Blanche was not averse to the marriage. She had blushed charmingly, innocently, and had looked surprised and naively pleased when he had complimented her on her appearance. The marquis gazed at her in the shifting smoke of the herbs—she was running through a lighted garden. Her lips curled up in sheer happiness, so unlike what he remembered of her sullen sister. She stopped suddenly, and turned, her smile dropping from her, and de Bauvin saw that her brother approached. For one moment, he resented the Comte de la Fer for being the cause of Blanche’s sudden gravity. But he passed his hand through the smoke, irritated that he had lost his focus from his purpose, and the vision disappeared.
He sat in his armchair again, frowning. He did not know why he could so easily see Blanche through such simple means as an herbal scrye, while Catherine was so hidden from him. It must be because of the strength of Catherine’s power. It was imperative, then, that he find her as soon as he could. Such power allied with his would make him irresistible at King Louis’s court, and then it would take just a few small moves until he had control of the throne . . . and Cardinal Mazarin’s head.
He had to be careful, however. The king had never forgotten the incident of the Fronde, the uprising of the nobles, when he was a child; it was why Louis hated Paris and established his court at Versailles. And the last Marquis de Bauvin had been one of the nobles, and had been savagely executed.
De Bauvin had never forgotten it. He had been a lay brother at the time, and slated for the priesthood, for which he thought he was well suited. He had gone to Cardinal Mazarin himself to plead for his brother. However, the cardinal had promised nothing but soothing words.
When his brother’s head was paraded on a pike, when his lands were stripped from him, de Bauvin had lost all faith, and knew there would be nothing left of his line if he did not act.
So he left the priesthood, and smiled and pandered to the king until it seemed he was at least not viewed with suspicion. He even managed to buy some of his lands back, through good means and ill, and found that the taste of power suited him well. And he watched the movements of the cardinal and the king, until he knew their habits as if they were his own.
He yawned and carefully stretched. It was the afternoon, and he would sleep for a while, for he had much to do in the evening, when his own powers were the greatest.
Some day, he would have control over those who betrayed him, but first he must cultivate control over those he could, to ensure his success . . . and that meant finding Catherine de la Fer and taking whatever he could from her, body and soul.
Chapter 6
THE NIGHT’S CHILL FROZE CATHERINE’S cheeks as she rode swiftly on her horse. She pulled the muffler that Felice had given her up over her nose, and gave a quick look over her shoulder for a dark, misshapen form. She could see nothing but the road, the moon, and the distance spinning it into a silver ribbon behind her. Shuddering, she clutched the reins tight, making her mare toss its head in protest.
She drew in a deep breath and let it out again, and the cold air in her lungs gave her a fresh, harsh clarity. She would not be afraid. She had promised Felice she would not, and she had promised herself, as well.
Still, she thought practically, it was not surprising that she had been afraid. She had never seen the likes of the creature that had attacked her. If it had been a man, she would be over her fear, she was sure, for she had dispatched men before. But this . . . She shuddered. This had been a creature from her darkest dreams.
What was worse, it was no nightmare, for both Felice and Sir Jack had seen it. She wondered again if she herself had been the cause of its manifestation, for was she not cursed with the bleeding from her hands and her back? But Felice had adamantly insisted that it was impossible, for she had just been to confession and had received absolution. The priest himself had thought that it might be more blessing than curse.
Catherine grimaced. He might think so, but he did not have to bear it. She would prefer to be rid of it, and she would work to have it stop as soon as she could. But it was something of a comfort that a priest thought it was not an evil thing. She sighed. It was too bad she could not stay in Paris to find out what the priest would discover from the cardinal.
They must be a few miles from Paris now, she thought, for they came upon fewer buildings along the road, and more trees darkened their path. She glanced to her side and saw that Sir Jack had slowed his horse to a walk. She did likewise. It was difficult to see his expression in the darkness, but the set of his body in his saddle was relaxed.
“That should have put some distance between us and . . . more of those creatures and whatever sent them. It’s a good fifteen miles to the next inn, and at this pace, we’ll be there in three hours or so.”
“Three hours!” Fatigue that Catherine had held at bay so far threatened to wash over her.
“Three hours,” Sir Jack said flatly. “I would be pleased if you kept yourself awake. My apologies, mademoiselle, but if such creatures you attract are active at night, I would prefer to be awake and ready to fight, rather than attacked while I sleep.”
“You are right, of course,” she replied. It only made sense; she would not like to be taken unawares, either. “But how do you know I attract such creatures?”
He glanced at her, and even in the darkness she could tell it was an ironic look. “There is no one else I know whose bloody scars heal in less than half the time of anyone else’s, and I think I can assume such a manifestation is supernatural. When a supernatural creature comes after a woman who has supernatural wounds, I think I can assume the two might be connected.”
Catherine swallowed her disappointment—stupid disappointment, for though she had hoped he might have an argument she could counter, she also had come to the same conclusion. “I did say that I should leave alone,” she said after a long silence. “Indeed, I still do not understand why you bother to travel with me.”
