His hand paused in bringing the wineglass to his lips, and he looked over the edge of it before he sipped. “In what way?” His voice was bland, but she was sure his attention was caught.
She gave a hesitant laugh. “You will think me very silly, monsieur, but . . .” She watched as he leaned forward. Yes, he was all attention, she was sure. “Some very strange things happened to me in Paris.”
He smiled, and this time it did reach his eyes, for an avaricious glint appeared there briefly before his expression turned bland again. “You may tell me, mademoiselle. Am I not your brother’s friend, after all?”
She bit her lip, lowering her eyes, for she did not want him to see the triumph in them. She sighed, then shook her head again. “When I stayed with Sir John Marstone and with the inn-wife, they said that the wounds I had when they found me healed very fast. A miracle, Mme Fichet had said. She had never seen the like, and she had nursed many.” It was an exaggeration, of course, but essentially the truth. “Indeed, even M. Marstone said that I have become stronger than any woman he had known.”
She looked up with a guileless expression, and noted that the marquis’s body had tensed, and that his hand clutched the wineglass so that his fingertips showed white against the clear surface.
She wrinkled her brow in a frown. “Do you remember if I had any such powers, monsieur? Before I was kidnapped to Paris?”
He gazed at her for a long, assessing moment, then his eyes slid away to gaze at the wine in his glass. “No, I am afraid not,” he said. “Our betrothal was shortened by your abduction.”
She sighed. “It is a mystery, then.” She held out her hands to him. “I even went to a priest while in Paris, for I began bleeding from my hands, though I had not hurt them. Oh, they do not bleed now,” she said, when he raised his eyebrows, “but they did.”
“To what did the bleeding respond?” The marquis leaned forward, clearly interested, and Catherine forced herself not to pull away.
He was caught now. He did not even try to pretend she was imagining it all. She made herself frown as if in thought. “I . . . I am not sure. My hands bled when I encountered men attacking a girl in an alley. It happened again when— When I was attacked by a dark monster.” She swallowed and closed her eyes; she did not have to falsify her dread at the memory. “You will say that it was my imagination, but I tell you, M. Marstone saw it, as well.” She opened her eyes again to see the marquis’s gaze upon her, intense with interest.
He leaned back in his chair after a moment, seeming to make himself relax, but he still seemed all attention. “And what happened to this . . . creature?”
“M. Marstone killed it,” she said. “He is a prodigious swordsman.” It was a lie, of course. She had killed it, with Jack’s help, but she did not want de Bauvin to know it. She smiled, and sighed as if in relief. “I am glad you do not doubt my story. I told Adrian of it, and he brushed it off as a fantasy.”
“You told your brother?” There was an odd note in his voice, and she wondered if she should have mentioned it. She had only vaguely mentioned her adventures in Paris to Adrian, nothing as specific as she had just told de Bauvin, for she wanted to protect her brother from feeling more guilt than he already felt. But she wanted to see what effect such words would have on the marquis. It turned his voice sharp, as if he had not expected her to tell her brother.
“Why, yes,” she said, putting surprise in her voice. “He is my brother, and of course would be curious about what happened to me while I was away.” She shook her head. “But he did not believe me, and M. Marstone was not there to verify it.”
The marquis nodded and seemed to relax. He shot a glance at her. “I would not put much thought into it, mademoiselle. You were ill, and your mind had been affected so that you remembered nothing of your life. It could well be fantasy. Perhaps we shall talk of this again.”
She frowned again, but only to cover her triumph. He was caught, indeed, and if this did not divert his attention from Blanche, she did not know what would. “I would be glad to talk of it again,” she said. “The bleeding is a nuisance, and I would like to be rid of it.”
The marquis smiled, and this time it looked genuine. “I will be glad to be of service, mademoiselle,” he replied.
