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 Bauvin’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.”
“Two days!” Two days more behind Catherine and the traitor de Bauvin. He thrust aside the bedcovers and carefully pushed himself up from the pillows. His head was less dizzy now and though he looked at the cup Fichet held out to him with distaste, he took it and drank it down. He had to be practical. The drink obviously worked to make him feel better, and he’d need all the resources he could, to travel quickly to Versailles.
“Rest now,” Fichet said, and moved to push Jack down again, but Jack quickly moved off the bed to his feet, though the action made him dizzy again.
“Enough, friend.”
Fichet moved away, then nodded slowly, though he sighed, for he obviously recognized the intractable tone in Jack’s voice.
Jack touched the bandages around his ribs. “Do you have any more? I’ll need to be held together as tightly as a virgin’s garter and stays, for I’ll need to travel as soon as I can stand.” He carefully moved away from the bed, taking a few hesitant steps before it was clear the dizziness would not strike again . . . yet. “Which is now, since I’m clearly standing.” He nodded at the innkeeper. “I’ll be grateful if you could find me a fast horse, for I’ll be off as soon as I can get my clothes on.”
“But you are not well!” Fichet protested.
Jack shrugged again. “I know. I’m well enough to stand, so I’ll be well enough to ride. You’ve taken me out of danger, and I’m grateful, Fichet. But neither of us knows how de Bauvin will use Catherine for his purposes, and the sooner we arrive in Versailles, the better it will be.” He swallowed. “I hope to God it will be better.” He did not want to think what, if anything, de Bauvin might have already done.
Fichet nodded, understanding in his eyes. “I do not think he will do anything yet,” he said.
This was possible. “Not until he is closer to King Louis,” Jack acknowledged. “It takes time before His Majesty allows anyone close to him, for God knows I’ve tried for ages with little result.” He sighed and began unrolling the bandage around his ribs. “Help me tie these tighter, Fichet, for we have a long ride before us.”
The innkeeper looked disapproving, but he brought forth more bandages and then, for good measure, a leather jerkin. Jack managed to put on the garment, but only with Fichet’s help—easing his arms through the armholes brought more pain. The innkeeper had to lace it up for him, but he did it well. It kept his torso fairly immobile and, with luck, would keep him from inadvertently injuring himself more.
He’d been beaten up badly; the monster had had a crushing grip, and had sliced his left arm so that he could hardly move it. The wound, and he was sure the foul stench of the creature, had given him a fever, and his arm still pounded with heat and pain. It meant he wouldn’t be able to fight two-handed, or at least not well. He flexed his left hand. It was weak, and his arm was not strong enough to give a killing thrust, but at least he could hold a dagger and annoy an opponent with it.
He sighed deeply—or tried to, for a red-hot poker seemed to thrust itself into his side as he took in a breath. The breath turned into a cough, which also caused the poker to poke into him again. He groaned. “Oh, God!”
Fichet gave him a stern look. “I, also, will pray that you do not die on the way to Versailles, M. Sir Jack.”
Jack gave him a grim look. “You are enjoying this.”
An innocent look spread across the man’s face. “I do not enjoy another man’s suffering.” His expression became severe, however. “But if your suffering causes you to be more sensible later, then I will do my best not to interfere.”
“You are enjoying it,” Jack said, but grinned. “Very well, if I suffer, I suffer. Let us go.”
Fichet frowned again, but took up bags that Jack noted were already neatly packed. His grin grew wider. The man knew him well, and knew he’d want to leave as soon as he could stand. He took in another deep breath and pain struck him hard. He forced himself not to gasp.
If he could stand at all, that is. He gritted his teeth and put one foot in front of the other, carefully, and then more firmly as the movement eased some of his muscles’ stiffness. He’d stand, sit, ride, whatever it took to get to Versailles, even if it killed him.
Just as long as he was sure Catherine was safe, and that he carried out his duty to his king.