CHAPTER 27
News from Home
The morning hours passed quickly. Armand didn’t pause for lunch but worked straight through the long afternoon, reciting one saint’s life after another. He insisted Devin repeat them continually, going back to the first tale each time before adding on a new one.
Devin’s stomach growled but he didn’t complain. He assumed, by missing lunch, that he was being penalized for questioning Armand’s integrity and judgment earlier. He had some small satisfaction that Armand was punishing himself, as well. This was, after all, what he had waited for. At last, he was sitting in a bardic hall memorizing the Chronicle, as he had fantasized about doing. But today, learning the Chronicle seemed dull and pointless. He obediently delivered each new story carefully and precisely, although, he was certain they lacked the energy and animation of Armand’s versions.
There seemed to be an established formula to the lives of the saints – a boy or girl identified in childhood as having special powers or as being unusually kind or benevolent – some event that solidified his or her heavenly calling – a miracle here and there and – last of all, a horrific death, usually at the hands of a brutal, angry mob or some cruel and arrogant individual. After so many hours, their identities began to blur in Devin’s mind, becoming one analogous conglomeration rather than six separate people.
Only Genevieve stood out: the saintly virgin who, at sixteen, had traded her own life to a sentient wolf, to save a small child. She’d died horribly, viciously torn apart by his savage teeth. She had been eaten alive and had never even allowed a scream to escape her lips. Genevieve had only whispered a hushed “Our Father” before the final darkness of death descended.
Armand pounded his cane on the floor. “Monsieur Roché,” he said impatiently. “Am I boring you?”
Yes, Devin thought, the answer was definitely, yes, but he gave Armand a polite smile and lied. “Not at all,” he said. “I’m sorry. Saint Genevieve brought back some unpleasant memories of our recent experience in the forest. My mind wandered for a moment.”
“Well, see that it doesn’t,” Armand said, standing up awkwardly. “Begin again from the first, with Philippe.” He began to pace slowly around the room, his hand kneading at the muscles in his hip and his back. “And mind that you speak loudly enough for me to hear you clear back here.”
Devin would have given almost anything for a small glass of wine or a cup of cold water. His throat was dry and scratchy; his wrist ached. He was beginning to wish he’d worn the sling that Mareschal had advised him to use. For a moment, he sat very still, trying to organize his thoughts. By the look of the fading light outside it was early evening. He suspected it was Friday but he didn’t know for certain. Perhaps Armand had a performance tonight and they could finish soon.
Armand stopped pacing, his cane hit the floor. “Monsieur Roché! Please begin!”
Devin cleared his throat.
“Saint Philippe was born in the southern part of the province in the little town of Bien Terre. He was small for his age and he spent most of his time in his father’s garden…”
“That was Saint Michel,” Armand growled. “Begin again.”
Devin looked at him in confusion. “Which was wrong?” he asked. “The garden or the town?”
“Both,” Armand replied. “Begin again.”
For a moment, Devin’s mind went blank. He scrambled in vain for details. It wasn’t like him to make a mistake. Philippe’s story was the first one he had learned today. He had repeated it more often than any of the others. He’d recited all of them perfectly, only minutes before. Michel must have been the herbalist then, or was it Clement? Was it Philippe who had brought a frog back to life when he was six? It was all a horrible jumble in his head. He simply couldn’t remember the first part of Saint Philippe’s story. He expected that Armand would be furious. Desperate, Devin turned, his open hand extended.
“Forgive me, Armand, I can’t remember the beginning.”
Marcus had stepped out over an hour ago. Shadows had gathered in the corners of the room. Only the fire lightened the gloomy interior with its flickering light. They were alone, and for just a moment, Devin felt uneasy facing Armand’s tirade by himself. It must have shown on his face.
All of a sudden, Armand’s shoulders slumped. Gone was the irritation and arrogance of a moment before.
