Chapter 15



co ornGETTING 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.

“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 himself 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.

But the prickling in her hands became an ache, more so when the marquis turned to look at them. She glanced at her brother; Adrian looked eagerly at de Bauvin, as if he had seen a long-lost friend. Then she looked at the marquis, and the ache in her hands turned into pain.

A dark glint showed in the folds and lace of the marquis’s cravat, and she looked quickly away toward the king, as if he took all her attention. She kept her eyes on the throne; it was an excuse not to look at de Bauvin and be drawn in to gazing at the amulet he wore. Despair clutched at her; she had hoped that with the return of her memories when she touched de Bauvin, her affliction would disappear. But it seemed the stigmata came back in response to the evil of the marquis’s amulet, and had little to do with the spell he had cast on her to lose her memory.

She cast a surreptitious look at her hands. She was glad she had chosen to wear sturdy gloves—they would conceal for a while any blood that might seep from her hands. The weight of her dagger in her pocket comforted her; if he tried to take control of her, she could use it to defend herself.

The threat was wider than merely to herself, however. De Bauvin must be behind Blanche’s illness; there could be no other explanation for the misty visitation. De Bauvin sought power. It was reasonable to assume he had used his sorcery to take what he could of it from Blanche.

And now he had the amulet. She recalled that it was after her cousin Jeanette had disappeared that he had used it on her, to subdue her in her bedroom. Now he wore it again. Her reasoning brought her to rising dread. If he wore it now, then it meant he wished to subdue someone, and it was wholly possible it was not some woman in a bed.

Catherine once again examined the king. He seemed distracted, his attention drawn away from the petitioners. From time to time the king would glance at the crowd of people in the audience chamber, frown, then pull his gaze back to the person in front of him. She saw de Bauvin move closer to the petitioners by the king, and Louis’s gaze flicked to the marquis. . . .

There was a pause in the proceedings, and she saw Louis give an impatient gesture. “It is enough for now. We will continue on the morrow.”

There was a surprised silence from the officials surrounding him, and Cardinal Mazarin looked disapproving. This was not according to the usual process, and King Louis was one who was very conscious of routine and duty. But he was the king, and the courtiers gave way, bowing politely.

She noted that the marquis moved toward His Majesty slowly, speaking with various other guests as he worked his way closer. Catherine glanced at Père Doré again . . . he was not far, and perhaps she could talk to the priest before the marquis got any closer to the king.

She turned to Adrian—he was watching the marquis as if compelled, his eyes looked more tired than ever, and her heart sank. She could only hope that the cross she had given him would protect him somehow. She touched his arm and shook it a little.

“Adrian . . . if you do not mind, I would like to talk to Père Doré—he is the priest who stands next to Cardinal Mazarin. Père Doré was my confessor while I stayed in Paris.” She glanced at the marquis from the corners of her eyes. He was moving closer to the king—no, she would only pretend to see the priest. She would not be fast enough to speak to Père Doré first. She would have to try to get to Louis before the marquis did.

Adrian drew his gaze from the marquis, slowly, as if in a daze. “What?”

“The priest, Père Doré, he was my confessor, and I wish to speak to him,” she said, her voice unsteady.

Her brother waved her away as if she were an annoying fly. “Go,” he said.

She did not wait any longer, but moved as quickly and as decorously as possible. She was not sure what she would say—accuse the marquis baldly of sorcery? Begin by explaining her presence? Whatever she said would sound insane—her whole existence had been insane from the time she had lost her memory.

No—it had gone mad the moment her father had forced her to betroth the Marquis de Bauvin.

Fierce anger rose at the memory, and she remembered her vow not to be afraid. She would have faith that what she was doing was right, and not foolish, and that all would go well. She put her hand to her throat—no, she had given her cross to Adrian, for protection. She would go on faith alone, then, and the conviction that she would prevent the king from falling under the most vile sorcery.