There was an equally long pause, then he blew out an audible breath, as if he were a fighter readying himself for a struggle. “I will be frank with you—I was not going to reveal my motives for keeping your company before, but now . . . now things have changed. I will leave it up to you whether you wish to go farther with me.” He took in another deep breath. “When I found you, I was ready to toss you a coin and leave you to go your own way. But when I saw you were well born, I saw an opportunity to further my king’s cause.”
She cast him a questioning glance.
“I thought to sell you back to your well-born family so that I could send those funds to my king. If not that, then if your family was favored at Louis’s court, I would use their gratitude for your return and their favor to gain admittance to King Louis, and thus again procure funds for my king.” He did not look at her, but ahead, his lips pressing together firmly again. “I thought to get you to better health first, so that you would . . . bring a higher price.”
Catherine closed her eyes. Of course, it made sense. Why would a stranger take on a woman from the gutters? She clutched the reins in despair and her horse stopped. She was not worth much except what price she could bring to Sir Jack’s cause, it seemed, regardless of what Felice had thought.
Sir Jack’s mare took a few steps forward before he also reined it in and turned toward her. “I will not lie to you—I still intend to collect what money I can for your return. I have vowed loyalty to my king, and will not have anything else turn me from that vow. In addition, a woman belongs with her husband, and if she has not that, then her family. Even you must agree this is so.”
Catherine nodded slowly and they continued on. In the normal course of life, it was right. She would have felt the same if she had been in his place. “I understand.” She looked at him, but after a quick glance at her, he said nothing further. She looked away from him at the lacy silhouettes of trees against the full-moon night, and tried not to feel alone and lost. She would just have to find her own way after they parted . . . for she felt sure that she would not like what she would find at he
r home. Yet she knew it was important, at least, to find out more about who she was and why she had come to the alley in Paris, starving and without her memories.
“So,” he said in a conversational tone. “Are you a witch?”
She jerked in her saddle, and fear rose in her. It was a serious query. She had heard rumors of witches being burned or hanged, and it was a question that had skirted the borders of her mind even now, even after her talk with Père Doré. She looked at him, wishing she could discern his expression. He turned and looked ahead of him, but all she could tell from his profile was that he had closed his mouth firmly and set his jaw.
“I do not know,” she blurted. “I assume not, since the priest said he thought my . . . unusualness was not a curse.”
He looked at her, and the moonlight caught his raised brows. “But I am not a Catholic, so the words of a priest hold little weight with me.”
She gazed at him, startled. She hadn’t thought that he might not believe as she did, for he was exiled from his very Protestant country. “Are you a Huguenot, then?”
A slight smile crossed his lips. “No. Let us just say that I have seen enough of un-Christian fighting between various believers that I have become . . . skeptical of their claims to holiness. It has certainly done my king and my country no good. I have seen how the Scottish Presbyters have held the hammer of religion over His Majesty’s head instead of giving freely what is a king’s right and privilege. And your king is known as a devout man.” Sir Jack’s voice held an ironic note. “For all that he has his mistresses.”
“And your king has not any?” Catherine asked, irritated.
Sir Jack laughed. “Aye, that he does, but at least he does not pretend to piety.”
“At least our king is absolved of his sins,” she retorted.
He chuckled. “Until the next time he decides to sin again with his mistresses.”
“Perhaps they are very tempting to him,” she said, wanting to somehow disprove his argument. “Perhaps they use wiles that he cannot resist.”
“Like sorcery?”
The words hung between them for a moment, but Catherine pressed her lips together briefly, refusing to be afraid. “Like sorcery,” she said firmly. “King Louis cannot be held responsible if his will is taken from him.”
This time Sir Jack’s glance was clearly skeptical. “If his will has been so taken, then I would think your country would be less well run than it is, for I hear your king personally oversees every detail of government. Still,” he admitted, “a woman might use her wiles, sorcerous or not, to claim the attention of the king. And there is his habit of postponing his decisions on matters of state and policy forever. Certainly his delays have plagued me more than any sorcery could.”
Catherine stared at him, realization slowly dawning. “You do not take witchcraft seriously.”
“I . . . have not.” There was a pause. “I have seen nothing but harmless old men and women persecuted for their senility, or the accusations of an envious neighbor. No witchery there but accusers who care nothing for breaking more than a few commandments.”
She nodded, feeling relieved.
“But,” he continued, “if I find that you are indeed a sorceress and have had dealings with poisons and forcing people to do evil, then I will feel obliged to hand you over to the authorities. And if I find you applying any of that to me, I shall have to kill you.”
A chill fell over Catherine, but she lifted her chin and stared hard at him. “If you suspect me of such things, then I wonder that you wish to have me along at all. It would be best to leave me with whatever dark creature might decide to have me.”
“You have a point,” he said. Her words seemed not to affect him. “But remember that I am, in general, skeptical of such things, and still think there may be some other explanation than sorcery. Then, too, there is the much-needed money I wish to get from your family.” He turned to her and drew his horse to a stop, and she did the same. “So, now we have our cards on the table, and you may stay with me on my travels until we come to your home, and then you may stay with them until I collect my money. After that, you may do whatever you choose. Or, you may leave now . . . but be sure that I shall find you and collect what I’m owed.”
