Préliminaire
Qui a soir pleure
(Who weeps in the evening)
© Lassar 2004
Rated: NC17
for future chapters

~Chapitre 1~

I deliberately called upon my earliest memories as I met Anita’s concerned eyes. I wanted her to see how it all began, to see me as a person instead of a vampire. I focused on remembering the beaten earth floor, the stone hearth I was not allowed to climb on, and the smell of pease porridge simmering. As ma petite fell into my mind, I spiraled down with her.

Suddenly I was five again, pulling weeds in the small herb garden behind our home. The dual sensation was like dreaming, when you know you’re dreaming. I could feel Anita with me, the marks making this a complete sharing. We could feel the late afternoon sun on our back, smell the promise of rain on the wind, hear the creak of carriage wheels and the steady clop of hooves.

“Jean-Claude, get in the house.” My mother called from the doorstep, a wooden bucket in her hands.

“Oui, Maman.” I dropped the weed I had just plucked from the loamy ground and trotted obediently past her, wiping my dirty hands on the rear of my homespun breeches. They were patched and threadbare in places, so I did not think a little dirt would hurt anything. By the time I, the youngest of seven, got anything, it was largely used up. In fact, I only had two suits of clothing at all, both cast-offs from my older siblings.

Truthfully, I was glad to get out of weeding. It was my second-least favorite chore. The worst of my daily tasks was getting the eggs away from the hens every morning. They were very quick, and their beaks hurt. I had several small wounds on my hands and arms from where they had pecked me. I was getting faster though, and I liked to think that they got hold of me less often than they used to. I wished we could stew one of them, instead of the pigeons. I would have very much liked to bite them for a change.

Maman always sent me to the house on the few occasions that carriages took the road that led through our village. She never sent anyone else inside. I used to pout because all my sisters and brothers got to watch the well borne as they went by. One day I was feeling particularly brave and asked her why. She grew very quiet and looked through me. I wished I could take the question back, but I couldn’t.

Finally she said, “Because you are very pretty, and the nobles like to take pretty things that don’t belong to them.”

I didn’t understand exactly what she meant, but the look in her eyes and the thought of being taken away scared me. I never asked again, I simply obeyed her. It didn’t keep me from wanting to see the fancy carriages and horses, but it did instill a strong sense of caution in me. I stopped trying to watch from the door, lest I be seen.

Eventually I figured out another, safer way to satisfy my curiosity. I dragged a trestle over to the window and climbed up. With the additional height afforded me by the wooden bench, I could just barely see out into the yard. All anyone would see, if they could see anything at all in the shadow, was a tousled mop of black curls and two bright blue eyes.

This time was to be no different from the rest, or so I thought. I watched in horror as little Aimee broke away from her sister, Elodie, running straight toward the horses. Those who saw cried out. My eldest sister Constance, I was proud to note, darted forward and caught the naughty little miss right before she reached the road.

Unfortunately, the sudden movement and shrill cries sent several of the high-strung horses into fits. Their eyes were white ringed and their nostrils flaring, they reared in their traces. An incredibly loud crack, like a tree breaking in high wind, carried over the shrilling of horses and girls alike.

At first I couldn’t imagine what it could be, but I saw Arnaud the Cooper come out of his shop shaking his head. I knew then that it had to be something wooden on the fancy carriage, something important and difficult to fix. Something that he would probably not be recompensed for, nobility being notoriously slow in paying for goods, when they paid for them at all.

Maman never let her sewing go until it had been paid for, but Arnaud would have to fix the wagon now and hope for payment. I watched him move, reluctance in every step toward the chaos on the road. Grooms had spilled off the carriage and were hanging onto the more upset horses, trying to calm them or just hold them in place.

“Zut alors,” The driver said as he straightened. He had been bent over peering at the undercarriage. “The axle is fractured.”

“Merde,” came Arnaud’s heartfelt reply, “That will take me a few days to repair.”

“Well, there’s no help for it. I will alert the Duke to our situation.” The driver gestured for a footman to run to the head of the train with the message.

Another footman opened the carriage door and helped a lady descend. She was not as pretty as my mother, but her bearing was regal. Her cotte was a vibrant scarlet, edged with gold embroidery and small gems that glittered in the sun. Her surcotte overt was cloth of gold, trimmed with martin fur, as were the tippits. Her dark blonde hair was held back in a woven coiffe of gold and garnet, even her chaplet was studded with garnet.

