MAKING AN ESCAPE
It was late morning when Leona woke. The sun was shining through the window onto her face. She sat up, suddenly terrified.
“I'm too late!” She had surely lost her chance of escaping.
She wanted to howl in frustration. If she was planning to escape, she should have done it by now. Surely whoever was going to keep her fed and tended would already have been and gone? She looked round wildly.
No one's touched anything yet.
Nothing had changed or been moved. The Comte's cloak was still thrown over one chair where he had left it the previous night. No one had brought food or a bucket for ablutions. The whole room was as it had been previous, the fire burned down.
Leona's initial elation was replaced with a gnawing fear. What if nothing had moved because no one was coming back for her? What if the Comte had decided to leave her here, imprisoned, to starve to death?
She stood and staggered to the door. Her legs were numb and cramped and her feet ached from lack of blood. She felt stabbing pains through them and all the way along her legs as she limped to the door. At the door, she dropped to her knees, peering through the keyhole.
The hallway was flooded with morning light. She could see what might be stairs, and a window. Nothing else.
She slid down the door, sat down. Thought about the problem that faced her. She could either bang on the door, making a nuisance of herself until someone came, or she could wait.
But what if they've left me here to starve?
Leona made a decision. She hobbled to the fireplace, lifted one of the heavy metal fire irons and went to the door. She hit against it, calling out. “Hello? Is anyone there? Help!”
She kept it up diligently; banging, calling, shouting. A few moments later, she was rewarded with the sound of running feet.
“Mon dieu!”
Someone put a key in the door, turned it. The door creaked open. Leona stayed where she was, flattened against the wall behind the door.
“Hello?” the person called in French. It was not the count; Leona guessed it to be a manservant. She waited. Heard whoever it was walk forward, heading toward the fireplace. She held her breath, heart pounding.
Just one more step forward; then I'll have time to escape. Just one more...
She heard the man step to the window, the slight creak as he leaned on the wooden windowsill.
Yes!
She burst out from behind the door, slipped through it and slammed it shut behind her. The key was not in the lock, so she couldn't lock him in and she didn't want to waste time. She ran down.
She heard the man hammer on the door and then heard it burst open behind her. She screamed as he ran down the steps, panting in terror. She was alone in a hostile house. She heard someone clattering down the stairs from an upper story, turned the corner and ran on downward.
The door was opposite the stairs. Just keep going. Just keep...
There!
Leona's heart thudded as she reached the ground floor. She heard feet running on stone and was just in time to see a man racing toward her. She screamed, threw the poker and heard him howl in agony as it landed on his foot. Then she ran to the door. It was unlocked, which was in itself a miracle. She burst through into the garden.
I'm free!
Her elation turned to fresh terror as the door burst open behind her. She stood rooted to the spot a second – long enough to see two male servants, one enraged and hobbling, the other running and gesturing, appear. Then she turned around and ran.
I can't outrun them. I'll have to hide away. They'll catch me if I try and run.
She was tired and alone on a piece of land she didn't know at all. They were rested and on their home ground. She would have to hide.
She ran blindly into the stand of trees, and then ran as fast as she could, trying not to trip on roots. The sound of crashing through the undergrowth told her that she was being pursued.
Heart thudding in her chest, she spied a bush and dove in. The branches tore at her skin and the spindly twigs raked her hair and face, making her itch. She got down on her knees, rolled into a ball.
A set of feet ran past. Leona curled up tight, shutting her eyes so that the shine of them would not give her away. It was a simple hiding place; not likely to stand up to a real search for longer than a few seconds. All she could do was hope her pursuers were too desperate to find her to be thinking clearly.
“For Heaven's sakes, man! Head her off!”
She tensed as she heard the count's voice, imperious and angry, shouting at a servant. She heard hoof-beats and realized with some shock that he himself was on the lookout, chasing her down.
It is a hunt and I am prey.
She curled up and stayed where she was. The sound of footsteps had dwindled. She risked a look.
A man hovered on the edge of the clearing where she lay. She saw it was the man who had come to find her upstairs; recognizing his chestnut brown hair. She felt his eyes touch her. She lay where she was, knowing that he saw her. She wanted to cry. She was finished.
