Chapter 10



co ornTHE FROSTED BARREN TREES LOOKED like black lace against the cloudy late afternoon sky, but Jack took no note of it. He had ridden for five days as if the Devil were after him, riding until he wore out one horse after another, until one thought blurred into another out of fatigue. But fatigue did nothing to fade the images that repeated in his mind, particularly those of Catherine.

Her welcome at her home showed him, as nothing else did, that he had no place in her life. The de la Fer mansion was the ancient home of a high, noble family. All he had claim to was the title of a landless baronet and a vagrant’s life. At dinner, she had worn her noblewoman’s rich clothes and had sat in the company of other equally well-dressed nobles, while he must needs wear a borrowed suit and sat at the other, inferior end of the table. Her family welcomed her with open arms. He had no family, and he was certain he’d be as welcome in hers as he’d been at King Louis’s court—which was not at all, since the French king well knew why Jack wanted to see him.

And, more fool he, he had left the Comte de la Fer without collecting his reward for bringing Catherine back.

Idiot, sopping, drooling idiot. He’d had eyes only for Catherine, and had had a devilish time not snatching her away from the side of the Marquis de Bauvin.

He hated the man. His smoothness, his practiced manners, his rich clothes and beringed hands, his title and obvious influence over Catherine’s brother. The devil of it was, Jack knew it all came from envy and jealousy, and the only redeeming feature was that his sins arose from loving Catherine.

He had sat there at the dinner table, watching how she had looked, with her white shoulders rising out of her dress like pristine clouds above stormy green seas, her red curls touching her skin like the colors of sunset.

She was beautiful. He had seen how the marquis had looked at her, first in surprise and then with clear interest. All of the man’s cool demeanor could not hide his interest from Jack. The marquis wanted Catherine, and if Jack knew anything of the measure of a man, the marquis would get her.

And, damn him, he knew she’d be better off with such a highborn man.

Which was why he left so quickly. He knew the marquis would wed her, and that was that. There was nothing for Jack to do but leave . . . and collect his money, which he had neglected to do in his haste, damn it. He pounded a fist on his thigh in frustration. The truth was, he could not bear taking any money for Catherine’s return. He didn’t deserve it; he hadn’t acted with honor toward her, but had used her for his own pleasure and used her skill for money. Hell. Money was a wretched thing. It sucked the honor out of a man and made him a slave to seeming necessity.

It did mean, though, that he had an excuse to return and claim the funds from the Comte de la Fer, however, and to see Catherine again. The thought lightened his mood, but only momentarily. No doubt she’d be wed to the marquis by then.

He tried to turn his mind to other things, but he could only wonder what he’d tell the king when he met him. That he’d failed, that he had not even brought more money than a pittance for King Charles’s threadbare and wandering court. As it was, he’d be at least a day late.

The land varied more in character as he neared Lille. Jack had to slow his horse to a walk from time to time so that he could traverse down steep winding paths through woods that led to hidden brook valleys. One of them took all his concentration, and he dismounted, for it was too steep and gravelly. He heard his horse emit a sigh, and he grinned ruefully. He’d ridden the poor animal hard, and it deserved a decrease in its burden, at least for now. Changing horses often was expensive, and he’d best try to spare this one for a while, even though it’d make him even later meeting the king. He let himself feel the irritation that was always under the surface when it came to thinking of the king. Granted, it was his duty to attend His Majesty and do his bidding, but sometimes he wondered if Charles forgot what it was to have human limitations.

There was indeed a brook at the foot of the steep wooded hill, not wide or deep from the looks of it, and there were wide, flat stones across it that looked easily traversable. He looked around instinctively before crossing; he was not in the midst of a war now, but he’d learned often enough not to let himself walk into a vulnerable position before he looked carefully around.

The woods were quiet, with only a slight breeze rustling the few dry leaves in the trees and the bracken along the floor of the forest. He frowned. A little too quiet; the day had darkened, and there should be the calls of birds and movement of animals readying themselves for the evening. He pulled out powder and ball, primed his musket, and carefully moved out into the clearing.

“Stand and deliver!” cried a voice on the other side.

Jack grinned, pointed his musket above the sound of the voice, and fired.

“Damn you, Jack, put that musket down! You almost killed me.” A tall, devilish-looking, dark-haired man emerged from the woods on the other side, frowning.

