Dark Enchantment

by Karen Harbaugh

  “Food,” Fichet said firmly, and the sternness of his voice was laced with anxiety. “You must eat, and then rest.”

  Two days. “I’m two days behind, Robert.”

  Fichet’s frown was clearly anxious now, and Jack vaguely remembered he almost never used the man’s first name unless he was in extremis.

  “You will have however many days le bon Dieu desires, and I am sure He desires that you rest and eat.”

  Jack began to laugh, but the hot poker in his side cut it off. “God told you that, did He?” he managed to say.

  “I have the common sense, M. Sir Jack, which is given all men if they so choose to use it,” Fichet said severely. “Which you have not.” The innkeeper nevertheless held him up gently as he almost fell from his horse, and took him into the farmhouse at which they had stopped.

  More of Mme Felice’s tisane was forced into him, and he managed to swallow down food, but he remembered very little of anything else. He might have slept; he did find himself jerking awake once more on his horse. He congratulated himself; he had managed to stay on the animal, at least.

  Not, however, for long, although the days and nights had run together, and he had stopped counting the passing days or even acknowledged that time had passed. Once more he dozed, and a shout roused him—he was falling.

  He could not open his eyes, though he tried. Hands caught him, and he felt himself carried into somewhere warm. He tasted more of Mme Felice’s tisane, and did not resist swallowing it. He had learned by now that it gave him some surcease from the constant pain.

  He dreamed.

  Catherine was in his dreams. She smiled at him, her green eyes alight with love for him, dear God, yes, love. But he could see fear in her eyes, as well. She was in danger, he knew. It was why he traveled to Versailles, to save her. He remembered he was supposed to do something else—tell King Louis of treason. But Louis was horse’s dung compared to Catherine, and King Charles, too, by God.

  “M. Sir Jack! You may be delirious, but you will not say such things of our king!” It was Fichet’s voice.

  He opened his eyes. This time he was clearly in a well-to-do inn or hotel, though it was not Fichet’s.

  Fichet’s expression was a mix of indignation and relief. Jack gazed at him, then glanced around the room. “Are we in Versailles yet, and how many days have I been unconscious this time?”

  Fichet clutched his hair in clear exasperation. “This is my reward, par Dieu! I nurse you, I almost carry you myself on my back from Rouen to Versailles—”

  “Oh, we’re in Versailles? Excellent.” Jack pushed himself gingerly upright, remembering the first time he had done so, and managed to avoid the extreme nausea he had experienced earlier. “And carry me on your back? Unless you took the form of a horse, you exaggerate, my friend.”

  Fichet gave him a bitter look. “Each time we have come to a lodgings, I have taken you from your horse and then back onto it again. It is une merveille I have not broken my back by now.”

  Jack pushed himself to the edge of his bed, and though he winced at the pain in both his ribs and his head, the wince also held remorse. “Aye, I’m a damnable patient, Fichet, and I’m grateful to you.”

  The innkeeper sniffed haughtily. “Pardonnez moi, M. Sir Jack, but you are not. Later, perhaps, but you are never grateful when you are ill.”

  “Very well, I’m an ungrateful wretch,” Jack replied impatiently, irritation banishing his remorse. “I’m whatever you wish. Just help me get this jerkin on, will you?” He pushed himself up and almost vomited from the dizziness that struck him. He gritted his teeth and swallowed.

  Fichet sighed. “You are still ill. You still have the fever. And yet you will not rest unless you fall from your horse in a faint. Where is the sense of it?” He held out the jerkin and helped to guide Jack’s arms through the armholes, then quickly laced it.

  Jack took a careful breath—the pain seemed not as bad as it had been, but he noticed it was becoming more difficult to breathe regardless of whether he wore the bandages or the jerkin. He caught Fichet’s worried expression, and shook his head at him.

  “Just after I find Catherine, Fichet, and deliver King Charles’s message to Louis . . . just after that, and I’ll do as you’ll say. I promise you.” He briefly pressed the palms of his hands to his eyes and then caught sight of himself in the window’s reflection. “God’s blood, I look like the very Devil, and feel like I’ve come to hell.”

