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Bride Tree

By JP Robinson

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Chapter One

January 1789. Sixth Precinct, Paris
Paris was angry. Viviane de Lussan could feel the fury
fermenting inside the deprived souls that lined the
cobblestone streets like yeast ferments in a corked bottle
of wine. Soon the bottle would explode into a million
fragments, but it would be red blood, not wine, that flowed in the
heart of the city.
French society was a complex system of three highly
stratified social classes, called Estates that were relics of an
antiquated feudalistic order. The clergy comprised the First
Estate, the nobility made up the Second Estate while the
unfortunate Third Estate—the largest class and most heavily
taxed of the three—was composed of peasants, urban workers
and upper-class merchants known as bourgeois.
She pressed her face against the open window and stared at
the squalor around her, then covered her nose with a plain cloth
handkerchief as the stench of five hundred thousand unwashed
bodies assaulted her nostrils. The Third Estate bore the twin
burdens of heavy taxes and limited rights while the clergy and
nobility enjoyed the privileges of tax-free wealth and power.
Constant hunger, years of poor harvests, and a high cost of living
had caused many of the poor to cast jealous eyes on the
extravagant lifestyles of the nobility and some members of the
clergy.
“It’s quite a sight, Madame Viviane, isn’t it?” Olivier, her
driver shouted down to her from his perch in front of the
carriage. “I don’t imagine you see much of this in Lussan?”
Olivier was responsible for transporting her from her
mother’s simple cottage in Lussan to the royal palace at
Versailles where her cousin, Duchess Gabrielle de Polignac, had
invited Viviane to join her. Her mother’s parting words
drummed through her mind like the muted hoofbeats of the
horse that pulled her carriage. Make a better life for yourself,
Viviane. No matter what it takes.
After seeing the misery of the citizens of Paris, Viviane
realized that she had indeed been blessed in her small village.
While living conditions in Lussan had been difficult at best,
nothing she had ever seen in her entire twenty-five years could
have prepared her for the misery and pent-up fury that virtually
oozed out of every puff of wind in Paris.
“Non, monsieur, home is nothing like this.” She swept a
stray tendril of her blond hair out of her eyes as she shouted to

be heard over the rattling of the carriage wheels on the snow-
covered cobblestones. Her driver edged the travel-stained

carriage down the narrow streets, narrowly missing a swarm of
ragged urchins whose bare feet sloshed through icy puddles as
they dashed about in the falling evening shadows.
One of the children lingered behind the group, struggling to
keep pace. He turned and glimpsed her peering face then came
to an abrupt stop. Yellowed sleeves, attached to a grimy tattered
shirt, were rolled down below his elbows in a futile effort to ward
off the winter cold. Wild black hair sought to escape the prison
of a faded beret atop his head. He coughed twice. His pinched
cheeks bore mute testimony to the hunger that he faced but it
was not until Viviane looked at his feet that she understood why
this child could not run with the others.
“Stop!” She pounded her fist against the wooden frame of
the carriage door. “Stop, I said!”
Olivier pulled hard on the reigns but, before the carriage
stopped rolling, Viviane shoved the door open and dropped into
the street.
“Madame!” Olivier’s voice rose in panic. “Attendez!”
But Viviane’s eyes were glued on the boy with the missing
leg. He stood still, gazing up at her. As she hurried forward,
Viviane jerked her money pouch from a pocket in her homespun
dress. She fumbled with the short drawstring, knowing before
her slender fingers slipped inside that there were only two coins
remaining.
She reached him at last, breathless. He leaned upon a
makeshift crutch, his right leg severed below the knee. His long

