Dark Enchantment

by Karen Harbaugh

  “And that includes making another call upon Louis. And no, you may not go openly. I am still talking with the Spanish, after all.” His Majesty’s face took on an optimistic look, however, and he smiled widely, eagerly. “But look you, we’ve caught a Cromwell rat that can talk, and did.” He sat again in his chair and waved Jack to another. Jack sighed in relief. He was not going to get the dressing-down he expected.

  Charles leaned forward, his dark eyes alight. “My cousin-king still fears his nobles, and rightfully so, though in my opinion he’d best keep them busy on their estates rather than demand they attend him. A man’s less likely to knife you in the back if he’s a league away, after all.”

  Jack’s attention sharpened, and he raised his brows.

  “Aye, you’ve guessed it,” Charles said, correctly interpreting his expression. “It’s a devilish plot against the life of the king, a conspiracy between Cromwell and a couple of Louis’s nobles.”

  Jack let out a breath. “Very grave, then, in more ways than one. Did your rat give any names, Your Majesty?”

  The king grinned briefly at the pun, then nodded. “Aye, two: the deceased Comte de la Fer and the Marquis de Bauvin.”

  Fear smothered Jack like a black shroud, and his breath left him. The room spun for a moment around him, and he rose slowly from his chair, grasping the back of it to steady himself.

  “Jack?”

  He forced his attention back to Charles, who had risen again and looked at him with concern. “I am sorry, Your Majesty, but I must go—now.”

  The king frowned, affronted. “You’ll not leave until I give you leave, Marstone.” He peered at Jack, and his face became concerned. “And I think I’ll call a physician, for you look more ghost than man.”

  Jack pressed the palms of his hands over his eyes, then shook his head. “Your Majesty, I’ve just come from the home of the Comte de la Fer and seen de Bauvin with him.”

  Charles’s expression sharpened and he leaned forward. “So it’s true, then. And?”

  “I fear there’s not just treason, but sorcery.” He explained quickly, almost frantically, of his return of Catherine and his encounters with the demon and the supernatural fog.

  It was obvious to him now. He had tried to be objective, had told himself that Catherine could very well have been the source—an unwitting source—of these occurrences. He had no reason to think otherwise; what he had heard of the supernatural had always seemed random and without reason in its movements. But two things were clear: Catherine had a certain power—he had seen how quickly she had healed from her wounds and how she had more strength than anyone would expect of a woman, much less one who had been so severely injured.

  And she had been the focus of supernatural attacks.

  He had seen no reason for it, and thus had seen such attacks as random, or perhaps arising from her own powers. But it could not be a coincidence that she had once been the betrothed of the Marquis de Bauvin and that the marquis and her brother were conspiring against Louis. Fichet had said that the de la Fer fortunes had declined, but Jack had dismissed the report when he had seen the rich cutlery and clothes of the family. But if it were indeed so that the de la Fers had little money, and since it was clear that de Bauvin wished to marry into the family, regardless of which de la Fer bride he’d wed, it must also be so that he sought some prize other than the woman herself. If the marquis wished to topple King Louis from his throne, he’d want as much power as he could find.

  “Well.” King Charles leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers before him. “I have lost my kingdom, my wealth, and have wandered homeless almost half my life. I have been pulled and hammered between Catholics and Presbyters until my own faith has been sorely tested, and I wondered if God has decided to curse the whole of my life.” He let out a long sigh. “I tell you, Jack, I can only think that the fact that you have seen de la Fer and de Bauvin together must be divine Providence itself, and proof that God at last will see me home.” He gave an incredulous laugh, as if he was not sure whether to believe his good fortune. “It’s all come together. The Parliament’s dissatisfaction with Cromwell and his son, General George Monck’s support—yes, that’s the other thing, can you believe it? And now this, a way to convince Louis to support us, to show that God’s on our side, not Cromwell’s.”

  He rose, and Jack rose, as well. The king paced back and forth restlessly, his face growing more animated. “Go immediately to Versailles. Tell Louis it’s a matter of import, a threat on his life. He’ll see you then, by God!”

