Have you ever wanted to do something only to have to put it on hold over and over again? That’s the way it was with The Price of Courage, Book 2 of the Canadiana Series. I’d planned to start it right after I finished The Price of Honor, but then life happened.
This year, I was determined that the books sitting partially completed on my desk top would see the light of publication. And so it started with the new books I had to write–which i did–and those I wanted to finish. The White Dahlia, Book four of the Harvester Files was the first one finished. Next came The Price of Courage, released today. There are four books that need to be finished, some in various stages of completion, and I hope to finish at least two more before the end of the year. Which Two? You’ll find out.
But today is all about The Price of Courage. Some of you who follow Tuesday Tales may remember parts of this story.
This sequel to The Price of Honor continues the adventure.
When the enemy is faceless, whom can you trust?
Former trapper Lucien Rioux joins Guy Poirier, the governor-general, and the intendant in the search for the conspirators who want to see New France fail as a settlement to allow for more exploration into the rich, fur-bearing lands to the north and west. His mission is to verify that all of the estates in the hands of absentee landlords are being farmed, but he finds far more than he expected–a pregnant woman and her children left to die, escaped convicts searching for a missing treasure map embroidered on a pair of leather mittens, and one man searching for the former Isabelle de Caen, Guy’s pregnant wife, and her cousin Sophie Gaudier, the girl who has stolen his heart.
Torn between duty and love, Lucien will do whatever it takes to protect Sophie, but will he have the courage to open his heart to her?
Here’s a sample from the novel. First, check out the first two chapters on Amazon. I pick up where the sample lets off allowing you to read the full first three chapters.
“Anyone can appreciate a handsome man,” Aline added, “even an old woman like myself, and when such a man leads a mysterious and intriguing life…”
Sighing, Sophie headed for the doorway leading into the dining area.
“You’re both right. I spend too much time inside my own head. Let me light the lanterns, and then I’ll set the tables. Roger should be here around six. I may not love him, but I like him, and that’s the crux of my dilemma.”
Izzy smiled. “Sometimes friendship grows into love. Look at Maman and Henri. They were friends first just as Guy and I were.”
“Do you think the women on the ship have all been fortunate enough to fall in love with their husbands?” Sophie’s brows drew together.
Izzy sat down and began to peel the potatoes for the stew.
“I don’t know. Those we left at Canso seemed happy enough.”
The women, married by proxy in France, had rejoiced in their new husbands as had Élise, who’d positively glowed with happiness when she and her mate had visited the settlement in October. All she could do was pray the young girls had found the happiness she had, and that Sophie would eventually discover love as well. Izzy turned back to the vegetables before her, intent on finishing them before she went up to rest before dinner. Who knew carrying a child could be so tiring?
* * *
Seigneurie Lalonde,
Lac des Deux Montagne, West of Ville-Marie
November 16, 1668
Guy sat across the table from Remi Lalonde, the seigneur whose lands abutted his own, sipping a glass of warm caribou. Between the heat from the fireplace and the wine and cognac mixture, nothing—other than his wife’s arms—could’ve warmed him so well. Was he getting soft in his old age?
“Old Man Winter flexed his muscles early this year,” Remi said, shifting in his chair, his previously injured leg propped up on a stool. “I wish the temperature stayed the same. The dry cold is manageable, but this dampness attacks the very marrow of my bones and pains me more than ever. The sisters did their best with my injuries, but on days like these, I’m considering selling my estate to my brother-in-law who’s been managing it for me ever since my accident. A man who can barely sit a horse can’t do much when it comes to clearing land and building houses.”
“What would you do? Return to France?” Guy asked, his eyes narrowed. He’d assumed Remi was on his side, but perhaps he was wrong.
The man shook his head. “There’s nothing there for me, and it’s almost as cold there in winter as here, not to mention the damp springs and autumns. No. I’m considering moving to Martinique where the winter never comes, and the pain would be much less.”
The naked longing on his face reminded Guy of his own aches and pains. He’d wintered on the island just last year while recovering. Afterwards, he’d gone to France and fate had taken over. How quickly life changed, but he wouldn’t trade his new life for anything. He had the woman he’d always loved by his side and a child on the way. What more could any man want?
