La Flamme (Historical Romance) Read online

  He drew back and smiled at her. "And I shall take care of you, Sabine."

  She stood and gripped his hand. "You will be my champion." She gave him a mock curtsy. "Now, sir knight, would you like a twopenny cake with raisins? I see a confectioner just across the street, and his goods smell wonderful."

  He nodded eagerly. "Oh, yes, may I, Sabine?"

  She would give the rest of the money to Monsieur de Baillard, but Richard would have his confection.

  When they came out of the shop, Richard's tongue darted out to lick the crumbs from his lips. "I could have eaten everything, Sabine."

  "Thea would say it is wrong to overindulge. I believe one was enough."

  "You did not have one."

  "I. . . wasn't hungry."

  "Where is Thea? Why is she not with us?"

  He adored the old nurse and missed her dreadfully, as did Sabine. She would one day tell him how Thea had sacrificed her life that they might escape. "She could not come on our great adventure, Richard."

  His eyes suddenly darkened. "I want to go home. I don't like it here."

  "We cannot go home, Richard," she said patiently. "Don't you like Ysabel and the de Baillards? They certainly like you."

  "Yes, they're very nice. Could we take them with us on our adventure?"

  She fastened his cap against the sudden cold wind. "Yes, they will come with us."

  Jacques took the money Sabine gave him and placed it in Marie's outstretched hand. "With this, we shall soon have enough to sail for home," he said.

  Marie counted all their money and shook her head. "It is still not enough. Besides passage and the transport of the wagons, we shall need thirty francs to repay the moneylenders when we reach home."

  Jacques sighed. "We also have to eat until we find more actors to join our troupe."

  "What troupe?" Marie asked. "There is no de Baillard Players."

  Jacques looked miserable. "If only we could stage a play in Dover to raise the fare."

  "That is impossible, my fool of a husband. You are the only one they would allow to act since you are the only male except Richard and he's too young. We will just have to work harder, and it will take longer to leave this cursed country, but leave it we shall."

  Richard was asleep, so Sabine and Ysabel huddled near the campfire to keep warm. It was a calm, clear night, and the sky sparkled with thousands of stars.

  "If we were in the village where I was born," Ysabel said reflectively, "there would be a warm breeze blowing off the sea. You would only have to reach up and pluck an orange from a tree."

  "Why do you not return, Ysabel?"

  "For many reasons. You would not know it to look at me now, but I was quite pretty when I was young, and had many suitors."

  Sabine settled comfortably. "Do go on," she said.

  "When I was in my seventeenth year, the lady of the great house, where my father was master of horses, engaged me to work as a maid. Within a year, I became her personal maid." Ysabel closed her eyes, as if it was painful to remember.

  "Do not speak of your past if it distresses you."

  "Only my father, and later the man I loved and married, knew what I now tell you. Perhaps it will help me put the past to rest if 1 speak of it. Since you also have troubles, I believe you will understand."

  Sabine placed her hand on Ysabel's arm. "Then I will listen."

  Ysabel laced her gnarled fingers together and stared at them, remembering a time when they had been soft and unlined. "I was my lady's maid only a few weeks when her husband began to show me marked attention. He would touch me in a way that was offensive, and say things to me that no girl should have to hear. I was frightened of him and tried to avoid him whenever I could."

  "How dreadful for you."

  "One night he came to my bedchamber and pressed his attentions on me. I struggled and fought, but he was too strong. I shall not speak of the things he did to me. But after that, he came to my room almost nightly. Each time he came, I fought and begged him to leave me alone. I was young and frightened, not knowing who to trust. I could not tell my father, for he would have demanded justice, and he would have lost his position as master of horses and my family would have gone hungry."

  "Oh, Ysabel, how horrible for you. What did you do?"

  "The worst thing I could have done—I informed my mistress. She was livid, and accused me of lying. She confronted her husband in front of me, and he called me names that I had never heard before. It would have been better if they had been satisfied by just dismissing me, but they also ordered my father to leave. And even that was not the end of it."