  Catherine. Her image rose before Jack’s mind’s eye again. She was with that bastard de Bauvin, and God help him, he could not leave her in that monster’s hands. He gazed at King Charles with all the respectful firmness he could muster. “Your Majesty, if it please you . . . I have to see to Mlle Catherine de la Fer’s welfare. She’s in danger, and could be a pawn in her brother’s and de Bauvin’s plans.”

  Charles cut the air with his hand in an impatient gesture. “You will do as I say and go straight to Versailles. We do not know exactly when de Bauvin and de la Fer will strike.” The king frowned. “God’s blood, Jack, you took your time traveling to me, so I needs must come to you. You’ll not disobey me in this over a mere wench, or I’ll have your head and your estates, too.” He paused and his gaze softened. “Look you, Jack, we all have made sacrifices, even I.”

  Jack bowed stiffly. “As you say. But Mlle de la Fer is key—”

  “By God, Marstone, you stretch my patience!” roared the king. His hand rested on his sword, as if he was ready to pull it out, and he strode over to Jack and stood but inches from him. He seized the front of Jack’s coat and pulled him face-to-face.

  It was a war of stares. Jack gazed unblinking, teeth gritted, into his king’s eyes, and Charles stared angrily back. Silence reigned for a long moment before the king released him.

  “You’ve been seduced by a possible witch, and you won’t see it.” The king’s eyes bored into his own. “If Louis is killed before he sends me aid, then you’ll present your head for the hangman’s noose, Marstone.”

  Jack nodded, relieved. “I’ll build the gallows myself, Your Majesty.”

  Charles looked grim. “I’ll hold you to it, I promise you.” He presented his hand, and Jack took it and knelt before him. “Now go, or else I’ll give in to my impulse to run you through now, for I swear I have never met a more troublesome subject as you, Jack.”

  Jack grinned. He’d been forgiven, he knew, for the king had stopped calling him Marstone and returned to calling him Jack. Charles grinned back. “Damn your eyes.” He waved him away, and Jack moved to the door. “And, Jack—”

  Jack turned to gaze questioningly at his king. “Yes, Your Majesty?”

  “Godspeed.”

  Chapter 11

  CATHERINE CRIED OUT AND SAT UP IN her bed with a jerk. She breathed in frantic gasps, then forced control over herself, taking in deep slow breaths instead. Her heart still hammered, but as she sat and unclenched her hands, her heart slowed. She swallowed and looked about her. There was no one here. It was a dream. It was as Père Doré had said: the touch of a sorcerer would cure his victim of the spell.

  She dreamed every night, dreamed the memories de Bauvin had stripped from her. He surely was the one who had done it; there was no other explanation.

  She remembered it all now: how she had dressed herself carefully the day before her wedding to the marquis, for her father had beaten her until she had agreed to wed him, and the welts still burned when she put on her dress. She remembered how her aunt, Tante Anna—the Comtesse de Lisle—had visited her in her room. Her aunt had smiled slightly when she entered, but a shadow of fear crossed her face as she looked at her niece. She looked anxiously about her, then focused her attention on her niece and clasped her hands tightly in her own. Catherine had looked questioningly at her.

  “Listen to me, Catherine—” The comtesse’s voice hesitated. “You must not marry the Marquis de Bauvin.”


  Catherine wet her suddenly dry lips. Her aunt’s voice was full of fear, and she remembered again the rumors that had floated about her bridegroom. She had met de Bauvin once, but though he was handsome enough, there was coldness underneath his civil veneer, and she could not like him. But her father had beaten her when she refused the marquis’s proposal of marriage, and she knew she had no choice. Her father would beat her until she either married de Bauvin or another, perhaps worse man. She had hoped that at least de Bauvin would not beat her. She looked at her aunt, and her heart ached, for she knew her uncle the comte was brutal to her, and beat her gentle Tante Anna when he was drunk. At least she had not heard that de Bauvin was a drunkard.