pant leg fell limply onto the muddy street. They stood in the
intersection of the crossroads staring at each other until she held
out the two coins.
“Here.” She took his hand and placed the livres in his grubby
palm. “Take it. Take it with my blessing.”
The boy dipped his head and opened his mouth as though
he wanted to speak but was unable to find a voice. He was mute!
The revelation came as a shock. How could nature be so cruel
that this child should be deprived of both speech and his leg? A
strangled cry came from the boy’s mouth and he clenched his fist
over the coins as tears spilled out of the corners of his eyes.
“It’s alright.” Viviane dropped to her knees and pulled him
close. He reeked of sewage and rotten fish, but she did not care.
“It’s alright. I understand.” She repeated the words as he laid his
greasy head against her shoulder.
“Madame!” It was Olivier’s voice that shattered the
emotional intensity of the moment. “Please, Madame Viviane,
we must leave at once. It is not safe for you to be here.”
He gripped her arm and dragged her from the unknown
child who wiped his nose with a dirty fist. The carriage waited
about twenty yards away. Olivier’s eyes darted around at the
grim faces that peered out from the shadows as he edged
forward.
Wiping tears from her own eyes, Viviane turned around, not
trusting herself to look back.
“Please,” Olivier pushed her forward. “Do not do such a
foolish thing again.” He opened the carriage door. “Paris is a
dangerous place, especially for those with wealth.”
“But Olivier,” Viviane stooped as she entered the coach, “I
have no wealth. My last two coins were given to that poor boy.”
Her driver slammed the door shut. “Believe me, these days
it does not matter. You ride in a carriage while they walk. In the
people’s eyes, you are rich! We go, non?”
Olivier’s last words were lost in the thunderous clatter of
another coach that careened down the road they had just left.
Viviane had just seated herself when she heard the scream.
It’s him.

“No!” She jerked open the door and threw herself outside of
the carriage, evading Olivier’s desperate grasp. Her heart told
her what she would find before her eyes registered the truth.
There.
He lay in broken pieces on the crossroads, squirming in
muted agony. She rushed to his side, ripping the air with her
cries. Over her shrieks came the mocking laugh of the
aristocratic driver who had not bothered to see the damage
caused by his reckless driving.
“Peasant trash!” The slurred words of a man who had drunk
too much alcohol bounced off the sodden tenement walls.
“Please, please be alright.” Every instinct insisted that her
prayer was futile. Missing a leg, the boy had not been able to
escape the furious pace of the drunken aristocrat’s horses and his
useless voice had only been able to scream out his pain. His body
convulsed in a desperate last attempt to keep life within his
veins. Blood spurted out from his nose and crushed chest while
glistening shards of bone protruded through his torn clothes.
The silver coins lay unnoticed in a muddy puddle near his
outstretched fingertips.
“No!” Viviane sank to her knees. “No, no.”
A crowd had begun to gather, drawn by the noise and by the
rumor that an aristo had killed the child. Germain. She heard
them shout his name.
His blood ran down her hands and discolored the faded gray
of her dress.
“Uhh...” Germain made a superhuman effort to turn his
head toward Viviane.
“Shh.” She caressed his unruly blood-stained curls. “It’s
alright, I promise.” She rocked back on her heels and kissed his
forehead.
“Uhh...” They boy bared his teeth in an attempt at a smile,
placed his left hand in hers, and died.
“Let me through, let me through!” A young woman elbowed
her way through the throng until she stood opposite Viviane.
Long black curls swirle around her storm–gray eyes, framing her
square jaw.
“Germain?” She pushed Viviane away from the body. “Take
your hands off my brother, aristo!” She spat on Viviane’s feet and