  Sabine felt Ysabel's pain. "I am so sorry. You have suffered greatly."

  Ysabel nodded. "The punishment for telling the truth was severe. In an act of revenge, the lady accused me of stealing her jewels, and had it not been for my father's quick action, I would have spent my life in prison. He hid me, and then when it was safe, smuggled me over the border into France. He gave me what little money he had, and I don't know what became of him or my family after I left."

  "Have you never returned to Italy?"

  "Never—nor shall I, ma petite."

  Sabine was saddened by what her friend had suffered. "Dear sweet Ysabel, have you known any happiness in your life?"

  "Oh, yes," she said, smiling at her memories. "I was married for five wonderful years to an Italian shopkeeper in Paris. Maurizio and our two sons died of a fever one winter, and the creditors took the shop. He was the love of my life, and I never wanted to marry again, although several gentlemen asked for my hand. For many years, I struggled just to live. Then I met Jacques and Marie, and they gave me a home. The rest you know."

  Sabine realized that there was much Ysabel left unsaid. "It is a very sad story. You deserve happiness, Ysabel, for I have known no one kinder than you."

  Ysabel decided to distract Sabine and speak of other matters. "You walked into town today, did you not?"

  "Yes. It was quite glorious."

  "Did your leg pain you?"

  Sabine looked surprised. "I thought little of my leg. No ... it did not pain me!" She turned to Ysabel in surprise. "It does not hurt in the least. I can hardly recall a time when my leg did not hurt. Now it's merely uncomfortable because of the splint."

  "I find encouragement in this, Sabine."

  Sabine looked hopeful. "If only it has healed."

  "We shall soon know. I do not wish to plant false hope in your mind. It may be that the leg is the same as before and the splints keep it from hurting."

  Sabine startled Ysabel when she reached over and hugged her. "You are better than any physician."

  Ysabel looked pleased, but she did not indulge in false modesty. "I was well taught. It was said that my father was of Moorish descent—if he was, he never said so to me. He did have skills that made others marvel. Since he had no sons and eight daughters, and I was the only one who showed an interest in his trade, he taught me many of those skills. I am not yet certain what my father showed me will heal a human."

  "So you would practice your animal husbandry on me?" Sabine laughed, and the sound of her laughter warmed the old woman's heart. "When will you remove the splints so I will know if I limp?"

  "Not for a time yet. We must first make certain that the leg is fully healed."

  "Would it not be a marvel if I were no longer a cripple, Ysabel?"

  Ysabel looked at the young girl in amazement. She was sweet natured and seldom complained, though her life was filled with sorrow. "To walk without pain is what you deserve."

  Then Ysabel stood. "I am to bed. Put out the fire before you leave," she said, ambling toward the wagon.

  Sabine nodded. She wasn't sleepy, so she sat by the fire for a long time, wondering what was happening at home. She suddenly noticed that Monsieur de Baillard had left his book behind. She picked it up, knowing that if it rained during the night, the book would be ruined. Her eyes moved over the first page and it caught her interest. It was William Shakespeare's He
nry IV Part One, which Monsieur de Baillard was translating into French. She leaned more into the light and began to read aloud, changing her tone when she switched from Prince Henry to Falstaff.

  She started Prince Henry in a deep voice. "What none?"

  She spoke in a high tone. "No, by my troth; not so much as will serve to be prologue to an egg and butter."

  "Well, how then? Come, roundly, roundly."

  Jacques startled Sabine when he moved into the ring of light, applauding. "You are a natural. You have a voice that carries, and you speak clearly and distinctly. If only you were a lad, we could easily earn enough to sail for France."

  Sabine drew in an aggravated breath. "'Tis a silly rule that a female cannot act in public. Ysabel said it is not so in France."

  "True, true. But France is an enlightened country. In Paris the great actresses obtain respect and fame. They are feted, admired, and lavished with jewels and fortunes that lesser mortals only dream about. The female luminary is often more loved than the royal family."