  Catherine squeezed her aunt’s hand. “Tante, the marquis is not a drunkard—” She stopped and bit her lip, ashamed she had blurted out what must be an embarrassment and pain to her aunt. She gazed at the older woman’s tired face, aged more than her forty years, and noticed a bruise on her cheek, barely hidden by her cap atop her curling hair. Anger flared in Catherine and her hands turned into fists at the thought of her uncle. If she were a man, she would fight him—

  But she was not. She opened her hands and laid them neatly one on top of the other on her lap as she had been taught since a child, and was glad they did not tremble with the hatred she felt for her uncle . . . and her father, for they were one and the same in nature.

  Her aunt looked away for a moment, then met her eyes squarely. “My dear, I would spare you worse than what I suffer daily. De Bauvin is an evil man . . .” She swallowed, and looked about her in fear again. “You remember my Jeanette—”

  Dread crept into Catherine’s stomach. “My father said she had a fever—”

  Her aunt shook her head, and when she gazed into Catherine’s eyes, her own were full of agony. “No. She disappeared. She was last seen—I saw her—in de Bauvin’s company. And then she was gone, no one knew where. But then my husband took me to a dinner at the marquis’s house, and I found her necklace and rosary, just outside de Bauvin’s study. What else could it be but that he took her away?”

  Dread clutched Catherine’s heart harder, making it beat painfully. “No, no, surely it cannot be true,” she said, her voice lowering to a whisper in spite of herself. “Perhaps she dropped it the last time you visited—”

  A knock silenced Catherine’s words and both women looked toward at the door. Catherine glanced at her aunt’s frightened face. “Be easy, Tante, it is no doubt only my maid—entré, Minette!” The door opened, and she heard her aunt sigh with relief when she saw it was indeed the maid who entered.

  Minette gave a curtsy. “Has mademoiselle decided on the flowers she will wear?”

  Catherine itched with impatience and almost blurted out that she would wear a funeral wreath. She kept her face composed and her hands in her lap instead. “Roses,” she replied. “We have many in our gardens, and I believe red will do.” Rebellion boiled in her gut, even though she kept herself still. She hoped Minette would get some roses that had long thorns that would scratch the marquis should he come too close to her. The thought made her smile, enough so that she could say pleasantly, “Do leave me to my aunt’s attention, Minette, for we have not seen each other this age, and I would have a comfortable talk with her.” The maid curtsied and left.

  She turned to her aunt. “Come, my dear tante, help me undress and put on my other clothes. It is not proper for me to greet guests in my wedding gown.”

  She hoped the distraction of the maid would turn their conversation in another direction, but it did not. Her aunt clutched her arm.

  “Listen to me, ma chère. I know my daughter; she would have given me word had she been able, but all she could do was leave behind her rosary. It was a message from her, for she was a clever girl.” She shook her head again. “I am not as clever, alas, but at least I can keep you from him, the evil one.” She put her hand in the pocket of her skirt and drew out a bag, pressing it into Catherine’s hands. “Take this and leave, my dear niece. And if you cannot, then use what I give you to kill him. And if you cannot do even that, kill yourself, for le bon Dieu must forgive you if you refuse to live with le Diable himself.”

  Catherine gazed, confused and horrified at her aunt, for the woman’s voice grew more frantic as she spoke, her eyes more wild. Her aunt talked of murder and suicide—surely she could not mean it, surely her husband’s treatment of her had made her become mad with fear. Catherine swallowed down her own fear and slowly untied the string that cinched the bag. She went to the bed and emptied it there, then looked at the bag and the contents strewn on the coverlet. Money, enough to travel far from home, and . . . a dagger in its sheath. She picked it up and drew out the knife. It was obviously old, its hilt made of smooth wood, but the blade was polished, as if someone had taken good care of it. She wondered from what armory her aunt had taken it—probably from her uncle the comte’s. He had many such daggers, however, amd would probably not miss it. She pulled out a rosary peeking from under a part of the bag, and then picked up a cross on a necklace that lay next to it. The cross was very plain compared to the rosary, of grey metal—iron, she was sure—and adorned only with a small pearl and a tiny ruby.