She stole a look at the marquis—dear heaven, he had already come up to the king. The ministers and courtiers surrounding His Majesty seemed about to protest, but Louis said nothing and merely gazed curiously at the marquis.

De Bauvin bowed low. “Your Majesty—I intrude, I know,” he said, his voice low and apologetic. “But please forgive my eagerness in wishing to present you with a token of my deep reverence for Your Majesty, and all the magnificence you have bestowed upon our nation.” He put his hand to his cravat, and pulled the amulet from it. “A rare gem, Your Majesty, if you would consent to look at it.”

Jesu, Marie. Horror made her freeze. He was making the king look at the amulet, the one that had taken her mind and allowed him to force her to his will. She watched as he lifted the amulet before the king, lifted it high enough so that not only the king looked at it, but the courtiers around him, as well.

Despair and anger sped Catherine’s feet until she was running, pushing past the ladies and nobles surrounding the king, heedless of decorum or the rules that ran the court. The thought that the power of the amulet would move the king, no older than herself, of an age almost with her own younger brother, to do de Bauvin’s will, made her stomach turn.

The ache in her hands pulsed, and she gasped as a sharp pain seemed to slice her back. Mon Dieu, I do not know the purpose I bear these things, and I care not, but help me save the king, she prayed.

“Stop the marquis!” she cried out. “He does sorcery through the gem he gives to the king!” No one moved. She looked about her; all eyes were on the amulet. A glance to her side caught the glint of a courtier’s sword hung from a highly embroidered baldric, and she seized the haft and pulled it away from him, ignoring the man’s protest. She pushed aside a lady who cried out and tottered on her high heels, and she slipped past a gentleman who tried to seize her.

Please let me come between the king and the marquis before it is too late. She lifted her head—she had leaned forward in her rush—and the sword in her hand rose to slap the amulet from the marquis’s hand.

The crowd around Louis gasped as the dark jewel flew into the air—all eyes seemed to be fixed on it, on the seething red center of it, and Catherine felt the pull, as well. She closed her eyes and forced her attention away. She would not be sucked into its influence or under the power of the Marquis de Bauvin. She heard the sound of it falling to the floor—a sharp rocky sound, not a shattering as she had hoped. She opened her eyes to see that the marquis had stooped to pick it up and held it in his hand.

“She is mad.”

She was standing, facing him, the sword outstretched, her back half to the king. Fear struggled to seize her—she could be executed for this disruption, for putting her back to the king. She met the marquis’s eyes—cold, empty but for a chill light that promised death.

“No I am not.” Her voice came out a whisper, and she cleared her throat, forcing herself to speak loudly. “I am not mad. I seek to defend our good king from sorcery.”

No one spoke into the chill silence except for a few gasps from the court guests on the fringes of the group around them. She turned slightly to plead with the king, and her heart sank. He looked confused, lost, and she feared that he had already been caught by the power of the amulet. She looked about her—the other courtiers also looked dazed and confused, and some alarmed, but she could not tell if they had also been caught by the sorcery or if they did not know how to react.

The king seemed to struggle, shaking his head slightly. “What?”

“It is nothing,” de Bauvin said, his voice soothing. “Mademoiselle is disobedient to the wishes of her brother the comte. She is betrothed to me, but I must say I am having second thoughts.” The marquis moved back a little and her hands burned with pain, and her back once again stung. She forced the sensations to the back of her mind and raised her sword.

“If you try to hurt King Louis, I will kill you,” she said.

“See, she is indeed mad,” de Bauvin said, raising his voice. “I only offered a gift, and she threatens me.”

“It is a sorcerous thing,” she said loudly, and her voice echoed in the room. “You have used it on me to strip me of my will, and it is only by the grace of God that I escaped it.” She knew her voice had an edge of desperation in it—had all the courtiers here been ensorcelled? It seemed none of them moved or even said anything in protest. She measured the distance between herself and the marquis. He was a sword’s length away, but the king was near, and her brother had come up closer, next to de Bauvin. Adrian’s face was pale, his eyes just as dazed. A young woman stepped closer and put her body against the marquis’s. Catherine felt ill; the lady could not be more than sixteen, but she had placed herself over the man’s heart, and so protected him from a killing thrust. He would use anyone to get what he wanted, Catherine thought.