I stared in awe at the sartorial splendor. This was more wonderful than any carriage or horse. The footmen and driver’s clothing had only hinted at this sort of magnificence, being uniform. It was a display of rank and wealth, a clear message of title and power. I did not begrudge a single stitch of her garment, even though I knew that the price of her surcotte overt alone would feed my entire village, probably for several years. It was simply too beautiful for me to care.

*And the clotheshorse was born* came a thought that was clearly not mine.

It called me away from the scene, made me aware that it WAS a memory. I pulled free of the past enough to say, “Did you wish to know my tale or not?”

*Sorry, I couldn’t resist.*

With some effort I pushed aside my irritation at being interrupted. She had wanted to learn of my past, the least she could do is be silent. It was difficult enough to bring myself back to the innocent times. It was such a painful contrast to what I had become, simply to survive, that I did not revisit these days if I could avoid it.

Chapitre 2

Once the woman had alighted, she turned and held out her arms. A small boy, younger than I, jumped into her arms with a squeal of glee. The child wore a pourpoint of light blue velvet trimmed with miniver and white chausses semellees. He seemed very happy to leave the carriage and looked around with interest. His eyes were the same pale blue as his mother’s, his hair the white blonde that often darkened with age. Like a cherub from the chapel wall his skin was the color of new milk, with lips of rosebud pink. His cheeks were plump from a life of eating his fill.

The thought made me very aware of my own stomach, which was never full. Clothing wasn’t the only thing I received last. Not to say that I was deliberately shorted, just that there were too many of us, and the levee given the nobles too high to leave much food to go around.

As I tried to ignore the rumbling coming from my midsection, another woman stepped from the carriage. She was older and dressed in a more conservative cotehardie of the same red, with very minimal embroidery done in black. Plain silver buttons marched down the center of her dress, and a simple silver link belt hung low on her hips. She could be the lady’s maid, or the boy’s nurse. It was difficult to tell.

“Now Philippe, do not wander.” The lady said sternly as she set him down.

“Oui Maman,” Philippe said, waiting until she had turned to speak with the groom before sidling away from his mother’s side.

I watched in amazement as Philippe deliberately disobeyed his mother. If any of us had done such a thing, we would be whipped and sent to bed without supper. If such a punishment awaited Philippe, he did not seem to fear it. He made a beeline for the other children. As they began to talk excitedly among themselves at his approach, he ordered their silence by putting a finger up to his lips. They quieted enough to keep from gaining the adults’ attention, and they all headed around the corner of our house.

I jumped off the trestle and ran to the back door. I peeked out, trying not to be seen. I was not going to bed with a strapped behind and an empty stomach. I watched as the children gathered around him, gazing at him with awe.

Philippe could have been a changeling straight out of a fairy story when compared with the peasant children, all of whom were burnt brown from the sun. They had barely begun to exchange confidences when a very stern female voice called out for Philippe. It had to be the maidservant; the lady’s voice had lacked that strident tone.

All the children cringed. The only time they heard an adult yelling like that, a severe beating soon followed. They fell silent and gazed around with wide eyes, hoping they were not going to be punished for being with him.

Philippe seemed strangely unconcerned, and he waved a hand while saying, “Ignore her. She’s BORING. I want to have fun. I know, let’s catch frogs so I can hide them in her skirts.”

Chapitre 3

Hesitantly some of the children followed Philippe as he headed for the river that supplied water for the village. A frog or two could always be found idling on the marshy banks, or sunning on the rocks that thrust out of the water.

As the children approached the bank, the sudden silence and multiple splashes marked the retreat of the frogs close to the water line. Only the amphibians further out on the rocks failed to retreat, but they did stop croaking. Green sentinels watched and waited, knowing they were safe on their islets until a brave youth ventured onto the rocks.

The white stones were just close enough together to tempt idle children into jumping on them, but they were uneven and slick in places from moisture and moss. Many a child had taken an unplanned dip in the river, and I was sure Philippe was about to join their ranks as he clambered out onto the rock. The chausses semellees were nothing more than tights that ended in thin leather soles. I did not think he would have enough traction to stay on the stone.