A clock chimed then, and the marquis rose and took his leave, for he was meticulous about his outward manners. Catherine smiled fiercely as the door closed behind him. The marquis had exposed himself and his interest well. He was not aware that she had regained her memory, so he would be that much more vulnerable to her. She would be willing to wager that he would visit more often now, and then she would be able to discern more about his purpose in coming to Versailles. She was relieved to note that her brother did not go to de Bauvin’s home in the evenings but a few times, and then it was only for dinner, after which he soon returned.
She frowned. Adrian was looking more tired, more worn these days, though he did not spend his time in dissipation as young men often did at court. Were the matters of their estate worrying him so? It was clear that they expended a great deal of money traveling to Versailles, and though she had tried to conserve as much as she could, being at Louis’s court demanded more than she suspected her brother could afford. She had tried to offer her help in managing estate affairs, but Adrian had brushed her off, and a stubborn look had come into his eyes. He clearly felt responsible for running the estate and their financial affairs. And yet he had insisted they come to Versailles, which could not have helped.
De Bauvin must be behind it; Adrian did nothing but sing the man’s praises, and any argument Catherine tried to raise was firmly dismissed. She wished she knew how she might pull her brother away from the marquis’s influence, but she did not know how. Should she tell Adrian the true reason she ran away from home?
Dear heaven. She did not want to, but if it meant she could release him from the marquis’s thrall, then she must. She still needed to find out more about the marquis, and then in a week’s time, she would be presented in court, since that also was the time de Bauvin was to attend the king. If he did anything, it would be then. She wanted to expose him as a sorcerer in front of as many influential witnesses as possible, and if the king did nothing, she would kill the marquis herself.
She swallowed down despair, pressing her lips together in determination instead. She wished Jack were here, but it was a stupid wish. It was necessary she deal with de Bauvin alone. She did not wish for Jack to know what the marquis had done to her; it was a shameful thing, for she had not been able to resist him. It was enough to know that whatever happened to her, her brother and sister would be safe.
Catherine rose and went to her room, and brought out her sword from under her bed. If she dressed in the new military fashion for ladies when she went to court, she could carry the sword, as well, and perhaps tuck it underneath her skirts. It would be awkward, but she could do it. She had tried it, and most of it was well concealed underneath a stiff overdress, and a long shawl draped over her shoulders would conceal the guard and haft. She preferred her trousers and jacket to a dress, of course, but she had practiced a few times with her dress and she could still fence well if her stays were loose and her bodice not constricting.
It was vengeance, she knew. Vengeance for what the marquis had done to her. But she hoped God would forgive her if it was also to save her family.
Chapter 13
THE MARQUIS DE BAUVIN PUT HIS scrying mirror on his dressing table with satisfaction and gazed pensively out his room’s window at the hotel across the street. There stayed Catherine de la Fer, her sister Blanche, and their negligible brother Adrian.
They were in his control now that they were well isolated from any true relationship. They went to balls and parties, to be sure, but the associations were manipulative at least and shallow at best, as most noble associations were. And any that threatened to become more, he made sure they would not last.
For example, Sir John Marstone. He was a nuisance, and now the marquis was
rid of him. The man was obviously the one who had destroyed the first dark seeker he had sent out in Paris to search for Catherine de la Fer, so he had dispatched this second one. But the combination of the bramble-mist and the seeker had done the trick: Sir John was severely disabled, if not dead. Dead, more likely. He’d seen for himself the fool’s lifeless body tossed along the side of the road.
The marquis gazed for a long moment at the hand mirror he had placed on the table, frowning. He would almost have thought that M. Marstone had some power of his own, for a similar obscuring light had been about him as had been about Catherine de la Fer in the hand mirror. But it was of no import now; the man could not interfere with his plans.
Now he would turn to other, more important matters. In a few days, he would be in the presence of King Louis. He had both the de la Fer sisters within his reach; even better, the elder had no memory of her past, and her power had increased to such a point that his sorcery could feed from it without even having to take her. He could use a simulacrum, or summon an incubus, and send it to her room to draw the power through it to him.