  They both stared into the fire. At last Sabine spoke. "I have oft times been told that I have the appearance of a lad." She smiled mischievously and stood for his inspection. "Do you not agree?"

  "What? Oh, yes—yes, you do. But—"

  "Monsieur de Baillard," she bowed before him, "may I present myself to you? A son of France, my name is Antoine de Chavaniac. My profession is actor for the de Baillard Players, and I am at your service."

  Jacques smiled first and then roared with laughter. "It would fool no one. You would be stoned as an imposter."

  "Not when I finish with her," Marie said, joining them at the campfire. "The idea is sound, and we are desperately in need of funds. Jacques, I believe that I can make Sabine look like a lad."

  He still was not convinced that Sabine could fool an audience. "I do not know. Dare we try it?"

  "We dare," Marie said, moving around Sabine and eyeing her speculatively. "The worst that can happen is that they run us out of town. We have been run out of towns before." Marie turned Sabine to face her. "How did you come to choose the name de Chavaniac? Near the village where I was born, there lived the marquis de Chavaniac and his family."

  Sabine hesitated only a moment before she answered. "If you were born near the mountains of Auvergne, then the marquis of whom you speak would have been my mother's father. My grandfather has but recently died, and my Uncle Joseph is now the marquis de Chavaniac."

  "Then you will go to your uncle when we reach France, non?" Marie inquired.

  "Although I have never met Uncle Joseph, or any of my mother's family, I shall certainly inform them that Richard and I are still alive. They must have heard what happened by now, and most probably believe that we are dead."

  "Your uncle is a powerful man, and he will see that everything is put right for you," Marie said with assurance.

  "I hope that is so, Madame."

  Jacques had heard little of the conversation between Sabine and Marie because he was busy rifling through papers, searching for a certain play. At last he found what he wanted and nodded, shoving several pages at Sabine. "Read this. Take the part of the knight."

  Sabine put all the feelings she had in the lines she spoke. When she had finished, Jacques nodded eagerly.

  "If we do this, it will not be easy because the two of us will have to play all the parts. And you must know my parts as well as you know your own." He had given this speech many times, but never to a more eager listener.

  "Do you think I can?" Sabine asked.

  His voice was stern. "That will be for you to prove. Acting requires much study and preparation. When you perform you are not there to be entertained—you are there to entertain others. You must speak loudly and distinctly at all times—never allow your voice to falter. Even those who have not paid admission should be allowed to hear you."

  Marie rolled her eyes at her husband. "The child cannot be expected to remember all that you are telling her."

  "I would not want to disappoint either of you so I shall strive hard to do as you ask, Monsieur."

  "You can do it," Jacques said confidently. "An actor gives his all to his audience. You shall use not only your voice, but also your body to express what you are implying."

  "I understand."

  "If you are performing a comedy," he continued, "you must not laugh—if you deliver your lines correctly, the audience's laughter will be your reward."

  "How will I know I have done well?"

  "If you're a good actor, the audience will let you know."

  "If you are not," Marie sniffed, "they will also let you know by jeering and throwing unpleasant and smelly things at you."

  "Do not scare the child—she will do well."

  "Jacques, do not be a fool. Can't you see that you are filling her head with too much?"

  Ignoring his wife, he handed Sabine several more pages. "Charge these to your memory. Tomorrow we shall see if we are applauded or run out of town."

  12

  Madame de Baillard was as good as her word. When she brought Sabine before Jacques the next morning, there was a look of triumph on her face. "Did I not say I would make her look like a boy? The only thing that concerns me is the stiffness in her walk. You will notice how cleverly I have disguised the splint with the long surcoat?"

  Jacques inspected Sabine carefully. She wore a green tunic and low boots. Her hair had been cropped to shoulder length, and she wore a rakish black hat with a wide brim. "The disguise does not fool me; I can clearly see that she is a female."

  Sabine's face fell, and Marie started to protest.

