Free The King's Daughter by Suzanne Martel Page B

as he had been the day Jeanne arrived in Ville-Marie. His pants had long fringes along the sides of the legs, and his shirt was decorated the same way, down the sleeves and on the sides. Later Jeanne would learn that these fringes were not simply for style. When it rained they allowed the water to drip more rapidly from the leather.
    Simon wore his straight black hair too short for the fashion of the time. He probably doesn’t know what a wig is, Jeanne thought. Despite the heat, he was wearing the inevitable long-haired fur cap that completed the uniform of every coureur de bois. On his feet were high moccasins that came up to his knees. The handle of a second knife was sticking out of the right shoe. You would have to wait a long time to catch that man without his weapons. He must be very familiar with danger.
    Jeanne looked thoughtfully at the back of his shirt. The buckskin was still beige in colour. Was that because it was new, or simply cleaner than Mathurin’s? Who had made that shirt and who had repaired the many tears in it?
    A long cut with darkened edges zigzagged across her husband’s right shoulder. Was that blood? The cut had been meticulously mended with thick black thread and small, even stitches. Discouraged, Jeanne once again realized she knew nothing about this stranger whose name she bore.
    Just then, Simon, without throwing the canoe off balance, turned around in one lithe motion and looked her over. She was in for a shock. The eyes staring at her from that tanned face with its arrogant nose were green, a pale, limpid shade such as she had never seen before. Was it that contrast that gave his glance that icy, enigmatic appearance?
    But his voice was cordial enough when he questioned, “You’re not too tired, are you?”
    Jeanne could not help laughing. “Tired? I’m the only one who isn’t working.”
    Her logic caught him off guard. He said, “If you’re hungry, open that sack on your right. You can drink the river water, but avoid sudden movements.”
    The noonday sun beat down on their heads. Jeanne carefully took off her cape and scarf and put her hand into the sack he had indicated. She took out a piece of bread and some venison that she devoured with gusto. Then she scooped up some water in the palm of her hand.
    â€œWould you like anything?” she asked Mathurin. He shook his head and showed her something that looked like leather. He was chewing it, not at all handicapped by his lack of teeth.
    â€œPemmican,” he explained, his mouth full. Jeanne recognized the food the Sulpicians had given to her on the way up from Quebec.
    Simon put down his paddle and took off his fur cap. He pulled his shirt over his head and there he was, bare chested in front of his startled wife. Was this man completely uncivilized? Did he forget there was a lady present? Apparently so, since he plunged his paddle back into the water and broke into a stirring song in his strong voice.
    Ã€ la claire fontaine
    M’en allant promener,
    J’ai trouvé eau si belle
    Que je m’y suis baigné.
    Mathurin picked up the tune in falsetto, and from the other canoes, the voyageurs joined in the choir. Jeanne had never heard anything as beautiful as this French song rhythmically sung by these rugged men as the canoes flew over the sparkling waters.
    Timidly at first, then with greater assurance, she added her voice to the others. She sang well but too loudly, the nuns had always reminded her. Here the wind carried away her words. Absorbed by her pleasure, eyes lifted to the cloudless sky, she did not notice the questioning glance her husband shot in her direction.
    Chante, rossignol, chante,
    Toi qui as le coeur gai.
    Lui y a longtemps que je t’aime,
    Jamais je ne t’oublierai.
    The sun struck the tanned back before her. The muscles rippled under his brown skin. On his right shoulder, a long scar traced the line of the tear in his shirt. Who had mended