Dark Enchantment

by Karen Harbaugh

  “What are you staring at, you idiot? Help me down.”

  “We cannot have—this is not according to protocol—”

  “Silence, you fool!” Fichet came up to Jack’s horse and held up a hand to help him down. “This is Sir John Marstone, a courier from His Majesty, King Charles of England.”

  “How do I know—”

  “He has a paper, which you will see as soon as he dismounts.” Fichet managed to keep steady as Jack almost fell upon him as he came down from the horse. “He is ill, attacked by a foul traitor to our king. We must see His Majesty immediately.”

  “But this man is dirty, and is not properly dressed—”

  The footman fell as Jack’s fist connected with his chin. “Dribbling idiot,” he gasped, trying to force down the pain in his ribs. “Let’s go, Fichet.” He fished out King Charles’s letter and waved it at another cowering footman. One of the king’s uniformed guards came forward, sword out. Fichet’s sword came out, as well.

  “M. Guard, I pray you let us through. This man has an urgent letter from His Majesty, King Charles of England, telling of treason against our good king. If you do not let us pass, we fear our most noble king will die, and you surely will be blamed.”

  The guard looked indecisive, and impatience and anger seized Jack harder than the pain in his side. “Damn you man, let us through!” He thrust the paper in front of the man’s face. “It’s King Charles’s seal and his written hand, as well. As God is my witness, I’m telling the truth. If you must, follow us to see that we do not lie.”

  The guard still looked indecisive, but nodded and opened the door to the palace. He followed behind, but Jack ignored him. He had to get to Catherine, to see if she was safe.

  The hall down where the footman led them was long, too long. Though he managed to stand upright and walk, he was glad again of Fichet’s arm supporting him, for he hurt by God, more than he ever thought possible, and his lungs burned when he breathed. A familiar sound echoed as they neared the end of the hall—the clash of steel—fighting. Dear God, fighting. The footsteps of the guard quickened, and he shouted down the hall for other guards.

  The doors opened at last, and Jack was glad of his height, for he could see over the heads of the crowd. They seemed frozen, unmoving, all attention to the center, where stood King Louis to one side, the Marquis de Bauvin, and—God, oh, God.

  Catherine.

  He watched as her sword flew from her hand, as she sank to her knees in a daze. The marquis said something—he did not know what, and did not care, for all his attention was on her. De Bauvin lifted his sword.

  No. No.

  A desperate burst of energy flowed through him, and he surged forward, pushing past one courtier after another. His sword was in his hand, and he pulled out his dagger. He managed to reach the edge of the crowd. Catherine looked dazed, drained, pale. The marquis’s sword lifted higher, then dropped.

  “Catherine!” Jack shouted, and threw his dagger at the marquis.

  It missed de Bauvin’s throat, the blade sinking into his sword arm instead. It was enough; with one last burst of strength, he tossed his sword to Catherine.

  She blinked and turned at the sound of her name, and managed to catch Jack’s sword. The dazed look disappeared, and she seized the sword more firmly and swung it with all her might.

  It sank into the marquis’s side and he fell.

  A low groan arose from the crowd around them, and then cries of surprise and horror, as some rushed to the king’s side and some with their swords out to de Bauvin. Jack’s sword fell from Catherine’s hand and clattered on the floor as she fell, barely supporting herself on her arms. Her gloves were soaked with blood, and she knew it was her own. She pressed her hands together—it would not stop. Her back prickled with pain and dripped with moisture, though whether it was sweat or blood she did not know, nor did she care. At least the pain was gone.

  Jack. She had heard Jack’s voice, and she had held his sword. Fatigue almost made her faint, but she gritted her teeth and forced it away. He must be here, of course. She pushed herself upright, looking in the direction in which she had heard his voice.

  Fichet stood there, then he bent over a motionless form, his face full of grief. She recognized the clothes—she had seen them on Jack a few times, though now they looked travel-stained and dirty. She crawled to him . . . she felt she could not stand, and was grateful to see the crowd of people who had been around her move away.

  “Jack,” she said. “Jack.”