  "But," Jacques continued, holding his hand up for silence, "while this disguise would never fool a Frenchman, the English will be easily duped."

  Sabine happily turned to Marie. "I will make everyone believe that I am Monsieur Antoine de Chavaniac."

  Later, Sabine recited her lines with Marie prompting her, until she could say them in her sleep. She practiced walking, but with the splint she could not disguise the limp. She lowered her voice so she would sound less feminine, and strutted about as she thought an arrogant young knight might.

  At last, the moment came to step onto the makeshift stage. Monsieur de Baillard had chosen a small park near the more prosperous part of town, hoping to draw a generous crowd. At first Sabine was nervous even though there were only three people watching. Amazingly, as the play progressed the crowd began to swell and she became more confident.

  With Jacques beside her, Sabine moved easily through the scenes. Soon they could hear uproarious laughter, and Sabine felt her spirits soar.

  Marie passed among the audience, asking for donations. Her eyes gleamed as money continued to tinkle into the cup.

  Sabine found that in acting a part she could forget about her own sadness. She was sorry when the play was concluded.

  During the enthusiastic applause, Monsieur de Baillard held his hand over Sabine's head while she bowed to the audience. His eyes were sparkling when he whispered to her. "You made a convincing boy, and you made them laugh. Would that I'd had you with me in London."

  For three weeks, Sabine and Monsieur de Baillard put on daily performances and the crowds grew larger as word of their entertainment spread to nearby villages. Jacques was delighted when the Lord Mayor of Dover invited them to entertain at the local theater.

  They performed in the Dover Playhouse for two weeks. Even Marie was smiling as she counted the money each night. At last she announced that they had more than enough to sail for France.

  Ysabel removed the splint from Sabine's leg. She then joined the de Baillards by the campfire while they silently waited for Sabine to emerge from the wagon. There was a tenseness on each face, and they held their breath, hoping the girl they had come to love had healed.

  Unaware of the importance of the moment, Richard sat upon Ysabel's lap, blowing on the wooden whistle that Jacques had carved out of a reed.

  At last, Sabine appeared on the steps, her face soft in the m
oonlight, her expression unreadable. She moved down the first step and then the second. Once on the ground, she closed her eyes, putting her right foot forward. She let out her pent up breath and took a faltering step and then another. At last she laughed happily and threw her arms up in the air.

  "Oh, Ysabel, you did it—you did it! I can walk without pain for the first time in so long!"

  Marie dabbed at her eyes with her apron. "You did good, Ysabel. I have often been unkind to you, and I am sorry for that. From this day forward, I will say no word of harm against you, nor will I allow anyone else to. And should the time ever come when I am ill, I want only you to tend me."

  "I have always liked you, Marie. If I had not, I would have left with the others." Ysabel looked into Sabine's happy face. "The girl has taken her first step toward tomorrow. I know not where that step will take her, but it will take her there without a limp." Ysabel motioned to Sabine. "Walk toward me, ma petite. I want to know if the pain returns."

  Sabine was testing her leg further, and happiness soared within her heart. "Look at me," she cried, jumping on the leg that had been injured. "I can walk!"

  Richard glanced at his sister and then went back to blowing his whistle. He could not see why everyone was making such a fuss—to him Sabine had always been perfect.

  Garreth heard a commotion at the door. He leaned against the mantel and watched, feigning disinterest as the Archbishop of Canterbury entered. This was the same man who, as Bishop of London, had helped arrange his marriage to Sabine.

  The archbishop looked about the room with interest. It wasn't often he visited the Tower, and never on a mission of such importance. "Your Grace, pardon this intrusion, but I must talk to you."

  Garreth nodded toward a chair. "Then pray be seated, Your Excellency. I would offer you refreshments, but as you can see, I have nothing to offer."

  The archbishop ignored the chair, preferring to stand since Garreth was standing. His eyes were watchful. "It is his majesty's wish that we clear up this misunderstanding with all haste, since to prolong it would only serve his enemies. I have much to relate to you today."