Serpent & Dove

by Shelby Mahurin

  The sun was still beautiful. And despite everything, it was still setting. I closed my eyes and basked in its warmth.

  A maid soon entered to check the blood-specked sheets. Satisfied, she stripped them without a word. My stomach sank slowly to the floor as I watched her rigid back. She didn’t look at me.

  “Do you have a nightgown?” I asked hopefully, unable to stand the silence any longer.

  She curtsied, prim and proper, but still avoided my eyes. “Market doesn’t open until morning, madame.”

  She left without another word. I watched her go with a sense of foreboding. If I’d hoped for an ally in this wretched Tower, I’d been grossly optimistic. Even the staff had been brainwashed. But if they thought they could break me with silence—with isolation—they were in for a fun surprise.

  Sliding down from my tower of furniture, I prowled the room for something I could use against my captor. Blackmail. A weapon. Anything. I wracked my brain, remembering the tricks I’d used on Andre and Grue over the years. After ripping open the desk drawer, I rummaged through its contents with all the courtesy my husband deserved. There wasn’t much to inspect: a couple of quills, a pot of ink, a faded old Bible, and . . . a leather notebook. When I picked it up, flicking eagerly through the pages, several loose sheets fluttered to the ground. Letters. I bent closer, a slow smile spreading across my face.

  Love letters.

  A very confused, coppery-haired Chasseur poked me awake that night. I’d been curled in the tub—wrapped up in his ridiculous shirt—when he’d stormed in and impaled my rib with his finger.

  “What?” I batted him away crossly, grimacing at the sudden light in my eyes.

  “What are you doing?” He leaned back, still crouched on his knees, and set the candle on the floor. “When you weren’t in bed, I thought maybe—maybe you’d—”

  “Left?” I said shrewdly. “It’s still on the agenda.”

  His face hardened. “That would be a mistake.”

  “’S all relative.” I yawned, curling up once more.

  “Why are you in the tub?”

  “Well, I certainly wasn’t going to sleep in your bed, was I? This seemed the best alternative.”

  There was a pause. “You don’t . . . you don’t have to sleep in here,” he finally muttered. “Take the bed.”

  “No, thanks. It’s not that I don’t trust you, but—well, that’s exactly what it is.”

  “And you think the tub can protect you?”

  “Mmm, no.” I sighed, eyelids fluttering. They were impossibly heavy. “I can lock the door—”

  Wait.

  I jolted awake then. “I did lock the door. How are you in here?”

  He grinned, and I cursed my treacherous heart for stuttering slightly. The smile transformed his entire face, like—like the sun. I scowled, crossing my arms and nestling deeper into his shirt. I didn’t want to invite that comparison, but now I couldn’t get the image out of my head. His coppery hair—tousled, as if he too had fallen asleep somewhere he shouldn’t—didn’t help.

  “Where have you been?” I snapped.

  His grin faltered. “I fell asleep in the sanctuary. I . . . needed some space.”

  I frowned, and the silence between us lengthened. After a long moment, I asked, “How did you get in here?”

  “You’re not the only one who can pick a lock.”

  “Really?” I sat up, interest piqued. “Where would a holy Chasseur learn such a trick?”

  “The Archbishop.”

  “Of course. He’s such a hypocritical ass.”

  The fragile camaraderie between us crumbled instantly. He shoved to his feet. “Never disrespect him. Not in front of me. He’s the best man I’ve ever known. The bravest. When I was three, he—”

  I tuned him out, rolling my eyes. It was quickly becoming a habit around him. “Look, Chass, you’re my husband, so I feel I should be honest with you in saying I’ll gladly murder the Archbishop at the first opportunity.”

  “He’d kill you before you even lifted a finger.” A fanatical gleam shone in his eyes, and I raised a politely skeptical brow. “I’m serious. He’s the most accomplished leader in Chasseur history. He’s slain more witches than any other man alive. His skill is legend. He is legend—”

  “He is old.”

  “You underestimate him.”