laid a trembling hand on Germain’s pale, still body. She breathed
deeply but shed no tears and, when she looked at Viviane again,
her beautiful face was contorted with fury.
“This is what they do to us!” She stabbed her finger in
Viviane’s face. A murmur of agreement rippled through the
crowd.
“What?” Viviane recoiled, shocked. “I didn’t—”
“They feed on our labor, ridin’ around in fancy carriages.”
The woman sneered at Viviane and began to pace in a slow circle
around her. “They’ve got nice clothes to wear.” She grabbed the
front of Viviane’s arm and roughly pulled her so the crowd could
clearly see her dress. “And we dress in rags!”
“That’s right Salomé!” The lone voice was joined by a chorus
of others.
“Make the aristo wretch pay!” another called out. Viviane
felt a twinge of real fear.
“Please, you mustn’t think I had anything to do with this.”
She held up her hands before her face. “I’m innocent. I just—”
“Innocent?” Salomé cut her off with a hard slap. “You’re
rich!”
“That’s crime enough!” The crowd hooted and jeered as
their frustration found an unexpected scapegoat.
A woman shoved Olivier forward with a screech. “This one’s
with her.”
“Take this pike.” A man thrust the spear-like weapon in the
air. “Let’s see how pretty she looks without a head!”
Olivier stumbled forward. “Please, the king is expecting us.
You must let us go!”
It was the wrong thing to say.
Salomé rounded on him, her eyes alight with malicious evil.
“The king?”
To the crowd, “We’ve caught ourselves a royal!” She bowed
before Viviane, twirling her fingers in a mock salute. “She’s got
friends at the court of a king who ignores the sufferin’ of his own
people!”
She shoved her face inches from Viviane’s. “My brother—the
only family I had left—is dead because of your kind.” Her lips
pulled back in a snarl. “I think there’s been enough cryin’ in our
part of town.”

She turned back to the crowd whose bloodlust was now at
fever–pitch. “I say it’s time the aristos learned the meaning of
pain. I say it’s time we made ‘em pay!”
“Yes, yes!” The mob surged forward. Someone grabbed
Viviane’s arms and wrenched them behind her back.
“No.” She writhed in his grasp. “Don’t do this!” Her voice
was lost in the thunder of hate that surged from the crowd.
“Stop! Please stop!”
“Shut her up.” Salomé pointed with the knife.
Viviane tried to fight back, tried to escape, but her arms were
bound behind her back and a dirty cotton shirt was shoved
between her teeth.
She was going to die.
A few burly men lifted her off her feet and threw her onto a
loading-dock that rose a few feet above the heads of the people.
Someone pressed a rusty knife into Salomé’s waiting palm.
“Salomé, Salomé! Pay, pay, make ‘em pay.” The cry became
a pulsing chant that reverberated off the squalid buildings.
“Pay, pay, make ‘em pay!”
Salomé swung herself lightly onto the dock. “We’ll send her
precious head to the king in a basket!” She thrust the knife into
the air.
The murderous crowd howled its approval.
Viviane was gagged but she swung her head to the right just
in time to see Olivier’s bulky body as it was heaved up next to
hers.
The coachman trembled as he met her gaze. “W-we should
not have stopped.”
Tears ran in fresh waves down Viviane’s cheeks. “I’m sorry.”
She tried to apologize but only a wordless garble came through
the cloth that forced her lips apart.
Two muscular men shoved Olivier to his knees. Salomé
stepped behind him, and twirled the knife in her right hand.
“Pay, pay, make ‘em pay!” The crowd was lost in wild
abandon, chanting and cheering as the executioner took her
place.
“Shall we make ‘em pay?” Her voice somehow made itself
heard above the thunderous cacophony of sound.
“Make ‘em pay!” Her captivated audience roared in delight.

