“Come, mon cher, sit, and tell us what you know of mademoiselle, for if you do not, you would burst with it, I know.”
Fichet sat, and seemed suddenly seized with indecision. He frowned, then handed Jack a folded paper, with a very recognizable seal on it. It was from King Charles. Jack’s heartbeat quickened. Was it good news? Perhaps Cromwell’s rule was over? He hastily broke the seal and read the missive . . . and nearly crushed the paper in his hand.
The king had written nothing of returning to England, but had merely summoned him to Breda, in Holland, where he held court. Hope rose . . . he spoke of funds, however. Of course, the king could not speak of any return to his homeland; there were too many of Cromwell’s spies about, and it was too easy for them to intercept a letter. Jack grimaced. The spies would not make anything of a request for funds; that Charles asked for money to support his poverty-stricken court was nothing new and all too frequent.
“Well?” Fichet demanded.
Jack looked up from the letter and shrugged. “I am summoned to my king, in Holland.”
“And what of mademoiselle?”
Jack raised an eyebrow. “What of her? I assume you have news of her family?” He grew conscious of a tension in his shoulders—he had felt sure she was who she claimed, but not entirely.
Fichet leaned forward eagerly. “It is as she said, M. Sir Jack. She is Catherine de la Fer, of Normandy, an old family, the daughter of the Comte de la Fer. They live not far from Rouen. She is thin now, instead of plump, but it is clearly the same lady, for her height and features are the same, and she has been gone for a good seven months. The mother is long dead, the brother and heir is away at school, and it is said that the father has been very ill.”
Jack sat back, the tension gone. So, she was not a fraud, but the lady he perceived her to be; Fichet had more sources of information than King Louis’s own spy-ridden court, and it was rare the innkeeper mistook his facts. “Would they welcome her back, do you think?” he asked, almost reluctantly. He would not like to see Catherine leave, he realized. He found he enjoyed teaching her how to fence, and her company was intriguing at best, bracing at worst, and even then her acerbic words amused him.
Fichet paused for a moment before speaking, giving Jack a measured look. “The father had been saying that after a brief engagement to the Marquis de Bauvin, she has gone back to the convent at which she was schooled. But the good convent sisters denied that she had returned, and so now the story is that she has run away. It is clear the engagement has gone awry.”
Jack remembered the weals on Catherine’s back. “Quite clear.” He sighed, but it sounded even to himself that it was a sigh of relief. Nonsense, of course—he was more exasperated than relieved. “They will not want her back, then.”
Fichet’s frown grew puzzled. “I would not say that. There is a younger sister, thirteen years old, but she will be fourteen in two months. It is said that the marquis is content to wed her upon her birthday. Nevertheless, the family has offered a reward for Mlle de la Fer’s return . . . and de Bauvin is behind the funding of the reward.”
“He is a rich man, then?”
“Very rich, M. Sir Jack.”
Jack tapped his fingers on the table for a few moments, contemplating the possibilities. A rich nobleman could have some influence at King Louis’s court. On the other hand, Louis trusted very few of the aristocracy and kept most of them at arm’s length. Either way, Jack could use the situation to his—and King Charles’s—advantage. If de Bauvin was a trusted courtier, then returning Catherine would not only garner him funds but perhaps the ear of King Louis, and help turn the king from his apparent appeasement of Cromwell’s government. If de Bauvin was not a favorite at court, then perhaps he himself could be persuaded to contribute directly to King Charles’s cause. Jack had heard that Cromwell’s son would be a weak and reluctant ruler. If Charles’s forces could not defeat Cromwell, they could surely defeat his son’s, and Charles would return in due course. There was always wisdom in supporting a triumphant king.
Even if the marquis was not interested in any king’s favors, there might still be some financial advantage to returning Catherine to him, for it was well known that young girls did not bear children well, and perhaps the marquis would prefer someone of more mature childbearing age.
“How old is this marquis?” he asked. Fichet still gazed at him intently, and Jack was sure that the innkeeper wished to impress something upon him, but did not want to reveal it outright . . . before Fichet had married Felice, he and Jack had been comrades on many military campaigns; there was little he did not know about the innkeeper.