“Why do you tell me this now?”
Sir Jack hesitated. “I thought it best to bring you away from danger first, or if you are indeed a sorceress, bring you away from my friends. I want you to hold no illusions about me, mademoiselle. What I do, I do out of necessity and loyalty to my king. If you think I will be as loyal to you, you are mistaken.”
“You do not give me much reason to stay.”
He looked away from her. “I know. Except . . .” He stared at her, and his face was in shadow. “Do you know the Marquis de Bauvin?”
She shook her head slowly, searching her feelings. There was a blank, as if a portion of her had been rubbed out . . . but if she had no memory of the man, it meant nothing. She had lost memory of many things.
“I have heard you were betrothed to him.”
She shook her head again. “If I was, I do not remember it.”
Jack gazed at her, wondering if she told the truth. It did not worry him, however; he felt that she did, and he believed he was a good judge of whether a man or woman lied. “Then do you not think it best to discover whether it is true? Perhaps you were stolen from your family and managed to escape your captors, but because you lost your memory, you did not know until now where you belonged.” It was a plausible reason for her being in Paris, he thought.
She nodded slowly. “That is possible. And if I have agreed to marry the marquis, then it would be wrong not to honor that promise.”
A part of him wished she had not come to that conclusion, or that he had even mentioned the marquis. But it nevertheless fell in with his own plans, and he could not wish anything better than that.
“Come, then, and let us watch out for dark creatures as we travel.”
She nodded, frowning at the thought of the monster she had encountered in Paris, and nudged her horse forward with her knees. “I think perhaps there will not be any tonight,” she said slowly.
He turned to look at her. “How do you know?”
She transferred her reins to one hand and pulled off her glove, turning her hand from one side to the other. The moonlight showed pale, smooth skin. “I . . . I feel a pricking in my hands, even pain, whenever evil is near. I felt it in the alley when the men attacked the girl, and my hands even bled then. I felt the same pain when the monster appeared, and again my hands bled. I feel nothing now.”
“A handy measure of danger,” he said, “if it is true.” But his shoulders relaxed, and she thought perhaps he did believe her. “Very well. Tell me when your hands pain you again.” He sighed. “I will be glad of a slower pace, and I am sure our horses will, too.” He jerked his chin forward. “Onward, then, ma chère.” He spurred his horse, and once Catherine pulled on her glove again, she did likewise.
It seemed like forever before a pinprick of light in the darkness told Catherine that there were other human beings in front of them instead of the silent cold night. She urged her horse faster toward the faint light, but the horse, too, was tired and could only manage a halfhearted canter before it subsided back into a slow walk. She could not blame the poor thing, for it had worked hard and faithfully. She looked up at the candlelight that illuminated the windows of the inn before them, and it acted like a sleeping potion upon her. Wary tension fell from her aching shoulders and back, and she slumped in her saddle.
She gazed wearily at Sir Jack next to her; he sat as steadily as he had for the last six hours. They had stopped at Le Chat Gras for only a few hours; there, Sir Jack had allowed her to sleep for a while before they departed again. They had not even stopped to partake of any large meal, but had eaten only what Felice had provided. Catherine could not help feeling some resentment; it was one thing for a soldier to ride steadily for more than six hours, but it was something else en
tirely for someone who was not trained for it. But she forced her back to straighten and lifted her chin nevertheless; she was, in a way, a soldier in training, and she would not complain.
He glanced at her, then said, “Only a few more minutes, and then you may rest.”
“I am not that tired, M. Sir Jack.”
She could see his grin now, for the moon had set, and the early dawn cast its faint light on his face. “Don’t lie. You were slumping in your saddle just now, and I am sure if I had not spoken, you would have nodded off. You are not used to such travel, at least not lately.”
A slight embarrassment made her say roughly, “I did not want to be a burden to you.”
Silence, and he turned away from her so that she could not see his expression. “You are not a burden, and you are only human, mademoiselle,” he said at last. “Besides, I feel much better that you are tired; I am, and would welcome some rest, and would hold a grudge against you if you insisted we not stop at the inn to take in food and sleep.”
There was a teasing note in his voice, and her heart lightened, especially at the idea that he did not think her a burden. She remembered, too, that he had not slept, but had sat guard at her door as she did. She was grateful for that.
But she wished to hold her own in whatever relationship there was between them, and . . . yes, even that he should get his due for his care of her. It was only right, after all. After the initial terror of facing the monster and riding in the night, she had forced calm and logic on her mind, and thought more about what was owed to whom. If she was indeed betrothed to the Marquis de Bauvin, then it was only reasonable that she return to him and to her family.
A flicker of fear came to her, and she remembered that she had thought she had run away from them; but there was no logical evidence of this, and the scars on her back could have come from her kidnappers, or perhaps were supernatural in origin after all. In truth, she knew very little of her past, only her name and where she came from. Her fears, she felt, were as instinctive as her fear that she must have as much food as possible in case what she had would be taken away. All of that could have come from her time in the alley. Food . . . Her stomach grumbled.
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