  “C’est bonne chance pour moi!” Fichet said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Instead of being in hell, we are in Versailles, which means I need not carry you upon my back any longer. How stupid of me not to have mentioned how ill you are before!”

  Jack groaned. “Enough, Fichet! Just get me on a horse once more and point me to Catherine’s lodgings, and I will leave you be.”

  Fichet gave him another disgruntled look, and let him lean on him out of the room. “If you had not slept for two days, I would not let you leave here.”

  “Two days! You should have awaken—” He caught Fichet’s sharp look, and closed his mouth. No use aggravating the man any more than he had already done, and he knew he’d tried Fichet’s patience through-out their journey. He bore Fichet’s grumbling, therefore, as he helped him onto a fresh horse, and said nothing when he followed him on another. Besides, he was not sure his friend would show him the way if he protested.

  In truth, he was not sure he’d make it to the de la Fers’ lodgings, much less to King Louis’s court. He held the reins of his horse tightly in one hand, and the other held onto the horse’s mane. It gave him some stability; he felt he might fall any moment from dizziness. He was glad, though, to be outside. The silhouette of the king’s chateau showed in the distance against the twilight sky, and a cold breeze brushed his fevered skin. It felt good after the inn, which he thought had been too warm.

  But the gladness quickly passed. The pain in his ribs had become a fire, and his head pounded. He wished he had taken more of Mme Felice’s tisane before he had left, but it was too late now. They’d come to Catherine’s lodgings soon, and then perhaps he could rest for a little before he’d go to Louis’s court and demand entrance.

  He saw with relief that Fichet rode to the middle of a long line of buildings and stopped. But Fichet only dismounted and then stared fixedly at him, not coming any closer.

  Jack rolled his eyes in exasperation, then closed them, for the motion made him dizzy. “No, you do not have to help me down this time. I will allow you to knock at the door and see if they will admit us.” Fichet gave a satisfied nod, turned to the hotel door, and entered.

  Jack let himself lean forward on his horse, resting his head on the animal’s neck. Fatigue washed over him, the world twisted and turned around him, and he struggled for breath.

  Dear God, he was ill. He hadn’t wanted to show how badly off he was to Fichet, but he suspected the man knew. They’d fought in wars together before, and had tended each other’s wounds. He could hold on for a little while, just a little while, and it would all be done. Then he could rest, and perhaps Catherine would see him. He drew in a shallow, unsatisfying breath, and was glad of a sudden cooling breeze that wafted across his face.

  He wanted to see Catherine again. The pain in his ribs was nothing to the pain of wanting her and knowing she would most likely marry the marquis . . . or worse. Was there something worse than marrying that traitor, that sorcerer? He did not know. He needed to save her from it, soon, whatever it was.

  A faint voice pierced the fog that seemed to cover his senses. “M. Sir Jack!”

  He lifted his head, and Fichet’s face swam into view. “Just resting a bit,” he said. “I’ll be well in a moment.” He looked about him—yes, they were in Versailles. Catherine. She was supposed to be here, but he did not see her. “Where is she?”

  “She is at court—she is to be presented this evening.”

  “Hell.” The air around him seemed to spin in bright swirls. “Hell.” He made himsel
f sit upright and took in a deeper, painful breath. “Very well. We’ll go. I’ve got the message from the king to go to the king . . . the other king.”

  “Give me the paper, M. Sir Jack. I will bring it to the king.”

  “No.” Anger flared, bringing the world into sharp focus. He took in another painful breath and stared at Fichet’s grim face. “Has the marquis gone, as well?”

  Silence, then: “He has. He is betrothed to her, so must accompany her to court.”

  Betrothed. The word echoed in his skull, but he shook his head. If she was, it was unwillingly, he’d stake his sorry life on it. He remembered something else . . . treason. If the marquis was going to use Catherine in some way to strike at the king, this would be the time to do it. He forced himself to sit straighter in his saddle. “I’ll take the paper. Then I’ll be done. Just a little while longer.”