He half closed his eyes, remembering the night he had taken Catherine, so as to find the source of and draw off her power. He was not certain which way he would rather do it. There was a certain deliciousness in watching her struggle in fear, but then doing it from afar by incubus would mean he could watch her helplessly unable to resist the power of the demon as it sucked away her power night after night and left her an empty shell.
Or no. There was the younger girl to consider. She had the power, as well. Why not make it last? He would take Catherine himself—he would enjoy that. Meanwhile, he would use the incubus on Blanche, slowly, over the course of a few months. That meddler Cardinal Mazarin would be dead, and he would have control of the king by then, or perhaps even be king himself.
Yes, he would do this. He must be patient, however. The power was best wielded when freshly taken. He’d use an incubus on Blanche for now, and use her power to continue influencing the Comte de la Fer as well as other nobles in Louis’s court. The night before the revolt, he would take Catherine’s power, and then . . .
The marquis smiled. And then he would be king.
Sometimes Jack thought he was in heaven, and sometimes he thought he was in hell.
Mostly hell.
Something squeezed his lungs so that he could not breathe from the pressure and the pain, and his skin felt burned and stretched across his bones. He’d hear voices, sometimes Fichet’s, sometimes his father’s, and sometimes the slippery smooth voice of the Marquis de Bauvin, telling him he was nothing but a failure, a rogue, and a dammed idiot. The hellish thing was that it was true, and no doubt the pain and burning he felt was his punishment.
But then he’d hear Catherine’s voice calling to him, telling him to come to her, soon, and the pain would lessen. That was heaven.
He tried to block out the sounds of the others, and reached for Catherine’s voice. But soon her voice faded and, oddly, became Fichet’s, though they were nothing alike. It disturbed him, and at last he opened his eyes.
It was, unfortunately, Fichet. The innkeeper stood over him with a wet towel, a mug of what looked suspiciously like hot tea, and a frown.
“We had better be in Versailles,” Jack said. It came out as a whisper, and he noticed his throat felt sore.
Fichet thrust the mug at him. “Drink, M. Sir Jack.”
“Are we in Versailles?” Jack asked, not quite putting the mug to his lips.
“Drink first, then I will tell you.” Fichet’s frown grew deeper.
Jack drank, then almost spit out the tea before he swallowed it down. “It’s a damnable draught—what is it, piss?”
Fichet’s lips twisted downward even farther than Jack thought possible. “No, monsieur, it is a tisane, from Felice’s own recipe. It is for the fever and to knit broken bones, and look you, if I had not given it to you, you would still be very ill. Drink the rest.” He eyed Jack grimly. “And be grateful.”
Jack drank, tamping down his impatience. “There,” he said. “Now. Are we in Versailles?”
Fichet said nothing, pushing Jack back down on the bed, and applying the cold towel to his forehead.
“Well?”
Fichet sighed. “No, we are not. We are in an inn on the road between Rouen and Paris.”
A long string of expletives burst out of Jack, and halted only when he remembered he had resolved to try not to curse so much. He threw the cold towel from his forehead and glared at Fichet. “I can understand why I am not in Versailles—I have been to the north, at the command of my king. However, I distinctly remember I sent word that you were to go to Versailles and why you were to go. Or did you not read my letter?”
Fichet’s expression was disapproving as he picked up the towel, pushed Jack down again with insistent force, and placed the towel on his forehead again. He gazed sternly at Jack. “Monsieur, I did indeed read it, and thought it foolishness, and so did my dulce Felice.”
“Foolishness!”
“Yes, and idiocy, as well.”
Anger flared, and Jack pushed himself off the bed, then almost vomited from the vertigo and pain that slapped him down again. He caught Fichet’s amused look.
“Very well, you’ve had your revenge. But at least you owe me an explanation for why you are not watching over Catherine.”
