Chapter 2: Chapter 2 : The Brothel
It is only early in the evening that the sound of cobblestones beneath my horse's hooves draws me from a malicious slumber. We have arrived in an average sized village. There are still a few people strolling through the narrow streets. A soldier dressed in a red tunic emerges from a barracks. He comes towards our group.
A ray of hope lights up my eyes.
"Not a word, or I shall slit your throat," Steven whispers in my ear.
I swallow the bile that is burning my gullet. No, I am not brave enough to cry out for help. Mute, submissive and feverish. I loathe myself for being so docile. I hate my mother for not having taught me to fight and defend myself. My reaction is the fruit of my education. Had the principle of blind obedience to the male sex not been imposed on me throughout my childhood?
The soldier does not even turn his head in my direction and continues on his way.
Is it really so easy to abduct young ladies in this New World? Can these people not see that my dress is too finely worked to be worn by a commoner? Admittedly, my hair is in disarray, my face and hands are soiled and I smell of fear and piss.
I am astonished. I had always believed my noble extraction to be displayed on my features. How naïve I have been! Truth be told but when a black sheep is surrounded by white sheep, it nonetheless remains a sheep. This is the only comparison that springs to mind. I am a sheep, and all that I can do is move forward with the flock.
I dismount when Steven orders me to. I feel dizzy and clasp my horse's neck. My moment of weakness has not escaped the eagle eye of the gang leader.
He takes me by the arm and we enter a dark inn whilst the other men lead the animals to the neighbouring stables. There are men drinking and a few wenches wander from table to table, filling tankards of beer. When one of the girls uncovers her breasts to entertain a dishevelled soldier, I realize that they are prostitutes.
My heart starts beating wildly. I have to concentrate to prevent myself from fainting. I hear Steven negotiating a room for the night with the inn-keeper. The only thought that calms me is when I imagine that one day Mother might learn that my infamy had led me to such a place. I cannot help but smile.
My captor pulls me along by the wrist. Their discussion is over. I shall soon know my fate. I climb the stairs behind him to the second and last floor of the ill-famed establishment. He opens a door into a large bedroom.
"Go in," he orders harshly.
I obey him and hate myself for doing so.
"A girl will bring you your meal later," he adds stiffly. "Don't create a stir. Understand?"
I do not know where I find the courage. I refrain from answering and simply address him my darkest glare. The same glare I used to reserve for my cousin Benoît, who is more pompous than a conceited king. How easy life was before America!
To my astonishment, Steven bursts out laughing.
"Bloody hell! You rich girls!"
And with that, he slams the door in my face. I hear a key turning in the lock. The little common sense left me prevents me from making sure that I am really locked in.
The room is quite spacious and does not smell foul. In any event, it smells less than I do. I make a quick survey of the room: a bed, a table, a chair and a chamber pot. The room looks onto the stables.
If I can climb over the window sill, I can hold on to the roof and from there jump a few metres. If my luck holds, my fall will be halted by the pile of fodder.
It is an opportunity I must not miss, but I hesitate. The noise of the intoxicated men downstairs gets the better of me. Once outside, all I have to do is ask the first person I see for help. I shall promise them a superb reward. Those murderers will be arrested and the gibbet will put an end to their shabby lives.
I have made my decision. I am going to make my move.
"I did not think that you could be so dim-witted," thunders a deep voice behind me.
Steven is standing in the doorway.
"Where exactly do you think you will be able to go with a broken leg?" he mocks as he throws a bag on the bed.
I have had as much as I can take. I am overtaken by weariness.
"I am more agile than I look," I answer disdainfully.
Assuredly I must resemble Mother in this posture. No matter. There are times when one must know how to take what good there is to be found in loathsome beings.
"Why am I here?"
"You need sleep," he mutters and gestures towards the bed with his chin.
"I did not think that you were so dim-witted that you could not grasp the meaning of my question," I dare to answer as I take a step forward.
A flash of rage crosses his face. Childishly, I had wanted to test the limits of the only figure of authority who has accompanied me since yesterday. I regret my temerity. He comes towards me. When he raises his hand to strike me, I close my eyes. The violence of his gesture terrifies me to such a point that it is as if my entrails were burning inside my body.
He does not hit me. It is even worse.
He puts his calloused fingers around my neck and pushes me up against the wooden wall of the inn.
"You are here because I have decided thus," he grunts, anchoring his eyes in mine.
I am suffocating. I can smell cheap beer on his breath.
"And if you value your life, you do what I say without uttering a word. Do I make myself clear?"
I cannot nod to show that I agree.
"Yes, it is clear. Mercy!"
I blink to show him that I have fully grasped his threat. Tears course down my face. I need air. The room is beginning to sway before me. I feel myself slipping away.
At last he releases me. I fall to my knees.
Air fills my wounded windpipe with a hoarse sound.
