Valentine*

*This story was written in response to a Valentine's Day challenge with the theme, "Cupid's Arrow".

In the year of "The Hundred Days", 1815, destiny finally catches up with a war weary Colonel Andre Cotard, and he discovers to his surprise that old soldiers don't always fade away---sometimes they fall in love.


PROLOGUE

The Auvergne, France, 1780

"Andre!" Henri Cotard, le Comte d'Aurillac, flung himself from the back of his horse and raced to the place on the frozen, rutted road beside the wood where his youngest son had fallen, and now lay motionless upon his back, a slender projectile protruding from his chest. As he drew closer, he could see that the small arrow—for an arrow it was-- was moving. The boy still breathed! But bright blood stained the snowy lace at his throat and marked the front of his leather riding coat. Andre's little horse snorted and skittered away as Henri approached, then with a squeal and an explosive buck, bolted into the trees, trailing a broken bridle rein.

"Dear God, Andre!" Henri knelt at the boy's side. "Georges!"

"I'm here, papa," the elder boy had the presence of mind to seize the reins of Henri's horse to prevent it taking after it's badly frightened stable mate. "Is Andre dead?" he asked quietly, his face pale, dark eyes wide.

"No, no!" he reached up and seized Georges' hand for an instant, a brief reassurance. "He is alive but I do not know how badly he is hurt!" Quickly, he began to loosen the bloody folds of Andre's stock. The boy suddenly drew a big, gasping breath and his eyelids began to flutter.

"Ride to the chateau, Georges!" urged Henri. "It cannot be far---bring help!"

"Yes, papa," Georges obeyed in a shaking voice and dropping the reins of his father's mount onto the ground, turned to mount his own horse, but halted at the sound of a groan from his younger brother.

Andre was sensible, and struggling to rise while Henri pressed on his shoulders to prevent him. "Papa, I—I fell off!" Andre panted, struggling for the breath that had been knocked from him. "What--?" His hand moved clumsily to the arrow, and to Henri's surprise, he knocked the wooden shaft aside and the arrow seemed to be easily dislodged, it's tiny, lethal head intact, and it dropped onto the frosted ground.

"Oh!" Andre exclaimed in astonishment, looking down at the arrow, and his own spreading blood.

"Be still, my darling," Henri whispered gently. "Let papa see." Carefully he managed to open the silver buttons of Andre's waistcoat and open his shirt to finally reveal the wound, a bloody tear where the sharp point of the steel arrowhead appeared to have grazed Andre's breastbone. It did not appear to be deep at all, but the amount of blood was nonetheless alarming.

"You will be all right, my heart," Henri soothed as he began to unwind his own neck cloth to be used to staunch the flow of blood. "Georges, my son, go!"

"But Papa, there!" Henri glanced up at his son, and then turned his head to see where Georges pointed. Emerging from the bare poplar forest was a tall man in hunting clothes. He led Andre's horse, and on the horse's back was a child.

"Henri Cotard!" the man called in a big, jovial voice. "Welcome! We expected you yesterday, my friend."

"Gervais, for God's sake!" Henri shouted. "Come and help me!"

"Boy's had a fall has he?" Gervais D'Orvigny's' broad, handsome face cracked a huge smile as he approached, plainly oblivious to the gravity of the situation. "Takes after his poor papa, does he? You never had a seat, Henri, for all you were old Gribeau's favorite student---you see where it got you! Me, he made go bareback on the long lines with my arms over my head for two years! But I stick like a burr! Not hurt is he?"

"He's been shot, you fool!" Henri spat. "With an arrow!"

"Dear. So he has," Gervais crouched down beside Andre, who had managed to come to a sitting position, and although pale, was recovering his breath. Gervais moved Henri's hand, which held the wadded cloth to the wound, to see for himself.

"Scratch. Hardly bleeding now. I expect his rump hurts worse where it hit the road, eh, boy?" He put out a big hand to ruffle Andre's long, dark hair, as Henri glared. "Only a little bird arrow anyway. We're after pigeons this morning aren't we, my love?"

"Dear God," Henri breathed as he followed Gervais's smiling gaze to the child that perched atop Andre's saddle. Enormous gray eyes stared back at him with a frank and rather ironic expression and a pink rosebud mouth pursed with the beginnings of a smile. She could be no more than six, this child, surely not more than half Andre's age. She was swaddled head to toe in silver fur, with only her pretty, heart-shaped face, surrounded by a few tendrils of soft, dark hair peeking out from her lush cocoon.  Strapped to her back was a quiver of tiny arrows, and slung over her shoulder, a polished wooden bow, which, while of the most delicate proportions imaginable, looked still to be as long as the child was tall.

"Ah!" sighed Gervais happily. "But you have not yet seen my Valentine! Is she not perfect? Cherie, this is papa's very old and good friend, le Comte d'Aurillac."

"Hello," the child said sweetly, looking not at Henri, but at Andre, who, to Henri's disbelief, was grinning back at her.

"Yours, mademoiselle?" Andre inquired, holding his father's kerchief to his chest with one hand and with the other, plucking the slender missile from the ground and holding it up to her view.

Valentine giggled, and with precocious irony raised her brows and said, "Oh, look, papa! My bird!"

Henri glanced from one to the other, his friend, the girl, his wounded child, believing that everyone had gone mad but for him and perhaps Georges.

"For God's sake, Gervais!" he burst out at last. "Your daughter has shot my son!"

Go to Part One