Hathor followed his gaze to where the human Servaes was being directed inside the palace by Madame La Fontaine. His soulful brown eyes turned around. Hathor’s heartbeat quickened as she saw his handsome face. His earnest expression drew slowly over the crowd as he blinked and turned towards the side of the palace. She gazed at him, her body full of longing. The careless grace of his movements captivated her as they were drawn out and slow.
He turned back as if trying to see her at the fountain. The crowd was too thick. Time became normal once more. Suddenly, fireworks began exploding overhead in mighty pops. The noble court clapped and gasped with awe. The laughter was loud as it rang about her in waves. Servaes ducked behind the palace wall as all attention was drawn to the sky.
Hathor turned amidst the crackling fireworks, the streaks of color bright enough to cast faces into dramatic relief. Jirí hadn’t moved. He was smiling delightedly with an unknown aim. Servaes disappeared. Jirí moved forward to Madame La Fontaine to gently clasp her neck as he passed. The woman smiled at him in invitation. Jirí’s nails traveled over her skin. She visibly shivered.
Hathor stepped closer. She ignored those in the crowd as their attention turned to the sky. Madame La Fontaine stared forward. Jirí came about her back. Then, tilting her head to the side, the vampire smiled wickedly. Hathor watched as he opened his mouth, boldly biting down on the noblewoman’s delicate neck. The woman didn’t move away. She didn’t fight him. Her dark eyes closed dreamily, and her hand lifted to caress the vampire’s hair as he drained her. Jirí didn’t even try to hide from the gathered crowd. But it didn’t matter. The crowd’s attention was turned to the sky.
Unexpectedly, Jirí paused in his pursuit of the woman to gaze directly at Hathor. Hathor gasped and turned, trying not to be detected as she ducked behind a large group. Her eyes flew demurely to the ground to stare at the hem of her elaborate dress. She held still for many moments. The ground beneath her churned. Her feet became unsteady as the streaks of fireworks blurred heavily overhead. Faces paled and faded. Laughter grew loud and soft. Glancing back to Madame La Fontaine, she saw Jirí had left his meal standing dazed on the side of the crowd. The vampire was moving straight for her. Hathor cringed, recoiling in fear. And then, without warning, everything was gone.
Chapter Eleven
King Louis’ palace was a magnificent blend of precise architecture and luxurious spirit. No expense had been spared when creating the legendary structure meant to surpass all others of the time. Secret passageways and tunnels traveled behind walls, letting the king move freely throughout the palace undetected, joining him to his mistresses and helping him to escape from the home, if ever a need arose.
Past the long corridors filled with boundless windows and mirrors, beyond the great halls and dining rooms graced with sculptures, were the chambers of the king’s favorite mistress. Vast walls arched high overhead, their red color of the deepest shade. Golden trim lined half way up in decorative borders, with rows of various paintings on the top and bottom. The artwork was crafted directly on the walls, free of frames. Paintings were also on the ceiling panels, curving around in an overhead arch. Large white double doors fitted high to the ceiling trimmed with red and gold designs.
Along the smooth marble floor were decorative platforms holding immense candleholders. More flickering candles hung overhead in a crystal chandelier, the crystals like rain falling down in frozen droplets. The light illuminated and cast the romantic chamber with a soft glow. Raised up on a platform was a large bed, cushioned soft with red satins and silks, adorned with fluffy pillows. A circular headboard fitted into the wall above the bed.
Servaes frowned. He looked down at the crude map Madame La Fontaine had pressed into his hand. Turning back to the giant painting from which he emerged, he ran his fingers over its borders trying to find a latch to open the secret door so that he might again make his way into the secret passages of the castle. He couldn’t find one.
Suddenly, a statue of a woman caught his eye. It was placed oddly by the bed. He would have sworn it was not there before. Stepping forward, entranced, he looked up at it. It looked like Hathor in the pose of a Greek goddess. Her marble eyes seemed to melt as they looked at him, and he saw a slash of stormy blue in the white stone. Servaes shook his head and blinked his clouded eyes. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The woman captured him. He wanted her.
