Dark Enchantment

by Karen Harbaugh

  Adrian. Fear hit her sharply again. Her brother, also, had looked tired and worn . . . perhaps it was not only estate affairs that had made him seem so weary. Dear heaven. Did de Bauvin sap Adrian of his life, as well? She thought wildly of taking her brother and sister away quickly, but she knew it would be of no avail; de Bauvin would only follow them. She had to expose his sorcery as soon as possible. But how? How?

  She shook her head. For now, she needed to pretend she suspected nothing. Now that it was possible Adrian was also under some kind of spell, he might tell de Bauvin of her suspicions if she revealed them. Despair tugged at her spirits at the thought of one more obstacle, but she suppressed it. She could not give in to hopelessness.

  Catherine left the room, going down to the parlor again, for it was possible they might still have visitors. But there were no more, and she was glad to be alone. She was content plying her needle and plotting the downfall of the Marquis de Bauvin.

  However, the next morning, Blanche was the same as before. Catherine had thought that perhaps sleep would help her recover, but if so, she was far from recovering. She gazed at her sister resting peacefully. Blanche still had not moved from the tucked-in position that Catherine had set her. Even at her most fatigued, the girl had never slept so long or so still.

  “Mademoiselle, she has not moved except to breathe—I would almost think her dead if not for that,” Marie said, when Catherine had summoned her.

  “Hush! Do not say such things,” Catherine said, for a shiver of dread crawled up her spine at the maid’s words.

  “I wonder if she is ill, mademoiselle.”

  “I . . . I do not know. We must find a physician immediately. Go, call a footman, and send for one.” Marie left.

  Catherine sat on the edge of the bed and took Blanche’s hand in hers. It was lax, but warm. She leaned over and shook the girl’s shoulder, then slapped her hand. No response came from her, only the still-steady breathing. Desperation choked Catherine, and she seized both of Blanche’s shoulders, shaking her whole upper body. “Please, please, Blanche, wake up. Please!”

  The girl responded no more than a rag doll might, her head rolling back, and her arms flopping to each side.

  No. No. Catherine clenched her hands into fists. This was her fault. She should have insisted on leaving Blanche behind in Normandy . . . but if she had, for all she knew, the marquis would have done worse. She did not know what to do. Pressing her hands over her face, she moaned, rocking herself back and forth. She needed to do something, something to revive Blanche.

  A knock sounded at the door; it was the doctor, and Adrian followed him, gazing at Blanche with clear worry.

  The doctor was a portly and intelligent-looking man, who bowed in a competent manner and looked with concern at her sister sleeping so still in the bed.

  Hope rose. Perhaps it was something of natural origin—perhaps it was something easily cured by cupping or bleeding, with some medicine. Quickly, she told him of Blanche’s condition the night before, leaving out the supernatural aspects, for she was not certain the man would believe her.

  She watched as the doctor bent and listened to the girl’s heart, felt her pulse, but after the long, silent examination, he shook his head.

  “I can find nothing wrong, Mlle de la Fer, other than her unresponsiveness. She does not even seem to have a fever.”

  Catherine nodded.

  “It could have been a fever the night before.” He shook his head again. “I will give you a tisane in case the fever returns, and then I will bleed her only a little, since she is not in a fever now.” He looked at her and Adrian kindly. “Do not worry. She should awaken soon, I think. If she still does not, then send for me again and I will see what can be done.” He nodded toward Blanche. “If you will help me with the bleeding, I will be most grateful.”

  Catherine stepped forward and held the bowl, and she closed her eyes briefly and gritted her teeth at the sight of the blood that dripped slowly down her sister’s almost snow-white skin. Anger and grief pounded behind her lips, wanting release. But she swallowed it down, waiting for the doctor to be done with the bleeding.

  It was, indeed, only a little blood, but it seemed to Catherine to take too long. The doctor seemed satisfied, however, and she helped press a small pad to the wound as he wrapped a bandage around it securely.

