by Lily Blake
“It’s not worth it,” the same hoarse voice that had spoken before said. “There are easier kills in the village. Let us go now, for The Darkness rises within.”
“The Darkness!” the rest of the group echoed. The chanting began again. Francis still clutched the shovel as the pagans turned away from the house, starting through the trees. The light that streamed in through the shutters dimmed, until the woods were silent, the house dark.
The old man held the woman close to his side, the iron poker still pointed toward the door. When they were sure the pagans were gone, he kissed his wife on the top of her head. She moved first, lighting just one candle over the mantel. Francis set down the shovel beside the door, noticing that it was a simple place but well kept. There was a bed at the far end of the house, peeking out behind a wooden divider. The kitchen shelves were stacked with handmade pottery—dishes, bowls, mugs. A few wooden chairs were arranged by the fireplace.
“Sorry about that,” the old man said, clapping Francis on the shoulder. “There was no time. The pagans would have been on you in a second if they’d seen you sleeping in the woods.”
“I told him not to tie your hands, but last time we tried to help someone in the woods they started screaming and flailing about. Drew the pagans right to us. We barely got away,” the woman said.
“It’s all right,” Francis said. He rubbed his wrists, the skin pink from where his hands were bound. “My horse…”
“Should be fine,” the woman said. She moved about the tiny kitchen, pouring well water into a few mugs. “It’s human blood they want. The blood of innocents.”
“They kill, but they don’t steal,” the man said. “How’s that for morals?”
“You saved my life.…” Francis stared at the man and woman, who seemed much smaller now. They were a good six inches shorter than him, and at least fifty years old, if not more. Yet they’d somehow managed to drag him, screaming and struggling, a hundred yards through the woods.
“Just doing the decent thing.” The man held out his hand to Francis. “I’m Marcel. And that’s my wife, Therese.”
“I’m—” Francis searched Marcel’s weathered face, trying to see if he had been recognized—if Marcel knew he was the King of France. But the old man’s expression was calm. He tilted his head, waiting patiently for Francis to say his name.
“I’m Aaron,” Francis finally said, studying Marcel’s expression. But the old man only nodded. He clapped his other hand over Francis’s, squeezing it tight.
“Welcome, Aaron,” Therese said as she passed the men mugs of water. She moved around the kitchen, cutting fresh bread and smearing it with blackberry jam. She passed Francis a slice in a linen napkin. He took a bite and all at once felt warmer—and safer—than he had in hours.
“You’ll stay here tonight,” Therese said as she began making up a pallet in the corner of the room. “And I won’t have any argument. The woods aren’t safe.”
“I’m very much obliged to you. I shan’t forget that.” As soon as he said it, Francis regretted being so formal in his words. Therese and Marcel must’ve realized he was nobility—he’d hadn’t had time to hide his belt, or the silver rings that adorned his fingers. But he didn’t need to draw any more attention to it than he already had. They might start asking about his village… where he rode in from… his family.…
“You’ll have some more food,” Therese said, already crossing to the kitchen and cutting another slice of bread. Francis noticed it wasn’t a question, and despite everything, felt himself smile. It reminded him a little of Catherine—though his mother would have been horrified by the comparison.
After Francis had finished eating, Therese went to bed, admonishing Marcel that he should follow soon. Francis and the old man turned the table back onto its legs, and worked quietly together to fix the bent lock. When they were done, they sat down in the chairs in front of the fireplace, staring into the ashes.
Francis tried not to worry about it, about what these lost hours would mean. For him, for Lola, for their child. He tried not to worry about what was happening to her right this moment, about where she was, if she was all right. There was no way he could travel through the woods tonight, not with the pagans out there. He’d leave first thing in the morning, when the sun was up, as soon as he could. He only hoped that when he got to the cottage outside of Vannes she’d still be there… that she’d still be alive.