"You stink," he taunts me as I fight to get my breath back. "Now get washed, change your clothes, eat and sleep."
This time I nod my head up and down, too stunned to answer. A woman appears through the half-open door and leaves a bucket of water and a plate before disappearing down the corridor. I do not dare meet my tormentor's eyes. I do not want to admit defeat.
The door slams. He turns the key twice in the lock. I manage to stand up by myself. Involuntary tremors travel through my body. Do I still have the choice of acting in any other manner? Do I have the right to disobey?
No.
I slowly wash. I don men's apparel that is of somewhat doubtful cleanliness. I eat a sort of gruel which almost has me regretting the pea soup with olive oil we were served aboard Le Dauphin. I lay down on the bed.
And I drop off to sleep.
It was foreseeable. My abduction plays again and again in my troubled mind. The shock of the scene is etched on my retina. I can see my cousin's henchman, Éric Dubois, before me. The knife blade of the one called John glinted before it cut. Eric's throat opened up so quickly that I could not comprehend what was happening. His blood spurted from him as if the torrent had only been waiting for this opportunity to leave its bed. He dropped dead at my feet. Spasms jerked his body. My cousin Claire was being restrained by two men to my right whilst her husband was molested. I heard the sound of his nose breaking when Steven kneed him. I cried out. Or was it Claire? Or was it that the screams were only in my head?
The renegades rifled through our baggage in our makeshift camp. All our belongings had been turned upside down. Hélène, my lady-in-waiting, was crying, curled tightly under a blanket. Steven kicked her out from under it. I felt pain for her.
I do not even know if I defended myself when he grasped my arm. I do not recall mounting the horse. I do not remember either if I looked back. I do not know if they are still alive.
I do not know if I shall ever be able to laugh again.
A ray of sunlight shines through the window and lights up my face. I have felt it burning my eyes behind their closed lids for several minutes. My blue eyes have never taken kindly to morning light. I do not dare move; there is an unusual sound behind me.
A snore.
I am not alone in the bed.
A mental exploration of my bodily sensations confirms that I have not suffered physical abuse during the night. My right hip is immensely painful because it has been still for too long.
I cannot bear it any longer and I decide to get up. I slowly throw back the cover and put my feet on the floor. I freeze. The sounds of breathing have ceased. The man on my left is awake. He does not move.
Once again with exaggerated quietness, I move away from the bed before turning around. Steven is staring at me with the sleepy eyes of a small boy. Who could believe that his man is actually a brute and a murderer?
"I hope you will be using the chamber pot this time!" he sneers, putting his hands behind his neck and stretching. "I am not going to buy you any more clothes."
I do not answer, but I continue to stare at him.
"I got a good price for your dress last night," he says to himself.
His Irish brogue is so thick that I cannot grasp all the words he uses.
My English is in point of fact more than perfect, Mother made sure of that. She maintained that a dowry was not enough. It was also necessary to acquire an understanding of the world to be able to excel in high society. Thus my costly education would find a use in the New World, if I could not dazzle aristocrats with my poetry.
Mister McPherson, whom I was to wed, made great efforts to speak slower so that we could understand each other. He was from the Scottish Highlands and spoke of his deep-seated attachment to his country and his desire to return there one day. He only stayed with me for one evening. He had been summoned to his plantation for urgent affairs. My health did not permit me to continue the journey when we landed. My cousin Claire, her husband and his henchman stayed with Helen and myself. They kindly offered to escort us to what was to be my future residence as soon as I should feel better.
The truth is that I had feigned my malaise. I wanted to delay the unavoidable and gain a few days in which to savour my celibacy.
Perhaps if we had left with Mister McPherson, none of this would have happened… Could it be that I had created this situation myself?
My eyes are attracted to my captor's belongings that he has thrown on the only table in the room. A pistol has been casually left on his waistcoat and shirt.
"Do you not want to have some fun?" he teases, lifting up the sheet.
He is adopting this vulgar attitude on purpose. He hopes to shock me by exposing his morning erection inside his breeches. He is waiting to see how I would respond.
I could appear outraged, or even disgusted. I decide to be pragmatic.
"I am hungry, Sir. And I would really like to know why I am here."
Not the reaction he had foreseen. I see that he finds it confusing.
"Don't worry, you'll know soon enough!" he rejoins as he leaves the bed. "I have things to do. I shall come and fetch you at midday."
Without another word, he leaves the room, leaving me on my own. The hours tick slowly past. Another woman brings me water and some fruit before leaving. Around what seems to be one in the afternoon, I am ready. With my outsized clothing pulled in around my waist, I look like one of the seamen who work on Le Dauphin or the Septon. Only my childlike face and my long blond hair betray my identity. That is, if I still exist in the eyes of the world.
Am I still Florence des Acres? Am I not becoming yet another poor soul lost in this world adrift?
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