Queen's Ransom by Fiona Buckley

cousins and improved it when I was married to Gerald, who had excellent French, as all the Blanchards did, and had encouraged me to study it. I cleared my throat and intervened, with an attempt at coaxing.
    This finally had results. Charpentier eventually agreed that although he was very full, he could just squeeze us in, but some of the men would have to bed down in his barn. “It’s dry and there’s plenty of straw, so there’ll be nothing off the bill, I’m warning you,” he added.
    The Dodds and Sweetapple said it would probably be better than their billets last night. “Could hardly be worse,” said Mark with feeling.
    The innkeeper’s insistence that he was full seemed odd, however. The hostelry was very quiet and Brockley, bringing hampers in from the stableyard, reported that the stable was half empty. Blanchard, unwell or not, was irritated enough by our discouraging reception to raise the matter with Charpentier when at last we had dismounted and were indoors. “I don’t understand it,” he said. “It’s early in the day and the inn is large. You’ve got attic rooms and two floors besides, and wings stretching back. How can you be full? It isn’t market day.”
    “No, seigneur.” Charpentier did not sound amiable. “Market day was yesterday. You are Anglaises,” he observed, “which no doubt means heretic. Well, I will tell you for nothing that I am a good son of Holy Church, and heresy is a grief to me, and this whole district is infested with Huguenots. I’d cut all their throats if I had my way. But it means that men and arms are on the move and it brings in business. By tonight, I will have a young seigneur here, bound for Paris with a dozen retainers, and a prelate of some standing with ten more, also making for Paris. They are taking their men to swell the government’s forces. Both sent word ahead and their rooms are bespoken. I also have a Netherlander merchant staying, with two companions, while he does some business in the district. Some men will do business even when the clouds are raining blood.” Charpentier shrugged. “He, too, is a Protestant, but his money is good as yours is, I trust. By nightfall, my hostelry will be full enough. Are you answered?”
    Any normality in St. Marc was clearly fragile. The religious divisions of France were seething under the surface, ready to burst out at any moment. Charpentier quite evidently bracketed all Protestants with cockroaches.
    Beside me, despite my warnings before we left Greenwich, Dale muttered something indignant about Papists. Charpentier heard and apparently understood. He shot her an unfriendly glance. Blanchard eyed her repressively before saying: “Well, it is an answer, though in England, innkeepers address their clients more respectfully. As it happens, I am on my way to visit Catholic relatives at Douceaix, near Le Mans. There is no need to regard me as an enemy. Now, kindly show me to my chamber, and if I could have some warm water or milk, I would be pleased. I have an upset stomach.”
    The innkeeper’s expression suggested that this was just one more transgression, almost as bad as heresy. But he led us upstairs and showed us a couple of rooms, not large, but clean. Harvey hurried his master into his chamber, wondering aloud if the village had an apothecary. Dale and I took the second room, which was just across a square lobby. “A couple of your men can sleep in the lobby but only two,” said Charpentier. “It’s the barn for the rest.”
    Brockley fetched my hampers up, arriving in time to hear me taking Dale to task for her remarks about Papists.
    “The mistress is right, Fran. While we’re in France, we’d better keep our opinions to ourselves. But the sooner we go home and get out of this country, the better. Which means getting on with our journey, if we can. Madam, have you any idea what’s wrong with Master Blanchard? He should be over the seasickness by now. The rest of us are. I hope he’s not sick