Montreal, 1717

Gerard la Russo rushed up the front steps of the Grand Cathedral, praying with every step his daughter Renard was still alive.

He cursed himself for not keeping a closer eye on the teen.

This, of all days!

Today, young Marlon Wiese was wedding Claudette Dupris in a forced match between the rich merchant’s son and the daughter of an impoverished Seigneur. Marlon’s men had kidnapped the girl, his daughter’s best friend, and held her these past weeks while this travesty of justice had been pushed through by his family. Finally, with the support of the governor, the wedding day had come, and the two houses were to be joined as one.

And now, Rennie, not yet recovered from the beating she’d sustained the night of the kidnapping, had disappeared along with several of his other students.

The armed men who loitered outside the church entrance saw him coming, and made a move to stop him, only to fall back and away under the aging musketeer’s gaze.

They were paid men, but not that well.

Then Gerard reached the door, paused for a brief moment to pray for God’s mercy, and pulled it open to step inside.

He expected chaos, blood- death.

His adopted daughter was perhaps the best fighter he had ever seen, and her talent for the arts of war amazed even him at times. At sixteen, she was as good a swordswoman as he had been at his peak of twenty-five! She kept this talent hidden for the most part, not wanting to outdistance her father in front of their company, but he knew from their sparring was a fearsome talent she could be.

Tabernac! All of New France would know her strength now! It would be here on display!

He could only hope that he was in time to prevent it.

But when he got inside, Gerard came up short.

The organ droned, incense hung leisurely in the air, and the chatter of the small crowd was most peaceful.

At the front of the cathedral, the Bishop of Montreal chatted amiably with The Troll, that disgusting henchman of the Wiese family. Near him, Marlon stood, having his suit checked by his mother, while other men stood about in what they could cobble together for the occasion. Claudette’s father was in the second row with the other landed gentry, looking grave.

There was no sign of Rennie or the others.

Or trouble at all.

Puzzled, Gerard spotted his neighbor Madam Tusseau in one of the pews, and slipped in to sit next to her.

“Madam.”

“Ah, Monsieur Russo. Come to watch the happy occasion?”

“Yes…I had thought it would be…quite the show.”

“Oh, I’m sure it will be.” She said, looking a little tired. “If the bride is done her confession.”

“Pardon?”

“The bride, she asked for confessional so that she could enter into this marriage with a clean record before God. Although, I never would have guessed such a respectful little thing would have so much to confess. She has been in there for some time.”

Gerard nodded sadly. It was likely Claudette was hiding in that wooden cabinet at the front, trying to avoid her fate. But that would only last so long, eventually, she would need to come out.

Unless…

“Madam,” he commented. “I am most surprised the bishop himself is not taking the confessional.”

“Oh,” she answered. “The bride requested one of the new priests do it. I’m sorry, I don’t know his name.”

“Youngish fellow?” Gerard offered. “A bit swarthy?”

“Yes, that sounds right. Do you know him?”

The former musketeer nodded. “I believe I might. Has anything happened since young Claudette entered that box? Anything which might disturb the sanctity of the church?”

She looked at him, surprised.

“Why yes, how did you know? A young fellow came in shouting just a few minutes ago- said his father was dying and he needed the bishop to give absolution. Of course the bishop said no, but the young man was most determined. He got quite angry, and several of the men with the Wiese family ejected him.”

Hearing this, Gerard wished Madam Tusseau a good day and left the church as quickly as he could.

* * *

Gerard found them at the docks.

Rennie and a small group of his other students were bidding farewell to a smallboat being rowed out to one of the merchantman tallships anchored just off the river’s shore. Aboard the boat, a cloaked figure waved a sad, pale hand of goodbye.

When they saw him, the other students scattered like birds, leaving only his daughter.

“If you planned to join the priesthood, you could have at least warned me.” He said, stepping up next to her.

“I was afraid you may have stopped me.” Rennie answered, her eyes never leaving the smallboat.

“Stop you? No.” Gerard shook his head. “Although I must say, I am impressed you got the bishop to go along with it.”

She smiled, faintly. “He visits Michelle’s mother twice a week, to discuss the ways of sin.”

“Ah. And here I was worried that you’d put your sword before your head.”

“Sounds like a good way to get something cut off.” Rennie commented, using one of Gerard’s own truisms.