“He is thirty-five, more than twenty years her elder.”
“He likes them young, I suppose?” Jack dismissed his disgust at the thought of the marquis’s cradle-robbing. Girls of the nobility made marriages as their parents thought fit, and clearly the de la Fers believed this was the best alliance for their daughter. Few would refuse a high title for their daughters, after all.
Fichet’s brows knitted together in a frown. “He has not seemed particular in the past, M. Sir Jack. And it is not as if the de la Fers had any great wealth. They are . . . how do you say it? In the basket.”
Jack grinned. “That’s the phrase. Down on their funds, then?” His grin turned into a frown. “Then there’s something else the marquis wants, and it’s not young girls, for he was content with Mlle Catherine when she was offered.”
Fichet nodded. “Oui. There is something else.”
Jack waited as the innkeeper paused, for there was a hesitancy in the man’s manner, and Fichet was rarely hesitant when relaying information.
“It is rumored—rumored, monsieur—that there is some power contained in, or possessed by, the de la Fer family. And it is rumored that the marquis desires this power, for he has an . . . interest in sorcery.”
Mme Felice gasped and crossed herself. “I have heard of such regarding the court; indeed, did not a lady at Versailles try to gain the king’s favor with black magic? But I had thought it was idle gossip—”
Fichet smiled warmly at Mme Felice. “Such is the goodness of my wife that she dismisses what could be base slander—” He kissed her hand again. “But though it is indeed rumor, the de la Fer family is an old one, and has been well-to-do and unusually lucky until this generation.”
Jack lifted an eyebrow. He did not believe in luck other than what advantage a man might make for himself. It did not matter, however; if a man believed a thing, it was as good as true if he acted on that belief, and perhaps the marquis believed he would acquire some sorcerous power if he allied himself with the de la Fers.
That, however, was none of his, Jack’s, concern. If de Bauvin coveted some power or secret that was somehow connected to Catherine or her sister, then it was all the more reason for him—or the de la Fers—to wish to have Catherine back.
An image of her thin, beaten back came to him, and he gritted his teeth. It was a family concern and none of his; a young woman belonged to her family and then to her husband once she was wed. It was the right thing to do.
The thought that money made the right thing to do more attractive niggled at him, but he thrust it to the back of his mind. Regaining his estate and supporting his king against the Roundhead usurper was more important than one mere girl. There was the missive from King Charles himself that Fichet had given him, requesting his presence two weeks hence at Breda in Holland.
Jack looked up and caught Fichet’s look again, and decided not to ignore it. “Very well, what is it?”
Fichet cast a glance at his wife, and she spoke up. “You did promise to teach her to fight with a sword, M. Sir Jack.” Fichet smiled and nodded approvingly at Mme Felice.
Jack let out an irritated breath. “And so I have. I never said for how long.”
He looked from her to Fichet and met only disapproving gazes. He cut the air with an impatient hand. “She is a runaway girl who belongs to her family. I am only doing the right thin
g, and if I gain a reward for her return, you know it will go to aid the cause of my king.”
Their disapproving expressions did not change, although Fichet’s softened with understanding. “Ah,” the innkeeper said. “So loyalty to your king is worth the sacrifice of a young woman—une belle jeune fille, non?—to a family who beats her?”
Jack felt a definite prick of guilt this time, acknowledged it, and gazed at Fichet and his wife with exasperation. “Very well. You have succeeded. I feel ill at ease about sending the girl back to what may be unpleasantness. But that is not my concern, as I have said. Her fate is her family’s business, not mine.”
Fichet nodded. “So said the good Samaritan when he found the wounded man in the ditch.” His gaze was blandly innocent, but his voice, ironic.
Guilt-fed anger forced Jack to his feet, tumbling his chair backward to the floor. “God’s blood, Fichet, I am no saint and you know it, so don’t expect me to act like one. I’m bound to my king, not some gutter-found wench, and a promise to my king is a far sight more important than what might happen to her.”
Fichet raised a calm hand. “Peace, M. Sir Jack. I only wished to see how far she has come into your affections.”
Jack sat down again, shaking his head. “Fichet, my friend, you pry too much.”