“I’ve been to the island,” he said, sipping his drink once more. “I recuperated from my own injuries there last year. It’s a magnificent place, warmer than Marseilles, and its beauty far outweighs its dangers. Unfortunately, the three forts on the island sustained a sizeable amount of damage in June, when Rear-Admiral Harman attacked the merchant fleet moored in Saint Pierre. The ship we sailed on was on its way to protect Guyenne which he attacked in the last days of the Anglo-Dutch War, but according to the latest news we heard just before Talon left the colony, the Treaty of Breda signed in August has returned the island and Guyenne to France. The Crown is anxious to reestablish its presence after losing more than one thousand colonist, soldiers, and seamen. In the interim, a former soldier, François Rolle de Laubière, has replaced Robert de Clodoré, as governor.”
“Dangers?” Remi asked frowning, ignoring the colony’s politics.
“You mean in addition to the English fleet, hurricanes, and tropical storms that can destroy everything in a matter of hours? I’ve never seen one, but de Clodoré told me about waves so high, they completely overran a small island, leaving the soil barren because of their heavy salt content.”
“Mon Dieu! Why would anyone choose to live there?”
“Why would any man choose to live in Eden?” Guy asked, leaning back in the chair. “Even Paradise had its snakes. Above all else, it’s an incredibly rich and fertile volcanic island. It may be home to the fer-de-lance, poisonous snakes, but with good sturdy boots and vigilance, they aren’t an issue. I’m considering taking Izzy and our child to winter there once this threat of war and rebellion is over, but I would miss the beauty of the other three seasons far too much to make it my permanent home.”
“You have a point,” Remi agreed. “There’s nothing like the brilliant colors of autumn and the fresh smells and flowers of spring. Perhaps wintering there would be sufficient—as long as it controls the pain and makes life bearable, but on days like these when the dampness settles in, I crave the heat.”
“I can empathize with that. There are days when I, too, would wish for warmth. You know, if you’re serious about leaving, Guyenne, on the mainland of South America has a beauty of its own and is even warmer than Martinique since it’s closer to the equator. I’m assuming now that the colony has been returned to France, the ship we sailed on will have taken up its post there to protect it from the Dutch and Portuguese. Some prisoners have sailed there to work as indentured servants and France has been using it as a place for those exiled because of treason, but you might consider that location. Men of good character are vital to the foundation of any viable colony, but I would miss you, old friend. New France also needs good men like you.”
Remi shook his head. “As much as I might like to leave, I couldn’t take Jeannette away from everything she’s come to love.” He stood and limped over to the sideboard. “Would you like another drink while we wait? The others should be here soon.” He reached for the carafe.
Guy crossed his feet shod in worn leather boots. “Thank you. Perhaps we should consider opening a bottling facility in France and selling it there.” He chuckled. “The cognac and wine are readily available. All they would need is our maple syrup. Who have you invited to join us?”
Remi refilled Guy’s glass and his own, placed the bottle back on its tray, and breathing somewhat more heavily after the exertion, resumed his seat by the fire.
“I’ve sent runners to the eight estates around me, and all of them have agreed to come for an evening of cards. My wife and the servants have been cooking and cleaning all week, getting beds ready although, some who live nearby may opt to return home if the weather holds.”
“And how many do you think are on our side?”
Remi rubbed his chin. “I’ve no doubt the six men who were part of the regiment support our cause. One of them has already renamed his estate Trois Érables. The two who concern me are Charles de Michel and Sylvain Archambault. They were granted their estates by the Compagnie itself. They’ve been here many years, but the estates are poorly developed, their wealth dependent on the fur trade alone. With the French West India Company taking over, I’m not certain where their loyalties lie.”
Guy rubbed his chin. “I’ve had men check the estates between here and Quebec, and they’re presently looking into those farther east. They’ll move across the estuary to check out any estates in the areas where most of the land belongs to the Abenaki and Mi’kmaq, and from there, they’ll visit Port Royal before coming back along the south shore of the Saint Lawrence. According to official records, in the colony itself, there are more than fifty estates controlled directly from France, half of those in the hands of lords heavily involved in the French West India Company. My good friend Nicolas Denys, the governor of Canso, assures me all of his men are loyal to New France, as are those in Acadia. Rumor has it, the French will reclaim that land within a year or two. Loyal Frenchmen have no desire to support the English should a battle occur, and as long as rumors of an Iroquois Confederacy joining the Abenaki are false, there’s no danger there.”
“That’s good to know. If we can hold the coast, we will at least have a means of escape if anything goes wrong, but God willing, it won’t come to that.”
