On
most Sundays, Milady went to a local Church and offered up her prayers to a
silent God. It was not for herself that
she maintained her childhood ritual, for she knew she had been lost long ago to
that glittering afterlife. Somewhere on
the grounds of a convent, in a far flung corner of France, there was a grave
stone that bore the name of Madeleine de Caumont. She did not have to see it to know that it
was cut from the finest granite that was available in Bearn or even that there was no other
ornamentation, save the cross, above the letters. Her parents would have provided the cost of
the funeral and may have even attended, but only the old priest knew for sure if
the grave lay empty or if, as Milady expected, a nameless pauper was there in
her stead. After all, he was always
economical if nothing else. The only
truth on that piece of rock would be the spelling of her real name and the date
of her birth.
No matter
the doubts that crowded her mind about the ancient mythology of the Church, she
could not stop herself from praying on the Sabbath for the soul of her lost
child. On the off chance that all the
priests’ lessons were true, she could not risk abandoning her innocent angel to
an eternity of waiting. Whether her soul
had gone to purgatory or had been winked out of existence with the child’s last
breath there was never a reason to pay homage to that tiny stone in the corner
of the yard. For Milady it was only the
small body of her child under the ground.
Did her
mother talk to the air and imagine that somehow her earthbound words could be
heard just as Milady often did for her own child? She often thought of her parents and wondered
if they went to visit her at the false grave.
Did her mother pray for the soul of her daughter in purgatory and pay
the indulgences to the church for her child’s speedy release into heaven? If this were true, did the old priest feel
the weight of his own guilt when he received her purse?
Perhaps her
own mother’s wasted efforts could count toward her unknown granddaughter. Perhaps, her mother prayed for the baby too. Knowing the torment she had felt over a
daughter she had only held for a day, she could only imagine what her mother
felt over the loss of a sixteen year old daughter. But Milady imagined that the shame
surrounding her premarital circumstances were enough for her mother to be glad
she could not torment them any longer even if it meant the loss of her
companionship.
If the old
priest had not offered her an escape from that shame, what would have become of
her? Milady was never meant to live a
penitent life and a finite existence within the walls of a nunnery. The daily routine and silence would have
driven Milady insane even now in the maturity of her years. The priest had had enough experience with
novitiates to recognize when a woman was not meant for the cloistered life. He had also worked with the Cardinal long
enough to know the type of personalities he would readily employee for his
clandestine affairs. Of course, all of
this was irrelevant now and she only entertained these thoughts when her own
earnest prayers had concluded well in advance of the minister’s.
Milady’s
first real mission after entering the Cardinal’s service was to seduce and
marry the Comte de la Fere. His lands
and influence in the south of France were very important to the Cardinal in the
preparation for war against their neighbor, Spain. She was to use her feminine wiles to sway the
Comte in support of the Cardinal and his scheme against the Queen. If that failed, her instructions were to
provide an heir who could be easily controlled after the untimely death of his
father until he reached his maturity.
To Milady, there could be no simpler task. Men often responded very well to her and with
all she had learned under the Cardinal’s tutelage she set off for Sauveterre-de-Béarn
with a confidence that could not be shaken.
Indeed, Milady was successful in her attempts and she was soon wed to
the Comte de la Fere. What she had not
accounted for in all her careful planning was that she might fall under the
Comte’s spell in return.
He was a young man of about 22, just come into his
inheritance, and confident as the day is long.
Armand, for that was his Christian name, had untidy brown hair that
always found a way to hang directly in his line of vision. He was often seen brushing it away from his
dark brown eyes only to have it fall back into the exact same spot. He was lithe and quick with the sword – a
superior opponent for anyone willing to challenge him. A great horseman on top of that would have
been enough to make him an excellent soldier, but his fortune served as a
buffer to those realities and he had not been called on to defend his King’s
name.
Her husband was never sympathetic to the Cardinal’s schemes
let alone one against her majesty Queen Anne.
His lands were part of her territories and he refused to betray this
great lady to such a villain as the Cardinal.
His description of the Cardinal had stung Milady at first. For the Cardinal had given her everything
she’d ever wanted and it was difficult for her to see him in a negative
light. The Cardinal’s interests were
those of France after all. No matter
what angle she tried, she was unable to convince her husband that these schemes
were worth his support.
Her attempts had become more desperate when she realized she
was pregnant with Armand’s child. She
had hoped for more time to work with him before such an event but their passion
for one another had escalated the situation beyond her control. She had not yet felt the quickening but she
knew that a child had begun to grow in her womb. Her symptoms had been the same as before, but
there was no doubting them this time.