The old soldier looked at her, suddenly unable to believe that the woman standing next to him was his own adopted daughter. Had the years passed so quickly? Had she really matured so?

“She’s going to stay with relatives in France. Her father arranged it.” Rennie said with resignation. “I shan’t see her again.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

The silence hung there for a time between them as a small cloaked figure climbed aboard the distant ship, and waved goodbye.

Rennie waved back, and then, finally, turned and started to walk away.

“Where are you going?” Gerard asked, marching after her.

“To prepare. Marlon will want revenge.”

“But, how is he to know you were responsible?”

Rennie paused to give him a wide toothy grin. “I left a note in the confessional.”

Gerard la Russo looked at his daughter in shock, and then started to laugh.

He laughed deep. He laughed long. He laughed hard.

Then, when he was done laughing, a sharp, cruel glint appeared in his eyes.

“That’s my girl.”

FIN

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This marks the end of the Fox Cycle, I hope you’ve enjoyed reading it. If you want to know more about where the name comes from and what inspired this series of stories then check my blog for more details.

Thanks!

Rob

The Fox Cycle, Story Seven- Home

Near the Ohio River, August 1714

Gerard la Russo and his adopted daughter stood on the crest of the hill looking down on the little native village.

It was such a small place for so a long journey, he reflected. It was a late-summer afternoon, and only a few people were visible in the clearing, with most having found shelter from the heat inside the tents or elsewhere. Still, it was the place they had sought, and it marked the end of their quest.

After a short time of standing there, Gerard gave a mental sigh and decided there was no helping it.

“Well Rennie,” he said with a gentle touch on her shoulder. “Let’s go meet your family.”

Beside him, the thirteen year old girl hesitated, and then he saw her face scrunch up in that expression she made when she was making a decision.

“Non,” she finally said, and turned to start walking back the way they’d come.

Gerard stared at her, dumbfounded. “What? Where are you going? These are your people. The ones you have wanted to know for so long.”

But Rennie, stopping to make a long glance back in the village’s direction, shook her head.

“Father, when I came to you and told you I wanted to know who I really was, you told me that we would find out together.  Knowing nothing but the name of my native father and his tribe, you talked to the native labourers on the seigneuries and learned that my family was from the Owl Clan of the Fox Tribe, and that they lived beneath the great inland lakes to the west.

“For many, that would have been enough, but instead of giving up, you prepared yourself and I for the journey to find the tribe. We had to learn how to survive on the land, and speak with the natives, and it was hard, but you did it- for me. Even though you knew that we would lose each other at the end.

“Once we had found Coureur des Bois who would guide us, you went into debt to Uncle Armand to pay them and you traded away most of the livestock to buy supplies. I should have stopped you then, but in my heart I still wanted nothing more than to see my people, and know where it was I belonged.

“The journey here was a hard one, and we fought for our lives for and against the natives and their strange family relations. If it were not for Ahanu and his Mississauga people, and his deep friendship with you, we would have undoubtedly perished. It was he who helped me rescue you from the Seneca when they captured you to ransom you to the English. It was he who treated me like a daughter, and taught me what it was to be one of The People.  I thank him for that.

“With our own guides gone, he gave us his own sons Mundoo and Askook to help us on our journey, and with their help we have made our way through the hostile lands of the Fox Tribe and found the Owl Clan. They too have risked much, and I can never repay them. “

She looked up at him, her eyes almost filled with tears.

“Father, I wanted to know where I came from. I wanted to know where I belonged, and why I was never treated as an equal by the people of Ville-Marie. I have grown up with the love of you, and my friends and my uncles, but I have always felt a part of me was missing. When that cursed farmer tried to turn me into a slave two years ago, I was scared that without you to take care of me, someone else would do the same thing. I wondered where I belonged, and I prayed to Mary each night to let me know my way.”

Gerard looked at the young girl he’d raised, now suddenly so much like a woman.

“Mon dieu, Rennie. She has!” He declared. “The people below are your family. Do you not want to know them?”

But Renard la Russo just shook her head. “My family isn’t the colour of my skin, or the colour of my hair. It isn’t the language I speak. It isn’t the clothes I wear. It is the people who love me, and raised me to be the one I am. God made me of the blood of those people below, but you made me who I am- father.”

Now both of them were crying, and embraced in a hug.

“Father, let’s go home.”