Shaking his head, Servaes knew that if his didn’t find a way out of the bedchamber, he might not have a chance to tell her. It killed him to think of her waiting by the fountain for him, never knowing what became of him. He cursed himself for listening to Madame La Fontaine.
Grimacing, he shoved the note into the concealed pocket of his overcoat. He was in the king’s mistress’ chamber. Of that he had no doubt. He could see the yellow gown she wore that day thrown over a gilded chair.
Walking cautiously forward, he kept his heels from clicking against the marble floor. Prudently, he made his way to the chamber doors. Pressing his ear to the wood, he heard the approach of footsteps. He let loose a silent curse.
"Marie, is that you?"
Servaes froze. The soft feminine voice was light with joyous laughter, which faded as soon as she witnessed the intruder in her chambers. A shrill scream lit behind him, ramming his body with chills. Turning, he held up his hands, shaking his head pleadingly. Madame de Maintenon glared violently at him, her red silk robe clutched to her chest, her eyes round with fright.
"Madame de Maintenon," Servaes tried to soothe. He held up his hands to plead for silence.
"What are you doing in my chambers, monsieur?" the angry woman snapped. Her chin jutted regally in the air. Pointing a finger to the door, she screamed, "Begone at once!"
"I was given a message from the king. Here, let me show you," Servaes begged, trying to reach into his pocket. He took a step forward.
The king’s mistress gasped, appalled. "I’ve no wish to see your package, Monsieur! No matter how handsome you are. I belong to the king. He will not stand for this! He will have you head for this insult to me."
"Madame?" came a shout from the other side.
"Oui, come in!" she shouted to the palace guards. "There is an intruder in my bedchamber."
Servaes swung his head around as the door crashed open. The king’s mistress turned to hide herself from the guard’s view. Screaming over her shoulder, she declared fervently, "This man has trespassed into my chamber. He claims the king sent him to attend me."
"No," Servaes tried to deny. He turned to the guards. "That is not it."
"Is monsieur saying that Madame would lie?" one of the guards asked, affronted by the very idea.
"No, merely mistaken in her assumption," Servaes replied. "I was given a message to come here to meet the king."
"By whom?" the guard asked.
"By Madame La Fontaine, from the king," Servaes answered, automatically knowing how foolish it seemed. "Please, go and ask her, she will tell you."
"Madame La Fontaine is dead. Her body was found this morning by her family." The guard motioned for him to follow him. His green eyes boiled with authority and outrage. "She took her own life."
"No," Servaes denied, confused. "You are mistaken. Madame La Fontaine is here. She is outside in the garden."
"No, monsieur, it is you who are mistaken. I saw the body myself. She gouged herself in the throat. I helped to carry her from her family’s chateau. Now come!" The guard surged forward, joined by reinforcements. A dispatch was ordered sent to the king. Servaes was pulled from the chamber, dragged by his arms from the room protesting his innocence.
"Guard," Madame de Maintenon called.
"Oui, Madame," one of the men stopped and turned dutifully to her. He bowed low at the waist, awaiting her command.
"Have someone move this awful statue from my chamber. I am sure the king wouldn’t have ordered it placed here." Madame de Maintenon turned from the door. The guard looked curiously by the bed to where she pointed. There was nothing there.
/> "Madame?" he questioned, curious.
Madame de Maintenon swung around at the flustered sound of his low voice. Motioning her hand, she began to speak, only to gape in open-mouthed wonder. She gasped in confusion. The statue was gone.
"It is nothing," she managed weakly. She snapped her mouth shut, turning to glare at the hapless man in disdain. With a wave befitting a queen, she huffed, "Just go!"
"Oui, Madame" he said, bowing as he closed the doors. He gingerly followed after the curses of their prisoner.
* * * *
Hathor tried desperately to fight the stone of her limbs. She couldn’t move, held still by the stiffness of her body. She felt cold. Her eyes wouldn’t blink. Terrified, she watched Servaes being hauled from the chamber. Her limbs ached to reach out to him, to hold him. His face stayed brave as he spouted his words of innocence. The guards wouldn’t listen. Finally, one of his captors struck him on the back of the head. He fell limp. Then her world again began to rock and pitch slowly as if on an ocean. Suddenly, her sight dimmed. The light of the candles swirled and faded in jagged trails of light.
