Free The King's Daughter by Suzanne Martel

past, their two protectors had taken up their posts again. One was an Indian, the other walked with a limp. That was all she could determine.
    A yellowish light in the window of the Bon-Secours School bore witness to Mademoiselle Crolo’s zeal. The good lady sat by the hearth, saying her rosary, as she waited for her boarder. The new Madame de Rouville would sleep in the convent again that night.
    Visibly preoccupied, Simon deigned to give her a brief explanation. “I have to finish my preparations. One of my men will come for you at dawn. Your trunk is down at the dock. Be ready. We’ll be leaving very early.”
    â€œI’ll be ready,” she answered with dignity. A notion to rebel stirred under her calm appearance.
    â€œHave you any more orders for me?” she asked impudently.
    â€œUh...no, madame,” a surprised voice answered in the darkness.
    â€œThen good night, husband. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
    With dignity, the king’s daughter closed the door in her hateful husband’s face. For once she’d had the last word.
    Jeanne curtsied to the sleepy nun. Then, without seeing one of its steps, she climbed the steep stairway. It was little more than a ladder leading to the attic of the stable they called a school—Sister Bourgeoys’s pride and joy.
    She held back her tears, firmly resolved not to let herself be overcome by her emotions. Fortunately, Marie du Voyer, so sensitive and vulnerable, had been spared this ordeal. Jeanne Chatel was strong. Nothing would get her down. Stifling a sob, she pulled the blanket over her head and closed her eyes, determined to go to sleep. She would need all her energy to face the days ahead.
    13
    APPARENTLY the meaning of the word dawn varies from one continent to another. That was the conclusion Jeanne reached, snugly wrapped in her cape. It was pitch black. The now familiar whistle sounded under the window; she was ready. To be on the safe side, she had slept in her clothes. Her guide was a little grey-haired man whose toothless, wrinkled face was crowned by an enormous fur cap. His fringed shirt was black with the soot of countless campfires. He spoke little and had gathered all his courage to announce brusquely, “I am Mathurin the Limp. Monsieur de Rouville sent me to fetch you.”
    She blindly followed her limping guide. One of his ankles was twisted at an abnormal angle, which explained his nickname. Sometimes, when the path was rough, he used his long gun as a crutch, but his infirmity did not slow his pace. Jeanne puffed along behind him, thrown off balance by the heavy sack of medicines bumping against her side. Pierre Boucher had written in his book that “the Indian wife walked behind her man and carried the possessions.” Jeanne was beginning to think this custom had spread to the whites, too. Fortunately she did not have much luggage.
    The shawl, the white stockings, the shiny shoes and the starched coif had disappeared into her huge pockets. Like a seasoned traveller, she had slipped on the thick woollen stockings, her old, indestructible shoes and covered her hair with a black scarf. In the shadowy light of the freezing dawn she felt pale and unattractive.
    Fortunately, in the confusion surrounding the departure, her husband, gallant as usual, had no time to cast a look in her direction. However, he did not miss the opportunity to give out orders. He pointed to a large canoe already loaded with sacks and her trunk.
    â€œSit there on those blankets, madame, and don’t move. We’re crossing the river and any movement is dangerous.”
    I know that! Jeanne felt like shouting. Can you imagine, dear master, that I travelled by canoe for five days from Quebec to Ville-Marie without making it capsize?
    Her revolt did not cross her lips. Coureurs de bois and Indians took their places in the eight canoes. She was the only woman, the only dead weight on the expedition, apart from the baggage that