*
Foreword:
This story was written based on the May 2024 Writever, a writing challenge based on a list of thirty-one words, unveiled the evening before March 1st.
Below you will read the thirty-one messages which make up this story, each time preceded by the day's word, grayed out, on the right. You can also read the story on mon compte Mastodon.
*
The weathered painted wooden sign offered, to all inclined travellers, board and lodging at “The King’s Inn”.
However, she would have confidently wagered that the said inn had never sheltered nor fed a single monarch.
She entered, untied her cape and gave it to brush, booked a room upstairs, had her travel chest brought up, and requested a bath with clean water and a table set apart for supper. With any luck, the King’s broth might prove edible.
The serving girl brought her supper.
“Whence come you?”
“The Bordeaux Parliament.”
The girl frowned.
“Is Bordeaux no longer in the kingdom?”
“That parliament is a court of justice.”
“…Oh.”
“A Gascony lass, eh?” said a man at the next table. “They’re said to be easy with—”
Then he was on the ground, and she had her knee on his chest and a dagger at his neck.
“The blade is coated with a painful, slow and deadly poison.”
“So, what do they say about Gascony lasses? One answer only.”
The man hesitated.
“… Nothing?”
She smiled.
“Knowing how to keep quiet is a cardinal asset. Cultivate it.”
“That is asking a lot from him,” came a voice from behind her.
She stood up. The newcomer wore travelling clothes.
“I’m hardly presentable, however at this hour, only your table still provides a free seat. May I beg your indulgence without dread of a slap?”
Once he had finished his broth, he delicately dabbed his lips with his handkerchief.
“Did you really coat your dagger with poison?”
She stared at him in silence for a few seconds.
“I use any means necessary to reach my ends.”
He smiled.
“You are a fascinating mystery. Not an hour ago, I saw you wield a weapon more ruthlessly than a ruffian; and now you are gracefully tightening the ribbon which holds back your hair. How could you not pique my curiosity?”
“And what shall it take to satisfy your curiosity? Do you propose to cross swords with me?”
“Good heavens, no! My fencing is worthless; several masters of arms will testify to that, some very eloquently.”
“I feel, madam, unusually bold: I should like like to know your name.”
“You know it already.”
“How? This is the first time we have met, much to my regret.”
“I am Aurore de Serte.”
His face went white.
“If you are who you say, madam, then pray tell whom you last–”
“Executed? A princess of the blood, or so she claimed, who caused enough trouble that I be called on to have it cease.”
“… so you speak true.”
“Is it a game of cat and mouse, madam, and am I your prey?”
“Have you reason to be?”
“It is difficult to shine at the Court without making a few enemies; no doubt I have made some, wealthier than I.”
He sighed.
“What my meagre wealth cannot afford me, I procure with my panache.”
“Or by sleight-of-hand.”
The tavern had emptied; there only remained one man, leaning on the wooden counter, with a tankard in front of him.
“I don’t…”
“Lacking the services of a banker, you have secured the less expensive ones of a lacemaker; from a client’s home, she has brought you a missive which was not intended for you. I am here to have it back.”
“As soon as I have this letter, you may resume your travels to La Rochelle, and thence… to wherever you wish.”
“And if I do not hand it to you?”
“My instructions are to have the letter back; how I do depends only on you.”
“Such indulgence surprises me; I imagined the Duke to be more rancorous, and more inclined to make an example.”
He hesitated, then slipped a hand into his coat and produced a white envelope sealed with red wax.
She took the envelope and slid it into the bodice of her dress.
“I suggest that you not put off your journey too long. The Duke is waiting in Versailles for the letter; once he has it, he might change his mind about you.”
“All the same, if I board an outbound ship, he will not go so far as to order that a cannon be fired at it?”
She shrugged.
“After all, he did go so far as to request my services but not ask that I spare your life.”
“As to me”, she continued, “I had to ride a whole day to get here before you would. Hence I shall sleep here tonight and not leave until morning. That gives you a bit of a head start; again, do not waste it.”
He smiled.
“I’m glad that I eschewed a duel with you; good night, then.”
She bowed, turned, and began to walk away.
Then, from behind her, he brought his cane down on her blonde bun, hurling her towards the wooden counter.
She would have hit the floor, had not the drinker at the counter turned at the noise, stepped, caught her and broken her fall.
Under the hit, her bun had come undone, and her unravelled hair around her face were like a disturbed wheat field.
The traveller squatted close to the woman, held his hand close to her face, wait for a while, smiled, then with two fingers, fished the envelope from her bodice.
“Sorry, madam. This is, after all, a lettre de cachet.”
He tossed a coin to the drinker, who caught it on the fly.
“Make sure she doesn’t go chasing after me when she comes back to her senses.”
Then he left the inn. Shortly afterwards, the gallop of a horse was heard.
Aurore’s eyes opened.
The drinker helped the woman up then fished from his shirt a white envelope with a red seal and handed it to her with a smile.
“Isn’t it useful, madam, that your servant is skilled at the three-card monte? Our mark saw none if it.”
She began gathering up her hair and putting it back in a bun.
“He was also not gentlemanly enough to not hit a woman… And naive enough to think her incapable of anticipating the blow, accompanying it, and feigning unconsciousness.”
The serving girl came in, wearing a dark grey hooded coat, eyed the letter, and addressed the woman.
“It would have been simpler to hold the rapier at his throat and rob him.”
“He would have run after us, whereas now he is running away.”
“It is best,” concluded Aurore, “that we leave now, travel by night, and, as soon as possible, hand the letter to the Duke, that he will take it to the King. I wouldn’t want an untimely delay to get us accused of lèse-majestĂ©.”
The drinker frowned.
“Once he gets the letter, the Duke might want to send us to the Bastille just to be safe.”
“Only one of us will go,” replied Aurore. “Should she or he not return, the other two will come to the rescue.”
“We’ll take turns driving the coach.”
Aurora sniffed at the drinker.
“Are you drunk?”
“No, but I had a few tankards; I had to play to the tune.”
“You’ll sleep it off in the car. I shall take the reins first.”
The drinker opened the car door, unfolded the step, and was about to climb when he heard a polite cough.
The serving girl waited for him to step aside, then went in majestically.
He followed her, grumbling.
Aurore swiftly climbed onto the coachman’s seat.
Once the news would spread in the right circles, many would lay siege to her in hopes of securing her services.
She smiled, untied the reins and slapped the horses’ backs.
*