Fichet looked haughtily down his nose at him. “Because your message was foolishness. It was obvious to me and my good wife that you were in more need of protection than mademoiselle.”
“Oh, really?” Jack snarled. His head pounded, and it did nothing for his temper, but the experience of pain just minutes ago kept him from reaching out to wring the innkeeper’s neck.
“It is truth,” Fichet replied calmly. “You said that you had seen de Bauvin at dinner while you were at the home of the de la Fers. Since you were very sure in your letter that de Bauvin is a sorcerer—and you are a skeptical man of all things religious and supernatural, M. Sir Jack—then it must be so. Felice and I knew immediately that if indeed de Bauvin was a sorcerer, he would do all he could to keep you from mademoiselle, and thus your life would be in danger.”
“And what brought you to that conclusion?” Jack itched to throttle Fichet, but he remembered that patience was a virtue, and besides, he might feel like vomiting again if he rose from the bed.
Fichet sniffed as if offended. “It is clear to anyone who looked at you that you are in love with mademoiselle, and she with you, although she is better at hiding it. Since it is reasonable to assume the study of sorcery needs much perception, it follows that the marquis must be a man of such parts. Therefore”—Fichet smiled triumphantly—“the marquis would see your affection for Mlle de la Fer, and do all to keep you from her. He might not do anything if you left, but he would do all in his power if you returned.” The innkeeper looked at him critically, his gaze resting on the bandages wrapped across Jack’s chest and more on one arm. “You returned. Therefore, he must eliminate you.”
Jack pressed his lips together in frustration. “Very well. But does this not even suggest to you that Catherine would be in even more danger than I?”
“No.”
“Enlighten me,” Jack said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
“I have sent Père Doré to Versailles to attend her.” Fichet went to the other side of the bed and examined the bandage on Jack’s left arm. He nodded approvingly as he pressed on it, and when Jack only winced from a stinging sensation.
“A priest!”
Fichet looked at him gravely. “But of course. If the marquis is a practitioner of the dark arts, then it is reasonable to send a priest to counter the evil with whatever holy rituals he may know. Also, mademoiselle told Père Doré about her condition before you left for Normandy, and the good curé decided under the circumstances to see the cardinal about it, regardless. The priest already has entrée to the king’s court, and since I have informed him of your message, he also knows of de B
auvin’s sorcery; it is therefore much more useful for me to search for you than for me to attempt a very useless entrance into the king’s court.” He smiled a very self-satisfied smile. “You must admit it was useful.”
Jack rolled his eyes. “Very well. It was useful.” It did make sense, and he felt more of a failure than before. But he held out his hand in apology, and Fichet grasped it. “’S truth. I’m grateful, Fichet . . . and if I’d half a brain, I would have thought of it.”
The innkeeper raised his brows. “I do not see how. Not even I, Robert Fichet, would have seen it had Felice not told me after you left that mademoiselle had allowed Père Doré to consult with the cardinal about her condition.” His gaze was kind and wise. “You cannot know or do everything, M. Sir Jack. Not even I. We can only seize of life what we can and be grateful for the good, hein?”
Jack shrugged, a resistant gesture, but Fichet’s words gave him a measure of comfort. His life from a youth had been full of regrets that always led to more regrets, and it was a burden he’d worn so long he did not know how to release it. It spurred him to loyalty and to duty, as well . . . and were these not honorable things?
He thought of his loyalty, born, he knew, from the inadvertent but very real betrayal of his family to Cromwell’s men. At the very least, he had tried to make up for it . . . somehow.
He pressed his lips together in disgust at himself. Damme, if he’d let himself sink into a melancholy. It was a useless state, and he’d be better off getting out of bed and seeing to that duty he so prized and to Catherine’s safety.
He looked at Fichet, who was preparing yet another tisane. “How long have I been abed?”
“Two days.” The innkeeper held out the steaming cup. “Drink more, please.”
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