  “Seems to be a theme around here.” I yawned and turned away from him, shifting to find a softer bit of tub. “Look, this has been fun, but it’s time for my beauty sleep. I need to look my best for tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “I’m going back to the theater,” I murmured, eyes already closing. “What I caught of the performance this morning sounded fascinating.”

  There was another pause, much longer than before. I peeked at him over my shoulder. He fidgeted with the candle for a few seconds before taking a deep breath. “Now that you’re my wife, it’s best if you stay within Chasseur Tower.”

  I lurched upright, sleep instantly forgotten. “I don’t think that’s best at all.”

  “People saw your face at the theater”—anxiety flared in my stomach—“and now they know you’re my wife. Everything you do will be monitored. Everything you say will reflect back on me—on the Chasseurs. The Archbishop doesn’t trust you. He thinks it best you stay here until you can learn to behave yourself.” He gave me a hard look. “I agree with him.”

  “That’s unfortunate. I thought you had better sense than the Archbishop,” I snapped. “You can’t keep me locked in this trou à merde.”

  I might’ve laughed at his appalled expression if I hadn’t been so angry. “Watch your mouth.” His own mouth tightened, and his nostrils flared. “You’re my wife—”

  “Yes, you’ve mentioned that! Your wife. Not your slave, nor your property. I signed that stupid piece of paper to avoid imprisonment—”

  “We can’t trust you.” His voice rose over mine. “You’re a criminal. You’re impulsive. God forbid you even open your mouth outside this room—”

  “Shit! Damn! Fu—”

  “Stop it!” Blood crept up his throat, and his chest rose and fell heavily as he struggled to control his breathing. “God, woman! How can you speak so? Have you no shame?”

  “I won’t stay here,” I seethed.

  “You’ll do as you’re told.” The words were flat—final.

  Like hell. I opened my mouth to tell him just that, but he’d already stormed out of the room, slamming the door shut with enough force to rattle my teeth.

  The Interrogation

  Reid

  I woke long before my wife. Stiff. Sore. Aching from a fitful night on the floor. Though I’d argued with myself—reasoned vehemently that she’d chosen to suffer in the tub—I hadn’t been able to climb into bed. Not when she was injured. Not when she might wake in the night and change her mind.

  No. I’d offered her the bed. The bed was hers.

  I regretted my chivalry the moment I stepped into the training yard. Word of my new circumstance had obviously swept through the Tower. Man after man rose to meet me, each with a determined glint in his eye. Each waiting impatiently for his turn. Each attacking with uncharacteristic belligerence.

  “Long night, huh, Captain?” my first partner sneered after clipping my shoulder.

  The next managed to hit my ribs. He glared. “It isn’t right. A criminal sleeping three rooms from me.”

  Jean Luc grinned. “I don’t think they were doing much sleeping.”

  “She could cut our throats.”

  “She consorts with witches.”

  “It isn’t right.”

  “It isn’t fair.”

  “I heard she’s a whore.”

  I bashed the handle of my sword into the last one’s head, and he sprawled to the ground. Extending my arms, I turned in a slow circle. Challenging anyone who dared confront me. Blood ran from a cut on my forehead. “Does anyone else have a problem with my new circumstance?”

  Jean Luc ho
wled with laughter. He in particular seemed to enjoy my trial, judgment, and execution—until he entered the ring. “Give me your best, old man.”

  I was older than him by three months.

  But even battered, even exhausted, even old, I would die before yielding to Jean Luc.

  The fight lasted only a few minutes. Though he was quick and nimble, I was stronger. After a good hit, he too crumpled, clutching his ribs. I rubbed the blood from my freshly split lip before helping him up.

  “We’ll need to interrupt your conjugal bliss to interrogate her about Tremblay’s, you know. Like it or not, the men are right.” He touched a knot under his eye gingerly. “She does consort with witches. The Archbishop thinks she might be able to lead us to them.”

  I almost rolled my eyes. The Archbishop had already confided his hopes to me, but I didn’t tell Jean Luc that. He enjoyed feeling superior. “I know.”