  “You might die, M. Sir Jack.”

  Jack gave a laugh that caused him to gasp with pain. “Then I’ll take down the marquis before I do, and we’ll dance in hell together.” He leaned forward and spurred his horse forward to the darkening silhouette of the palace of Versailles.

  He’d get the message to Louis, never fear. But first he’d see Catherine. That would be heaven enough for eternity.

  She had worn a similar dress the day before she was to wed the Marquis de Bauvin. It was the same in color—a deep green that did much to enhance her coloring and show off the whiteness of her shoulders. Catherine did not care. It suited her purposes—decorative enough for the king’s court, and voluminous enough to hide a dagger.

  She had hoped to wear a dress of a more masculine cut, so that she could possibly wear a sword for decorative effect. But she had argued in vain with Adrian, and she thought it best to stop persuading him when she saw a suspicious expression on his face. She was sure that he had not told the marquis of their conversation about sorcery the night before. However, she was not certain he’d not warn de Bauvin of her suspicions if she persisted.

  The dagger might be enough. Jack had taught her how to use it, although she had not perfected her aim in throwing it. She could now fight two-handed, however, with a sword in her right hand and a dagger in her left, and could even switch hands. If necessary, she would see if she could seize a sword from a courtier, if the sword was not merely decorative. She hoped it would be enough.

  “Magnificent.”

  She gazed at her brother, who looked enthusiastically out the coach window at the chateau of their king. The setting sun set the stones to fire, and the palace glowed as if it were made of gold. It was appropriate, she thought, for Louis, who had been compared to Apollo, the Greek sun god.

  “Yes,” she said. “I only wish Blanche could see it.” Her sister was still in her deep sleep; another visit from the doctor yielded no results, and prayers from the local priest only made her shift a little and breathe deeper. Her pulse had not slowed, however, though she was still pale. That was something, at least.

  She felt Adrian’s hand in hers. “I wish she were here to see it, too,” he said. “She would have liked it and marveled over everything.” He paused. “She will be well soon, I am sure.” His voice did not sound hopeful.

  Catherine knew better than to try to convince him that Blanche’s sleep had its source in sorcery, however. He still would not hear of it, even after the doctor himself declared that he could do nothing.

  It would not matter shortly. Soon she would be at Louis’s court, and then she would do her best to kill the marquis. She had thought it might be enough to accuse him of sorcery. But Blanche’s unnatural sleep needed a cure. She could not have the marquis touch her—the thought made her ill, and who knew what he would do if he had the chance. She could, however, kill him, and that must end the spell.

  Catherine had gone to confession, and had dared ask the priest there if he knew anything of sorcery. He knew perhaps a little more than Père Doré, and he was clearly curious why she had asked. But she had slipped out quickly to the sanctuary after being given absolution, and if the priest had come to look for her, there were enough penitents who sat in the pews so that it would be difficult to single her out.

  It made her remember Père Doré, however. She wondered if he had received word from the cardinal regarding her stigmata, or if he had even traveled to Versailles to consult with him. She would be glad to see the priest again; she had appreciated his candor and his kindness, and she suspected that it was he who had let bread fall among the pews when she sought a place to sleep away from the alley.

  The coach halted with a jerk, pulling her out of her memories. She took in a deep breath. It was time. She smiled nervously at her brother as he handed her down from the coach.

  He smiled in return. “I am nervous, as well,” he said. “It is not every day one is presented to one’s king.” He looked to the steps of the palace. “The Marquis de Bauvin will be there; he may already have arrived, in fact.” His expression lightened a little. “It’s fortunate we have a friend already at court.”

  Catherine made herself smile and nod, tamping down the despair she felt. “Fortunate, indeed,” she said, and walked forward. The dagger in her pocket tapped against her leg; it gave her an odd reassurance.