She saw him stay where he was, looking into her eyes. There was recognition there, regret, and compassion. Then he turned. Walked out of the clearing. Went back to the path.
“To the gate, my lord!” he shouted.
Leona felt her eyes suddenly damp with weeping. The man had seen her; she had no doubt about it. He had seen her there, and chosen to let her go.
If I ever get away from here, I will come back to Monte Blois and repay that man. He has saved my life.
The Comte would not kill her, but to marry him would have been a death of heart and soul, if not of body. The chestnut haired man had saved her future. She lay where she was, listening to the commotion as the servants and the Comte converged on the gate.
The gate is behind me. I should go the other way.
Heart thudding in her chest, knowing that she had perhaps a minute or two to make this work, she ran back the way she had come, then paused at the entrance to the copse.
I should go left.
The copse extended a little way on the left, a tangled mass of trunks and branches and leaf-strewn forest floor.
To go out the way she’d entered was foolish. To go out another way might take her that much closer to the far side of the manor.
Slipping through the spaces between the tree trunks, holding her breath with fear, Leona made her way through the small growth of trees and out of the other side.
She found herself in a field. On her right was the country house, its stone walls tall. She could see over some forested land and somewhere in the distance could see a church turret, its stately shape reaching up against the clear sky.
The village is that way.
Her heart thumping with excitement and terror, ears straining to hear what was happening at the gate, Leona wriggled through the tangled mass of branches and out into the field. She was fully exposed to view from one of the house windows. Holding her breath, she ran across the open space toward the next clump of trees.
Sheltering there, she listened, whole body alive with tension, straining for the slightest sound or indication that she had been seen.
Nothing. Not a shout, a cry, a footstep. The forest was a green and gold haven around her.
Holding her breath, still tense and expecting, any minute, a shout as she was sighted, she wriggled between tree branches, heading into the woods. These, it seemed, were proper woodlands. They headed downhill and Leona clung to tree trunks as she slid downhill, uncertain of where she was going.
Somehow, the house has a link to the village. There must be a path. There must be.
Leona walked on, feeling her fears shift from discovery to simply being lost in the woods, unable to find any way out.
There must be a path somewhere. There must be...
Leona stiffened as she heard something, freezing in place. She counted to ten, but nothing happened. Then she carried on walking again.
There must be a path.
She kept on going. She heard the sound again. She looked up.
She had not found a path. What she had found, however, was a woodsman. He had a small pig with him, the creature leashed and sniffing at the ground, which was strewn with oak leaves, soft in sunshine.
“Miss?” he said, staring.
“Hello,” Leona said, giving him what she hoped was a non-threatening smile. “I'm lost. Is this Monte Bois?”
“I...um...yes,” the man said. His eyes were stretched with terror, so Leona could see the whites all round. He was, on reflection, not much older than she was. He was shivering and the pig seemed to feel his tension, for he looked at Leona and stepped back, ears up, body stiff with nerves. “Don't touch me,” he added, backing away slowly.
Leona frowned. “I mean no harm,” she said softly. “I promise.”
“Swear it,” he said. “Swear you're not a ghost, nor a witch.”
Leona sighed. “I swear it,” she said. An idea came to her. She intoned the Paternoster under her breath. The youth relaxed at once.
“My name is Gaston,” he said softly. “I beg your pardon, milady. I come from Monte Bois. I will take you there.”
Leona swallowed. Now that she had given up her status as a supernatural being, she was not sure whether it would be safe to trust Gaston. However, when she looked into his eyes, she saw no danger there, only a genuine desire to please.
She sighed. “Thank you, Gaston,” she said gently. “I would be pleased if you could do that.”
He beamed and Leona followed him as he walked back through the forest, heading for the path. The pig followed him, evidently happy with Leona since Gaston was no longer afraid. The three of them walked through the forest in silence, then, as they found the path, Gaston began to speak.
“My lady, forgive me! I thought you were a specter. These woods are home to many strange things...people see lights here at night, and there are tales of goblins in the mountains opposite.” He pointed. “I farm in the valley down yonder. Phillipé and I,” he said and indicated the pig fondly, “come here for truffles.”