The matron’s voice rang out again, sounding closer. Most of the children scattered, unwilling to be seen with the young rebel. A few of the older children stayed, even though it was very likely that their parents would punish them when they were discovered.

“Do not mind her, it will take her a long time to find me, and she dare not punish me when she does. Maman will not let her touch me.” Philippe shrugged with unconcern at the few remaining children.

This did not seem to reassure them about their own fate, and the remaining children edged back, ready to flee if the servant should arrive. They could not quite make themselves leave, the sheer novelty of watching a noble child chasing frogs kept them rooted.

Philippe jumped from rock to rock with more grace than I would have believed had I not watched him do it. Frogs leapt from the stone as he approached them, wise to the ways of village children. He pursued several, only to watch them escape into the water where he could not go.

In frustration, he headed toward the large lichen coated stone to his left. It could only be reached by taking a particularly difficult series of stepping-stones. The boulder was just far enough from land that even grown-ups couldn’t safely jump to it from the bank. Because it was so hard to reach it still hosted several large green frogs. They were always the last ones to dive for the water, experience having taught them that they needn’t stir themselves unless the intrepid child made it to their rock, which wasn’t often.

To Philippe it surely must seem that they were waiting to be caught. He ignored the cautions called to him by the older children, continuing on his course. The tow-headed boy had been very good, but the long jump to the big stone would surely defeat him. He was to little to make the distance.

I hoped he was a strong swimmer, the velvet pourpoint looked heavy enough already. Once wet it would drag him down toward the river bottom. Of course, I was assuming he could swim. Many could not. I watched him leap. He barely made it, one foot touching stone, but he was not balanced.

“Philippe Nantouillet, get down from there this instant!” The matron had found him, and contrary to his bold statement earlier, she looked quite ready to administer a sound beating. The children scattered like geese before her, running for the perceived safety of their homes.

He cringed involuntarily at her unexpected arrival, and lost his precarious balancing act. With arms flailing in a desperate attempt to stay on the slippery rock, he fell into the water. There was a great splash as he hit, and he surfaced moments later, flailing. Philippe was clearly not a swimmer.

The woman rushed to the bank, her scarlet skirts fanning out behind her as she ran. When she arrived at the edge, she dropped to her knees and held her hand out to Philippe. It was quite silly; as there was no way she could possibly reach him. I did not think she could swim either, or she would have gone in after him.

“Come quickly! Philippe is drowning!” She cried for help as she continued to strain toward the panicked boy.

I ran to the front of the house and peeked out to see if anyone had heard her. The driver and Arnaud had unhitched the horses from the wagon and were taking the seats out of the carriage to make it light enough to lift. Everyone was milling around talking and gesturing. It was the most excitement to happen in the village in years.

Maman had told me to keep hidden, and I knew I should obey her, but Philippe would surely drown if I didn’t do something. If I carried the servant’s cry for help to the road, everyone would see me. I stood there, frozen between obeying my parents and saving another boy’s life.

Chapitre 4

“Help!”

Philippe sounded terrified.

What to do? Disobedience was a sin, but so was letting Philippe die. I wished the boy could swim. I wished the servant could swim, then she could rescue him and none of this would be a problem. Wait a minute; I could swim. I could bring him back to shore and leave him with the servant. No one else would ever know I’d left the house. It seemed like the best of several bad options available to me.

Decision made, I shot out the back door, bare feet silent on the grass. I paused next to the shrieking woman and looked over her shoulder to see where Philippe was. It wouldn’t do to jump in on him; the smaller child was frightened enough as it was.

Philippe was thrashing weakly, clearly tiring from his exertions and the weight of his wet clothes. I hoped I was strong enough to pull him to shore, glad that it was not very far. I shucked off my breeches, although a dip wouldn’t hurt them, I didn’t want any extra weight.

I jumped, managing to land just a little to the left of Philippe. I swam up to him and tried to help, but he was too frightened. He flailed with renewed vigor when I grabbed him, dragging us both under water. The darkness closed over my head and for a moment I was afraid. I told myself it was just like being held under by the bigger children, that I needed to not panic. I squirmed and kicked in a far more organized fashion than Philippe, fighting to go back up to the surface in spite of the body trapping me.