  Wooden swords still clacked, and bodies thudded together as our brothers continued around us. No others approached, but they shot me covert looks between rounds. Men who had once respected me. Men who had once laughed, joked, and called me friend. In only a few hours, I’d become the object of my wife’s rejection and my brethren’s scorn. Both stung more than I cared to admit.

  Breakfast had been worse. My brethren hadn’t allowed me to eat a bite. Half had been too eager to hear about my wedding night, and the others had studiously ignored me.

  What was it like?

  Did you enjoy it?

  Don’t tell the Archbishop, but . . . I tried it once. Her name was Babette.

  Of course I hadn’t actually wanted to consummate. With her. And my brothers—they would come around. Once they realized I wasn’t going anywhere. Which I wasn’t.

  Crossing the yard, I threw my sword on the rack. The men parted for me in waves. Their whispers bit and snapped at my back. To my irritation, Jean Luc had no such scruples. He followed me like a plague of locusts.

  “I must confess I’m anxious to see her again.” He ensured his sword landed on top of mine. “After that performance on the beach, I think our brothers are in for a real treat.”

  I would’ve preferred the locusts.

  “She isn’t that,” I disagreed in an undertone.

  Jean Luc continued as if he hadn’t heard me. “It’s been a long time since a woman was in the Tower. Who was the last—Captain Barre’s wife? She wasn’t anything to look at. Yours is much nicer—”

  “I’ll thank you not to speak of my wife.” The whispers peaked behind us as we neared the Tower. Uninhibited laughter rang across the yard as we stepped inside. I gritted my teeth and pretended I couldn’t hear them. “What she is or isn’t is no concern of yours.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “What’s this? Is that possessiveness I detect? Surely you haven’t forgotten the love of your life so easily?”

  Célie. Her name cut through me like a serrated knife. Last night, I’d written her a final letter. She deserved to hear what had happened from me. And now, we were . . . done. Truly done this time. I tried and failed to swallow the lump in my throat.

  Please, please, forget me.

  I could never forget you.

  You must.

  The letter had left with the post at first light.

  “Have you told her yet?” Jean Luc kept hard on my heels, just tall enough to match my stride. “Did you go to her last night? One last rendezvous with your lady?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “She won’t be pleased, will she? I mean, you chose not to marry her—”

  “Lay off, Jean Luc.”

  “—yet now you’ve married a filthy street rat who tricked you into a compromising position. Or did she?” His eyes flared, and he caught my arm. I tensed, longing to break his grip. Or his nose. “One can’t help but wonder . . . why did the Archbishop force you to marry a criminal if you’re innocent?”

  I jerked my arm away. Fought to control the anger threatening to explode. “I am innocent.”

  He touched the knot at his eye again, lip curling into a grin. “Of course.”

  “There you are!” The Archbishop’s curt voice preceded him into the foyer. As one, we lifted our fists to our hearts and bowed. When we rose, the Archbishop’s gaze fell on me. “Jean Luc has informed me you’ll be interrogating your wife today about the witch at Tremblay’s.”

  I nodded stiffly.

  “You will, of course, communicate any developments to me directly.” He clasped my shoulder with an easy camaraderie that probably drove Jean Luc mad. “We must keep a keen eye on her, Captain Diggory, lest she destroy herself—and you in the process. I would attend the interrogation myself, but . . .”

  Though his voice trailed off, his meaning rang clear. But I can’t stand her. I empathized.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Go and fetch her, then. I shall be in my study, preparing for evening Mass.”

  She wasn’t in our room.

  Or the washroom.

  Or the Tower.

  Or the entire cathedral.

  I was going to strangle her.

  I’d told her to stay. I’d presented the reasons—the perfectly rational, easily understandable reasons—and still she’d disobeyed. Still she’d left. And now who knew what foolish antics she was up to—foolish antics that would reflect back on me. A husband who couldn’t control his own wife.

  Furious, I sat at my desk and waited. Mentally recited every verse I could on patience.

  “Be still before the Lord, and wait patiently for him; do not fret over those who prosper in their way, over those who carry out evil devices.”

