on Sauvage’s
shoulder, had ushered him into a parlor where a woman sat, a boy Sauvage’s age
standing near her elbow.
The
woman, his father’s legal wife, had glanced at Sauvage, then turned her
attention back to the embroidery in her lap, as though she’d viewed something
distasteful. Sauvage had tried hard to ignore the woman’s coldness, to ignore
the boy who stood glaring his hatred at the bastard half brother his father had
dragged home, and instead focused his attention on the linen square in the
woman’s silken lap. The lily of France had been lavishly worked on it in purple
and gold.
His
father had seized the embroidery, ignoring her outraged gasp, and held it out
to Sauvage. “You see this, boy? This is your heritage. The lily of
France. You remember it! You remember that you are descended from great men and
courageous women.”
The
memory of his father’s voice faded, replaced by the droning of a gnat close to
Sauvage’s ear. Absently, he brushed it away, still staring at the grotesque
mask that once was Ben Bones, but seeing instead that purple and gold
embroidery, the same piece of cloth that he’d found beside Caroline’s lifeless
body one year ago.
Impatient
now to leave this place, Sauvage shoved the memory away. The lily of France, a
symbol of hatred, insignia of a madman. Each time Kingston saw it, he knew that
he was not the only one who remembered that long ago day.
Sarah
and Kingston camped that night on the banks of a winding creek a few miles west
of the attack. The glade Kingston selected was sheltered by a ring of willows,
closely set, so that the long and slender branches provided a graceful living
curtain that separated the two of them from the outside world.
Seated
on the blanket with which Kingston had covered her the night before, Sarah
removed the pins from her hair and combed through the tangled mass with her
fingers. The results were far from satisfactory but it was the best she could
do without her silver comb and brush, which had been lost, along with her
clothes and belongings in the previous day’s attack.
She
would be going to Brother Liebermann with nothing more than the clothes on her
back. Not that it mattered in any case. Her belongings were worldly goods, and
therefore easily replaced. Would that her fellow travelers had all been as
fortunate as she.
She
had thought of them a great deal since she and Kingston had resumed their
journey earlier in the afternoon. Poor Mr. Windham and his son, Henry, Joshua
Stanhope, Mr. Bones, and Kathryn. She’d thought of them and prayed. There had
been a great deal of time for prayers and reflection on the long walk to this
place, for Kingston’s manner had been different since his return.
He’d
been strangely silent. Why, he’d barely spoken since returning to the laurel
thicket. That had been hours ago, and Sarah would have welcomed the sound of
his voice, even raised in unthinking insult, for it would at least provide a
distraction and make her feel less alone.
There
was something else, too, a dark look that came into his eyes when he thought
she did not see. That look troubled Sarah. She knew that he was anxious to be
rid of her, to get on with his business of finding and killing the Frenchman,
which in turn troubled her, too.
As
the cobalt blue of the sky gradually deepened, turning to a velvety black, Sarah
continued to watch Kingston closely, trying to fathom his mood.
“What
is it you want from me?” He was sorting through the contents of his leather
pouches, a distracted frown on his handsome face. He spoke without looking up.
Caught
off guard, Sarah swallowed hard and glanced away. “Come, come,” he prompted. “There
must be something, or are you intent upon looking a hole through me, simply for
something to do?”
“I
am intent upon no such thing,” Sarah insisted. She saw his mouth curve in a
smile and she colored slightly, suddenly thankful for the firelight, which
effectively hid her blush.
shoulder, had ushered him into a parlor where a woman sat, a boy Sauvage’s age
standing near her elbow.
The
woman, his father’s legal wife, had glanced at Sauvage, then turned her
attention back to the embroidery in her lap, as though she’d viewed something
distasteful. Sauvage had tried hard to ignore the woman’s coldness, to ignore
the boy who stood glaring his hatred at the bastard half brother his father had
dragged home, and instead focused his attention on the linen square in the
woman’s silken lap. The lily of France had been lavishly worked on it in purple
and gold.
His
father had seized the embroidery, ignoring her outraged gasp, and held it out
to Sauvage. “You see this, boy? This is your heritage. The lily of
France. You remember it! You remember that you are descended from great men and
courageous women.”
The
memory of his father’s voice faded, replaced by the droning of a gnat close to
Sauvage’s ear. Absently, he brushed it away, still staring at the grotesque
mask that once was Ben Bones, but seeing instead that purple and gold
embroidery, the same piece of cloth that he’d found beside Caroline’s lifeless
body one year ago.
Impatient
now to leave this place, Sauvage shoved the memory away. The lily of France, a
symbol of hatred, insignia of a madman. Each time Kingston saw it, he knew that
he was not the only one who remembered that long ago day.
Sarah
and Kingston camped that night on the banks of a winding creek a few miles west
of the attack. The glade Kingston selected was sheltered by a ring of willows,
closely set, so that the long and slender branches provided a graceful living
curtain that separated the two of them from the outside world.
Seated
on the blanket with which Kingston had covered her the night before, Sarah
removed the pins from her hair and combed through the tangled mass with her
fingers. The results were far from satisfactory but it was the best she could
do without her silver comb and brush, which had been lost, along with her
clothes and belongings in the previous day’s attack.
She
would be going to Brother Liebermann with nothing more than the clothes on her
back. Not that it mattered in any case. Her belongings were worldly goods, and
therefore easily replaced. Would that her fellow travelers had all been as
fortunate as she.
She
had thought of them a great deal since she and Kingston had resumed their
journey earlier in the afternoon. Poor Mr. Windham and his son, Henry, Joshua
Stanhope, Mr. Bones, and Kathryn. She’d thought of them and prayed. There had
been a great deal of time for prayers and reflection on the long walk to this
place, for Kingston’s manner had been different since his return.
He’d
been strangely silent. Why, he’d barely spoken since returning to the laurel
thicket. That had been hours ago, and Sarah would have welcomed the sound of
his voice, even raised in unthinking insult, for it would at least provide a
distraction and make her feel less alone.
There
was something else, too, a dark look that came into his eyes when he thought
she did not see. That look troubled Sarah. She knew that he was anxious to be
rid of her, to get on with his business of finding and killing the Frenchman,
which in turn troubled her, too.
As
the cobalt blue of the sky gradually deepened, turning to a velvety black, Sarah
continued to watch Kingston closely, trying to fathom his mood.
“What
is it you want from me?” He was sorting through the contents of his leather
pouches, a distracted frown on his handsome face. He spoke without looking up.
Caught
off guard, Sarah swallowed hard and glanced away. “Come, come,” he prompted. “There
must be something, or are you intent upon looking a hole through me, simply for
something to do?”
“I
am intent upon no such thing,” Sarah insisted. She saw his mouth curve in a
smile and she colored slightly, suddenly thankful for the firelight, which
effectively hid her blush.
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