Milady again found her pregnancy bittersweet but not because of her
husband’s reaction. Where her last lover
had seen it as a burden she alone must endure, her husband had arranged a
picnic by the Gave d'Oloron to celebrate.
They had arrived by the water’s edge around midday and
everything had been prearranged by his servants who were now conveniently
absent. They ate their meal of cold
pheasant and cheese with freshly picked figs.
When they were done, Armand presented her with a box. Inside was one of the most gorgeous rings she
had ever seen. It was an old family
heirloom, he had said, it had belonged to his mother and it was the most
precious thing he owned that he could give to her. He wanted her to wear it from now on because,
with the birth of their first child, she would be the one carrying his family
name forward into the next generation.
In doing this, she was giving him the most precious gift he could
imagine.
She had thrown her arms around him and they’d tumbled over
the empty basket and down the grassy hill a short way. She had kissed him deeply for all of the
things that he had said and for being so different from any other man she had
ever known. They made love by the river
and spent the rest of the afternoon in each other’s arms dreaming of their
future together. It was only when the
sun began to wane in the sky above that he called for the servants to pack up
the remains of their meal and take it back to the chateau.
Even with everything that would come to pass, Milady could
think back on this afternoon with pleasure.
She would disconnect it from the man Armand had since become in her mind
and pretend that the beautiful future they had dreamed together was still
possible somewhere. Though the man he
proved himself to be had destroyed all of those possibilities.
The Cardinal had not been pleased with her husband’s refusal
to acquiesce to his plan but he had been very pleased with Milady when he had
learned of her pregnancy. In the
Cardinal’s mind his servant was carrying out his contingency plan. In truth, Milady was trying to find a way out
of the Cardinal’s snare.
It was not long after their romantic picnic that Milady and
Armand decided to take a ride through his country estate. They had visited with a few of the farmers to
discuss the current growth season.
Milady goaded her horse into a run with her husband not far behind and
soon they were racing towards home. It
was then that tragedy struck the young couple and the Comte de la Fere’s true
nature had been revealed to her.
Milady’s horse had been spooked by something in the road and
reared up throwing her to the ground.
She was knocked unconscious in the fall and he husband had raced to her
side in a panic. His first concern was
for her and he cut the lacing from her corset without a second thought. The child, he knew, could not have survived
the fall and he had to make sure that she survived. It was as he was trying to revive her that he
noticed the fleur de lis branded on her shoulder. How had he not seen it before, he
wondered. In all of their love making
together, how had it been obscured from him.
He rubbed the mark with his thumb to be sure and there was no doubt left
in his mind that it was real.
When Milady came to a few minutes later, the look on her
husband’s face was enough for her blood to run cold. She pulled her dress back up on to her
shoulder’s and realized what he must have seen in her unconsciousness. His face was red with rage and he shook her
so hard she thought her head would fall from her shoulders.
“Armand,” she had pleaded, “you do not understand.”
“I understand,” he shot back, “that my wife, MY WIFE, has
lied to me about who she really is.”
“It is complicated,” she began again.
“No, it’s really not.
Everything that you have ever said to me has been false.”
“No, not everything,” tears ran down Milady’s face, “I do
love you.”
“SILENCE,” he screamed, “I will not allow you to persist in
this lie.” While she had been
unconscious, the Comte had been to his horse to retrieve a length of rope. It had been fashioned into a noose and looped
around the nearest tree. When Milady saw
it she began to fight back with a ferocity her husband had not known was even
possible. She kicked his legs out from
under him so that he fell flat on his back. She was up and scrambling to make
purchase with the ground when the Comte de La Fere grabbed ahold of Milady by
the roots of her hair. He pulled her in
this fashion to the side of the road nearest the tree.
“Mercy,” she gasped.
“Mercy, my lord.”
“Did you show mercy to your victim? To the one that earned you that brand?”
“Mercy, please I beg of you,” she pleaded, “If our love
meant anything to you, please have mercy.”
“It meant everything to me but your intentions are clearly
known. How long did I have until I was your next victim?” He pulled her close to his face and stared
into her eyes trying to penetrate her very soul. He found what he knew would be there, that
knowledge that he had been marked for death long before they’d met. “Would I have lived long enough to see my
child?”
“I was going to find a way,” fresh tears sprang from her
eyes and all of her fight disappeared.
“I would never have hurt you!”
“It is my duty to see that your sentence is carried out and
no one else suffers at your hands.” He
placed the rope around her neck and pulled it tight.
Crawling
back to the Cardinal had been easy after that.
When the man you loved hangs you from a tree and leaves you for dead, it
is easy to believe that all men are treacherous and deserve whatever end they
meet. The Cardinal has sent his best
assassins after that and the hole in her heart served as a reminder to never be
that foolish again.