And what if she wasn’t? What if his task had already changed, if he already had a new purpose? What if he was traveling to reclaim her body and bring it back to court? He hated to think of it, of Lola dying in some stranger’s house without him, without any of her friends. She had been so alive that night in Paris. Her green eyes watching him with quiet interest, her fingertips tracing the lines of his face. Had he known about the pregnancy, had he been told… this all could have been different.
He clenched his fists, feeling the anger take hold. Why had Mary kept this from him for so long? When did she plan on telling him? When the child was toddling about the palace, bright blond hair, looking nothing like Lord Julien? Did she not realize Francis would figure it out eventually, as they all did? He still remembered those weeks when he was younger—five, six years old, if that. The weeks when his mother realized Henry had fathered a child with Diane, that Bash was in fact his son. There had been yelling and fighting, plates smashed against the wall. He’d come in one night to discover his mother weeping, her face swollen and red.
Is that what Mary had wanted for them? Did she know all the trouble this could bring, now and in the future? He hadn’t wanted this any more than she had, but now that it was upon them he had no other choice but to deal with it right out, to not hide like his father had for so many years. No, Francis would not be that kind of man.
Marcel poured them both glasses of wine, and he touched his to Francis’s before taking a drink. Francis smiled, moved by his kindness and decency, his willingness to bring a stranger into his home just to protect him.
“Aaron,” Marcel said, his brows drawing together, “I think I know your father. He’s one of the tradesmen who come through here, selling silver and copper. A regal fellow, isn’t he? Gray hair?”
Francis turned away, knowing what Marcel meant. Tradesmen… silver and copper. He’d noticed the rings, his belt, his polished leather boots.
“No, that’s not him.… My father is dead.” Francis set his glass down on the floor, letting the words hang in the air between them. It was the first time he had said them out loud.
“My sympathies,” Marcel murmured. He lifted his glass. “To his memory, then.”
Francis raised his drink, but it felt heavy in his hand. He tried to smile, even brought the glass to his lips, but it was impossible to join Marcel in the toast. His memory… What memory was that? What good was left in Henry by the time he died?
“Something wrong?” the old man asked.
“My father is…” Francis started, then stopped himself. He was not used to speaking of Henry in anything but the present tense. “My father was a difficult man. He wasn’t well the last year of his life.”
Marcel nodded, his face sympathetic. “That’s hard, lad. He fell ill?”
“Not exactly…” Francis spoke slowly, gathering his thoughts. “It was his mind that was affected.”
The old man nodded again. “That’s hard as well.”
“I used to worship him. He had always been this huge person that I could only hope to be like one day. But then he started changing. He became someone I couldn’t even recognize, and I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t even know how to be around him, what to say.…”
Marcel reached down, grabbed the bottle, and poured Francis another glass of wine. Francis stared into it, then took another sip, comforted by the warm, tingling feeling that spread out in his chest. “I hated him,” he said. “I actually grew to hate my own father. He disgusted me. I worried about what he was capable of, and I worried about how much I hated him. He was so cruel… so callous.
And when he died, I just felt so… relieved.”
He took another swig of wine and continued, telling Marcel about the way Henry used to talk to him, how he barely treated him like a son. He told him about how cruel he was to his brother, though he never mentioned Bash by name. Marcel just listened, occasionally pouring Francis another glass of wine. The fact that he didn’t know Francis, and didn’t know that he was hearing about the very personal relationship between the current king and the former king, allowed Francis to talk more freely. Before long a half hour had passed, maybe more.
“I would allow yourself to mourn your father,” Marcel said when Francis finished. “And if you can, forgive him for his actions when he was mad.”
Francis shook his head, thinking of all the wrong his father had done—all the death he had caused. “I don’t know that I can.…”
“You can try,” Marcel said. “Would you have blamed your father if he’d fallen ill from plague? Or an infected wound?”
“Of course not,” Francis said. “But—”
“It’s all the same, son,” Marcel said. “He didn’t ask to become mad. He didn’t bring it upon himself. And he wasn’t himself when it was happening. The real man, your father, was not the creature taken over by the madness. And in time, that’s who you will remember.”