  She came to him at last; he lay on his side, and she pushed him over.

  Fear struck her again. “Jesu, Marie,” she whispered. He was pale, and his lips almost blue, as if he had no blood in him. She touched his face—she could not feel it, of course, for she had on gloves. Frantically, she stripped them off, ignoring the blood that seeped from her hands and the gasps from those who stood around her. She touched Jack’s face. “You must waken, mon cher. Please.”

  He did not respond. She took his hand—it was too cool. His chest rose and fell fitfully, but there was a coarse, rattling sound. She waited for another breath. Breathe, breathe, she prayed.

  She felt a touch on her shoulder. “Mademoiselle, he is very ill, and I fear he will not last long.” It was Fichet. His face was creased in grief. “He is a stubborn man, and would not stop until he had done his duty.”

  Fichet’s words passed around her like a niggling breeze, almost incomprehensible, for all her attention was on Jack, willing him to breathe. She put her hands on his chest—it barely rose and fell; every breath seemed a struggle. No, no, he must not be so ill, he must not die. “Please, Jack, be well, be well.” She could feel tears flow down her cheeks, and her hands wept blood, as well, dripping on his chest. She could hear prayers again—Père Doré’s voice as well as Cardinal Mazarin’s behind her. “Hear me, Jack, you will be well. You cannot have come back to me only to die. You will be well.” She lay her head on his shoulder, weeping. “You will be well, or I pray God I shall die with you.” Her hands began to sting again, but they did not hurt as they had when she had fought the marquis. It was as if an astringent balm had been put upon them, and her whole hand tingled and became hot to the tips of her fingers. A hand pulled at her shoulder. “Mademoiselle, he is very ill, you must get up—”

  “No!” she cried, wildly, angrily, grief pulsing through her like a hot knife. “No, I will not leave him.” She put her hand on Jack’s face—it was cold, too cold, but her hands were warm, even hot. The blood from her hands stained his face, but though the bloodstains faded after a moment, she thought only that he was too cold. Surely she could warm him, as he had warmed her when he had taken her out of the alley, had fed and clothed her. “Jack, listen to me, I will make you warm.” She put her arms around him. “You are too cold, too cold, and it is not right, no, for you gave me so much, so much.” Tears flowed from her unheeded; it was only important that Jack be warm again, that he speak to her.

  His chest lifted again, then heaved, a low, rumbling cough burst from him, and a moan of pain. “I hate coughing,” she heard him whisper. “It hurts like the very devil.” He opened his eyes. “And how you expect me to feel warmer when you pour tears over me, I don’t know.”

  She gave a half-sobbing chuckle. “They are very warm tears, Jack.”

  He lifted a hand and touched her face, and she almost felt her heart stop, for there was a heat in his eyes that looked very much like love. “They are warm. I don’t remember anyone ever weeping over me, sweet one, and I wish you would not, for I don’t deserve it.” He frowned then and rose on one elbow, looking about him at the courtiers who gasped when he rose. “Where the devil am I?” He peered at Fichet, who stood above him, his expression half joyful, half full of awe. “Fichet . . . dash it all, are we at King Louis’s court? Where’s King Charles’s letter?”

  “It is here, M. Sir Jack.” Fichet’s voice faltered as he bent to pick up King Charles’s letter, which had fallen to the floor next to Jack.r />
  Jack tried to rise, but groaned and lay down again. “Fichet, I’m hurt, and as God is my witness, I don’t know if my legs can hold me up. Give it to him—His Majesty.”

  Fichet stood, his self-assurance fled as he nervously held out a paper to King Louis, who stood staring at them, pale and with mixed horror and relief in his eyes. Fichet kneeled low in front of him. “Your Great Majesty, forgive us this intrusion.” He gestured at Jack and Catherine, and at the fallen marquis. “There has been a plot against your life, as you can see. His Majesty, King Charles of England himself, has sent his own man to you to warn you of it, and sent those loyal to you to protect you.”

