Read Online Easton's Gold by Paul Butler - Free Book Online Page A

imagines stones whistling past her ears and grazing the back of her legs, and she remembers running up the chalky path from the village to the château. Gabrielle was very thin then and a fine runner. The taunting gang did not follow her all the way, and when she turned up in the cobbled courtyard, breathless and bloodied, Françoise, the Marquis’s housekeeper, swooped upon her with an intensity Gabrielle at first mistook for sternness. Françoise, as short as a child but as strong as a bull, had just returned from picking mushrooms; she grabbed Gabrielle’s forearm like it was a chicken’s neck and hauled her inside the château, shouting orders to the servants on the way. Jacques was there, younger and less certain of himself in those days. Maria and Philippa were scrubbing clothes by a large tub.
    She ordered Jacques out of the kitchen and yelled at Maria and Philippa to go to the pumps and fetch buckets of water. Then she set about washing Gabrielle with more vigour than she had ever been washed before.
    â€œI must get you ready to show to the Marquis,” said Françoise, breathless from scrubbing. Despite the housekeeper’s odd frowns and tutting noises, Gabrielle began to realize she was not being punished. “We must know what to do with you,” she said. “What is your name?”
    Gabrielle gave her the name by which her mother called her.
    â€œNo, no, no, that will not do. We must think of something else for you.” Suddenly, a brightness came into the housekeeper’s small, green eyes, and her walnut cheeks stretched into a smile. “I will call you Gabrielle, for Gabriel was an angel and so are you.”
    Gabrielle feels tears welling at the memory. She turns quickly in her bed again, as though to ward them away. Carrying the name Françoise gave her makes her feel proud, and she has held to it more fiercely since the housekeeper died last year. But she finds the threat of imminent change unsettling, and she is afraid the disruption might shake loose all her armour, including her assumed name. When the Marquis spoke to her so strangely in front of the captain, it was as though for an instant he had ceased to be her protector. It was as though he had joined that gang chasing her up the hill.
    Gabrielle opens her eyes again, giving up on sleep. There is too much going on inside her. Worry and grief are restless like bad digestion. Tomorrow is Sunday, and she will kneel again on the hard tiled floor and hear the coughs and sighs of those around her. Maria and Philippa will whisper to each other and mumble prayers to themselves. Gabrielle understands it all so little. She can’t always tell prayer from idle chatter.
    The church they go to here is not like the one in Savoy. It is as bare and austere as a barn. No ornamentation, no statues save for the crucifixion. As there is nothing to distract her eyes from the cross, Gabrielle finds the wounds on the slain Messiah’s hands and feet burning all the more deeply. She usually imagines that Maria and Philippa are whispering about her. In the past they probably were, but now that seems to be over. At dinner Jacques said something about special sleeping arrangements on the ship. Maria began to giggle, nudging Philippa and glancing at Gabrielle. Philippa abruptly shushed her.
    But even if Philippa has ceased calling her “gypsy” or “whore,” the cross will still torment Gabrielle when she goes to church; her ears will echo again with the taunts and accusations which bruised her soul as she raced up the chalky path. She will gaze at the cross with the Messiah and see the white stone nail entering the white stone flesh. She will feel herself tremble with guilt.
    __________
    I STAND AT THE WINDOW, AWAITING the sunrise. The latest draft of powder is the most effective yet. I feel firm on my feet at last and ready for the journey ahead. My view of everything around me is clearer too. As the breeze