Guy nodded. “From your mouth to God’s ear. My concern is with men nearby, like those you mentioned and those whose lands are near des Courts’ estates as well as Latullipe and Durivage, who have estates to the east of us. I’ve invited them and their neighbors, Corriveau and Gadbois, to a soirée, just before Christmas, an invitation I’ll extend to the men here tonight as well as yourself. While they treated me well and their estates are well-developed with fields producing flax, hemp, corn, and wheat as well as other crops, their dairies at capacity producing some of the best cheese I’ve ever eaten, something about their welcome rang false. It could be on my part since Latullipe harbors Des Anges des Courts and her children…” He shrugged. “I’ll check on the estates on the south shore once the river freezes and can be crossed safely. My other worry is rooted in the tall tales of rich furs and gold far to the south and west of the colony. Men down on their luck will believe almost anything if they think it will lead to untold wealth.”
Remi pursed his lips and reached for the knife on the table to cut a chunk of cheese from the block his wife had brought in earlier.
“I was afraid to mention those, but now that you have, a greedy man with no ties to the colony—no wife, no children, no land—will indeed be tempted, and since those are the very men we need to farm the land and defend us, you have every right to be concerned. My men came to me with tall tales of a secret map confiscated by Pierre Gaudier at the end of the French Iroquois War, one taken from a dying trapper.”
Knowing his friend wasn’t finished, Guy waited, his fingers tapping on his glass as Remi, popped the chunk of cheese into his mouth and chewed as if by doing so the morsel helped him organize his thoughts.
“Whoever is spreading those wild stories is doing so faster than a skunk can poison the air. Two of my engagés whose debt will be repaid come the spring have already mentioned they would like to join an expedition going west to search for this mysterious treasure trove. Has De Courcelle really defied the king and authorized such an expedition?” He narrowed his eyes. “My men are good, strong workers who believe the governor-general is behind this.”
Guy clenched his teeth. “The governor-general has no such expedition in the works. Believe me when I say that had such a map existed and been confiscated, Pierre would’ve brought it to Talon’s attention immediately. Izzy and I leave for Quebec on the twentieth where we’ll host an evening for the seigneurs in and around the settlement on December fifth, and on December sixteenth another in Trois Rivières on our way back. I’ll mention this to him and see how he wants to handle it, but make that clear to your men. Participating in such a venture is illegal.”
Guy stared into his goblet. Just how prevalent was this rumor? Without able-bodied men to defend her, farm her fields, and father children, the colony would flounder without even one shot being fired.
* * *
Riviere Saguenay, New France,
December 18, 1668
Thanks to the unexpected changes in the weather, including several heavier than normal late November storms, it took Lucien and his companions more than five weeks to reach the Saguenay River and the port settlement of Tadoussac, a trade center between the indigenous tribes and the French as well as New France’s only whaling center. They could probably shelter at an inn there for the coldest days of winter, after they checked out the estates along the Saguenay River and the Lac St Jean, but he would prefer to stay with Lallier in the Montagnais village. Even on the iciest days, the stench of rotting whale carcasses was hard on a man’s stomach.
Unable to travel for days at a time because of the inclement weather, they’d sheltered in the homes of colonists, sharing the comfort of their fires, eating the good food that stuck to a man’s ribs in such weather. Most families had a new baby to celebrate, one whose name was added to the roll for the intendant along with the names of those who’d gone to meet their makers. Thanks to a plentiful harvest and lots of available game it would be an easy winter. The older men remaining on the farm with the women while the younger ones were off trapping or hunting, had been hospitable, praising their seigneurs for keep in them safe. A few had never seen their lord, but believed the managers sent to run the estates were fair and honest men. All of them praised Talon and his endeavors. A few who remembered the recent hostilities with the Mohawks were uncomfortable having Okwaho around, but the scout’s ability to find fresh game even in the poorest weather earned him grudging respect from all.
Three of the estates had been deserted, with nothing but survey sticks to mark their existence. No doubt trappers had worked these lands during the summer months—they’d seen bones to prove it and had found a hovel or two that would’ve sheltered them through bad weather—but where were they now?
When Lucien had asked one of the men on the nearby estate about them, the man had shaken his head, claiming they’d gone off with a former soldier, some other trappers, and their scouts, although he’d been unable to even hazard a guess at who they were and where they’d come from. Lupin, a poor devil who’d recognized the soldier and had recently lost his wife and son to croup, had abandoned his land and gone with them. The stranger had been very interested in the mittens the Huron-Wendatwomen made, especially those that seemed to describe the lands they’d abandoned far to the west. Lupin claimed seeing similar mittens at the end of the fighting, items that had been confiscated as spoils of war.
