Devin shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know what to say.”
Chastel shrugged. “It’s not necessary that you say anything. It’s done me good to get this off my chest. I apologize for airing the family’s dirty linen at your expense.”
“Don’t apologize,” Devin said. “I’m only sorry that I can’t do something to correct the injustice that has been done.”
“Perhaps you could appeal to Armand,” Chastel suggested. “Though I doubt it will do any good.”
“I intend to,” Devin replied. “Armand and I have disagreed before. But if this story has truly been added to Ombria’s Chronicle, I would think he would want to make certain that it is accurate.”
“Oh, he was very careful,” Chastel answered, bitterly. “Didn’t you notice? He never claimed Charles was the wolf, he just made it seem that way. He isn’t about to be brought up on charges of slander. Who would teach his precious Chronicle, if he’s in jail?”
Adrian would, Devin thought. But surely, Armand wasn’t foolish enough to risk his position, just to get back at a long dead boy who had killed his great-grandfather? It was the current Jean Chastel that Armand hated, and he would bet that there was some more recent hurt that had put these two men at odds.
Chastel touched Devin’s shoulder. “You need to go rest,” he said. “Mareschal will have my head if you aren’t any better. Perhaps, you’ll join me later for dinner if you’re up to it?”
“I’ll look forward to it,” Devin replied. But he knew that, secretly, he would be relieved to leave this place behind as soon as possible, and move on.
CHAPTER 24
The Quest for Truth
Devin went back up to his room, still reeling from the information Chastel had told him. He’d been shown another side of Armand today – a cold and ruthless side – and he was shocked and confused by it. Armand claimed to be adamantly committed to the truth, and yet the story of the Beast of Gévaudan, which had involved members of his own family, was hopelessly skewed. It threw into question everything that Devin believed to be true about Ombria’s Chronicle.
“Why don’t you lie down and rest?” Marcus suggested, when Devin began to pace.
“Where’s Gaspard?” he asked.
“He just went down to the stables,” Marcus replied. “I believe Chastel asked him to go riding. They’ve also scheduled a card game for later this evening.”
Devin sat down on the bed, his mind racing. This fever was an inconvenience he could do without. He felt shaky and ill, and without the laudanum, the pain gnawed away at his wrist. The glass of wine Mareschal had left on the table was still there. Devin downed half of it in a single swallow. At the moment, oblivion seemed more attractive than the present reality. He wanted to be free of this château with its vicious wolf packs and morbid history. More than anything, he wanted to go on to Lac Dupré and confront Armand.
Marcus frowned. “Do you feel worse?”
“My wrist hurts,” Devin admitted. He grabbed a silk throw off the bed and drew it around his shoulders with shaky hands. “What did you think of Chastel’s story?”
Marcus shrugged. “Life is often cruel.”
“It goes beyond cruelty when a man murders his own son,” Devin replied. “That is the worst kind of betrayal, when death comes unexpectedly at the hands of someone you trust.”
Marcus turned away and walked to the window. “It happened a long time ago, Devin, there’s no sense getting upset about it now.”
“But don’t you see? Now I am beginning to doubt some of what Armand has told me,” Devin continued. “If he’s been inaccurate with the Beast story, what else has he lied about?”
Marcus sat down on the window sill, and propped his ankle on his knee. “Perhaps, he’s not lying,” he said calmly.
“Well, one of them is,” Devin protested.
“Not necessarily,” Marcus replied. “Perhaps it is just a matter of perception. Armand told the story from one point of view, Chastel told it from another. Both of them were told the original story by a family member, someone they trusted implicitly. Ultimately, the truth probably lies somewhere between the two. Remember, you haven’t heard the whole story from Armand yet.”
“Nor, do I want to,” Devin retorted, pulling the throw more closely around him.
“And yet, you are intent on learning the entire Chronicle,” Marcus reminded him. “Surely, you can’t imagine that this story will be the only one that makes you uncomfortable.”