It seemed to take forever, but in truth was probably only a handful of seconds, before my head broke free of the water. I breathed a deep lungful of sweet air and began to swim for shore, glad that Philippe had finally quit struggling. Even quiescent he was very difficult to tow. By the time I had reached the shore I was exhausted.

A red linen sleeve appeared in my view, and then the servant was pulling us up onto the grass. She took Philippe from my arms, and I was glad to let her. I needed to get back in the house before any one else came along. I even turned over, intending to stand up, but somehow I couldn’t move from the spot.

The woman had pulled Philippe to her bosom, swaying back and forth rather vigorously as she sobbed. It was clearly more mothering than the small boy could stand so soon after his ordeal. He began vomiting up the river water he had swallowed, some of it splattering the woman’s red dress. She shrieked and shoved him away from her, letting him fall back onto the grass.

I crawled to Philippe’s side and held his head as he emptied his stomach. After everything else that had happened, I couldn’t ignore his suffering. The boy clutched the hand that wasn’t supporting his head. His grip was weaker than I expected, and his hand was almost as soft as a newborn’s. There were no calluses anywhere.

“Are you an angel? Am I in Heaven?” Philippe had recovered while I had been preoccupied with the state of his hands.

“Of course not! The very idea, you blasphemous little beast, that a peasant child could be an angel.” The servant woman looked up from the edge of the stream, where she was trying to clean her skirts.

“Just look at him, he looks like an angel, and he saved me. Our Savior, Jesus Christ, was born to a common carpenter, so why couldn’t an angel be disguised as a peasant? He’s even naked like all the cherubim are in the paintings. Just look at him and tell me I’m wrong.” Philippe was looking at me again with a light I didn’t understand in his eyes.

This argument clearly struck the maidservant. She was now looking at me with her head cocked to the side, like my father sometimes does when my maman’s granny gives him unsolicited advice. I knew she was considering the idea, even though the maid was disinclined to respect the source.

She was silent long enough for the frogs to begin croaking again. Finally she gave a small grunt that could have meant anything, “He did save you, that is true. I am sure your father will wish to reward his family for such a brave act.”

I froze. If she told my father, I would be in for a beating for disobeying my mother. I thought fast. How could I get out of trouble without the sin of lying? “I did nothing for praise or gifts, saving Philippe’s life is reward enough.”

“A peasant who understands the worth of his betters, how refreshing.” The voice was soft, pleasant, and still somehow menacing.

I turned, realizing my hand was still in Philippe’s only when his tightened. Was he trying to warn me, was he as afraid as I was of that voice? He was dressed in black from the plume in his wide-brimmed hat to the heels of his boots; the only break in all the darkness was the gleaming silver of his buttons and weapons. His hair was the same unrelieved black, what I could see of it, bound as it was under his hat, and I swear his eyes were too.

If I was to be an angel, here then was the devil. Poor cherubim I, to stand against such a one as this, yet try I must. The alternative, if any here were to bespeak my parents, did not bear thinking about. I used my best combination of flattery and manners, learned from listening at the window to Maman speaking to the nobility’s servants, when they came to commission her sewing. It was very different from way Papa haggled during village faires and the harvest festival, but those were other peasants like us.

I had to hope that Maman’s way would work for me, and that I wouldn’t mess the phrasing up. She was the only one in the village who spoke in such a fashion. Even though she had been born in Loirre, the village just south of here, Maman sounded like one of the castle folk. As a young girl, she had been one of the lucky few to gain employment at the manor.

The servants at the castle were of higher caste than the villagers, they ate more and better, were given two new suit of clothes every year, as well as wages. I had overheard some of the villagers complaining that Maman was ‘uppity’ for keeping to the ways of the castle, but I think they were just jealous.

She had met Papa at the castle the spring she turned thirteen. He was driving a wagonload of supplies from his village, and had wandered the grounds while waiting for the wagon to be emptied. Maman liked to tell my sisters how she had seen him from the solar window, but I never paid much attention to that, it being filled with girlish giggling. The important thing was, they had fallen in love during the course of his regular deliveries and planned to wed.

That very same autumn she had left the castle, and Papa, to come back to the home of her parents. She refused to talk about the reason she had returned, but everyone figured she’d been tupped. I didn’t know what that meant, but I think must be something bad, since no one would explain the word to me when I asked.