Francis nodded, a tightness growing in his throat. He recalled the last hunting trip he had taken with Henry. Henry had shot a boar and together they’d tied it to the horse, struggling with the massive thing, trying to get its weight distributed right. At one point Henry had made a joke—something about the pig’s appetite—and Francis had laughed so hard he’d nearly dropped the boar in the grass. Remembering it now, it was like he could see his father again, for the first time in ages.
“To bed,” Marcel said, draining his wine and standing up. As Marcel headed for the back room, Francis made his way over to the makeshift bed. He sat on the edge of it, peeling off his sweat-soaked shirt. He had just reached down to take off his boots when Marcel returned.
“Here. This is for you,” Marcel said, holding something in his hand.
Francis saw that it was a cross, the wood weathered and smooth, as though it had been used in prayer for decades.
“It always helped me in my times of darkness,” Marcel said, looking down at Francis, his face in candlelight. “And I promise that whatever you are going through, it will pass.”
Francis stared at the floor, the tears hot in his eyes. He had been given more lavish presents than he could name—the gifts from his wedding to Mary were still arriving at the palace. But this somehow felt different. He ran his thumb over the smooth wood, then pressed it to his heart. “Thank you, Marcel. This means… it’s everything.”
Marcel covered Francis’s hand with his own and squeezed it. Then he started off to bed.
As Francis lay back on the pallet, he couldn’t help but hope that the old man had been right. That everything—his relationship with Mary, the fate of Lola and the baby, his own perilous journey as he traveled through the plague—would turn out all right. He held on to the cross, pressing it against his heart as he closed his eyes to sleep.
“Heading off already, are you?” Therese said, rounding the beaten path through the trees. Marcel was right behind her.
Francis threw the last of his supplies over the horse, then untied Champion’s reins from a low branch. He had woken just before dawn, and made his way back to where the horse was tethered. He had been trying to leave as quickly as possible, so as not to disturb them, but it seemed he hadn’t been successful.
“I must go,” Francis said. It was still cool out, and the sun was low in the sky, but now that he was up he was feeling a renewed sense of urgency. He needed to get to Lola by nightfall. He kept thinking about her, alone in some stranger’s house, wondering if Mary had received her letter, if anyone was coming for her now that the plague had struck. Had she survived the night? And what of the child? What if Francis was already too late?
“Thank you so much for your hospitality. I appreciate it more than I can say.” Francis nodded at both of them, and prepared to swing himself into the saddle, when Marcel stepped forward.
“One last thing before you go…” He held out a cloak to Francis—long and black, nondescript, with a hood. “You should take this. You’ll be in danger if somebody recognizes you.”
Francis looked from Marcel to Therese, trying to figure out what they meant. When they’d taken him in last night, they had shown no sign that they recognized him. They’d called him Aaron, never once asking about where he was from, or why he was traveling alone in the woods.
“Don’t worry,” Marcel said as he pushed the cloak into Francis’s hands. “We won’t tell anyone who you are, Your Majesty. We won’t tell anyone we saw you.”
“You knew the whole time,” Francis said, his voice hoarse.
“What does it matter?” Therese said. “We would’ve helped anyone in your situation, child. We have a son of our own, not much older than you.”
“Thank you,” Francis said, repeating the words again as he hugged them both.
Then he climbed onto his horse, turning back in the direction of Vannes.
CHAPTER SIX
Pascal ran as fast as he could down the corridor, almost out of breath. As he took the corner, his foot caught on one of the hallway rugs and he fell forward, landing hard on the stone floor. He could hear footsteps behind him. Bash and Kenna called out to the guards, starting the search for him.
He picked himself up and ran faster, though with every turn he was getting more lost. The palace was full of winding hallways. All the rooms looked alike. He only knew the three doors in the east wing of the palace, the small section that Kenna had introduced him to. He couldn’t go back there now, not after what he’d seen. What was happening between them? Why had Kenna looked so scared when he opened the door? Was Bash hurting her?