“I would suggest she be arrested,” de Bauvin said softly, and a pulse of darkness seemed to seep from his words.

Another wave of pain seized her, but strength also came, and she somehow shook off the hands that grabbed her.

“No,” she said, and anger was a fire in her heart. “No. You coward, you fiend. You use young girls to fuel your sorcerous power and to protect yourself from an honest fight. You cannot even face a woman who dares stand against you.” She sneered at him. “Coward. A snake that crawls on his belly, pretending to offer gifts, but bites like a viper. A slime-filled, offal-filled sack of a man; no, not even a man, but a sniveling eunuch who cannot even get a woman in his bed unless he uses sorcery.”

Sudden fire dispelled the empty coldness in the marquis’s eyes, and he thrust the girl from him. Something bright flashed, and Catherine jerked aside as cold air brushed her neck. A cry beside her made her glance down—an elderly man had taken the marquis’s dagger in his throat.

The girl who had stood at de Bauvin’s side cried out. “Grandpère!” She rushed to the man’s side, shaking her head, screaming in short pants.

Fury seized Catherine, and she leaped forward, willing the sword to pierce the marquis to the heart, even as pain sliced her hands and her back at the sight of the fallen man and his granddaughter. But another flash came up and parried her thrust. The marquis had his sword out at last.

A fierce satisfaction surged through her. This she understood and was trained for. Jack had taught her this, it was his gift to her, and she loved him for it, this gift of survival.

She moved, carefully, so that she stood between the marquis and Louis. She could not risk that he would try to kill His Majesty. The marquis had planned his attack well; the king’s brother Phillipe was away, and if he could control the king or even kill him, he could seize power and perhaps raise enough of a force to eliminate the king’s brother.

The marquis feinted to the left, but she refused to be drawn by it. He clearly wanted her to turn away so that the Louis would be exposed. She attacked instead, and de Bauvin barely managed to parry it, and it forced him back, away from His Majesty. She smiled grimly. She was glad she had concealed her expertise. It would give her an advantage, at least for a while.

Still too close to the king. She wanted to save her strength, for the darkness that oozed from the marquis sapped her of it, and each time she felt the darkness, she also felt pain in her hands and on her back. That she wore skirts did her no good, but at least she had made sure that her stays had been loosely tied.

She gritted her teeth against the pain, focusing on the movement of her body, on the minute shifts of balance that would propel her and her sword forward or to the side. The pain receded, and strength grew, and she let out a little laugh of relief.

The marquis gave her a sharp look, and then it became calculating. “Mlle de la Fer, give it up. You know I will win.”

She parried a thrust that would have pierced her throat if she had not been watching for it. “I know of no such thing,” she said. She was glad to see that she breathed heavily but easily. Her pain was almost gone now, though she was beginning to tire. The sword she wielded did not fit her hand as the one she was used to. She thought of the dagger she had in her pocket—it was in her right pocket, not her left, for she had thought she’d only have her dagger rather than a sword. Useless, for she dare not feel for it in the pocket of her skirts while she was fighting.

King Louis’s court had formed a wide circle around them, and she was glad they were well away from the king. It was one less thing to fear. The marquis lowered his voice, nevertheless. “I will win, mademoiselle. You see how they are in my control. You think you disengaged my influence from your sister? You are a fool if you think it.” His voice grew mocking. “I am taking her—and your brother’s—power even as we fight.”

Fear struck her again, almost choking her, and she faltered as she glanced at her brother who had fallen to his knees, and then to the floor. The marquis lunged, but she parried—barely—and stepped back, breathing harshly.

“Do you seriously think I cannot take your power even now? I still have the amulet. You will look at it, whether you like it or not.” He held up the stone in his left hand, even as a ripping sound and a sharp pain lanced her left shoulder.