“You’re tired and so am I,” he said affably. “We’ve been at this too long, Monsieur Roché. Leave it for today.” He beckoned to Devin. “Come on, I’m sure it is almost time for dinner. The stew smelled delicious when Jeanette began it early this morning, by now it will be perfection.” He extended an arm as Devin reached him, and draped it amiably over Devin’s shoulders. “The Chronicle was never meant to be learned in such haste. Perhaps, you could extend your stay by just a few more days? It would be much easier on us both.”
Marcus had made the same suggestion at Chastel’s just that morning, although now it felt like days ago. He’d said it would be better if Devin learned one Chronicle completely than several only partially.
“I’ll think about it,” Devin agreed, allowing Armand to escort him from the room.
The hall was redolent with the smell of freshly baked bread and savory stew.
“Before we go into the kitchen, though, tell me the beginning of Saint Philippe’s story again,” Devin requested. “Otherwise, I’ll never remember it correctly.”
Armand withdrew his arm from Devin’s shoulders and grabbed a lighted candle from the chest. He held it out in front of him.
“Our Saint Philippe was a chandler’s son. From an early age, he grew up knowing the awesome power of light in a dark and frightening world …”
Devin nodded then, remembering. There was no frog in this story. He took up the recitation:
“One night, when Philippe was barely four, he sat on his mother’s knee playing with a misshapen candle that his father intended to remold. The child took the candle in his chubby little hands and held out before him. ‘Light’ he said and the candle burst into flame.”
Surprisingly, Armand halted Devin when they reached the kitchen door.
“Enough,” he said. “The beginning is the key, once you have that down pat, then the end follows it logically.”
But Devin continued to summarize, to fix it again in his own mind. “Later in life, Philippe was sentenced to be burned at the stake for witchcraft, but he put out the bonfire again and again to the astonishment of his executioners, and he was beheaded instead. Flame answered his commands but apparently steel did not.” He tried to push the image from his head of the gentle saint falling from the cruel blow of an axe, but it refused to leave him. He rubbed at his forehead wearily. “Why do men do such things to each other?”
Armand was surprisingly cheerful. “You need a drink,” he advised, pushing him forward into the warmth of the kitchen.
They found Adrian and Gaspard sharing a bottle of red wine at the kitchen table. Armand sobered a bit as they walked in but he greeted Gaspard pleasantly enough, as though nothing had happened earlier.
Gaspard snagged his sleeve and pulled Devin down beside him. “Sit, Dev, you look exhausted.”
“I kept him too long at his studies,” Armand replied, evicting the cat from its perch on the rocker. “I’m sure Mareschal wouldn’t approve.”
Gaspard poured two more glasses of wine. He set one in front of Devin and passed the other to Armand. Devin sipped it gratefully, allowing the conversation to flow around him. It was a relief not to have to talk for a while. He could easily have put his head down on the table and slept while the others chattered companionably.
The kitchen was light and warm and cozy. The scents of food cooking filled the room. Jeanette hummed contentedly as she sliced bread and stacked bowls near the soup kettle. Used to the young ladies of Coreé who viewed everything through a studied mask of boredom, Devin found great pleasure in watching her graceful movements, the joy she derived from the simple tasks she w
as performing. How had Armand produced such a beautiful, happy daughter?
Devin heard footsteps on the stairs and Marcus came in with a handful of envelopes. Gaspard sloshed wine in another glass and gave it to Marcus, before topping off his own.
“We had mail waiting at the Town Hall,” Marcus said, waving the letters in his hand. “Do you see why it is important that we keep to your itinerary, Devin, or at least, keep your father informed when we are delayed?”
Devin nodded, silently taking the five letters Marcus handed him. One was addressed in Gaspard father’s cramped and precise script. He passed it onto Gaspard and laid the others on the table. Two had the Chancellor’s seal and were stamped “Official Business,” one was from his mother, and surprisingly, one was from André.