“And you would have deserved it, Nick, for trying a bastard trick like that. Besides, did you think I was stupid? You called out in English, not French.”

Nick winced, then grinned. “Very well, it was a stupid trick. I wanted to see if you’d jump out of your shoes.” Lord Nicholas Devere was far from stupid, though. Jack had been in more than a few campaigns with him, and a bolder and more dependable comrade-in-arms he didn’t know, with the possible exception of Fichet. He had saved Nick’s life once or twice—Nick said twice, but Jack could only remember once. Nick, on the other hand, had saved the life of the king from Cromwell’s spies more than a few times, and it was for that reason that His Majesty kept him close.

Jack frowned. If Nick was here, it meant that Charles probably was near, as well.

Nick’s grin became apologetic and he lowered his voice. “Yes, he’s not at Breda—at least, not officially. He became impatient, Jack. He’s champing at the bit to get back to England, for we’ve just caught one of Cromwell’s spies, and it looks like we have a supporter at home, for there are more than a few tired of the man and his son. We might also get Louis to favor our cause at last, as well, and the king has news for you to give to His Majesty. So, he thought he might meet you halfway.”

Jack groaned, half glad that he need not travel all the way to Breda and half apprehensive. If King Charles was so impatient as to travel to meet him near Lille, he would also be very irritated, and he’d have to bear an interview that would have a strong resemblance to being roasted over hot coals.

His friend patted him on the back consolingly. “Never fear. It’ll be short, I’m sure. He’ll want you to depart as soon as you can for Versailles, to give Louis the message. The hotel is less than an hour’s slow ride away.”

Hotel. It might mean he could refresh himself, perhaps even wash away the travel dirt, and change into a fresh suit of clothes. He rubbed his rough chin. “It’ll be good to get some decent food and a shave.”

Nick shook his head. “Don’t depend on it, friend. His Majesty is very impatient and wants to strike when the iron is hot.”

“Devil take it,” Jack said, and sighed.

 

Nick, luckily, was wrong, and Jack did have a chance to refresh himself and even rest for a few hours. It did not make him feel any better about facing the king, however.

Jack entered what served as an antechamber for the king’s apartment in the hotel. He noticed it was more threadbare than the last living space in which Charles had stayed, but saluted and grinned a welcome at Nick, who stood at attention by the door. “Still guarding the gates of hell?” Jack asked.

Nick grinned. “Still. He’s in a fair good mood today, though. Truth to tell, I’d give heaven itself to trade places with you, but you and His Majesty would kill each other within hours of you attending him.”

“I’m no regicide,” Jack said, and grinned. “His Majesty would have my head first.”

Nick gave him a look more understanding than Jack liked.

“Aye, and you’d give it to him at his bidding.”

“As should all loyal subjects,” Jack replied, but even he thought his words were more automatic than felt.

Nick gave him a keen look. “Even kings—especially kings—can ask too much.”

For one moment, Jack was inclined to agree. King and country, he thought. Have and hold. He shrugged. “My family has always been loyal. Who am I to be different?”

“The king rules by divine right, but he’s not God, Jack.”

Jack laughed. “’S blood, I know that. God never had as many women as His Majesty.”

“You’re a blasphemous man, and you’ll fry in hell some day,” Nick said, grinning.

“I depend on you to pull me out, old man,” Jack said. “Speaking of frying in hell . . .” He nodded toward the door. “I suppose he wants to know if King Louis will support him?”

“If by ‘support’ you mean give him troops and money, yes.”

Jack let out a deep breath. “I’ll need your frying tongs, Nick.”

Nick gave a sympathetic wince before he opened the door. “Good luck, friend,” he said under his breath.

The king sat behind his desk, busily sorting through papers. For a long moment, he ignored Jack, even though he obviously must have seen him bowing on one bent knee before him. The floor was hard on his knee; he regretted, irritably, that he had not the foresight to have kneeled on the rug closer to the king.

At last he heard the papers rustle again, and the king’s voice: “You may rise, Sir John.”

Jack rose and looked up; the king had risen to his feet, as well, which was not a good sign. His Majesty was an exceedingly tall man, taller even than Jack, who towered over most men. The king was usually an informal, cordial sort and would meet others sitting—quite the opposite of King Louis, Jack reflected. But Charles also knew the effect of his height, and used it when he felt it necessary.