  She had slid the cross into her hand, and a small shock made her start, so quickly gone that she thought she must have imagined it—but no, a small drop of blood formed on the palm of her hand. She had wiped it away with her other hand, then carefully turned over the cross, examining it for sharp edges, but found none. Perhaps she had pricked herself earlier while doing needlework, and had not noticed it until now.

  That night she had picked up a book she had left on the bedside table, then curled up on her bed and began to read, smiling a little at the fanciful fairy tale a court lady had penned and published. As she neared the end of the story, her eyes began to droop—she had been through much and was quite tired.

  She had not known what awakened her—a noise, a presence. It had been dark, and the flickering candle only enhanced the shadows around her bed. Her hair hung down in her face, and she pushed it away, annoyed—she had forgotten to undress it. It would be tangled in the morning without a proper brushing. But she yawned and shrugged. Her maid was very good with a brush, and the tangles would come out quickly enough. She turned to blow out the candle.

  And choked back a scream. The Marquis de Bauvin stood in the shadows there, his arms crossed over his chest, staring thoughtfully at her.

  Catherine shoved herself away from him. “Monsieur, you should not be here,” she said, making her voice as stern as she could. “I may be your fiancée, but I am not your wife, and I have kept my virtue as my father has assured you, and mean to keep it until the day I wed—which is tomorrow. Please leave.” She wondered how he had entered—she always locked the door when she went to bed. Had he bribed one of the servants? Her aunt’s words came back to her about her father’s financial obligations—or, dear heaven, had he bribed her father? She closed her eyes briefly and swallowed down fear.

  The marquis did not move from leaning against the wall, and he seemed only to watch her, his face half in shadow, his expression not easy to discern. There seemed to be a sense of curiosity about him, as if she were an interesting species of insect, and he were studying her.

  “Please leave,” she repeated, more forcefully this time.

  He moved at last, but came closer to her, then seized her wrist before she could move farther away from him. He took her chin in his hand and forced her to look at him. She shuddered. His eyes were flat of expression, empty of emotion, empty perhaps even of a soul. Something flickered at his throat, and she became conscious of his state of undress—he wore only the breeches he had worn earlier, and his fine shirt was open at the collar. The flicker caught her attention again—the candlelight shone on an amulet at his throat. The dark crystal seemed to stir with a sluggish, greedy light, and she was drawn into it, pulled as if by a hundred spidery filaments.

  She felt herself move toward him on h
ands and knees, and fear guttered in her stomach so that she felt she could not breathe. She clenched her teeth and a sharp prickling in her hands began. Her nightgown pulled against her back and pain from the weals forced her to gasp. . . .

  She wrenched her eyes away from the amulet and looked at the marquis.

  He released her then, his brows raised.

  “Interesting,” he said at last. “You should not have been able to do that.”

  Catherine scrambled away from him and swallowed down bile. She had not had any control over her own body; she had crawled toward him as if she had been a dog, she who had taken pride in her self-control. The thought made her want to vomit, and the dread that spread from her heart to her gut made her want to scream.

  “Stay away from me. Stay away.” Her voice sounded unnaturally loud in her ears, but she could not have shouted, for her throat felt closed with tension.

  “Tell me, Catherine,” the marquis said in a conversational tone. “Do you have a dagger, a weapon of particular . . . power? Something that gives you more strength than you normally would have?”

  He must be mad. He talked to her as if she had not spoken at all, as if they were in a drawing room conversing upon the weather. How was she to respond? She glanced at the door. If she were quick—

  The marquis seized her wrist again and pulled her to him. “No, mademoiselle. Neither one of us will leave this room until I find and take the source of the de la Fer power, whether it is a weapon or . . . something else.”

  She would scream. Surely someone would hear her. She drew in a breath, but the marquis clamped his hand over her mouth. “Don’t. It is useless to cry out. No one will pay attention. I have made sure of it.” He looked down at her, and his expression changed, no longer empty now, as he pulled her even closer against his body.