Dark Enchantment

by Karen Harbaugh

  Her words, her fears, her feelings came tumbling forth, released by hope and the obscuring dark of the small room, the screen separating herself from the priest, and the sense that there was no judgment, only listening. Only once she hesitated, her hands clenching into fists, but remembered she would not fear, and told also of her affliction, of her wounds.

  Her words faded into the silence of the room at last, and she felt drained and tired, as if she had just finished a long lesson in swordfighting. Her hands lay lax in her lap, and she waited.

  A chuckle came from the other side of the screen. “Well, indeed, it seems you have not come to confession in a long time if all of this has happened since the last.”

  Catherine smiled. “Yes, I think it has been a while. I cannot remember the last time.” She hesitated. “What must I do, mon Père?”

  Silence, then: “I do not know, ma fille. For the sins I can clearly discern, ten Pater Nosters, and ten Marias. But all else . . .” She heard a rustling on the other side of the screen, the slight negative movement of his head’s shadow. “What you say is remarkable, and though some would say your . . . condition is probably a good thing, I am no expert.”

  “Good?” Catherine grasped the word as a lifeline.

  “What I have heard of stigmata—for that is what you have—has been borne mostly by those who are innocent, and pure in heart. But there are instances where it is not so, and I cannot tell the difference.” He paused. “Do you see it as good, or evil?”

  Catherine’s lips turned down bitterly. “I know not. I only know I would be rid of it, and I do not know why I am so afflicted, for an affliction it is. If it is from God, I pray He removes it. If it is from the devil, then I pray I might receive whatever exorcism is needed to expel it.”

  “A practical answer, mademoiselle.” A sigh sounded from behind the screen. “But not particularly religious. It would be best if this were investigated.”

  Impatience seized Catherine. “Can you not just perform an exorcism?”

  “So you think it might be evil? But an exorcism will not work if it is from God . . . and I have not conclusive evidence either way whether it is from our Lord or from Satan. What if it is from God?”

  Catherine groaned. “Then I wish le bon Dieu would tell me what I am to do with it. It is a most troublesome thing.”

  A chuckle emitted from behind the screen. “It is supposed to be a blessed sign if it is from God, but I myself have speculated that it would, indeed, be inconvenient.” He sighed. “It is something the cardinal would understand better than I. With your permission, I will write to him and ask his advice.”

  Catherine gnawed her lower lip in thought. It would be good to know, and whatever the answer might be, she would be on her way to ridding herself of it. “Very well,” she said. She paused, wondering about the good or evil of her condition. “If . . . I have been afraid, mon Père, that . . . that I myself might be a sorcerer because of my wounds.” Fear rose sharply, but she suppressed it. It was out, at last, her great fear. She did not want to be a source of evil. “How may I know if I am or am not?”

  “It is possible,” the priest said, his voice taking a thoughtful tone. “There are various ways to find out, most of them unpleasant.” He let out a snort of clear skepticism. “As far as I can tell, the methods are torture—which can easily force a confession from even the most innocent, as even the blessed Jehanne d’Arc has shown—or dunking in water, which would drown either the innocent or the guilty.”

  Catherine winced, seeing his point.

  “I for one would not want the death of an innocent to stain my soul, mademoiselle!” he continued. “No, those methods are not exact at all for my satisfaction.”

  Catherine could not help grinning. “I do not blame you, mon Père.”

  A chuckle sounded behind the screen. “I betray my enthusiasm, mademoiselle. I have long been dissatisfied with such methods, and would want better reasoned ways than those.” He sighed. “The least harmful is to allow a sorcerer’s victim to touch him, to see if the victim’s curse or demonic possession ceases. It is said that aside from exorcism, the touch of the sorcerer will cure the victim of whatever afflicts him, if that affliction has come from the sorcerer himself.”