The villagers were amazed when he had arrived and claimed Maman for his bride, since she had been ruined. That was another word I could never get explained properly, since Maman was clearly no such thing. She was not broken or soiled at all. She was the most beautiful woman in the world, with hair that fell in flaxen waves to her knees and eyes the blue of a summer sky.

The ones I had overheard the words that no one would explain from were also the ones that spoke ill of Maman. They were also people with no skill to supplement their farming, and they were even hungrier than I, especially in the winter. You could count their ribs, even in the summer months. With so many mouths to feed, we were not far from their condition, so it was hard for me to be angry with them. I understood all to well what it felt like to be hungry, as well as the envy watching those who were better fed produced.

Whatever had happened, Maman still talked like she was at the castle, acted like it too. There was a reserve, a quiet control, in her manner that she never lost, even when angry or afraid. I took that example to heart now, standing straight and straining to mimic that calm, even tone she spoke with.

“Philippe was in need, and I could offer assistance, as was my duty and privilege. Surely there is nothing spectacular in that? I am but a humble peasant child, certainly unworthy of any but the most passing of attention. Philippe however, is chilled and exhausted from his ordeal. Should not his needs be seen to?” The day was warm, but not enough to counteract the chill of the river, or the shock of nearly drowning. The hand still in mine was cold, and I could feel the fine tremors begin in the boy next to me.

The black eyes shifted to Philippe, and I was relieved. He examined the tow-haired boy with a faint air of concern, “Philippe, you are your father’s only son, his heir. You must be more careful. Yllsabet, take the boy to the baggage wain, and find him something dry to wear.”

The servant woman moved away from the river and grabbed Philippe from my side. She gave the dark man a wide berth. Apparently, Yllsabet feared him as much as we children did. The thought did not comfort me as I stood, left alone and unclothed before him. I shivered under his gaze, feeling like a field mouse cornered by a large, sleek cat. He was well aware of his effect on me, and it pleased him, I think.

“On behalf of my liege, I offer you thanks, though I think we both know the worth of that.” The sarcasm seemed more directed toward himself than me, and I stood silent. There was nothing I could think to say anyway.

He arched a brow at my silence and smiled, “I see that you do. Well, get dressed child, and find your way home. My reputation is black enough without adding buggery of peasant… children to it.”

There was another word I didn’t know, but I suspected it was right up there with tupped. I turned and began looking for my pants. They were right where I left them; I was pleased to discover. I did not want to stay out here any longer than I already had, the potential for being seen by a parent or sibling grew with each moment.

I bent over to pick up my trousers and heard an indrawn breath. I glanced behind me and saw the dark haired man was staring at me with the oddest look on his face. I didn’t understand it, but the gleam in those dark eyes unnerved me. I grabbed my pants and pulled them on, my stomach strangely tight.

Perhaps my reputation is not so far from the truth after all.” The words were very soft, if the wind had not blown them to me, I would not have heard them at all. I ran back to the safety of my home, wondering at the loathing that had threaded through the words.

I must admit, I sweated the rest of the day, certain that someone would tell my parents what I had done. I just knew I was going to get the beating of my young life. As the day passed without an angry parent looming on the threshold, I began to relax. I suppose I should have realized that there were only three witnesses, as the village children had fled long before I helped Phillip out of the water, and none of them were likely to know me or seek out my parents. Sometimes it was good to be a peasant.

Everyone was preoccupied with helping rearrange the baggage so another carriage could be freed up for Phillip and his mother. From my viewpoint on the bench, it looked like they were having great fun. The whole thing had the air of a village faire, with everyone freed from his or her regular duties.

I could hear snatches of gossip through the window, but it was mostly the village lasses talking about how handsome some of the grooms and footmen were, which I ignored with much eye rolling. Girls were incredibly silly.

Nothing was said about the young lord nearly drowning, I was relieved to note. I did not see Phillip wandering about, and I hoped he had not become ill as a result of his dip in the cold river. He had seemed so fragile as I held him while he vomited all the water he had unwittingly swallowed.

Nor did I see the man in black, whom I was not sure what to think about. He was so far beyond my experience that I did not even have a frame of reference for the jumble of feelings he aroused in me. I have never been terrified, confused, and intrigued by one thing or person before.

I spent a large part of my ‘inside’ chores wondering who and what he was. I also wanted to know what he had meant by that parting statement. I was bursting with questions by the time my mother came in to check on me and prepare dinner.