“Oh.” Leona nodded. She listened to his chatter and gratefully followed him along the path, praying all the while that they would be fast enough to reach the village before someone guessed she had gone there.
They reached a point where the path became cobbles and Leona breathed in, smelling the scent of distant wood smoke, the signature of charcoal-burners' huts. She must be near a village.
“I must leave you here, milady,” Gaston said, bowing. “My farm is in this direction. If you follow this road, you will reach the village of Monte Bois.”
“Thank you,” Leona said fervently. She dug in her pockets and found some broken links of the necklace. She passed him three. “Thank you, Gaston. May the Lord bless you.”
The man gulped and stared at the silver. He made the sign of the cross. Clasped it to his chest. “Bless you, my lady!” He looked around, as if terrified someone would appear and take it from him. Then he walked hastily off, as if he thought demons might appear to take back the silver.
If her plight had been less pressing, Leona would have laughed. She had evidently changed from specter to lost village girl to specter again.
Now I'm still in the forest, but at least I know the way.
Not knowing what else to do, she stepped onto the path. Continued walking. The trees grew close alongside it and she shivered, heading toward the smell and the sound of wood being chopped.
I don't feel safe alone here.
Leona walked past the cottage of the charcoal-burners. It seemed abandoned. She carried on, heart thumping. Who was burning wood in the forest, if not them?
Thoughts of brigands, outlaws, footpads and other desperate men overwhelmed her. She heard the crack of a twig near the path and sprang ahead, running along the path. Footsteps. Someone is following me.
Heart thumping in her chest, she ran along the road. Then something hit her from behind and she screamed. The blow repeated, making her vision break into dancing stars.
“Hey, look! It's a girl!” a coarse voice shouted. An answering whoop went up from near her shoulder. She tried to sit up, but her head was aching and she was tired, so tired. She closed her eyes.
Then everything went black.
When she awoke, an age later, it was because a sound had woken her. She lay with her eyes shut, listening for it. Singing. Singing wove around her head and as she breathed in, she smelled the sharp, clean smell of lavender and the smell of frankincense.
Leona moved cautiously, feeling something soft below her. She was warm and covered with a coverlet. She smiled. The harmonies grew and wove around her, the sweet dulcet tones of a hymn.
I'm dead. I'm dead and in heaven. Those are angels.
She smiled again and stretched, sitting up. If she was dead, then Conn would be here too. She was reunited with him again. She recalled the thugs in the forest, shuddering. She was safe now. Safe and beyond all danger. She opened her eyes.
She was in a whitewashed room, the light filtering through a single window high in the wall. The bed linen was plain and white, the roof vaulted. A crucifix, plain and unadorned, was fixed to the wall. She smelled lavender and heard a rustle of robes.
“Welcome, daughter,” a gentle voice said in French. “I am Sister Ignatia. This is the convent of the Poor Clares in Bois. Welcome. A farmer found you in the woods, unconscious. He brought you here. I am so glad you've come back to us from the realms of death.”
Leona closed her eyes. She was not, after all, in heaven. She was in the village of Monte Boise, in a convent. She closed her eyes, feeling a dull thud of despair. She was not dead. Conn was not here.
She shivered, remembering the woods, the men shouting, and the terror. What happened to me?
The nun smiled at her softly, seeing the spasm of terror, it seemed. “Whatever happened in the past, you are safe now, my child,” she whispered. “All past sins are cleansed from you when you enter these precincts and ask for forgiveness.”
Leona nodded dully. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Because she was a fallen woman now. Whatever those thugs had done to her, the nun seemed to think she had a need to be forgiven. Her body felt bruised and shaky and she wanted to die, thinking that those men had violated her.
I am a thing of shame.
She curled up and wept. Sister Ignatia sat with her and tried to comfort her, and when she shook her head, refusing to be comforted, the kind woman sat back and prayed. Leona let the Latin words flow over her, a cleansing benediction. She knew enough French to almost understand.
Lord, cleanse away our sister's shame and let her come to us renewed and whole.
Leona closed her eyes and added her own prayer to the holy sister's words. Lord, let me put all this behind me. Let me find a new life.