  He bowed again before he left. “I will admit I have not seen the like,” he said, shaking his head. “But she is only a little pale, her breathing is normal, and her temperature is neither too high nor too low. If I did not know any better, I would say she is merely sleeping.”

  “But she does not waken when I shake her,” Catherine said.

  “Yes,” the doctor replied. “That is the thing. She does not waken.” He hesitated. “It would not hurt, I think, to have a priest say prayers over her.”

  Dread chilled her. “Are you saying she might die?” There, she said it.

  He shook his head, smiling kindly. “No, I do not think so. But prayers would not hurt. I have seen many strange things, and even seen such evils as the plague strike some and avoid others who lived in the very same house. For all that we doctors learn what we can of the body, there are things that are also beyond our knowledge.” He sighed. “As I say, having a priest pray for her cannot hurt.” He bowed once more, then left.

  She turned back to the bed and found Adrian sitting there, Blanche’s hand in his. The room’s drawn curtains cast a shadow on his face, making him seem aged, even skeletal. He was thinner than he had been before, Catherine thought, alarmed. He looked up at her, clear grief in his eyes. “Will she be well, do you think, sister?”

  He does care for us. The thought brought a certain relief to her, for at least what influence de Bauvin had over her brother had not stripped him of affection. Adrian cared at least for Blanche.

  “I wonder if you are feeling well yourself, Adrian. I think I shall ask the doctor to return to attend you,” she said.

  He waved a dismissive hand. “I am well, only tired. Do not concern yourself with me—I need only rest for a while, after I am sure Blanche is well.” Stubbornness sounded clearly in his voice, and she remembered he would argue into the night if he felt he was right. She gazed at the shadows beneath his eyes, and grief filled her heart. She could not weary him any more than he already was; he needed whatever strength was left to him.

  Perhaps Adrian’s care for their family was stronger than his loyalty to de Bauvin. Perhaps he would help her if she revealed to him that the marquis was behind Blanche’s illness and that she suspected the man of sorcery.

  She went to her brother and laid her hand on his arm. “I think Blanche will recover, but we should also call a priest.”

  He frowned, clearly perplexed. “Why a priest? If she will recover, then what is the difference whether a priest attends her or not?”

  She wet her lips, wondering if she should tell him her suspicions now. “It . . . it could be sorcery.”

  He stared at her, incredulous. “‘Sorcery’? I think not.”

  She sat next to him and clasped his hand. “Why not? I tell you, I have seen supernatural things while I lived in Paris, and this smells of the most dark enchantment. En vrai, we have had sorcery very close to us.” As close as across the street, she thought.

  He stared at her skeptically. “Catherine, you have been ill, as well, and have lost your memory. I have never seen any such, and to assume that Blanche’s illness was caused by some sorcerer is foolishness.”

  Anger flared, and she released his hand, moving back from him. “Then what do you think it is? She had no illness before this, and in fact is a very healthy girl. It was not until the Marquis de Bauvin came to live in the rooms across from us that she became ill.”

  Her brother stared at her for a long moment, then shook his head. “You are joking, but this is no laughing matter, sister. Are you saying that the marquis—my friend, and friend to our family, your betrothed—is a sorcerer?”

  Catherin
e gazed him firmly. “Yes.”

  He rose suddenly, anger clear in his face. “You know nothing, Catherine. You know nothing of what happened in the nearly eight months you were gone.” He walked to the fireplace, his back to her, staring into the fire with his hands clenched into fists.

  “I did not tell you,” he continued. “You were ill, and just returned to us.” He cast an unreadable glance at her before he returned to gazing at the fire. “You think that kidnappers beat you and took you away.”

  Catherine sat, frozen. Did he know her story for a lie, then?