He opened his mother’s first. It was filled with endearments and familiar admonitions: “stay warm, don’t eat strange foods, get enough rest,” and ended with a sweet request for Devin to plan his trip so that he could come home for Christmas. He smiled and slipped it back into the envelope to reread later.
He opened the one from André next because it was unexpected. He quickly scanned the contents and then read them a second time to be certain he hadn’t misunderstood. The news came as a shock.
“LeBeau’s dead,” he said, in surprise.
“The Councilman?” Gaspard asked, looking up in alarm from his own letter.
Devin shook his head. “No, Henri. They found his body in his hotel room in Pireé, the morning we left for Briseé. He had been stabbed to death, and his room had been searched.”
For a moment, no one moved or spoke. Then at the same time, both Devin and Gaspard turned to look at Marcus, who stood with his back to the fire, his face in shadow.
Marcus raised his glass and took a long drink before commenting.
“If I recall correctly, I last saw LeBeau when you did, outside that little shop in Pireé. He was an annoying little man. I can’t imagine that he will be missed.”
CHAPTER 28
The Edge of Sleep
Armand seemed oblivious to the undercurrents of tension in the room.
“So this, LeBeau, he was a friend of yours, Monsieur Roché?” he asked, dipping up a spoonful of the rich brown stew.
Devin chewed and swallowed before answering. “Not a friend, no, but I knew him. We all did. He taught with my brother André at the Académie. They are…,” he faltered, “they were both in the Science Department together.”
Armand pointed his spoon at Marcus. “And you did not like him?”
“He sailed on the Marie Lisette from Coreé with us,” Marcus replied, helping himself to more bread. “I found him ingratiating. He followed Devin all over the ship like a puppy.”
“Why do you think he did that?” Armand asked Devin.
Devin finished his wine and wiped his mouth with his napkin. When Gaspard moved to refill his glass, he made no move to stop him. Maybe after a third glass, his hands would stop shaking.
“I have no idea,” he answered Armand. “But, the night before we disembarked, LeBeau asked me to visit his home in Arcadia this summer. He was quite insistent.” For days, he had carried LeBeau’s directions in his jacket pocket. The note had probably been destroyed when his jacket was discarded at Chastel’s.
“You seem disturbed by his death,” Armand commented.
Devin downed half his wine and avoided looking at Marcus. “I am. He was an annoying little man, as Marcus said, but I believe he was harmless. I’m sorry he was killed like that. He must have been terrified.”
“Perhaps, it was a robbery,” Gaspard suggested.
“Perhaps,” Devin replied, laying his spoon down. He’d been so hungry, moments before, now Jeanette’s carefully prepared stew seemed to stick in his throat. His mind was spinning. Marcus had been gone for so long that morning they’d left Pireé. He’d claimed that he was delayed at the Hall of Records. But several hours would have been enough time to canvass the hotels in the area and locate LeBeau. They’d all been disturbed by Henri’s message claiming to know who intended to kill Devin. But surely, that wasn’t a reason for Marcus to have murdered him…
“Do you know, Monsieur Roché?” Armand asked.
“Do I know what?” Devin responded, unsure what they had been discussing.
“Do you know if Henri LeBeau had any enemies?” Armand repeated. He leaned forward, his wine glass cradled in his hand, appraising Devin. “Perhaps, you should retire after dinner, monsieur, it is obvious that you are tired but you seem distracted, as well.”
Devin put his hand on the table and stood up.
“You’re right, I am. Please excuse me; I think I will go up to bed now. I’m not feeling very well.”
Marcus pushed back his chair with a screech and started around the table toward him but Devin held out his hand.
“No, please, finish your meal. I just want to lie down.” The last thing he wanted was for Marcus to follow him upstairs. He needed time alone…time to think. “Please,” he added, realizing he’d disrupted their dinner, “continue.”
He turned to find Jeanette’s eyes on him and was filled with an irrational desire not to disappoint her. “The stew was delicious, Jeanette, I’m sorry not to have finished it.”