  Of course she’d left. Why wouldn’t she? She was a criminal. An oath meant nothing to her. My reputation meant nothing to her. I sat forward in my chair. Pressed my palms against my eyes to relieve the building pressure in my head.

  “Refrain from anger, and forsake wrath. Do not fret—it leads only to evil. For the wicked shall be cut off, but those who wait for the Lord shall inherit the land.”

  But her face. Her bruises.

  I have many enemies.

  Surely being my wife couldn’t be worse than that? She would be cared for here. Protected. Treated better than she deserved. And yet . . . a small, grim voice in the back of my mind whispered that perhaps it was good she had gone. Perhaps this solved a problem. Perhaps—

  No. I had made a vow to this woman. To God. I would not forsake it. If she wasn’t back in another hour, I’d go out and find her—ransack the city if I must. If I didn’t have my honor, I didn’t have anything. She would not take that from me. I wouldn’t allow it.

  “Well, this is a fun surprise.”

  I jerked my head up at the familiar voice. Unexpected relief swept through me. Because there, leaning against the doorjamb and grinning, stood my wife. Her arms were crossed against her chest, and beneath her cloak, she wore—she wore—

  “What are you wearing?” I shot up from my chair. Stared determinedly at her face and not . . . elsewhere.

  She looked down at her thighs—her very visible, very shapely thighs—and parted her cloak farther with the brush of her hand. Casually. As if she didn’t know what she was doing. “I believe they’re called pants. Surely you’ve heard of them—”

  “I—” Shaking my head, I forced myself to focus, to look anywhere but her legs. “Wait, what surprise?”

  She strode farther into the room, trailing a finger down my arm as she passed. “You’re my husband now, dear. What sort of wife would I be if I couldn’t speak your language?”

  “My language?”

  “Silence. You’re well versed in it.” After tossing aside her cloak, she threw herself down on the bed and stuck a leg up in the air to examine it. I glared at the floor. “I’m a fast learner. I’ve only known you a few days, but I can already interpret the very angry, slightly doubtful, and frankly worried silence you’ve been fretting in all morning. I’m touched.”

  Refrain from anger. I unclenched my jaw and glared at the desk. “
Where were you?”

  “I went out to get a bun.”

  Forsake wrath. I gripped the back of the chair. Too hard. The wood bit into my fingertips, and my knuckles turned white. “A bun?”

  “Yes, a bun.” She shucked off her boots. They hit the floor with two dull thuds. “I overslept the matinee—probably because someone woke me up at the ass crack—”

  “Watch your mouth—”

  “—of dawn.” She stretched leisurely and fell back against the pillows. Sharp pains shot up my fingers from my grip on the chair. I took a deep breath and let go. “A page boy brought me a rather unfortunate dress this morning—one of the maids’, with a neckline up to my ears—to wear until someone could make it to market. No one had exactly made it a priority, so I charmed the kid into giving me the coin the Archbishop left for my wardrobe and took the liberty of purchasing it myself. The rest will be delivered this evening.”

  Dresses. To purchase dresses—not this unholy creation. This pair of trousers looked nothing like the grubby pair she’d worn before. She’d obviously had these tailored with the Archbishop’s coin. They fit her like a second skin.

  I cleared my throat. Maintained my visual of the desk. “And the guards—they let you—”

  “Leave? Of course. We were under the impression this wasn’t a prison sentence.”

  Refrain from anger. I turned slowly. “I told you to stay in the Tower.”

  I risked a glance at her then. Mistake. She’d propped her knees up, kicking one over the other. Flaunting every curve on her lower body. I swallowed hard and forced my gaze back to the floor.

  She knew what she was doing, too. Devil.

  “And you expected me to listen?” She laughed. No—chuckled. “Honestly, Chass, it was a little too easy to leave. The guards at the door almost begged me to go. You should’ve seen their faces when I actually came back—”

  “Why did you?” The words came out before I could stop them. I cringed internally. It wasn’t as if I cared. And it didn’t matter, anyway. All that mattered was that she’d disobeyed me. As for my brothers . . . I would need to have a word with them. Clearly. No one abhorred the heathen’s presence more than I, but the Archbishop had given orders.