  Catherine shook her head. “I have not cursed anyone, mon Père, nor know of any who is possessed of a demon. If I am a source of evil, I can do nothing but ask for absolution, as I have already done here.” She hesitated. “Do you think . . . what do you think of my affliction? Good, or evil?”

  A long silence came from the other side of the screen. “When I weigh your words and what I know, I can only say I do not know. But . . . in my heart, and in my hopes, mademoiselle, I think it is good.”

  Catherine sighed, and it seemed a weight came off her shoulders. But she shook her head at herself; regardless, it was a burden, and she would be well rid of it, she thought. “I thank you, mon Père,” she said, nevertheless.

  He blessed her, then she took her leave, and went to fetch Mme Felice.

  The inn-wife looked searchingly at her when she found her in the sanctuary, then smiled. “You look well, mademoiselle.”

  Catherine nodded, wondering how much she should tell her. But the woman patted her arm. “You need not tell me. It is enough that you have some relief to your heart and your soul.”

  Catherine nodded again and smiled at her. She would tell Mme Felice later; it was enough for now to think about all she had told the priest and figure out what she must do with herself and her future.

  The evening had fallen while they had been in the church, and Catherine felt a little guilty for delaying their return home, for she knew that if she had not decided to go to confession, there would have still been enough light with which to go home. Paris was dangerous enough during the day, and even more so at night. There were a few flickering lights that the linkboys had hurriedly lit on the streets, but the candles therein were thin and flickered in their lanterns. She hurried her steps in accordance with Mme Felice’s; she was glad the inn was not too far away.

  But it took only a few steps before the hair on Catherine’s neck rose and a harsh prickling centered in her palms again.

  Something was watching them.

  Catherine swallowed and glanced at Mme Felice, who seemed untroubled. Perhaps it was her imagination? Surely that was all it was.

  Her hands began to ache, and she remembered the dagger she had put in her pocket. She looked around her, then glanced behind. The dark mist she had thought she had seen earlier seemed to creep out from the corners of the street, a shadow against the night’s dark. She wet her lips nervously. It reminded her of something, something from long ago. It . . . smelled of something she remembered, and it was not the usual smell of the streets or the alleyways. Her hand crept to her pocket, where her dagger was.

  It came out from the darkest part of the shadowed mist, suddenly, like a bat from a disturbed crypt, but of a man’s height, and misshapen. A scream struggled to release itself from Catherine’s throat, but she could only seize Mme Felice’s arm and push her toward the inn, barely visible from this distance. “Run, madame, run, hurry!” The inn-wife turned to protest, but caught sight of the dark figure that Catherine faced, and she paled, her hand fisted at her mouth. Catherine pushed her again. “Run! Go home, quickly!” Pain sliced her hands, and she gasped.

  Mme Felice crossed herself and found her voice. “But what of you?” she asked, her voice trembling.

  Catherine watched the monster as it weaved toward her, its movements quick and lithe. “Go! It will move quickly, and I can hold it until you leave, and then I will only have to defend myself, not both of us.”

  The older woman nodded. “I will get Robert,” she said. “You cannot face this yourself.” She ran before Catherine could protest.

  It took only a moment’s inattention as Catherine glanced back to see that Mme Felice had left safely. The creature struck, its claws glinting in the faint moonlight as it came down to seize her.
She sidestepped the blow, angry that her skirts hampered her movements, and her hand came up, slicing with her dagger. The creature howled—she had cut it. Green oozed from the wound, and the smell that emitted from the monster was worse than the most rotten offal. She clenched her teeth against the vomit rising in her throat.

  Another swipe, and she moved again to avoid it, whirling under its arm as she extended her arm to cut again at the creature. It hit something harder—bone, she thought—and the monster howled again.

