The King's Daughter by Suzanne Martel

Author:Suzanne Martel
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Groundwood Books Ltd.
Published: 2011-11-22T16:00:00+00:00

21

DURING A family stroll in the surrounding forest, Miraud flushed out a partridge.

Nicolas, a lively child, ran ahead of them, exclaiming, “Look, the bird is hurt. Its wing is dragging and it’s walking all crooked.”

Simon was a hunter who appreciated the value of any game he saw, and he had already shouldered his gun.

Jeanne gently turned the muzzle of the gun aside. “Don’t shoot, Simon. It’s a poor mother protecting her little ones by pretending she’s hurt. She deserves to have her life spared. She’s a heroine.”

“How do you know that?” asked Simon, who persisted in thinking his young wife was a townswoman.

“When I was young I learned that from my grandfather who was a poa...I mean a hunter like you. Look, children, the little partridges are hidden here. Let’s leave them in peace.”

A conscientious teacher, she explained the mother partridge’s clever trick to the fascinated children. She walked down the path, holding Nicolas and Isabelle by the hand, and captivated them with her well-told story. Simon followed her, shaking his head. His second wife never ceased to amaze him.

Walking along a barely visible path, they stopped near an enormous tree that towered over all the others. To have room to grow, it was not adverse to choking or crowding out its neighbours.

Simon pointed it out. “That’s the old giant, the biggest oak in the forest.”

Adjusting his musket on his shoulder, the hunter stretched out his arms, made a leap and caught hold of a branch. Pulling himself up agilely, he hoisted himself into the tree. They watched his leather-clad figure disappear higher and higher between the bare branches.

Craning her neck, Jeanne asked, “Why are you climbing? Is that your chateau?”

Childhood souvenirs crowded her memory. Perhaps even serious adults needed a land of dreams.

The lord’s distant voice reached them. “It’s an excellent observation post. From the top I can see both sides of the river.”

He came down rapidly, with sure movements, bombarding them with broken twigs.

Like an expert, the young wife observed his manoeuvres. Nose in the air she said admiringly, “You climb well for your age.”

Simon stopped short and contemplated her there at his feet. “What do you take me for, your father?” he protested.

Candidly, Jeanne let herself be carried away once again by her indiscreet tongue. “Not all forty-year-old men can climb so fast,” she stated with conviction.

“Forty years old?”

As if in shock, Simon let himself slide down, straddling a branch. Incredulous, he repeated, “Forty years old? Where did you hear that I’m forty years old?”

Jeanne regretted her remark. Too late, she realized she must have wounded him. And she’d even sworn to herself never to refer to their age difference.

Leaning over her, Rouville repeated, “Who told you that?”

“Carrot-Top did. He didn’t say that exactly, but he told me you were building forts in 1665 and that you were a captain. Hubert de Bretonville is a captain and he’s more than forty. So...I thought...”

Embarrassed, she stammered and fell silent.

Like a cat, Simon jumped down beside her. He looked at her, head bent, fists on his hips.

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