And they did.

The Fox Cycle, Story Five- The Beating

New France, Ville-Marie, 1711

The three men were reluctant to beat a nine year old girl, but they had their orders.

As their young master, Marlon Wiese, watched, two of them went for her arms, holding her in place so the third could do the actual dirty work.

They had no trouble getting a hold of her as they had her trapped in the alleyway, and she offered no real resistance. Not even a yell for help or a scream escaped her lips- only a look of defiance that one didn’t expect from a child. But this one was a native, after all, so what could one expect? Normal rules didn’t apply.

As the leader of the three looked down at her, he wondered why she’d done this. Why she’d put herself into this situation. The girl had literally attacked his master, throwing clumps of horse dung at the young aristocrat as he’d passed through town. Did she bear him a grudge? Or was she another child of the poor showing contempt for her betters and acting out?

No matter, he had a job to do.

“Grit your teeth, kid.” Whispered the lead servant to the girl he loomed over. “It’ll make it easier.”

His attempt at kindness was greeted with only a fierce glare from the girl and a berating from his young master to hurry it up.

So, he shrugged his shoulders and hit her.

He went lightly at first, slapping her open-handedly.

But this was not enough for the young master.

“Hit her harder. Use your fist.”

And so he did. Five times.

Still, she only glared at them from behind her bloody face.

“Whip her, I want to hear her beg.”

The servant hesitated. “Young Master, the child may not speak French.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Marlon said with a toothy grin. “Begging is begging in any language. I’ve heard father’s native slaves beg as Big Harrod puts them to the lash. I’ll tell you when to stop.”

“Young master, we don’t know who she belongs to.” The lead servant protested. “If we kill her there could be trouble.”

“What trouble could there be? She soiled my clothes and my honour. Is there a punishment she does not deserve?” Then, seeing his man still hesitate, the young Aristo growled. “Do it!”

“Oui.” Nodded the servant. He started to pull off his belt, and gestured for the others to turn the child around.

He hoped under the taste of the belt that the child would cry soon, for he had no desire to see how far this might go.

“Start with twenty,” said Marlon excitedly, walking around to see her face as the whipping began.

The child, barely younger than Marlon himself, only grunted with each lash.

“Do you know your place yet, girl?” Marlon yanked her head up by the hair, watching her expression as the final lash of the set came.

Fierce eyes looked back at him, and then she spit in his face.

As blood and spittle ran down his cheek, Marlon’s expression changed from playful to hard.

“Give her forty more.”

“But, Young Master!”

“Forty. I will see this little whore cry if it takes all day. By my count!”

The men hesitated, the lead servant hesitated.

“BY….MY….COUNT! ONE!”

The belt struck.

“TWO!”

Again.

“THREE! Harder!”

Again.

“FOUR! HARDER!”

Again.

The girl’s thin shirt was bloody after ten.

She passed out after twenty-six.

“Find some water. Wake her.” Ordered Marlon.

“Sir, it’s already past mid-day. We are already late. Can this not be enough punishment?”

Marlon paused, looking up at the sky above them. Considering.

Then he turned and punched the unconscious girl in the face- hard. The alley was filled with the sound of breaking bone.

“My honour is satisfied.” He declared as he wiped the blood from his fist with a lace handkerchief. “Let’s go.”

At a gesture from their leader, the servants dropped the child’s broken form in the mud and filth, and turned to follow their master. Only the lead servant paused a moment, making the sign of the cross and whispering a silent prayer for the girl.

Then he too left her to die.

*                             *                             *

Renard woke up three days later in her own bed.

There was not a part of her that didn’t hurt, and one of her eyes was still swollen shut.

“Father…” She rasped, looking up at the man who sat next to the bed, whittling.

“I see you are awake, foolish girl.” Gerard la Russo commented, laying down his knife and the half-carved block of wood. “God’s grace! It was a near thing. The doctors even wanted to bleed you, but I told them you had already bled enough for three.”

“K-Katha…Katha…” She began, unable to get the words out past her swollen tongue.

“Katharine Moreau? Your friend? Yes, her father is still alive.” He sighed. “You must be very proud of yourself. Young Marlon didn’t arrive in time to testify at the trial, so the judge used it as an excuse to let Monsieur Moreau free with only a fine. Foolish man, I hope he learns not to poach from Wiese family stock again, no matter how hungry his family may be.” Then he stood up and walked over to open the curtains and let the sunlight and fresh air in. “Still, he didn’t deserve the death sentence they were demanding, so there is something to be said for your loyalty, if not your senses.”

