Bisclavret

Chapter 4

It's been two weeks since we left the chateau behind, and I've never been so miserable. Or dirty. I just had to relieve myself beside a tree – again – using leaves to clean myself as best I could. Now I face a long walk back to the carriages, having used the excuse of us stopping to really stretch my cramped legs. Part of me hoped I might find some small stream to clean my hands and face in if I only ventured far enough, but luck isn't on my side today.

I'm back in the dress I started our journey in, as it's the least filthy of those I brought. We'd naively thought there'd be a chance to wash our clothes at some small village along our route, but we haven't stopped at a single inn, choosing instead to move the carriages into the woods at night and sleep within their shelter. I understand the decision, even though I'm beginning to long for a bed with the fervor of a drowning man praying for a raft.

The first town we rode through outside the Marquis' land had a well-used-looking guillotine in the main square, and the inhabitants all seemed suspicious and slightly murderous. We didn't even stop the carriages; we just moved past as they watched us with feverish eyes.

We still had to stop to resupply, and we'd chosen to do so at larger farms along the way. Jacques and a few of the servants would go forth heavily armed, searching for bread, cheese, or meat, while the rest of us waited and prayed for their safety. We've been blessed so far; Jacques paid the peasants well and came back laden down from each trip, even bringing fresh milk and eggs on several occasions. Unlike eastern France, we've had plenty of rain this summer, so the larders are full and the animals healthy.

The men also gained valuable information on their excursions, learning which towns to avoid – most of them – and which roads bandits frequented. If we'd taken a direct route north from Mont-de Marsan through Bordeaux and then Nantes, we would have reached our destination, the Foret du Gavre, in just ten days. But because of the stories we've heard, our journey has been a maze of lesser-traveled roads, most small and poorly maintained. Olivia's gotten sick about every other day, the constant jarring and swaying too much for her. It's nearly too much for me at times, and in just a fortnight, I've lost noticeable weight from my already thin frame. We all have.

Livy would be better if she could get out of our too-hot carriage and up onto a horse, but the men don't want to risk a woman being in the saddle if we happen upon bandits. I can't blame them, though part of me wants to. The days have been sweltering, and even with the windows open, we've sat and sweated inside the stifling confines of our wooden box. No one would guess the marquise's rank now; she's as dirty and disheveled as the rest of us.

I grumble and lift my skirts as I step over a log, wondering why I even bother. The bottom of my dress is dirty four inches up from the hem, and I'm pretty sure the stain I just noticed is a splash of Livy's dried vomit. I snap my head up and keep moving, not wanting to think about that. If we ever reach our destination, I'm going to spend a whole week in a tub, and, God, at this point, it'll take that long to scrub away all the road dust. I never realized how much I took cleanliness for granted before.

I vent my irritation as I walk, planting my feet heavily and pushing branches out of my way to let them whip back once I pass. It's childish and petty, but I need an outlet for my anger right now. The last thing I want is to bottle it up, only to lash out at someone.

There's a small branch in my path, and instead of stepping over it, I stomp on it hard, snapping it in half with my heel. The sound reverberates through the forest, so loud that it shocks a flock of birds up out of a nearby tree. I freeze, staring down at the branch beneath my heel.

How could such a small thing make such a noise?

I realize my mistake a heartbeat later when a second gunshot roars in the distance.