Devin pointed a finger at Marcus. “That story should have been kept private. A family tragedy shouldn’t be open to public scrutiny.”
“And yet, the story had a very public ending,” Marcus said. “I doubt it could ever have been kept quiet.”
Devin didn’t answer. Chastel’s story had horrified him. His mind continued to imagine the final scene with brutal clarity, and he wished he could erase it from his memory forever. He was deeply disappointed in Armand, and frustrated beyond words with the delay his injury was causing. Nothing seemed to be going along with the naïve itinerary he’d conceived in the safety of his dormitory room. He’d spent months planning, and yet he hadn’t allowed any time for sickness, injury or – who would have guessed it – duplicity on the part of the Master Bard of Ombria.
Marcus shifted on his perch. “What would you do, if you found two documents in the Archives that seemed to contradict each other?”
The answer required no thought. “I would hunt for more information,” Devin answered, “something that would corroborate one side or the other.”
“Can you not use the same technique here?” Marcus asked.
Devin glanced up. “What if there isn’t any additional information? Anyone associated with the Chastels will support them. The villagers are apt to back Armand’s version of the story; most of them will have only heard the account preserved in the Chronicle, anyway.”
“And yet, there might be a few older citizens,” Marcus insisted, “who actually remember the event.”
Devin nodded slowly. “Perhaps,” he said. His mind skittered back to his conversation with Gaspard earlier. “Marcus, do you think someone is following us?”
His bodyguard’s face was expressionless. “It’s possible.”
Devin could feel the laudanum dulling his senses, gently seducing him into a peaceful, pain-free cocoon. He gave in and lay back against the pillows, letting his head sink into the lavish softness.
“How do you think he got into the château to leave that second red cross?” he asked.
Marcus stood up abruptly. “What second cross?”
Devin had to fight to keep his eyes open. “Gaspard said you found one outside my door this morning,” he murmured.
“You must have misunderstood him, “Marcus said with a frown. “I didn’t find another cross.”
“You burned it on the driveway,” Devin insisted doggedly, his eyes closing.
“Get some sleep,” Marcus growled.
Devin wakened to a dark, silent house. Dinner had long since come and gone. Marcus lay asleep on his cot. He remembered their earlier conversation. Somehow, in his distress over Chastel’s revelations, he had forgotten there was information right here that corroborated Chastel’s story; Chastel had handed it to Devin in the study, himself. He got up and crossed the room, careful not to waken Marcus.
When he opened the door, he muffled a startled exclamation. He’d forgotten the wolfhounds. Three of the huge dogs surrounded him, nosing his hands and sniffing at his bare feet. He moved carefully through them, offering harmless open palms to their questing muzzles. In spite of their size, they were surprisingly calm and gentle. They followed him down the stairs, apparently delighted to have found companionship.
Devin lighted an oil lamp on Chastel’s desk. The journal lay on the shelf of the bookcase where Chastel had laid it. He took it and sat down in the leather chair where he’d sat earlier in the day. He’d read enough previously to know that Charles had been far from normal and a constant worry t
o his father. What he needed was an entry that would substantiate that the injury to the boy’s face had come from a fall not a poker wielded by a small boy. He’d didn’t have to look far.
June 15 – I took Charles riding down near Beaulieu Bridge. He seemed to enjoy the time we spent together. It made me feel guilty. I don’t do it often enough. His gratitude is so apparent.
On the way back, I jumped Viveur over the stone wall in front of the house, the way I always do. Charles always goes through the gates but for some reason today he followed me. His horse balked, refusing the jump, and unseating Charles. He landed directly on the wall. I dismounted and ran back, fearing the worst…my father died of a broken neck in that very spot after a fall from a horse.
Charles was unconscious. He’d cut his head. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen so much blood. René saw it happen from the house and came running. Together we got him back to his room but it was an hour or more before he came to. René says he’ll have a terrible scar – not that it will matter – I guess. Marriage is out of the question and those of us who care for him love him one way or the other. I wonder if he’ll be able to understand what happened…associate the scar with the injury. He has had so much hurt in his short life, and so much of it is totally incomprehensible to him.