“Sorry.” She said, but inside she couldn’t help feeling relief, even jubilation.

“When you are better, your chores are doubled. You’re also not to leave the farm until the end of the season- I expect young master Wiese will remember the girl who delayed him and there will be trouble again because of it. When he comes looking, your Uncles and I will handle it- not you. Am I clear?”

“Yes…father.”

“My brave girl, what am I going to do with you?” He said in a softened tone, kissing her on the forehead. “Wear your scars well, you’ve earned them.”

FIN

The Fox Cycle- Story Three- The Elders of Ville-Marie

What do we do? What do we do?

Words and hands were rung throughout the Hall of Elders of Ville-Marie, but still none had an answer.

The question was simple enough- What do we do about de Villefort and his gang?

But the answer was something that eluded these “most wise” men of the city.

They could…but no…

Why not…but no…

Mother of god, what could they do?

Then all the nervous voices fell silent as the great elder -Jacques LeGrande- was led into the chambers.

His gnarled walking stick waved their attempts at pleasantries away, and he swept them with his cyclopean eye.

He had been told of their problem, and he had come with an answer.

After he felt he had waited enough to gain sufficient respect, he told them what it was.

* * *

When the three chosen men came to the farm of Gerard la Russo, they were greeted (to their silent relief) not by the unpredictable, wild-haired owner, but by the girl he referred to as his niece. An ebony-haired child of but four, her dark eyes looked at them warily as she stood on the front stoop of the house, a vinegar soaked rag in one hand and the bowl she’d been using it to clean with in the other.

“Where is your Uncle?” Asked the leader of the chosen men.

Instead of speaking, the child merely pointed at the nearby field- tall with late-summer corn.

They thanked her respectfully and left, repeating the various whispered gossips of the native girl’s origins and how she came to be with La Russo. Some said she was his slave, others said his secret daughter, while still others said she was an orphan whose parents he had killed in a duel. Whatever the truth, they pitied the child.

The uncle they found wrestling with a tree he was attempting to uproot- covered in dirt and sweat, his leathery skin almost as tanned as the girl’s and his chestnut hair and whiskers extending in all directions. Word was that before he came to New France, this man had been a Captain of the Musketeers, but now he was seen as a poor excuse for a farmer at best, and a notoriously temper-mental drunk at worst. A savage made more so by the land and his demons.

Just the man they needed.

La Russo, for his part, did his best to pat down his hair and wiped his hand on his pants before offering it.

“How may I help you today, respected elders?” He asked them, looking somewhat bewildered.

“Farmer Gerard,” said the eldest. “Are you not aware that every man in this community must do his service to the state?”

La Russo replied he was.

“And, have you done so since you took up residence here in our beautiful land?”

La Russo hesitated, and then admitted that he had meant to but hadn’t gotten around to offering.

“There is a fine for not doing so.” Said the leader, sternly.

“A large fine.” Added the second.

“Very large,” agreed the third.

Gerard took on the look of a drowning man.

So they threw him a rope.

“But we will waive it, brother,” said the leader in a not unkindly way. “If you are able to do us one small service…”

* * *

As the three old men walked down the road which led back into Ville-Marie, they moved like men who had just escaped a trap and were now enjoying the vigor which comes with knowing that their lives were again their own.

And in a very real sense they were.

The problem which had vexed the elders had been a simple one- there was a young gentleman named Richmond de Villefort who was the son of one of New France’s wealthiest merchants, but who was also a noted bully and scoundrel. He had come to Ville-Marie not a year before, and was causing no end of trouble with his licentious ways, having even assembled a group of toughs around him. They could arrest him, but doing so would incur the wrath of his father, whose ships brought in much of the supplies the city needed and would undoubtedly lead to a disaster. To make matters worse, the son had harassed some members of the household of the Intendant, and so the head of New France himself had written to the Governor of Ville-Marie and demanded something be done about the boy.

It was this that they had been deliberating the night before when the honorable LeGrande had come to them with an answer.