I was not, however, foolish enough to ask her what buggery was. She would have wanted to know where I heard the word from, and that would have let the cat out of the bag quite nicely. I would have been lucky to be able to sit down a month after the beating that would earn me.

Instead I asked about her day, and what was going to happen next. Was anyone from the castle staying? Would I have to remain in the cottage the whole time? It turned out the carriage was being left behind, with the driver and a groom for the horses that would pull it once it was repaired. And yes, I had to stay inside.

Although I met this last bit of news with dismay, I was pleased overall with the discussion. There was no hint in her behavior or speech that she knew I had been disobedient and was waiting for me to confess. Sometimes she did that, and if you didn’t come clean on your own, the punishment would be much worse.

The carriage was repaired in three days, leaving on the morning of the fourth day. By that point I was as heartily sick of the inside of the cottage as only a child can be, and was only too happy to weed the garden. Even collecting eggs from the hens seemed like a treat instead of a chore.

The days settled back into their normal routine, and while I didn’t precisely forget what I had done, neither did I think about it overmuch. Two weeks or more passed, I cannot tell precisely, just that it had been long enough for the event to recede in my mind. It was quite a surprise to come back from fetching water to see the same carriage in front of my cottage.

Chapitre 5

The days settled back into their normal routine, and while I didn't precisely forget what I had done, neither did I think about it overmuch. Two weeks or more passed, I cannot tell precisely, just that
it had been long enough for the event to recede in my mind. It was quite a surprise to come back from fetching water to see the same carriage in front of my cottage.

I slowed fearfully for a moment, guilt making my feet leaden. I was in trouble now; I just knew it. Knowing I could not escape the inevitable punishment, I went around the neighboring cottage to come in the back of the house. No sense making the beating worse by traipsing in the front door in full view of whoever was watching the carriage, which my father would think was a sign of insolence on top of disobedience.

As I approached the back, I could see my mother. She was sitting on the back step, head up as if looking at the sky, but her eyes were closed. Tears trailed down her tanned face, glowing faintly in the afternoon sun. Maman never cried. I dropped the buckets, water sloshing over my ankles, and then I was running.

I fetched up against the dusty hems of her skirt and wrapped my short arms around her neck. "Maman, what's wrong?"

Her arms came around me, warm and comforting, although her words were not, "I always knew this would happen, but I had thought it years away. Oh Jean-Claude, I am sorry petit."

"Do not be sorry. It was my fault, you told me never to go out but I could not let Philippe drown. I disobeyed you, and I am sorry for it." I leaned my forehead against hers, my apology soft and a bit
rushed but heartfelt.

"Oh mas enfant, never be sorry for saving a life, for all life is a gift from God, and not to be wasted. However much I could wish that there had been another to pull the young lord from the river, there
was no one else. Perhaps this is God's will," Maman did not sound very convinced, but she did sound resigned.

Whatever it was that was about to happen to me could not be fought. That much was clear from the slump of her shoulders. I stepped back reluctantly as she rose to her feet.

"Come Jean-Claude," she took my hand and led me past the threshold.

The inside of the cottage seemed dark and foreboding in contrast to the brilliant afternoon sun. I blinked and drew myself up, trying not to look as frightened as I felt, as my eyes met the dark shape of the man I had spent a great deal of time wondering about.

He was wearing all black, just as he had by the river so many days ago. This time his hat was off, perhaps in deference to being inside a home. But it was more likely done so that the plumes trailing
from the brim would not be damaged in such close confines. He was turned slightly, speaking to my father. His voice was rich and pleasant, although from the look on my father's face, the subject was
not pleasing.

"Considering that we are trading in lives, twenty pieces of silver in addition to the five year exception to the levee for my family would seem appropriate."

What was Papa talking about? The bitterness in his voice was new to me. I looked back at Maman, but her face was closed. Confused, I turned again toward my father and the dark man.

"I could simply take the boy, and leave you with nothing." The dark man stroked the silver hilt of his sword meaningfully, "But the symbolism is not lost on me. Twenty silver pieces and a five year
exemption in exchange for Philippe's cherub."

"Done." My father agreed, hand out to shake on the bargain, but the dark man was no longer paying any attention to him. He had turned to me, and I shivered under his regard.

to be continued...