The Shepherdess: Paris by JM Landels

The second novelette in the series La Bergère by JM Landels finds shepherdess and budding entrepreneur Toinette on the left bank of the Seine, having just escaped four unsavoury gentlemen who offered her more than just a carriage ride to Paris. Toinette has lost her handcart and all but a single half-used pot of the lanolin cream she had been planning to sell in the city, but she has somehow gained a dog (Rafael), half a horse (Marteau), and a would-be saviour of questionable character (Henri).

Join Toinette’s adventures in the pages of Pulp and the streets of Paris with this excerpt from Issue 26, Spring 2020.

The Shepherdess: Paris

Even in the dingy, close front room of the inn on rue de la Harpe, the sounds and smells of the street pressed in from the open door and window. And this was still only the left bank. I could hardly imagine how crowded and noisome it would be once we were across the Pont Neuf. We had stopped to rest here because the place was too small to have a carriage yard in which Sauvegarde and his companions might easily pull up. Marteau was tethered in the alleyway, and I only hoped he would still be there when we emerged. The innkeep brought a board of cheese and bread. The former was waxy and curling at the edges, the latter dry, but at this point I was too ravenous to care.

“So mam’selle,” said Henri between giant draughts of beer, “to what address now?”

In truth, I had none. My first destination was to have been the cart-hire, but since Claude, wherever he was, now had the cart, I had nothing to return. My intent had been to sell my pots of hand cream at the market on Île de la Cité, but I had none of those either. Just the one half-used jar of lavender.

I blinked to clear the heavy pipe smoke from my eyes and took a sip of beer to ease the rawness of my throat. I had a dog, half a horse, and, it seemed, a hanger-on of sorts — protector or parasite, I wasn’t sure which. The latter felt closer to the truth when I was forced to empty the last few sols from my purse to pay for our dinner. All charade of knowledge and purpose dropped away.

“I confess, m’sieur,” I said, “I am at a loss. Without my wares, I cannot hope to pay for rooms in the city for long.”

He banged his cup down onto the table, making the cheese knife and Rafael jump. “Well, why did you not say so sooner, mam’selle? We have been riding all day in the wrong direction!”

The weight of desperation was a cold ball in my chest that would not let me speak. I put my face in my hands and willed tears away. A wet snout pushed its way between my wrists, and Rafael let out a whine that turned to a growl when Henri’s large hand settled on my shoulder. The snout withdrew, but the growl continued.

“There, there, mam’selle.” Henri lifted his hand. The growl stopped, and the nose returned. “I have many friends in this city whom we can depend upon for a bed for the night. And in the morning, that escu you have sewn into your cloak will buy you passage on a coach back to your St Geneviève.”

I looked up. How did he know about the escu? “I never said where I was from.”

He shrugged. “Oh, mam’selle, last night when I found you, you could only have come on foot from either Sainte Geneviève-des-bois or Viry-Châtillon. And there are no sheep farmers in Viry.”

“What about sheep farmers?”

He took my hand in a paternal grasp. “My dear, fingers as soft as yours are found only on noble ladies and shepherdesses.”

I snatched my hand away, too exhausted and miserable to pretend to be affronted. In fairness, I supposed very few ladies pushed handcarts.

“Finish your dinner, mam’selle,” he advised. The last ferries run at dusk, and you can bet Sauvegarde’s carriage will be stopped near Pont Neuf.”

#

We had to ride another mile or so west to the horse ferry, and it was nearly dark by the time we got there. Marteau was reluctant to board the teeming, flat-decked boat, and I can’t say I blamed him. It took Rafael nipping at his heels and a swat across the rump from Henri’s scabbard before he launched himself forward, overturning another passenger’s basket of plums and a cage of disgruntled ducks as he scrabbled to find footing on the overloaded planks. I sympathized with his wide eyes and splay-legged stance. I had never been on a boat before either. The Seine was much wider and deeper than the Orge back home, and the water splashed ominously over the deck. I envied Marteau and his four legs as passengers of all shapes and species shifted to find balance.

The far embankment was barely visible through the mist, and though the crossing seemed interminable, the lurch as we touched the jetty still came as a shock to me and to Marteau. He scrambled again, almost stepping on my toe, and knocked over another passenger as he charged off, Henri in tow.

This is where you wanted to be, I kept reminding myself.

With my bad ankle, I was the last to hobble off the deck. As I stepped onto the cobbled embankment, a lightness filled me. The air was different here. Warmer, with a slight odour of overfilled gutters to be sure, but alive with possibilities. I was injured, near penniless, and keeping company with dubious strangers in a city larger than any I’d ever been in before. And yet, I felt that I was home.

To find out what happens next, pick up your copy of Issue 26, Spring 2020 here!

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JM Landels is torn between travelling the world to teach writing and swordfighting, and never leaving her idyllic farm in Langley, BC. Her first book, fantasy bestseller Allaigna’s Song: Overture, and the sequel, Allaigna’s Song: Aria, are available from Pulp Literature Press and Amazon. You can follow her adventures with pen and sword at jmlandels.stiffbunnies.com.