Obviously, he felt it necessary now. It also meant the king was displeased, hopefully not about Jack.

“Well?” demanded Charles.

Jack raised his brows in question. “Your Majesty?”

“Louis. Has he given you any word about giving me support?”

“Only that he needs to think on it.”

The king made a sound very much like a growl. “‘Think on it.’ Damme, that’s what he always says, no matter what he’s asked, whether from peasant, noble, and now obviously king.”

“My apologies, Your Majesty.” Jack sympathized; waiting on kings was the very devil, and he had to wait on two. His thought must have been reflected on his face, for Charles’s thick brows drew together in a frown as he gazed at Jack.

But then his Majesty’s face cleared and his eyes twinkled as he grinned. “Aye, Jack, I’m getting a bit of my own medicine, I know.”

This was what made Jack continue working for the king: the admission to his very flawed nature; his genial informality and charm that overcame his homely, thick features; the acknowledgment that yes, he had put Jack to a difficult task.

And, Jack admitted, the knowledge that he was King Charles’s man, and loyal to a fault. His Majesty knew it, and took advantage of it. There was no mistaking that. But Jack was born and bred for his station in life, knew loyalty to the throne in his very bones, and he’d never forsake it, for God only knew he’d forsaken everything else. Catherine’s face floated before his mind, but he dismissed it and the despair behind it. She was in the hands of her loving family, and did not need him.

“I need you, Jack.”

Jack looked up at the king.

“I can’t be in all places at once, and King Louis is one I’ve . . . well, tapped the least.” A rueful look crossed the king’s face and he glanced at Jack. “You know how it is. You’ve been as homeless as I, and more poor, I know.” He smiled slightly. “Still making money from your dueling, Jack?”

“Not at your court, and not if you forbid it elsewhere, Majesty,” Jack said promptly.

Charles laughed but shook his head. “Most definitely not at my court, for heaven knows it’s caused me more problems than it’s solved, but elsewhere . . . well, a man must do what he must do in the service of his king.”

Jack relaxed. He knew only fighting since he’d been a boy, exiled along with Charles, and he knew no other way to earn a living than by his sword. He knew that Louis—or rather, the Cardinal Mazarin—had paid a certain sum to Charles for Jack’s services in war, but that sum was certainly limited. He had once taken a musket ball intended for “Monsieur” Phillipe, that effete brother of the French king, and for that his value had risen. But he had returned with money, half of which he gave to Charles, and he had to be chary with the rest.

“And that includes making another call upon Louis. And no, you may not go openly. I am still talking with the Spanish, after all.” His Majesty’s face took on an optimistic look, however, and he smiled widely, eagerly. “But look you, we’ve caught a Cromwell rat that can talk, and did.” He sat again in his chair and waved Jack to another. Jack sighed in relief. He was not going to get the dressing-down he expected.

Charles leaned forward, his dark eyes alight. “My cousin-king still fears his nobles, and rightfully so, though in my opinion he’d best keep them busy on their estates rather than demand they attend him. A man’s less likely to knife you in the back if he’s a league away, after all.”

Jack’s attention sharpened, and he raised his brows.

“Aye, you’ve guessed it,” Charles said, correctly interpreting his expression. “It’s a devilish plot against the life of the king, a conspiracy between Cromwell and a couple of Louis’s nobles.”

Jack let out a breath. “Very grave, then, in more ways than one. Did your rat give any names, Your Majesty?”

The king grinned briefly at the pun, then nodded. “Aye, two: the deceased Comte de la Fer and the Marquis de Bauvin.”

Fear smothered Jack like a black shroud, and his breath left him. The room spun for a moment around him, and he rose slowly from his chair, grasping the back of it to steady himself.

“Jack?”

He forced his attention back to Charles, who had risen again and looked at him with concern. “I am sorry, Your Majesty, but I must go—now.

The king frowned, affronted. “You’ll not leave until I give you leave, Marstone.” He peered at Jack, and his face became concerned. “And I think I’ll call a physician, for you look more ghost than man.”

Jack pressed the palms of his hands over his eyes, then shook his head. “Your Majesty, I’ve just come from the home of the Comte de la Fer and seen de Bauvin with him.”

Charles’s expression sharpened and he leaned forward. “So it’s true, then. And?”