Lucien had shared this information with Okwaho, seeking the Mohawk’s opinion on the matter. Instead of joining him and Yves in the settlers’ homes, the brave had stayed with the native tribes in the area, gathering his information from them. During one of the harsher storms, he’d found shelter in a Huron-Wendat village, the Christian band having allied themselves to a particular seigneur, one who would definitely support the health and growth of the colony.
What had surprised both the brave and Lucien were the Algonquins he’d come across when visiting other Abenaki villages, men working as scouts for the coureurs de bois from the area. The Abenaki were part of the Algonquin Nation as were the Atikamekw, who inhabited the shores of the St. Maurice River, but these Algonquin were Kitcisakik, an area far to the north of Ville-Marie, beyond the boundaries of the colony and the lands of the Anishnabee who lived along the shores of the Ottawa River, or Outaouais as the voyageurs called it. There’d always been bad blood between the Iroquois and the Algonquin, and having so many in the area could lead to hostilities.
While the local men tended to set their traps on their own lands, the professional trappers traveled farther afield, returning to Quebec twice a year to sell their pelts, but they were bound by the charter of the colony to stay within its boundaries. If they were using scouts from so far afield, how could they be doing so?
Lucien had taken note of this discrepancy, and where possible he’d written down the names not only of the trappers but of the estates. The seigneurs from whose land they came could easily be allied with the cabal wanting to stop colonial expansion to allow for greater exploration.
Unlike the colonial farmers, the trappers he’d met had resented what they saw as government interference in their lives—rules limiting trapping to only previously explored lands. On the shore of the Gouffre River north of Isle des Coudres in the Baie St. Paul, they’d come across an estate where only a few acres had been cleared. The six men living there included two Cree from the area far to the west of the colony.
“If I wanted to dig in the earth for my livelihood,” one man said and spit at Lucien’s feet, “I would’ve stayed in Rouen. This land is vast and rich in furs, but does the king really believe if we stay within a certain area, the animals will come to us? The English have no restrictions on where a man can trap, nor the Dutch. If Louis doesn’t change his stance, there won’t be a pelt here left to take, nor a man searching for them. Our enemies will hold title to the entire continent, leaving precious little for France but a few poor dirt farmers.”
The conversation had been sobering, but the one he’d had at an estate along the Malbaie River still ate at him. The manager hired to oversee the land had told him that his lord was considering sending slaves, prisoners convicted of capital crimes including murder and treason, to help him comply with the king’s orders without it impacting his profit. In his estimation, if Guyenne was good enough to serve as a penal colony, why not the more desolate parts of New France? If such men died, no one would mourn their loss.
At least one quarter of each estate had to be cultivated. But while the estate’s owner shared in their bounty, farmers were entitled to keep a substantial portion of the crops they grew, the milk and meat their animals gave them, and the money they received from their lumber and anything else they sold. Not only did cultivated land cut into fur-trapping territory, the landowner had a responsibility to see to it that his tenants were protected. If criminal slaves farmed the land, all they would get would be meager accommodations and enough food to sustain them. The rest would be profit, a fitting way to offset the loss of revenue from furs.
The idea was repulsive to Lucien. It was true that many men and women came to the colony as indentured servants, but when their debts were paid, they were free to prosper. Many of the baptized natives were almost in servitude as it was, but no one could stop them from leaving if they wanted to. He’d traveled to Virginia, one of the English colonies to the south, renowned for growing the best tobacco. He’d seen men, as black as the alluvial soil itself, fettered and working the fields cultivating the tobacco, treated with less respect than the oxen they toiled next to.
In France, he’d seen prisoners working the fields that way, men who’d exchanged their years in a cell to toil outside. Maybe for them it was a better way, but he doubted the slaves in Virginia had committed any crimes. The Dutch trapper he’d been with had told them the men and women came from Africa, brought in great ships. If their crossing had been as bad as his and Alain’s, it was a miracle any chose to come. He’d said as much, and the man had laughed himself to tears. When Lucien had asked him what he’d said that was so funny, the Dutchman had remarked that he doubted any of them had come voluntarily.
So far, they’d managed to check out ten freehold farms, held by former soldiers paid in land for their service protecting the colony, and twelve estates, the last two a couple of days west of their current location near the Rivière Noire. One was thriving with evidence of healthy animals and a silo full of grain. The other was as Guy had feared—nothing more than a lucrative trapping area with a landlord in France who counted its value on the number of pelts it sent him each year. They’d encountered Cree there, too. Guy would not be pleased when he learned of this.
The Price of Courage is available exclusively through Amazon. If you don’t have a Kindle, you can download the free apt to any of your devices. It’s also free to read in Kindle Unlimited.
Living the Dream 