidonie’s night sleeping rough. With good fortune, she would be able to secure a coach to take her the rest of the way to Dole.

The yard was empty of coaches, though – its only occupants being two saddled horses, a young boy and a black cat snoozing in a sunbeam.

‘Where’s your horse, mademoiselle?’ the boy asked.

Sidonie dropped her bag and near groaned from the ache in her shoulder. ‘I have none. May I enquire as to the next coach to Dole?’

‘Tomorrow morning,’ the boy said, using his sleeve to rub at his nose. ‘We can fix you up with a room for the night. I’ll take you to the innkeeper.’

The boy reached for her bag and Sidonie watched his dirty hand wrap around the handle. ‘Very kind of you.’

Following the boy, she entered the inn, finding a large room with a hearth at each end and light pouring through the front windows that overlooked the yard. Bunches of dried herbs hung from the low ceiling to sweeten the air. In Paris space was hard to come by, so most buildings were tall and narrow; however, this structure was in no way self-conscious about the amount of room it occupied. It was her first experience inside a coaching inn – Uncle Claude had never seen cause to bring her with him on the rare occasions he’d left the city – and she tried not to look as out of place as she felt. The room appeared empty except for two rough-looking men drinking at a nearby table, a lone man seated by the window, and an older man standing at a long counter, polishing drinking vessels made from glass. The boy led her towards the counter.

‘Monsieur Plourde, customer for you,’ the boy said.

The innkeeper put down the glass and cloth and fixed Sidonie with a warm smile. ‘Welcome to Les Trois Chats, mademoiselle. How may I serve you?’

Sidonie repeated that she wished to secure passage to Dole.

‘We expect the coach on the morrow—’

‘That’s what I told her,’ the boy said.

‘Thank you, Bastien. Take mademoiselle’s bag to room two.’

Sidonie thought of her limited supply of coin. It would have to pay for her passage as well as food and lodging. She had to be prudent. ‘One moment, monsieur.’

The innkeeper put up his hand to halt the boy. ‘Is there a problem, mademoiselle?’

‘No problem,’ she said. She noticed the two men had put down their cups and were listening to their conversation. Lowering her voice, she tried to phrase her circumstances in a way that would not cause her any embarrassment. ‘I find myself travelling alone, you see, and it would suit me better to share a room for the night, perhaps with a maid or serving girl?’

A knowing look appeared in the innkeeper’s eye. ‘Of course, mademoiselle. You can share Flora’s bedchamber. She will be glad for the company.’

He named a sum, and she accepted it with relief.

‘Bastien will show you the way. Flora won’t return until evening, except to change her apron, so you may rest undisturbed. I’ll have her fetch fresh water for you to wash, and something to eat as well.’

Following the boy once more, this time down a hallway branching off from the inn’s main room, Sidonie soon found herself inside a bedchamber. Bastien dropped her bag inside the bedchamber and hurried away. It was a small room but, like the rest of the establishment, clean and tidy. The bed occupied one corner and it was neatly made, with the bedding tucked in and a blanket folded at the base. Beside it stood a small table that held a brass candle holder with the stub of a candle. An empty basin and ewer sat on a wooden chest of drawers. There was no window, but that did not concern Sidonie. When a knock came at the door, she opened it, expecting to see Bastien, or perhaps the maid, Flora, with the water and food. Instead, the two men she had noticed watching her in the large room forced their way inside.

‘Travelling on your own, are you?’ asked one of the men, a hunk of dirty yellow hair hanging over one eye.

‘How I travel is no business but my own,’ Sidonie said, looking for a way around him to get to the door. ‘Please leave.’

‘You looking for some company, ma chérie?’ The other man said, stepping into the room, the open door at his back. ‘You could have a room of your own for the night. After we help you settle in. Even earn you some coin for your trouble.’

It was a danger she had anticipated. But she had not expected the fear. She tightened her fists, digging her nails into her palms. ‘You have misunderstood me, messieurs. I am a respectable woman.’

Her words were received with a snort of contempt from the yellow-haired intruder. ‘Play all the games you want, but we’ll still have our fun.’

She’d just opened her mouth to scream for help when a third man entered the room. Based on his dress alone – a pristine leather jerkin and white ruff – he looked every part a man of means.

‘What is happening here? Are these men bothering you, mademoiselle?’

‘Shove off and wait your turn!’ said the one with the yellow hair, sizing him up.

The newcomer was considerably smaller than the other two, a fact that did not stop him from pushing past and placing himself between them and Sidonie.

‘It’s time for you to leave,’ he said, his arms folded.

‘Or what?’

The newcomer cut off the other man by opening his mouth and screaming in a pitch that sounded remarkably like that of a woman. Sidonie watched on in surprise as the two men turned and skulked out of the room. As soon as they were gone, the man brought the sound to an end and raised one hand to his throat. He turned to Sidonie. ‘No need to thank me, mademoiselle. What sort of gentleman would I be to leave a woman in distress? Rather useless at fisticuffs, I confess, but my methods of dispersing ruffians – while unorthodox – are effective.’

‘Thank you for your intervention, monsieur.’

‘At your pleasure, mademoiselle.’ He swept his bonnet from his head and bowed so deep his reddish-brown hair almost touched the wooden floor. ‘If you need me, ask only for Olivier Chéreau. The boy knows where to find me. Now, I suggest you lock your door.’

To her relief, he did not tarry. As soon as he left, she slid the bolt.