Hathor felt her stomach lurch in sickness. She was like a marble statue, weighed down by the heavy stone of her body, helpless against the rocking motion of her frozen form.
A roar grew in her ears followed by a splash. Her stone bonds were released, and in a dangerous throw she was pitched backwards into a wooden wall. Her body slammed with a heavy thud before falling onto an unsteady ground. She stiffened. Her body tipped and turned on top of the creaking of wood. She waited for the rocking to stop. It only grew more insistent -- unrelentingly haphazard.
Her nose pressed into a coarse floor, constructed of unfinished wood. Her hand drew back as she felt a splinter pierce her palm with the irritating poke of a sewing needle. She let loose a long breath, unable to see enough to dig the offending protrusion from her skin.
Fearfully, Hathor raised her hands and again carefully fitted them to the floor. She began to push herself up. Her eyes looked around in the darkness, trying to see and unable to. Slowly, she rose and clutched at her knees. Tears entered her frightened eyes. Her heart pounded. It was the only sound beyond the creaking wood. Gradually, she managed to push herself to kneeling. Feeling along the rough wood planks of the floor with shaking fingers, she realized she was on a ship. And from the feel of the dampened wood beneath her palms, she guessed she was on the bottom of it. She was scared of all that surrounded her, scared to be left alone in the black prison.
"Agh!"
Hathor trembled, recognizing the tortured voice. The darkness was consuming. She felt around her, listening past the creaks and groans of the wooden floor. She tried to inch her way towards the sound of Servaes’ agony.
Her fingers searched desperately for him in the blackness. Then, with a sudden burst, a blinding light streamed in above her head. She scurried back into the shadows. The sound of the sea swept in with the cool air from the opened hatch. Seeing she was by a rough-hewn ladder leading up from the darkness, she crawled to hide herself from the view of it. There was nowhere to go, she pressed herself into the curved side of the ship, hoping whoever intruded upon them wouldn’t see her.
Crouching in the shadows, she held her breath as thick leather boots stepped before her face. Her eyes darted for a weapon. There was nothing she could easily grab. The dirty brown of a long waistcoat soon followed the boots.
Watching fearfully, she pulled herself into a small ball. The man’s flesh smelled of salt and fish, the splashing of waves over the side of the deck his only bath for months. Hathor prayed the man wouldn’t see her. The light fell on his bearded face, crusted and wrinkled from years on the ocean. A yellowed cravat hung untied about his neck. To her relief, his squinted eyes didn’t find her as they adjusted and blinked. He reached above him, pulling a lantern down to his side.
The man turned his back, calling out in a language she didn’t understand. His feet walked easily over the pitching boards, not tipping as the ship lurched to one side and then another. He held his lantern high, revealing the top of his balding head, over the longer lengths of hair at the sides and back. It hung around his shoulders in stringy waves. In his hand he carried a sack. Hathor, knowing the man would surely leave the same way he came, looked for a better place to conceal herself.
Seeing a barrel, she crawled uneasily on her hands and knees to duck behind it. She felt the splinter press uncomfortably into her skin. She ignored the irritation the best she could. Her feet were unsteady as she moved. Feeling a tickling at her wrists, she glanced down, noticing that she wore the clothing of a man. A linen shirt covered her arms, lace falling over her fingers. A long waistcoat fell to her knees, the buttons brown and plain. Over her legs she felt the heavy knee-high boots of a sailor.
Hathor had no time to dwell on the oddity of her situation. The crusty sailor again called out, as she watched him from behind the barrel. His light cast away from her to the other side of the ship. Unexpectedly, she saw bare feet lying on the tipping floor. The sailor kicked the legs, screaming down angrily at the man whom he sought. The man moaned and didn’t answer.
The sailor cursed, looking around the belly of the ship as if to see if anyone watched. Hathor saw him shiver. He hung his lantern on a wayward nail. Then, opening the sack he carried, he reached inside.
Hathor narrowed her eyes, leaning forward. Her heart leapt into her throat. She waited as the intruder dug about in the sack, wondering what it was he was going to do to the hapless man on the floor. Her fingers searched blindly for a weapon she could swing at the sailor’s back.