  “I am sure it’s not so for I found no trace of strangers when I questioned our neighbors about your disappearance. Our father—” He said the word as if he spoke a curse. “Our father beat you. He beat you severely, before you disappeared.” He waved a dismissive hand. “If you ran away, I do not blame you. I hated him, our father. He was stupid and let our land go to ruin, so that we had nothing but our name to marry off.” Adrian’s voice was full of loathing, breaking Catherine’s heart. “He beat all of us, except for Blanche, and that was only because she was with the convent sisters from the time she was very small. I think the beatings eventually killed our mother and her unborn child.”

  Catherine felt ill. She had thought Adrian too young to have known about their mother. She thought she had protected both her brother and sister, but it was clear she had not. Perhaps that was why she had acquired her affliction—it was punishment for not caring for her brother and her mother well enough. She gazed at Blanche, so quietly asleep on the bed. Or her sister, for that matter.

  “If you knew that our father had beaten me, and that he had agreed to my marriage with the marquis, why did you agree to Blanche’s betrothal, and then to mine when I returned?” She turned to look at her brother, and saw that he had moved away from the fire, gazing at her earnestly.

  “Because you did not seem averse to him, and because it was to reward him.”

  Unease seeped into her. “Reward him for what?”

  He stepped to her and took her hands, smiling at her. “For ridding us of our father, Catherine, and protecting you.”

  Faintness made her close her eyes, but she managed to take a step back and pull her hands away from him. “Protecting. . . . Rid us of him. . . .” She swallowed. “What do you mean, Adrian?”

  “What do you think?” His voice turned harsh. “Our father is dead. Did you not wonder about it? The marquis found our father beating you severely, and intervened on your behalf. Father attacked de Bauvin for his trouble, and wounded him badly. I saw the bandages on the marquis myself when I returned home, and he explained it all to me.”

  Catherine felt ill. The marquis had explained everything away—the blood, the attack, her disappearance. He was now a hero to her brother. It was no wonder Adrian would hear no ill of the man.

  “I . . . I did not remember. I thought perhaps Father had died many years ago.” It was true, at least at first. But then she had not questioned, for she had been too occupied thinking of the marquis’s threat to them.

  And thinking of Jack. She wished he were here; she wanted his warmth and generosity and strength as she wanted heaven itself. But she had to fight the marquis without him. It was clear that the marquis would attack or use anyone close to her. Jack, at least, was safe; he would be in Breda with King Charles at this moment. As long as he did not return to her, he would be no threat to the marquis, and would no doubt be left alone. She could not even send for Fichet or Felice—they were her friends, and she had burdened them enough.

  She forced herself to take her brother’s hand—it was cold, as cold as that of a man who was on the point of death. She looked into his eyes. There was a feverish look in them, and she knew that she could not tell him of what she knew of the marquis, nor of her dread, knowing that what was left of her family was under dire threat. If the marquis was not drawing out the life force from her brother, as well, at least his influence was still very strong. She would not be able to convince her brother of anything, not even that whatever the marquis had done to kill their father, it was still wrong.

  “I am sorry,” she said. “I did not know.”

  Adrian’s expression softened. “Of course you did not, poor Catherine! I would not be surprised if you lost your memory because of our father’s brutal treatment of you. I tell you, I wished to kill him myself when I found what he had done to you. But the marquis told me all would be well, and that he would help ensure our fortunes would rise again.” He paused, his expression looking lost and alone. “I tried to kill father myself after our mother died.” His face suddenly crumpled in grief. “She looked very much like Blanche, you know. But I was too small, and I was in bed a week from our father’s beating.”

  Tears came to Catherine’s eyes, and she took Adrian into her arms, holding him as if he were still a little boy. He was a young man, but younger than she, and had only a month ago reached his nineteenth year. She remembered Adrian being ill in bed, but had been kept away from him because she was told his illness was contagious.

  “I am sorry,” she said softly. “So sorry. Forget what I have said. It was foolishness.”

  Adrian parted from her, and he smiled. “It is nothing, sister. You could not help any of it—what could a girl do against one such as our father?”