Afterward, he didn’t even remember climbing the stairs, just the soft pressure of the mattress as he sat down on it. His room was dark except for the dim light filtering in from the hall. He sat there shivering, wondering if, perhaps, he was feverish again. Or maybe, it was just shock. Marcus had killed before in the Chancellor’s service. He knew that. But why would he kill a man who had information that might save his charge’s life? What did LeBeau know that was damaging to either Marcus or to Devin? And why would Marcus kill him to prevent him passing that information on?
Devin shook his head. He was dealing in conjecture. He was assuming that Marcus had killed a man simply because he was late returning from an errand. And yet, Gaspard had thought the same thing. Devin had seen it in his face when he’d told him about LeBeau’s death. What would make them both jump to the same conclusion about a man they had known for years?
Devin raked his hair back from his forehead and lay down. He propped his wrist on a pillow and dragged the quilt up from the bottom of the bed. He wrapped it around his shoulders, but the soft worn material did nothing to dispel the terrible chill that had settled into the very center of his being. He wished he hadn’t eaten. His stomach churned ominously: too much wine and not enough food. He knew better than that. At the moment, he would have welcomed Dr. Mareschal’s suffocating attention. He longed to feel comforted and safe.
After about a half hour, he heard Adrian open the door in the hall downstairs. People were entering from the street. Their voices drifted up the stairs even though individual words weren’t discernible at this distance. Devin had been right: Armand did have a performance tonight. He still wasn’t certain whether it was Friday or Saturday. He’d lost track of time completely, even though Armand seemed to know exactly how many days Devin still had left of the thirty he had allotted him.
Before long, Marcus came upstairs, apparently forgoing Armand’s presentation. Devin pretended to be asleep. Marcus stood for a long time next to his bed. Devin breathed slowly and steadily, wondering if Marcus could hear his heart beating frantically. Finally, Marcus lighted a candle and went to sit in the chair by the window.
Devin wakened much later. The door was shut and only a faint glow emanated from the window. Marcus still sat in the chair but now a knife lay across his lap. Was he guarding Devin, or did he intend to harm him? Devin considered yelling for help but who in this house would try to save him? Gaspard’s instinct for self-preservation was too strong. Armand might be all too glad to be rid of him. Adrian and Jeanette owed him nothing. He sat up slowly, his eyes on Marcus. There were some things he needed to have resolved.
Devin chose his words carefully. “Under what circumstances would you have killed Henri LeBeau?” he asked softly.
&n
bsp; Marcus hesitated a moment before answering. “Only if he represented a threat to you or to your father, or to me.”
“And did he?” Devin asked, his voice shaking.
Marcus apparently chose not to understand his meaning. “Did he what?” he replied.
Devin cleared his throat. “Did he represent a threat?”
“Yes,” Marcus whispered.
Devin waited, but his bodyguard didn’t move. Gradually the lines of Marcus’s body shifted and softened. They flowed and resolved into the lines of clothes thrown casually across the back of the chair: Marcus’s coat and trousers, a woolen shirt. The glint of the knife was only a belt buckle.
Devin swallowed, his hands shaking. He’d forgotten to take the valerian Mareschal had given him. Thank God, this whole episode had been nothing but a waking dream. He slid back onto the pillow, soaked in sweat, and stared at the ceiling, willing his heart to stop racing.
Then Marcus’s voice rose out of the darkness. “Get some sleep. Tomorrow will likely be another long day.”
CHAPTER 29
Acquainted With Death
By morning, Devin was able to convince himself that the entire conversation with Marcus had been a waking dream. He was, after all, a historian; he dealt in facts not speculation and innuendo. There was absolutely no hard evidence that pointed to Marcus as LeBeau’s assassin, and he didn’t intend to hunt for any. Some things were better left alone. Obviously, his father had sent Marcus with very specific instructions. Whatever they were, they were intended to protect and preserve Devin’s life. He needed to believe that and cease questioning both men’s motives.
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