“For Germain!” She screamed the words as she placed the
cutting edge of the knife along the tender flesh underneath
Olivier’s chin. Then, in one smooth motion, she slit his throat. A
geyser of blood spurted over her pale fingers and pooled onto the
wooden boards beneath her feet.
Viviane’s scream was a garbled moan.
“They will pay!” Salomé spread her bloodied arms wide as
through embracing her admirers.
“They will pay!” The ecstatic throng echoed her cry as she
pushed the twitching body over the edge of the dock with her foot
into their waiting arms. Within minutes the mob had ripped the
head from the corpse, trampling flesh and bones into the grimy
earth.
Salomé turned to Viviane who stared at her with wild eyes.
“It’s your turn, love.” She crooned the words as if they were part
of a song. “It’s your turn to pay.” She crooked her bloody finger.
The two men brought Viviane forward and made her kneel in the
dark puddle of blood. Olivier’s blood.
The executioner bent low and whispered in Viviane’s ear.
“All the money in the world can’t bring back my brother, love.
And all the money in the world can’t save you from death... or
from me!”
The iron taste of fear made Viviane choke. What should she
do if she only had seconds to live? Pray. I should pray.
Her lips twitched uselessly. God, help me. I’m too young to
die. She was too frightened to close her eyes. She shook her head
at Salomé, willing her to put down the knife. The vengeful rebel
smiled and tightened her grip on its hilt.
Salomé stalked behind her.
Viviane felt her heart plummet.
She saw the stained blade descend before her eyes. She felt
Salomé’s hand jerk her head backward. She heard the shouts of
the crowd as they bayed like rabid dogs for her death.
“Are you ready to pay the price, aristo?” The sharp edge of
the blade bit into her throat.
“Pay, pay, make her pay!”
The knife dug in deeper and she felt the first trickle of blood
begin to stream down her throat. Salomé spread her legs apart
and—

“Stop this at once!”
A commanding voice rang out over the tumult and Salomé
jerked her head toward the intruder. Her eyes fell on a tall, dark–
haired man who casually straddled a white horse. Behind him,
twenty mounted men-at-arms held drawn swords at the ready.
“I said,” he thrust a finger toward Salomé, “stop this travesty
at once!”
A hush enveloped the mob. Viviane did not dare move.
“You there! Woman with the knife. Let that poor creature
go.”
“Stay out of this, aristo!” Salomé’s voice ripped through the
night air. “What do you care of what we do?”
She appealed to the crowd. “Shall we make her pay?”
Only a trickle of voices answered.
A few former rioters glanced between her and the newcomer
and his men. Muttering imprecations under their breath, first
one, then two and then a few more slipped away until only a
handful remained.
Salomé trembled, keeping one hand on the dagger at
Viviane’s neck. “I’ll slit her throat.”
“I would not do that if I were you.” He rode closer, his
stallion closing the gap between them in seconds.
“Who are you and why should I care what you think?”
A benign smile crossed the intruder’s face. “I am Philippe,
Duke of Valence, Prince du Sang, and cousin to the King of
France. One word from me, and my men will end your life before
you can say ‘Hail Mary.’”
He pressed closer and then he lowered his voice. “Believe
me, Madame, I also want change for the people of France.
However, spilling the blood of your countrymen—rich or poor—
is too high a price.”
Philippe held out his hand.
Salomé tightened her grip on Viviane’s hair. “I-I could kill
you instead.”
“You could.” The prince patted the neck of his snorting
stallion. “But you’re too smart to throw your life away.”
Salomé looked down. By now the crowd had completely
disappeared.

She grimaced as she lifted the edge of the blade from her
victim’s neck and shoved it into the cloth belt that encircled her
waist. “One day,” she brandished a fist, “the people of Paris will
ignite a flame that not even you will be able to put out.”
Philippe tilted his head to one side. “But today is not that
day.”
Salomé did not answer, but shoved a trembling Viviane into
his arms, leapt off the back of the dock, and disappeared into the
night.

He had watched the drama unfold on the stage as he held back,
cloaked in the deepening shadows. Blood from the carriage
driver’s shredded arm seeped into the worn cuff of his pants.
Alexandre crouched and dipped his fingers in the small, dark
puddle that pooled below it as the enraged Salomé leapt from the
dock.
What were the odds that he would again cross paths with his
nemesis, Philippe de Valence, after so many years? And the
woman! He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. Such an
uncanny resemblance...
Alexandre straightened. It could not be coincidence that
drew Philippe, himself and a woman whose face was an exact
replica of his lost love together in one fateful night. “It is a sign.
The sign for which I have long waited.” He curled his bloodied
fingers into fists, savoring the taste of anticipation. “After twenty
long years, my time has come.”

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