  “I was the oldest—”

  He held up his hand. “And I was the heir and now the Comte de la Fer. I am almost as old as you.” His expression grew earnest and fierce. “I swear to you, I shall not fail this time. Not this time. Our estate shall grow richer, even if it means I work the fields myself.” He smiled, and humor returned to his face. “Although I doubt it will come to that. Our friend de Bauvin will help us, you’ll see.”

  It was clear she could say nothing against the marquis to convince her brother of the man’s evil. Even if she were to tell him what the man had done to her, he would say that it was because her mind had been disordered . . . and it was clear her brother was as burdened by her father’s legacy as she had been. She gazed at Adrian’s determined face, and knew that it would kill him to think that he had failed to protect her from de Bauvin, as he had failed—impossible as it was—to protect their mother. It was not his fault, after all; he had been too young, only a child. She took his too-cold hand and brought it up to her cheek in affection. “I am fortunate, indeed, to have a brother such as you,” she said.

  His grateful smile was her reward; it warmed her, and she knew that once de Bauvin was exposed, all would be well. She was not at all sure what she planned would succeed. There was a large possibility that she might be killed. But even that would achieve her ends: at least it would show de Bauvin for the sorcerer he was; and if she died in the attempt, it would ensure that the marquis would never bother her family again.

  But meanwhile, Adrian needed protection. She thought of the cross she wore, and the one Blanche wore. They were alike, and certainly seemed to banish the spirit from possessing Blanche, in addition to giving her own self a sense of protection and guidance.

  She squeezed her brother’s hand. “You will think me foolish . . . but do you wear a cross?”

  He shrugged. “I did once. But I seemed to have misplaced it.”

  Putting her hand to her neck, she held her cross tightly, then took off the necklace. She placed it around her brother’s neck instead and smiled. “Wear this for me, and keep it with you always. Never take it off.” He began to shake his head and opened his mouth to speak, but she put her fingers over his lips. “No, say nothing. I know you think it foolishness. But wear it for me. I have nothing to give to you that is my own except this.”

  An embarrassed but pleased expression crossed his face, and he took her hand in his. “I thank you, then, and will wear it always, as you say.” He grinned. “I will even find a priest to pray over Blanche. As the doctor said, it cannot hurt.”

  Catherine smiled and squeezed his hand again. “Thank you.” He gave her another hug and turned to the door. She looked after hi
m as he left and let out a long sigh.

  She felt too, too vulnerable without her cross. But it was necessary that her brother be protected. She should have noted earlier the changes in him, but she had been too concerned with the imminent threat to Blanche.

  However, she had changed, as well. She had grown stronger since Jack had found her in the alley, and more skilled with the sword. She knew she was stronger than most women—Jack had said so himself. Tomorrow she would be presented at King Louis’s court, and before she went, she would make sure she went to confession and received absolution for her sins. If she were to fight evil, she would have to be in as pure a state as she could be, especially if she did not have the protection of her cross.

  Tomorrow she would fight the Marquis de Bauvin and would need all the aid she could gather. Jack would not be there, and she was glad, for it meant he would be safe. She thought of Adrian and went to Blanche’s bedside to hold her hand. With luck, her strength and her faith would be enough to save them all.

  Chapter 15

  GETTING ON THE HORSE THRUST THE red-hot poker sensation once more into Jack’s side, and it did not stop when his horse started moving. In fact, it made everything worse.

  He was sure he still had a fever, and was frankly glad of it; it blurred the days of travel into one. The fog of fever dulled his mind so that the fiery pain turned into a numbing ache—dear God, his whole body into a numbing ache—that only flared into intensity when he got up and down from his horse, and when, damn it, Fichet insisted they rest.

  Rest. There was no time. Two days. Two more days behind than he had been. Impatience coupled with fear and gave birth to speed, or as much as Jack could stand, given his dizziness and pain. He’d not give in to it, though, for he’d been on marches before and as badly injured. He tried to remember that when he almost fell from his horse at one stop.