Free The King's Daughter by Suzanne Martel Page A

they nevertheless valued highly.
    A tentative light rose in the east. The air was sharp and smelled of pine. Short, foam-crested waves stirred the river. Suddenly, an officer burst into sight on the road that led from the fort. He was running and waving his arms. It was Pierre de Touron coming to say goodbye, calling to them from afar.
    Simon was sitting in the front of the canoe with Jeanne. He took the trouble to put on a friendly face, but he obviously couldn’t resist a mocking joke.
    â€œWhat heroism for a soldier of the king to rise so early in our honour!”
    â€œI didn’t do it for you,” the officer assured him. He turned to Jeanne. “I’m coming to present my good wishes to madame. You can get along very well without my blessing.”
    Suddenly growing serious, Monsieur de Rouville ordered him, “Tell de Preux that I...that we regret his absence at our wedding. As soon as he arrives, tell him I’ll be waiting for him.”
    â€œI will,” promised the lieutenant, who obviously was not insulted by Simon’s commanding tone of voice. Why did Simon always have to address everyone as if they were his underlings, and why did no one—except for Jeanne—seem to take offense?
    â€œWe’re heading out,” announced the leader of the expedition, raising his paddle over his head.
    Pierre bowed to the young woman. “Goodbye, madame.
Bon voyag
e and
bon courage
.”
    â€œThank you,” Jeanne murmured, very moved.
    She wanted to leap onto the dock, throw herself into the young soldier’s arms and cry, “Keep me here with you. Don’t let me go into the wilderness with all these silent men who don’t even notice me!”
    She tried to imagine the look on her lord and master’s face if she were to make such a disastrous exhibit of herself. The thought made her lips curl into a spiteful expression. That was the image the admiring lieutenant was left with: a courageous woman going off to confront her destiny, a smile on her lips.
    Without thinking, Jeanne waved farewell to him. Immediately from the front came a disapproving grumble.
    â€œDon’t move. I told you that before.”
    Jeanne looked at her husband’s broad back blotting out the horizon and rebelliously stuck out her tongue at him, the noble Monsieur de Rouville.
    14
    NO ONE HAD bothered to inform Jeanne of the itinerary. Later she was to learn that this expedition the men were so eager to undertake was also a business trip, involving many detours and numerous stopovers.
    Instead of heading towards Sorel and the mouth of the Iroquois River, the flotilla crossed the St. Lawrence at an angle and went down in the opposite direction. Jeanne stretched out and leaned comfortably against the bundles of furs and blankets. Her initial curiosity passed and she closed her eyes and fell asleep.
    The burning midday sun awakened her. They were travelling along the deserted south shore of the river. She stretched as modestly as possible and turned to look back. The canoes were following as if they were being towed.
    Mathurin gave her a wide toothless smile that made her laugh. At least he didn’t ration his kindness.
    In front of her, Simon was still paddling with the same regular motion, apparently tireless. She had the impression he could go on like that for days without feeling any fatigue. For a long time she examined what she could see of this stranger who was her husband. His well-muscled shoulders were held straight over narrow hips, and his long legs did not seem to suffer from their uncomfortable position. He was sitting on the edge of his bench, with one knee on the floor of the canoe and the other bent in front of him, as if he were genuflecting. The musket he never parted with was lying beside his foot. Next to it was his wide leather belt with a dagger in its sheath, a well-sharpened hatchet and a curved horn containing his powder.
    He was dressed in a soft leather suit,