  Louis came forward stiffly, and then with a quicker step, and took the sealed letter. The young king gazed at the seal on it, then broke it and opened it, reading quickly. He grew paler, then he frowned and his face grew red with anger. He turned to the cardinal and thrust the letter at him, and while Mazarin read it, turned to the guards that stood stiffly at attention. He pointed at the marquis’s body.

  “Take . . . that thing out of my sight. Burn it.” He turned to Fichet, and his face softened, though it was still grim. “You have our gratitude, Monsieur— What is your name?”

  Fichet bowed low. “Robert Fichet, Your Majesty.”

  “Fichet. You will be well rewarded.” The king made a gesture and servants suddenly appeared at his side. “Take the King of England’s courier and Mlle de la Fer to rooms near mine. I wish them well taken care of, and if any desire of theirs is not fulfilled, you shall know my displeasure.”

  Hands came together to lift Jack from the floor, and Catherine could not help giving a watery chuckle when he muttered what must have been English curses under his breath. It was not good of him, but it was much better than his struggling breath, his deathly pallor. He seemed to breathe easier now, and for that she was thankful.

  She looked for her brother—a groan made her turn her head. Adrian lay on the floor nearby, and he slowly rose to his feet, looking dazed. He was breathing, alive, Dieu merci, and his cheeks gained a pink that had been absent before. It gave her hope that Blanche would arise out of bed soon.

  She pushed herself up from the floor, but she almost fell again, for fatigue hit her hard and her sight darkened in a near faint. Hands gripped her arms on either side.

  “Breathe, mademoiselle,” came Fichet’s voice.

  She opened her eyes. Père Doré supported one arm, and Fichet the other. She took in a deep breath, and the room lightened. “I am very tired,” she said. She shook her head. The words did not describe the depth of fatigue she felt, but it was all she could say for herself. She summoned up as much strength as she could, for though it was clear her brother would recover, she was not sure about Blanche. She looked at Fichet and then at the priest. “My sister—Blanche—Fichet, you must see to her, make sure she is well, for the marquis ensorcelled her.”

  Père Doré patted her hand. “To be sure, we will, and I will do an exorcism if it is necessary.”

  She nodded, and weariness finally consumed her. She moved as if in a dream, supported by Père Doré and Fichet until she came to a room, and then two ladies who were clearly well born and a few maids took her within. She let them move her about like a doll and clean her wounds and change her from her court clothes into a warm shift and robe. Only two things occupied her mind: the need to rest, and Jack.

  “Jack.” She looked at one lady, one of the noblewomen, who smiled at her kindly. “I must see M. Marstone, the man who gave me his sword, King Charles’s courier.”

  “Rest first, mademoiselle,” said the lady, but Catherine shook her head.

  “I must see that he is well. He saved my life, and I did not thank him.”

  The ladies looked at each other, then nodded. “He is in the room next to yours.” They guided her to a connecting door and accompanied her as she walked slowly to the bed in which he had been lain.

  “Jack,” she said softly. “Are you well?”

  He turned slightly, and she could see dark shadows under his eyes, his unshaven face looking dirty and mussed. He smiled, however. “Eh, you’re here. I thought it was a dream.”

  She went to him and clasped his hand. “I am here; I will always be here, just as long as you want me.”

  He gave a chuckle, then groaned. “Don’t make me laugh, sweet Cat, it hurts. Not as bad as it did, but it still hurts.” He shifted until he seemed to find a more comfortable spot on the bed, then sighed. “Want you? What, are you mad? Why do you think I rode all this way from Lille and chased you halfway across France?”

  She chuckled. “You are very duty-bound, my love. I thought it was to deliver your king’s message to mine.”

  “Kings are the very devil,” he said, ignoring the ladies’ outraged gasps. “They are nothing compared to seeing you safe.”

  The ladies sighed sentimentally at this clear sign of devotion, then cried out in indignation when he said, “And if you’ll rid me of your devilish female Greek chorus, I’ll be grateful.”

  Catherine bit her lip to suppress her laugh, then gave the ladies an apologetic look. “He is feverish, and does not understand what he is saying,” she said. Jack opened his mouth, and she put her hand over it as she continued, “I shall be in my room shortly.” The ladies gave her dubious looks before moving to the other room.