  The next attack did not come as quickly; either she had wounded the monster enough to slow it, or it was reconsidering its attack. She hoped it was the first; reconsideration meant that it had more intelligence to attack than she wished. A glance at what she thought might be its eyes showed nothing but twin pinpricks of red in the midst of blackness, reminding her of—

  The thing lunged, and she jumped back, but it swiped not with its arm but with its leg, sweeping her feet from under her. Even she could hear her gasp of pain as her hip landed on the cobblestones, but she still had hold of her dagger. She rolled, slicing at the monster as it reached to grab her, but it knocked the dagger from her hand, slick with blood.

  “Catherine!”

  Sir Jack’s voice. Relief and sudden strength surged into her. She rolled again away from the monster. Metal skittered on cobblestone, and she saw her sword inches from her hand. She grasped it and swung her arm upward.

  The creature gave a cut-off howl and fell, and its severed head thumped and rolled within inches of hers. Red light flashed in the darkness, searing her eyes for a moment.

  Catherine gasped and moved hastily away, climbing at last to her feet. The monster’s form before her seemed to melt, its flesh flowing outward to puddle on the street. She swallowed, and breathed deeply to slow her pounding heart.

  The stench of the creature nearly choked her, and with it came a hard trembling. Terror and nausea struck her at once, and her knees became weak. She groaned.

  A hand clasped her arm, holding her steady. She looked up. It was Sir Jack, disgust clear in his eyes as he glanced at the remains of the monster before them. He gazed at her, and his expression became concerned. “Catherine, are you well?”

  She took in another breath, this time mindful of breathing through the cloth of her sleeve. “I think . . . I think so.”

  He looked at the pile of sludge before them. “What is that?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. I have never seen its like. It came out of the darkness to attack us.”

  He wrinkled his nose. “Faugh! It stinks worse than a latrine. Let us leave.” She turned and stumbled, but his arm came up to steady her. He eyed her skeptically. “You are not well.”

  She shook her head and smiled slightly as the stench receded. “It is the smell of the . . . the creature. I have been too close to it for too long.”

  “Understandable.”

  She glanced at him, wondering what he was thinking, but the evening’s shadows obscured his expression, showing only the sharp outline of his features.

  She thought of the monster’s actions, how it had attacked, and a slow realization took shape. She looked at Sir Jack again and savored his presence, for she suddenly understood she would soon never see him again. She took in a deep breath, glad that the creature’s stench was behind her, and resolutely raised her chin.

  “M. Sir Jack,” she said. “I will need to leave you, Fichet, and Mme Felice. I believe the creature came not after us as defenseless women, but for me. It is best if I leave, so that I am sure to keep you all out of danger.”

  “Do you know why it came after you?” His words were sharp, abrupt, and she did not know whether it was from anger or urgency. She did not flinch from the sound, and realized that she did not fear any anger he might have.

  “No . . .” She paused and remembered the creature, and the way it had red pinpricks of light for eyes. It reminded her of . . . of something, long ago, something terrible and painful. She swallowed down a residual nausea. “No. But it did not go after Mme Felice when she ran, and she had no weapon. And it reminds me of something long ago, and that is why I think it is after me.”

  “Of what does it remind you?” His voice was still stiff, still abrupt.

  “I don’t know . . . pain, fear. That is all I remember.”

  He said nothing, only nodded slightly, and she realized he had let go of her arm, and that she had clasped her hand at the crook of his arm. She released him, moving away a little. It was too late for such comforts. She had to leave quickly. She took a deep breath and let it out again. “You see, that is why I must go. There is something . . . wrong with me. I cannot let it affect those around me. I must leave so that no one else is harmed.” Grief rose within her, hard and hot, and she closed her eyes. She had hoped . . . she had become fond of the Fichets and her life at the inn, and . . . and she had come to like Sir Jack, as well, for all that she had been frightened of him when they first met.

  A soft warm light lit Sir Jack’s face; they had come to the inn at last. But the light did nothing to soften the grim expression on his face. He looked at her, then nodded curtly before he opened the door.

  “You are right,” he said. “You must leave this place.”

  Grief threatened to overwhelm her, but she bit her lip and suppressed it. She nodded in return. “Yes. I will get my belongings and go now.”