He’d awoken from a nightmare. It had been the worst one yet. He was back in that house with The Darkness, and a woman was screaming so loud he had to cover his ears. She knelt down before The Darkness, asking him not to kill her son, would he please spare just her son’s life? Couldn’t he grant her that? The Darkness didn’t answer her. Instead he’d sunk his teeth into the back of her neck, her blood spilling down his throat.
Then it had changed… morphed into something different. The Darkness stood over him with his knife, telling him that innocent blood was needed. A sacrifice was needed. Pascal would have to kill next. It was so real that he’d woken, his skin damp with sweat. His hands were shaking. Kenna had told him that he should come and find her if he was ever frightened. She’d told him that she wanted him to. And even though it had been scary to get out of bed and walk down the cold, drafty corridors, he had done it. Kenna had a way of explaining things so that they didn’t seem as hard. She would have told him it was just a dream, that The Darkness was dead. She would have promised him that no one was going to hurt him.
But then he’d opened the door a crack. He’d seen them together. Kenna had turned, her face twisted like she was in pain. She’d yelled something, but Pascal couldn’t even hear her words. He just kept staring at Bash. That man had killed his father—he’d watched him do it. Pascal was stupid to have trusted him, to have thought that things would be different with Bash than they were with The Darkness. He was a bad man, always hurting people, always lying. Now he’d done something to her… something horrible.…
Pascal wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. The corridor ahead of him was a dead end. There were torches flickering along the walls, casting menacing shadows against the gray stone. He could hear the footsteps behind him, getting closer. He looked over his shoulder, the panic rising in his chest. The guards were probably with them by now. As soon as they caught him, there would be no getting away.
Pascal tried the first door he could find, but it was locked. He dashed down the hall, trying the next one, and then another, but it was no use. There was no way out
.
“Please… please open,” he muttered to himself as he tried the last two. The footsteps echoed down the hall.
“He must’ve gone this way,” Bash’s voice called out.
“Where is he?” Kenna yelled. “Pascal, come back here!”
If he couldn’t find his way in… if he couldn’t escape… he would be caught here, with nowhere to hide. He reached the door at the end of the hall and rattled the knob. It turned under his hand. He let out a breath, the tears spilling onto his cheeks. He had no idea what was on the other side, but he would take his chances. He eased the door open and stepped inside.
Pascal pressed his back against the wall, holding his breath, trying to stay still so she wouldn’t see him. When he’d come into the room and seen the lady, he’d frozen. He thought he recognized her as one of Kenna’s friends. What if she saw him and yelled for Kenna or the guards? What if she heard Kenna and Bash calling from down the hall?
A man was there with her, his hair gray. His name was Lord something—that much Pascal knew. He stood right beside her, his hand on her back. “I don’t have very long,” the blond girl said. “I promised Mary I would spend the night in her chambers. I’m only supposed to be here to get my nightdress.”
“Some pretense,” the lord said. “Any of her maids could’ve done that for you. What’s wrong, Greer? Tell me.”
“I just needed a moment to breathe. Nostradamus and his prophecies,” Greer said, her eyes filled with tears. “I wanted to dismiss them as mere superstition, but he was right about Aylee’s death. He’d predicted that down to the smallest detail. And now Mary…”
“We don’t know that it’s true,” the lord said. “Besides, there are guards to protect her. And you’ll be with her tonight, in her room. There’ll be maids coming in and out. Nothing will happen to her.”
“How can you be so sure?” Greer asked.
She leaned down into her washbasin, splashing cold water over her cheeks.
Pascal saw his opportunity. He moved along the wall. He was sure he’d been in this room before. One rainy day, Kenna had been with her friends and he’d gotten bored. He’d discovered a secret passageway that went between the wings. He was almost positive that one of the entrances was in this room. All of these bedrooms looked alike to him, but that tapestry with the lion on it looked familiar. Its tail was curled up, its teeth bared. It stood on its hind legs in the center of the ornate gold cloth.