Reluctantly, Devin flipped ahead. There were only a few more passages. His hand trembled as he found the final entry.
July 1 – I buried my oldest son today. How can I ever justify his death to anyone? I can never forgive myself, as long as I live. I took Charles’s life with my own hand in view of half the village. Because yesterday, Charles killed a man – Jacques Vielle – that shepherd who moved here from the mountains only a few weeks ago. Vielle was throwing stones at Charles, trying to keep him away from the spring lambs in the marketplace. Vielle thought Charles was going to let them loose again, and no doubt that was his intention; he can’t bear to see anything locked up. Vielle hurt Charles, knocked him clear down, and God help him, Charles fought back. He bit Vielle on the neck and crushed his throat. He killed him right there in the marketplace with dozens of people watching. And these peasants, who fear wolves above all things, went after Charles with a viciousness that rivaled any wolf pack. They would have killed him with their bare hands except that I killed him first. Before the first hand was laid upon him, I shot him through the heart. I don’t think he ever realized what hit him or that I was the one firing the shot. Dear God, I hope he didn’t. What greater burden could a father endure, than to have killed his own son?
Devin laid the journal in his lap and wiped his eyes. The end was every bit as wrenching as he had imagined. He was glad that Marcus wasn’t present to witness his current emotional reaction to it. His bodyguard’s voice echoed in his head. “It happened a long time ago, Devin, there’s no sense in getting upset over it now.” Hadn’t Marcus realized he was speaking to a historian? What was the point in identifying personal or corporate mistakes if a man or an empire couldn’t try to avoid them in the future? Chastel viewed his uncle’s murder as a mercy, and so, apparently, had his grandfather. And yet, which death showed more compassion: a swift death by someone you loved or a painful, lingering, one at the hands of an angry mob? He shook his head, avoiding that train of thought. Armand would turn it into a religious commentary.
All of a sudden, the dogs jumped up from the rug beside him and went to the door, their scraggly tails wagging. Chastel stood on the threshold.
“Can’t you sleep?” he asked, parting the trio with a gentle hand.
Devin stood up, acutely aware of his trespass into Chastel’s inner sanctum. “Forgive me…” he began.
Chastel waved a hand in dismissal. “Sit down,” he said, taking the chair behind the desk. “Please,” he added, when Devin remained standing in front of him.
“I apologize for invading your study,” Devin persisted, sinking subsiding into the leather chair. “My father would be appalled.”
Chastel smiled. Devin saw no hint of repressed anger, and yet he still felt uncomfortable. There was something about Chastel’s eyes, in this light, that reminded Devin of someone else.
“Don’t worry,” Chastel said. “Your father will never hear it from me. I told you to make yourself at home and I meant it. I have nothing to hide from Coreé.” He gestured at the journal on Devin’s lap. “I see you decided to read that after all.”
Devin tapped the cover of the journal. “It suddenly occurred to me that you were right – this is a primary source – and it offers proof of how Charles’s injury actually happened.”
“What good will it do?” Chastel asked.
“I could read the entry to Armand,” Devin offered, “if you would allow me to borrow it.”
Chastel laughed. “And do you actually think he would take my great grandfather’s word over Emile Vielle’s?”
“I don’t know,” Devin replied. “But I thought, from what I have learned about him, that he cherishes the truth above anything else.”
Chastel’s face darkened. “Then you don’t know him very well.”
There was a rush of footsteps on the stairs and the dogs barked, dashing into the hall as though they were some bizarre single entity with twelve legs and three heads. Marcus and Mareschal appeared in the doorway, both of them out of breath.
“I didn’t realize you’d planned a party,” Chastel said, glancing at Devin in amusement. “Shall I have cook prepare some fresh canapés?”
Marcus crossed the room in a few long strides to loom over Devin.
“Why didn’t you waken me?” he demanded.