  The door opened, and he waved her inside. The smells of food and wood polish came to her; and her heart twisted in her chest. This had been home to her for the last few weeks. It would be so no longer. She moved toward the stairs, but she felt his hand on her arm, and she turned to look at him.

  His expression, if possible, was more grim than before. “No,” he said. “You will not go now.”

  She looked a question at him.

  “You will go in an hour, with me.”

  Chapter 5

  HE HAD NO CHOICE.

  Jack gazed at the woman in front of him. Her red hair had come loose from its pins and ribbons, flying wildly around her face. A tear in her blouse exposed the top of a rounded breast, and a scratch on her neck bled. Dirt smudged her cheek.

  But her eyes were hauntingly green, surrounded by thick, dark lashes, her figure lithe and sinuous when she had fought.

  He wanted her as badly as he had when she had been unclothed, when he had seen her full breasts and slim waist. And in the moment when she had stiffened her back and gazed at him with resolution, telling him that she had to leave, he knew he could not let her leave alone . . . and that Fichet and Mme Felice were perhaps half right: he wanted Catherine de la Fer. Even now, as she looked at him, and her breath came quickly between her lips, he wanted to kiss her.

  He forced himself to remember the blood that had flowed from her hands and from her back. Her past was a mystery to her, what she could remember of it, and Fichet had spoken of a power in her family that the Marquis de Bauvin coveted.

  A power that could perhaps call forth demons, a power that bewitched him. If anything should have turned him away from her, the sight of that demon should have, for it was evidence of witchcraft. But it had not, and he had given her sword to her instead.

  He looked away from her, unable to bear her direct, lost gaze, then jerked his chin toward the stairs. “Go up and clean yourself off. You have dirt on your face and on your clothes. Then report to me in my chambers.” He said it as if he were speaking to a raw recruit in the king’s army. His words had the effect he wanted; instead of protesting his command to stay, anger replaced the grieving loss in her eyes, and she turned and stomped up the stairs.

  He went to the taproom, where Mme Felice already had a mug of cider ready for him. She handed it to him in silence, merely looking her question at him. Fichet was with her, also silent, wiping mugs with a cloth and casting glances at him from time to time.

  The inn was fairly quiet. Those who had come for their dinner were occupied with it; those who had come to stay for the night were mostly in their roo
ms. What talk there was in the common rooms was subdued, sleepy.

  Jack looked about him. The guests were familiar, people he had seen before whenever he had stayed here. No strangers. For now, he supposed, they would be safe. But if what Catherine said was so, then it would serve none of them well if she remained.

  “We will leave in the next hour,” he said.

  Fichet raised his brows, pausing over the next mug to clean, and Mme Felice frowned. “What? Now?” the inn-wife exclaimed.

  “You saw what she fought.”

  She paled and clutched her husband’s arm.

  “’Tis sorcery.” He lowered his voice, for such an accusation could cause an inquisition and a burning. “She has said that if she were to stay, she would endanger you. She is right.”

  “The sorcery is not from Mlle de la Fer,” Mme Felice whispered fiercely. “She went with me to the church, and made her confession. She was sinless when the . . . the monster attacked.”

  The relief that came to Jack dissipated when he remembered that he did not believe in such superstitions, for he was of the same mind as his king: the differences in religion were nothing but trouble, and he could not see any more holiness in one than another. . . .

  But then he himself had seen the monster. If such things existed, then perhaps . . .

  Perhaps nothing. For all he knew, there were no rules that governed such creatures as he had seen but a few minutes ago. He shrugged.

  “If it came not from her, then it came from someone who wishes her ill. In either case, if such a person has power enough to summon such evil, then it may well hurt those around her.”

  “It did not hurt me!” Mme Felice insisted.

  Fichet laid a hand on her arm. “Peace, wife. It may not have hurt you because mademoiselle made you leave.” He turned his gaze to Jack. “But what of you?”