“I fear there’s not just treason, but sorcery.” He explained quickly, almost frantically, of his return of Catherine and his encounters with the demon and the supernatural fog.

It was obvious to him now. He had tried to be objective, had told himself that Catherine could very well have been the source—an unwitting source—of these occurrences. He had no reason to think otherwise; what he had heard of the supernatural had always seemed random and without reason in its movements. But two things were clear: Catherine had a certain power—he had seen how quickly she had healed from her wounds and how she had more strength than anyone would expect of a woman, much less one who had been so severely injured.

And she had been the focus of supernatural attacks.

He had seen no reason for it, and thus had seen such attacks as random, or perhaps arising from her own powers. But it could not be a coincidence that she had once been the betrothed of the Marquis de Bauvin and that the marquis and her brother were conspiring against Louis. Fichet had said that the de la Fer fortunes had declined, but Jack had dismissed the report when he had seen the rich cutlery and clothes of the family. But if it were indeed so that the de la Fers had little money, and since it was clear that de Bauvin wished to marry into the family, regardless of which de la Fer bride he’d wed, it must also be so that he sought some prize other than the woman herself. If the marquis wished to topple King Louis from his throne, he’d want as much power as he could find.

“Well.” King Charles leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers before him. “I have lost my kingdom, my wealth, and have wandered homeless almost half my life. I have been pulled and hammered between Catholics and Presbyters until my own faith has been sorely tested, and I wondered if God has decided to curse the whole of my life.” He let out a long sigh. “I tell you, Jack, I can only think that the fact that you have seen de la Fer and de Bauvin together must be divine Providence itself, and proof that God at last will see me home.” He gave an incredulous laugh, as if he was not sure whether to believe his good fortune. “It’s all come together. The Parliament’s dissatisfaction with Cromwell and his son, General George Monck’s support—yes, that’s the other thing, can you believe it? And now this, a way to convince Louis to support us, to show that God’s on our side, not Cromwell’s.”

He rose, and Jack rose, as well. The king paced back and forth restlessly, his face growing more animated. “Go immediately to Versailles. Tell Louis it’s a matter of import, a threat on his life. He’ll see you then, by God!”

Catherine. Her image rose before Jack’s mind’s eye again. She was with that bastard de Bauvin, and God help him, he could not leave her in that monster’s hands. He gazed at King Charles with all the respectful firmness he could muster. “Your Majesty, if it please you . . . I have to see to Mlle Catherine de la Fer’s welfare. She’s in danger, and could be a pawn in her brother’s and de Bauvin’s plans.”

Charles cut the air with his hand in an impatient gesture. “You will do as I say and go straight to Versailles. We do not know exactly when de Bauvin and de la Fer will strike.” The king frowned. “God’s blood, Jack, you took your time traveling to me, so I needs must come to you. You’ll not disobey me in this over a mere wench, or I’ll have your head and your estates, too.” He paused and his gaze softened. “Look you, Jack, we all have made sacrifices, even I.”

Jack bowed stiffly. “As you say. But Mlle de la Fer is key—”

“By God, Marstone, you stretch my patience!” roared the king. His hand rested on his sword, as if he was ready to pull it out, and he strode over to Jack and stood but inches from him. He seized the front of Jack’s coat and pulled him face-to-face.

It was a war of stares. Jack gazed unblinking, teeth gritted, into his king’s eyes, and Charles stared angrily back. Silence reigned for a long moment before the king released him.

“You’ve been seduced by a possible witch, and you won’t see it.” The king’s eyes bored into his own. “If Louis is killed before he sends me aid, then you’ll present your head for the hangman’s noose, Marstone.”

Jack nodded, relieved. “I’ll build the gallows myself, Your Majesty.”

Charles looked grim. “I’ll hold you to it, I promise you.” He presented his hand, and Jack took it and knelt before him. “Now go, or else I’ll give in to my impulse to run you through now, for I swear I have never met a more troublesome subject as you, Jack.”

Jack grinned. He’d been forgiven, he knew, for the king had stopped calling him Marstone and returned to calling him Jack. Charles grinned back. “Damn your eyes.” He waved him away, and Jack moved to the door. “And, Jack—”

Jack turned to gaze questioningly at his king. “Yes, Your Majesty?”

“Godspeed.”