peasants, heretics?
It was not possible to keep the name of Guise from the marquis for very long.
But if — if I can delay him even for a few hours — then he may not ride to overtake him . . .
Rachelle closed her eyes and shook her head again, keeping silent her hatred for Guise.
In an act of helpless fury, Gallaudet, who stood nearby, slashed his blade into the ground. “Such murderous acts can no longer be borne, Monseigneur . The time has come for war in France! Your Bourbon kinsman, the Prince de Condé, speaks well. The Guise faction and the Queen Mother know only the show of force.”
“They that take the sword will perish with the sword,” came a weak voice from behind them.
They all turned and saw Bertrand standing with his shoulders hunched forward, one limp and bloodied arm hanging uselessly at his side. He had managed to drag himself here from behind the bushes and took several more staggering steps.
Rachelle rushed and knelt beside him. “Cousin Bertrand, you should not have moved. You are bleeding again.”
Marquis Fabien threw an arm around him, gesturing to Gallaudet for a skin of water.
“And what of these helpless sheep, Pasteur Bertrand? They have perished and they did not take up the sword,” the marquis said with a composed voice.
“Christ has not called us to fight but to stand firm and endure . . . these deeds will not go unpunished . . . the Lord has His own sword. One of righteousness and justice.”
Fabien took the water from Gallaudet and held it to Bertrand’s lips as Rachelle held his head to drink.
“You speak well, Pasteur Bertrand.” The marquis turned to Gallaudet. “Go at once to the château and send a coach for the pasteur and the mademoiselles. Say nothing yet to Madame Macquinet.”
“At once, Monseigneur.”
“There are others more injured than I,” Bertrand objected in a hoarse voice.
Rachelle turned her head sharply toward her sister. They did not yet know what had happened to Idelette, nor did Rachelle believe her sister wanted them to know, though Idelette was in such shock that perhaps she did not care. As Bertrand finished drinking, Rachelle took the skin and hurried to where her sister sat, like Job before the pile of shards.
“I will soon have you home,” Rachelle whispered in her ear. “You are my chère, brave sister; it will soon be over, I promise you.”
Idelette tried to sip from the skin but her bruised mouth was too swollen. Rachelle clamped her jaw to keep her emotions from running over again into a river of tears. She carefully dribbled the water into her sister’s mouth.
“James Hudson, where is he?” Bertrand was heard asking. “God used that young messire to save me from the flames. He too was injured.”
Rachelle had forgotten about Hudson. She looked over and saw him still sprawled where she had left him.
He must have heard Bertrand, for he called weakly, “I am over here, my dear man.” He groaned as he tried to raise himself to an elbow. “’Tis nothing. Methinks I’ve hurt my leg. I’ll survive, to be sure, think not of me, sir. Lady Rachelle has been very kind indeed. But over there — ” he gestured with his hand — “Lady Idelette needs a physician.”
Marquis Fabien gave James Hudson a measuring appraisal that took him in thoughtfully; he then looked directly at Rachelle. She had already sensed what he may be thinking, and she turned her gaze away, feeling embarrassed.
Fabien walked up, took one look at Idelette, then removed his sur-coat and placed it around her shoulders. “I have sent for a coach, Mademoiselle,” he told her gently, “and le docteur is on his way.”
Idelette gave a nod of her head but did not speak, nor did she look at him, keeping her bruised face averted. But Rachelle could see that the marquis was aware, and that anger burned in his eyes.
Fabien caught Rachelle’s gaze and searched for the ugly answer. Her eyes spilled over with tears.
His jaw tightened, showing he
It was not possible to keep the name of Guise from the marquis for very long.
But if — if I can delay him even for a few hours — then he may not ride to overtake him . . .
Rachelle closed her eyes and shook her head again, keeping silent her hatred for Guise.
In an act of helpless fury, Gallaudet, who stood nearby, slashed his blade into the ground. “Such murderous acts can no longer be borne, Monseigneur . The time has come for war in France! Your Bourbon kinsman, the Prince de Condé, speaks well. The Guise faction and the Queen Mother know only the show of force.”
“They that take the sword will perish with the sword,” came a weak voice from behind them.
They all turned and saw Bertrand standing with his shoulders hunched forward, one limp and bloodied arm hanging uselessly at his side. He had managed to drag himself here from behind the bushes and took several more staggering steps.
Rachelle rushed and knelt beside him. “Cousin Bertrand, you should not have moved. You are bleeding again.”
Marquis Fabien threw an arm around him, gesturing to Gallaudet for a skin of water.
“And what of these helpless sheep, Pasteur Bertrand? They have perished and they did not take up the sword,” the marquis said with a composed voice.
“Christ has not called us to fight but to stand firm and endure . . . these deeds will not go unpunished . . . the Lord has His own sword. One of righteousness and justice.”
Fabien took the water from Gallaudet and held it to Bertrand’s lips as Rachelle held his head to drink.
“You speak well, Pasteur Bertrand.” The marquis turned to Gallaudet. “Go at once to the château and send a coach for the pasteur and the mademoiselles. Say nothing yet to Madame Macquinet.”
“At once, Monseigneur.”
“There are others more injured than I,” Bertrand objected in a hoarse voice.
Rachelle turned her head sharply toward her sister. They did not yet know what had happened to Idelette, nor did Rachelle believe her sister wanted them to know, though Idelette was in such shock that perhaps she did not care. As Bertrand finished drinking, Rachelle took the skin and hurried to where her sister sat, like Job before the pile of shards.
“I will soon have you home,” Rachelle whispered in her ear. “You are my chère, brave sister; it will soon be over, I promise you.”
Idelette tried to sip from the skin but her bruised mouth was too swollen. Rachelle clamped her jaw to keep her emotions from running over again into a river of tears. She carefully dribbled the water into her sister’s mouth.
“James Hudson, where is he?” Bertrand was heard asking. “God used that young messire to save me from the flames. He too was injured.”
Rachelle had forgotten about Hudson. She looked over and saw him still sprawled where she had left him.
He must have heard Bertrand, for he called weakly, “I am over here, my dear man.” He groaned as he tried to raise himself to an elbow. “’Tis nothing. Methinks I’ve hurt my leg. I’ll survive, to be sure, think not of me, sir. Lady Rachelle has been very kind indeed. But over there — ” he gestured with his hand — “Lady Idelette needs a physician.”
Marquis Fabien gave James Hudson a measuring appraisal that took him in thoughtfully; he then looked directly at Rachelle. She had already sensed what he may be thinking, and she turned her gaze away, feeling embarrassed.
Fabien walked up, took one look at Idelette, then removed his sur-coat and placed it around her shoulders. “I have sent for a coach, Mademoiselle,” he told her gently, “and le docteur is on his way.”
Idelette gave a nod of her head but did not speak, nor did she look at him, keeping her bruised face averted. But Rachelle could see that the marquis was aware, and that anger burned in his eyes.
Fabien caught Rachelle’s gaze and searched for the ugly answer. Her eyes spilled over with tears.
His jaw tightened, showing he
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