She had deflected the thrust in time, but her eyes were still drawn to the dark amulet. The red spark in the midst of the darkness crawled within like a living thing.

No. No. She forced her eyes away from it and deflected yet another thrust. Her hands hurt now and felt moist, and her back pained her. She had almost let the amulet’s evil into her mind.

She cast a quick look about her before she parried another thrust—she was being forced back to the edge of the circle. The marquis may have the court in his thrall, but she doubted he could do anything but keep them from moving. Surely if he could animate them to harm her, he would have by now.

She gritted her teeth and looked for a weakness, any opening in the marquis’s defense. She tried not to look at the amulet, but it was difficult. If she were to fight de Bauvin, it meant that she had to look at him. He knew what he was doing when he waved the amulet before him as he fought; he smiled coldly, confident that her gaze would be caught by it. Every time her eyes were drawn to it, the pain in her hands and on her back increased. The sounds of the girl sobbing over her grandfather added to it; the girl’s grief poured into Catherine’s heart and she felt like weeping.

She heard a low chant, and a relief from the pains came to her; it was Latin, a prayer, and it sounded like Père Doré’s voice. He must have been able to avert his eyes from the amulet.

Another lunge from the marquis, and this she also deflected. She whirled around, hoping the edge of her sword would catch him, but it swished by harmlessly.

Time passed; she did not know how long. The courtiers, the king, her brother, still seemed frozen, unmoving. The spell of the amulet was strong, but the sound of prayers stayed in her ears and sustained her, though she could feel her muscles aching with effort and fatigue.

She gazed at the marquis—he did not seem to be tiring at all. Blanche. Dear heaven, did he speak the truth when he said he was drawing power from her still? Fear seeped into her at the thought, and the marquis’s amulet caught her gaze.

The red depths seemed to strike at her, strengthening the fear pouring into her heart. She saw another flash of steel before her and deflected it, then deflected another, but it was all that she could do, for her hands became slick with blood and hurt, hurt with a fiery agony. She managed to move her gaze from the amulet and stared at the marquis instead, but it did no good; the same sickly red light was in his dark eyes, and forced all the fear she had ever experienced, had ever felt for her brother and her sister, for the girl in the alley, for the girl and her grandfather here in the court, deep into her bones.

She trembled, and the amulet loomed large in her sight. It pulled her into the depths of it, until a fog entered her mind. She could still hear the sounds of steel against steel—she must still be fighting, her body reacting to whatever sense she must have left.

But a sharp shock shot up her arm, and her knees hit hard on the floor. She shook her head, blinked, and tried to focus on what was before her. The sounds of prayer continued, but she could hear uncertainty in the priest’s voice even as he prayed.

The Marquis de Bauvin seemed unaffected by the prayers, and hope began to seep from her. He smiled coldly at her, his sword still in his hand. He kicked another sword—she foggily remembered she had used it—to the side, beyond her reach.

“Stupid, stupid Catherine. You should have yielded to me, but you did not. It is a pity.” His smile grew wider, and he lifted his sword. “For you see, you have been too much of a nuisance and so must die.”

 

The world whirled around Jack’s head, but he bit the side of his cheek—the street steadied and he could focus on it again. He was on another horse, and the presence of the red-hot poker in his side was permanent now. He was, frankly, glad that Fichet was with him as they hurried their horses down the avenue to the chateau of Versailles.

Fichet said nothing, merely glancing at him from time to time. Jack was grateful for his silence. It was trouble enough to ride, much less speak.

He hoped Catherine was not in danger, but he feared she was. He had tried to reason it out, had tried to convince himself that even if she was in danger, it was not immediate, that he would bring King Charles’s missive to Louis in time to prevent any harm. He did not know whether it was his fever or his gut feeling that countered his reasoning, but either way, he feared he might be too late.

He almost rode his horse up the steps of the palace before a shout roused him. He opened his eyes, and blearily noticed that a footman stood, looking agitatedly up at him.

“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.

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.