  The doors to the palace opened silently and she would have almost thought they opened without human aid, for the footmen were entirely quiet and their attire seemed as one with the magnificence of the king’s home. She glanced at her brother, and amusement at his round-eyed wonder pierced through her despair. “We must not stare so,” she said, her voice teasing. “We will seem like country peasants.”

  “We are as good as country peasants compared to this,” Adrian replied, his eyes still round and taking in every detail. “However, I will refrain from pointing.”

  She managed a chuckle. “Good.”

  They walked forward, and she gave her brother a nudge when she encountered the haughtily expectant look of yet another magnificently dressed servant who stood at a large, imposing door.

  “Adrian, Comte de la Fer, and his sister, Mlle Catherine de la Fer,” he stammered. The servant bowed and moved aside.

  Light flowed out in beams as the doors opened. Everything glittered with light, and there must have been a million candles, Catherine thought, to have achieved the effect of noon in summer. Her eyes went directly to the focus of the light, and she could not help sinking into the lowest of curtsies in front of the king. She was supposed to, of course. But this was so much the opposite of her time in the dark rankness of the alley in Paris, it seemed all a fantasy, unreal.

  She glanced from the corners of her eyes at her brother; he, too, had sunk onto his knees in a very low and elegant bow, and did not move until a slight gesture of the king’s hand bade them rise.

  Catherine rose and stole a look at Louis. He seemed very young to be a king—he was young, she realized in surprise. He could not be much older than herself. The king had a solemn expression on his face, but it lightened as he looked at her, and then he transferred his gaze to Adrian.

  “We welcome you to our court.”

  “My sister and I are grateful, Your Majesty, to be allowed in your presence,” Adrian replied formally, and made obeisance again, according to protocol. “May I present my sister, Catherine de la Fer.” She curtsied low once more.

  “You have another sister, do you not?”

  Another surprise. She had heard the king worked hard to be informed of everything in his kingdom, but she did not think it extended to a very young sister of a provincial comte.

  Adrian bowed again, formally and precisely. “I give you my great apologies, Your Majesty. We were commanded into your presence, which we of course could not refuse. But my youngest sister is ill, and we wished nothing but health to attend your court, as is fitting.”

  There was silence, then the king inclined his head in approval. “Your loyalty and inconvenience to yourself are commended. We are pleased you have attended us, and wish you to enjoy the pleasures here in Versailles
.” The king inclined his head again; it signaled the end of their audience, and Catherine let out a breath she had not realized she was holding. They had passed the king’s scrutiny, it seemed.

  It also signaled the end of an opportunity to inform the king of de Bauvin’s sorcery. Frustration made her grit her teeth, but she knew there was nothing to be done; the protocol of court was strict, and if she had spoken out at any time, she and her brother would have been severely reprimanded, and her chance to inform the king of anything would have dropped to nil.

  She curtsied low once again and gazed at the courtiers to either side of Louis. There was a cardinal—Cardinal Mazarin, his prime minister, who stood just to the side and a little behind the throne—and a priest stood beside the cardinal. She recognized him—it was Père Doré. The priest gazed at her gravely and gave a slight nod, and her depression lifted a little at the sight of a familiar face. Perhaps Père Doré had come to Versailles to discuss her stigmata with the cardinal, as he had promised, although she had thought he would write to his superior rather than come to court himself. Hope rose. Surely she could speak with him as soon as the ceremonies were over.

  But it took a long time for the ceremonies to be over. More than a few nobles and dignitaries were presented and put forth their concerns, all of which were duly written down. Catherine noted with amusement that the king’s refrain was mostly “we shall see.” No wonder Jack had been so frustrated when dealing with King Louis.

  Thinking of Jack depressed her spirits, for she wished he was here. She focused her mind on the ceremonies and those people who were presented to the king.

  A prickling of her hands pulled her attention from the proceedings. She looked about her for the source.

  There. The Marquis de Bauvin entered, elegant in red and gold, and carrying a gold-topped black walking stick. He made a low, precise bow before the king as he was announced. She watched the faces of the king’s courtiers as the marquis was presented, but there was no change in their expressions. He was just another noble who had come to attend court.