  “You are ungrateful!” she said. “His Majesty has been very gracious in setting us near his own rooms and lending us his courtiers to help us.”

  “Aye, and he should,” Jack said, but his voice was weary. “I stand by what I said: kings are the very devil. Both Louis and Charles owe me—owe us a great deal, and I shall make sure to wring it out of them.” He patted her hand absently, yawning, and his eyes drooping. “Make a list of your wishes, my sweet Cat, for I shall see that between the two of them, they grant every one.”

  She chuckled in relief now—this was the Jack she knew, and she was sure he was better, else he would not have spoken so. “I shall, mon cher Jack. Rest now. If you need anything, only call for me.”

  He said nothing, but she saw that he slept and his breathing was slow and deep. Relief made her sigh deeply, and she turned to the door that connected to her room.

  She did not protest when the ladies bustled about her and urged her to bed, for she was tired to death, and wished only to sleep now that she knew Jack was safe. She let them pull the covers over her and tuck her in as if she were a child, and let herself sink into the soft bed. Her body ached as she relaxed, but she welcomed it, for the sensation was no more than what anyone might feel after much strenuous work.

  She smelled the scent of candle smoke as the ladies and the maid snuffed the candles and drew the curtains around her bed. Her stomach rumbled from hunger, but she ignored it, for sleep called, and she wanted it more than anything right now. Tomorrow she would eat and be filled, and . . .

  She let out a last, sleepy chuckle. And she would be sure to make that list of wishes for Jack.

  Epilogue

  July 1660

  SHE BASKED IN THE SUMMER SUN, feeling the warmth soak into her clothing and into her skin. Catherine closed her eyes and breathed in the warm air scented with the flowers from the abbey’s garden. It was quiet but for the sounds of a bird chirping in its nest in one of the trees nearby.

  The silence was restful, and she valued it. It seemed the only place she gained any peace away from King Louis’s court and the only place where she would be left alone.

  A rustling sound made her open her eyes, and she was prepared to be irritated, but it was only Père Doré. He smiled at her, and she rose, curtsying before she extended her hand to him. He took it and nodded over it.

  “I am glad to see you well, mon Père,” she said.

  “And I am glad to see you are much less harassed,” he replied, his smile amused.

  She grimaced. “Does it show? I have tried to be patient, but the Jesuits have asked me over and over again the same questions, and I can only give them the
same answers as I have given them before.” She held out her hands. “It does not help that they do not bleed any more, though I am thankful they do not.”

  “It helps that the king is fully convinced of the divine nature of your condition and of your appearance in his court, however,” the priest replied, and he chuckled.

  “To be sure,” she said, and sighed. It was indeed useful, for though her brother was implicated in the accusation of treason, her intervention and Louis’s own experience of de Bauvin’s sorcery absolved Adrian of all blame. “I can scarce leave this place any more but that I am pursued by those who think I have some kind of divine gift.”

  Père Doré looked at her gravely. “Do you think you do?”

  She gazed back at him, and her lips pressed together in impatience. “I do not know, and if I do, I wish to be rid of it as much as I wished to be rid of the stigmata. Who am I, after all, to have such a gift? I have not sought any kind of special treatment from God, only to be left alone.” She looked away, gazing at the roses that bloomed in the sun.

  Or to be with Jack, she thought. If she had any wish at all, it was to see him again. He had left Versailles as soon as he was able, for his king had called for his services again; fueled with funds once more, King Charles had left Breda and joined General Monck to take the throne of England again. Jack had laughed when she had given him her list of wishes, for it was long and some of them impossible, she thought. He had tucked it in a pocket of his coat and promised he would give it to King Charles himself, and then he had kissed her long and hard before he left once again. But he had said nothing of the relationship between them, and there had been no offer of marriage.

  “Miracles happen for a reason,” the priest said.

  She turned to him and shook her head, remembering the year that had passed, so full of pain and despair, with only a few barely grasped instances of joy. “It is certainly not because I am better than anyone else, so tell me another reason,” she said.