With a grunt, the grimy man gave a lecherous smile. His hand withdrew from the sack. But, instead of the weapon she feared, he drew out a gnarled piece of meat and stuck it in his mouth. Then, tossing the sack on the floor by the man, he let loose an evil laugh.
Hathor sighed in relief. Leaning back, her eyes widened. A red beady gaze stared at her from the lines of a furry face. Catching sight of a rat, she gulped noisily and jumped back on her hands. With a crash, her body slipped, and she was tumbled unceremoniously to the floor.
The sailor turned around in alarm at the noise. His eyes narrowed in worry as his hand searched his waist for a dagger without finding it. Seeing the presumed lad on the floor, he began spouting his foreign words at him. His arms gestured wide and he took a menacing step forward. His fist shook with his shouted meaning.
Hathor watched him in fear, not knowing what to do. The man reached to his waist, pulling a knife from behind his back. He waved and pointed the blade at her, growing more agitated when she didn’t respond.
Then, like a call from the heavens, a shout sounded above. The man froze, cocking his head to listen. He shot her another curse before sheathing his weapon once more. Going to the ladder, he kept Hathor in the corner of his eye until he reached the top. The hatch slammed shut behind him, and she could hear the distinct sound of a lock sliding into place.
Hathor sighed in relief, panting for breath as her heart began to slow. The man had left the lantern on the peg so she could still see her surroundings. Going forward on her hands and knees, she crawled through the belly of the ship to the man on the floor. She knew who it was even before seeing the tired lines on his weary face.
Lightly, she reached out and touched his foot. Her hands shook as she felt the tender warmth of his skin. He moaned slightly, his foot twitching as if to shoo a rat. Hathor drew back her hand. She turned her face to the hatch above her as she detected the sound of footfall on the deck. After a moment, when no one came down, she continued to crawl forward. Reaching up, she grabbed the lantern from the wall.
Coming up next to Servaes’ pale face, tears stung her uneasy gaze. He had been beaten badly. A bloody welt fastened over his eyes, closing them with puffiness, and dark bruises marred his handsome skin. His lips were swollen beyond recognition.
Feeling a rock and a pitch of her body, she braced herself against the wall of the ship. Before her eyes, the welt melted
from his face to be replaced by a bump, the bruises faded from purple to a sickish yellow-green before disappearing completely. She vaguely heard a curse behind her.
The boat pitched, her body blurred and flew as if days passed by in seconds. She watched as a beard grew over Servaes’ sinking features. She saw as his face paled and lost the color of sunlight. Lights dimmed and grew. Impressions of people came and went like eerie streaks of light and dark. Some fled from her face in horror, yet others marked their chests with the sign of a cross and laid food at Servaes feet like an offering.
Then again her body slanted. Looking down, she saw Servaes’ eyes were opened. His cracked lips parted as if to speak. Tilting down to him, she heard his beautiful voice whisper, "Don’t go, stay with me my angel. Light the darkness for me again."
Hathor smiled at him, raising her hand to his whiskered face. She put the lantern on the floor beside him. His skin was pale, his eyes dull and weak. His flesh was warm as his stubbled cheek sought the comfort of her caressing hand. All around them the stale air mixed with the saltiness of the sea. The ship calmed and rocked gently at their bodies in a soothing rhythm. Whatever storm they had gone through was passing.
"Am I dead?" he whispered, emboldened by her touch to speak. His eyes fell heavily but didn’t close. They stayed trained on her, desperate to keep her before him.
Hathor couldn’t form a ready answer. Tears brimmed over her eyes. Her lips trembled, filling with the uneven surge of love and pain that warred in her breast. Everything about her felt real. His face felt real. Swallowing, she whispered in French, "Maybe we are both dead, Monsieur Marquis."
Slowly, a smile curled his chapped lips. His hand rose from his side to touch her face. His fingers trembled weakly and fell to his chest with a sigh. Hathor took his hand in hers. It too was pale and thin. She touched the roughly callused palms, the dirty broken nails. He was so changed from the charming gentleman that led her about on his arm at the king’s party.
Redeemer of Shadows Page 17