They would make the temperamental drunk La Russo a temporary agent of the government, and send him off with orders to remove the de Villefort boy from the city. Given the tempers of the two men, they would undoubtedly come to blows, and one or the other would be injured or (hopefully) killed. If it was de Villefort who took the worst of it, they would ship either him or his body back to France and blame the overzealous La Russo for the crime. The father would likely demand La Russo in exchange for peace, who they would happily give him, and be rid of a troublesome drunk.

If it was La Russo who died who was injured (a capital crime), they would arrest de Villefort for harming an officer of the state and ship the son off to the Intendant to deal with. Thus also sparing themselves the blame and again ridding themselves of two nuisances with a single blow.

Now all that was required was to return home, and wait.

* * *

Early the next morning, the Elders of Ville-Marie gathered at the central hall, each of them eager to know the results.

Word had already spread of a confrontation the night before between La Russo and de Villefort.

Some said Gerard had gone to arrest the boy at a local bar and been killed.

Nonsense, said others, it was de Villefort and members of his gang who had died.

Finally, the chief elder appeared and they demanded the truth of the matter.

Had there been a confrontation?

There had, admitted the chief elder.

Had weapons been drawn? Blows exchanged?

Most definitely. It was a terrible battle.

So then, who had won?

At this, the chief elder raised his hands to the sky, and cried.

* * *

On the farmstead of Gerard la Russo, little Rennie stood on a stump and stirred the breakfast pot while behind her the group of young men at her uncle’s table laughed and exchanged drinks.

“To our new teacher!” Toasted Richmond de Villefort with a broad smile and a black eye.

Returning the toast, Gerard la Russo nodded in approval. He had been thinking of taking on students for some time- it had been getting lonely on the farm with no-one but young Rennie to practice combat with. When the elders had asked him to remove the young toughs from the city, he had taken it as a chance to show off his skills and perhaps advertise. However, once he realized that all of these young men were from good (and wealthy) families, and not of a bad sort at heart, he’d decided to make them his own.

One staged fight later to prove his mettle, and they had been the ones to come to him.

The elders had asked him to remove the youths from the city, and he had.

He would be sure and drop by the hall later to thank the old men for their kindness.

FIN

I have, for a long time, wanted to do some adventure stories set in Canadian history. People (at least in Canada) have a perception of Canadian history as being rather dull and boring, as most of our (colonial) history is one of farmers, trappers and fishermen just trying to get by while important things happened down South (or elsewhere in the world). However, nothing could be further from the truth!

Canada, especially in its formative years of the 17th and 18th centuries, was a place filled with not only farmers and fishermen, but gentry (here by choice and otherwise), adventurers (of all kinds), soldiers, fortune seekers, thieves, pirates, businessmen, and gamblers. It was a place of intrigue that was in constant threat of invasion (by the British when the French held it, and by the Americans when the British held it) and a vital part of the European economy it was helping to keep in motion. Then, there was the near constant conflicts with the Native peoples, and the threat of not just raids, but outright annihilation by the people whose land the Europeans had taken and who outnumbered the Europeans by thousands to one.

Does this sound like a boring place?

I liken it to the American Old West, but with swords instead of guns, as the European guns of the time could only really be fired once (and rarely hit anything) before your enemy was at your throat with a knife. While the American Puritans of the time were trying to live humble lives to the South, Canada (called New France until the British took it) was a raucous, wild country which the French were trying to civilize as fast as they could.

At the forefront of this effort was a lonely town on the Saint Lawrence River named Ville-Marie, which sat next to a small mountain which was called Mount Royale. Eventually, this town would become the vanguard of French civilization in New France, a city known as Mont Royal, or Montreal as we call it today.

And, this where I decided some good stories could be told.

The Fox Cycle is a collection of Flash Fiction (1000 word or less) stories that I am writing with the goal of fleshing out this setting and the people who live in it. I refer to it as a cycle, because it covers a large period of time 1668-1717 and focuses on a single pair of characters- the former Musketeer Gerard la Russo and his adopted daughter Renard la Russo, a native girl. The plan is to do ten of these stories (one for each of ten weeks), which will vary in tone and style as part of a creative challenge to myself. I may do more if I have further ideas, or I might save the ideas for longer tales of Renard and her father.

I hope you enjoy them,

Rob

Click Here to Read the First Story: The Musketeer

For those who prefer it, the whole cycle can also be found on Wattpad for your mobile reading convenience.