Devin avoided his eyes. “I assumed you’d rather sleep. You suggested that I search for further information. I wanted to read more of this journal.”
Mareschal appeared to be every bit as concerned as Marcus.
“I came in to your room to check on you, monsieur, and found you were gone. We were afraid…” The Doctor hesitated, and suddenly Devin knew exactly what they had feared.
“I haven’t sleepwalked in years,” he said coolly, wondering if it had been Marcus or Gaspard who had warned him.
Mareschal inclined his head. “Waking dreams are often accompanied by sleepwalking, monsieur, I meant no offense. The last few days have been stressful. It would not be unexpected if you suffered an episode here when you are ill and so far from home.”
Devin barely restrained his annoyance. Next, one of them would be suggesting he sleep with a toy to comfort him.
“I assure you, I was completely awake when I came downstairs. I read for only a few moments before Monsieur Chastel joined me. I think he will verify that I have been quite coherent as we talked.”
Chastel grinned, apparently enjoying the repartee. “Indeed, you have been. Can I order some coffee or wine for you gentlemen? It may be the middle of the night, but everyone seems wide awake now. We may as well make ourselves comfortable.”
Mareschal cupped Devin’s forehead with a cool hand and then grasped his wrist.
“You’re still feverish, monsieur, and your pulse is very rapid. You belong in bed.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Devin remarked. Apparently, his extended nap hadn’t done him much good. “I wanted to move into Lac Dupré tomorrow.”
“Well, that is out of the question,” Mareschal replied. “A wolf bite is quite serious. This infection could have grave repercussions.”
“Take care with your choice of words,” Devin remarked lightly.
Mareschal continued to hover. “Monsieur Forneaux mentioned that you wanted to acquire medication to help you sleep. How long have you been having nightmares?”
Devin cleared his throat. “I am in need of a supply of sedative,” he said carefully, “not a diagnosis. I have already consulted with the leading expert in sleep disorders in Coreé.”
Mareschal shifted uneasily. “Still, I prefer not to prescribe drugs without taking a medical background first, monsieur. Laudanum has too often been used indiscriminately among Université men.”
&nb
sp; Devin stood up. “Yesterday evening was the first time I have ever used laudanum, and it was at your insistence, Doctor. I don’t intend to use it again unless there is an urgent reason for it. What I need is valerian.”
“But laudanum is used extensively for sleep disorders,” Mareschal protested. “Valerian is only a mild herbal preparation.”
“I am well acquainted with valerian’s properties and its use,” Devin replied. “It is entirely adequate for my needs.”
Chastel stood up, dislodging a few papers from his desk. “For God’s sake, Mareschal, give the man what he asked for! He has only to visit the apothecary in town if you refuse, anyway.”
“Very well,” Mareschal replied. “I will see that you have a supply of valerian before you leave, monsieur.” He bent to retrieve Chastel’s papers and handed them to him without making eye contact.
The camaraderie they had shared earlier had dissolved. Marcus looked haggard, Mareschal ill-at-ease; Chastel probably only hoped that they would all go back upstairs and leave him in peace.
“Perhaps,” Devin said, patting the head of the largest wolfhound, “I’ll just go back to bed.”
“An excellent idea,” Mareschal agreed. “Rest is very important. I’ll come up and see that you are settled comfortably. In a few days, we’ll discuss when you can safely move into Lac Dupré.”
The faintest of smiles tugged at Chastel’s lips. He touched Devin’s shoulder as he passed. “Sweet dreams,” he said.
CHAPTER 25
Armand
It was actually four days before Mareschal allowed them to leave. Devin was nearly wild with the delay. While his fever continued to fluctuate, Mareschal regaled him with horror stories of deaths and amputations resulting from infected wolf bites. When they finally boarded Chastel’s carriage, Mareschal presented Devin with a list of instructions and promised to visit in a week’s time to remove Devin’s stitches. Chastel merely chuckled and winked at Devin. Devin was sorry to say goodbye to Chastel, but he was infinitely relieved to escape Mareschal’s ministrations.
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