The right-side wheels of the carriage dip into a rut, throwing Cosette across into Marie Verheyen’s lap. Cosette straightens herself with as much dignity as she can. Her hands are tied together, as are Willem’s mother’s, and she is unable to grasp the side of the carriage. Keeping her balance on the rough dirt track has been a constant battle since they entered the forest.
The entrance to the track is well concealed, and well protected by armed men standing in the shadows of the trees. The carriage traveled north from Brussels, then looped around south into the forest.
The reason for the secret route becomes clearer as they approach the remains of an old abbey, standing proud on a small hill in the deepest heart of the forest.
A wagon, loaded with supplies, is just entering the courtyard through a gate in an old, crumbling wall. They follow it through, and the gates shut behind them. Inside, the abbey is a bustling anthill of activity. Soldiers are everywhere, disguised in their gray peasant smocks.
Others in full uniform march in tight squads, or practice bayonet drills with wooden dummies.
All of the narrow stone windows of the abbey buildings are awash in laundry.
The carriage comes to a halt and an officer politely helps them down from it with a hand to their elbows, then unties the ropes that bind their wrists.
“I do not like this place,” Cosette says.
“Nor I,” Marie says. “But we are alive, and for that we will be thankful.”
She has not yet told the girl what she saw as they left the village, nor the reason for the tolling of the church bells. There will be a time when that will have to be said, but for now it can wait.
Gaillemarde. It was a pretty little village. A happy village, despite the bickering and daily dramas that were a part of the fabric of life there. The thought of what remains there now is best pushed out of mind, lest it be too much to bear.
They are led to an arched doorway in the side of a building, and then along a corridor where a heavy wooden door is attended by two guards.
Behind the door is a bare, stone-walled room with nothing in it but two sackcloth beds and a pail for toileting. Perhaps once this was accommodation for the monks.
A square hole in the wall on either side is the only ventilation. It is too small to crawl through, should she even think of trying to escape.
“I am glad the general is not here,” Cosette says. “I do not like the way he looks at me.”
“Cosette, listen to me. This ordeal will end,” Marie says. “Until it does, you do whatever you have to do, to survive.”
“But, madame,” Cosette says.
“Whatever it takes,” Marie says.
The sound of movement comes from an adjacent room and a moment later a voice sounds close to the window. Another prisoner.
“Who is there?” a deep male voice asks, in accented French.
“I am the widow Verheyen, and with me is Mademoiselle Delvaux, both of Gaillemarde,” Madame Verheyen says. “Whom do I address?”
“Marie?” The voice sounds suddenly hushed.
“Maarten?” Marie collapses on the edge of the rough bed, her legs unsteady beneath her.
“It is someone you know?” Cosette asks.
In a voice no longer her own, Marie hears herself say, “It is my husband.”