Fichet raised his brows haughtily. “‘Pry’? No, M. Sir Jack, it is more a concern about mademoiselle’s virtue. Did I not say we Fichets are of a remarkable virtue? Bien! It is natural, therefore, that I should act as a father to her, and my dear Felice as a mother.”
Mme Felice nodded vigorously. “Oui, it is true. Pauvre petite! Who is to take care of her, when she has not her family?”
“I remind you that I intend to return her to her family.”
“But she has not a mother,” Mme Felice said triumphantly. “Surely she needs that. Also, what kind of family allows one to be beaten so? She is not a bad girl, I am sure.”
“You know nothing of the sort, madame,” Jack said impatiently.
Mme Felice frowned, and Fichet gave him a look of offended fire. “If you were not my friend, M. Marstone, I would call you out for that. My dear Felice is a wise woman, and I defy anyone to say differently.”
Mme Felice smiled and patted the innkeeper’s hand. “Peace, husband. Not all men are as perceptive as you, mon chou. Eh, he does not even know he has fallen in love with the girl.”
Jack groaned and clutched his hair. “God’s blood, have you no ears? Have I not said she is not to my taste in women?”
Felice smiled complacently. “Perhaps. But we have eyes, M. Sir Jack. We have seen how you look at her. You have not looked at any woman in such a way.”
“So I have looked at her. Anyone must look at her to speak to her.”
The landlord and his wife exchanged a smug look. “What is it that your Shakespeare has said? You do ‘protest too much.’ ”
Jack clamped his mouth shut over more protesting words, then waved his hand in dismissive defeat. “Very well, you may think what fantasies you like. Mlle de la Fer’s fate must rest in your hands for the while, however, for my king has called me to Holland—I hope, to say we may go home to England.”
Fichet’s brows rose. “You will not be taking mademoiselle with you? You will be passing through Normandy, after all.”
Jack looked down at his fingers drumming on the table again before he answered. He would be rid of the girl sooner and gain his funds faster if he gave her back to her family on the way to see King Charles.
“She is not yet well,” he said shortly instead. “I would have her in full health before I return her to her family. She will fetch a better price well than ill.” He said it brusquely, so they would put off their teasing. It worked—almost—for though Fichet frowned and pressed his lips together, Mme Felice did not look away quickly enough to hide a wide smile. Jack decided to ignore it.
Mme Felice nodded. “You are right, of course, M. Sir Jack. La pauvre petite is still weak and thin, perhaps too much so to travel. We will take care of her until you return.”
He did not quite trust Mme Felice’s innocent gaze, for she was as canny as her husband claimed. But he let it rest; there was nothing she could do if he left on the morrow and without letting either her or Fichet know when he would depart.
He nodded. “It is settled, then. I shall leave in the next few days or so, and send word of when I shall return. Feed her well, madame—and Fichet, be sure to tutor her further in the art of the duel.” Fichet was as good a fencer as he was, and expert in both the French and Italian ways of dueling.
Mme Felice smiled. “But of course. I promise you we shall take care of her as long as you are away from her.”
Fichet only shrugged his shoulders. “Eh, if you are not here to protect her, we shall do so.”
Jack looked at him suspiciously, for they had given in too easily, but the man’s expression was bland. He rose. “I suppose I will have to tell the girl that you will be teaching her how to use the sword while I am gone.” The inn-wife only continued to smile at him, and Fichet’s brows raised as he bowed slightly in acknowledgment. “That’s all I am going to do, damn it.”
Fichet bowed again, and with a growl, Jack turned and went up the stairs.
Catherine often felt she was still the creature of the alley; she was painfully attuned to sound, taste, touch, sight, and any other sense that allowed her to survive. And food . . . dear heaven, food. She would have killed to have such food as she had now. She extended her hand from her bath and took a handful of raisins from the bowl on the table beside the tub, and pushed the fruit into her mouth. She closed her eyes at the sweet stickiness that flowed over her tongue, and groaned. Food. So much food. She still had trouble keeping herself from gorging on what Mme Felice provided her every day, but remembered that eating too much gave her the stomachache, and interfered with her training.
She sank down into the bath, newly drawn for her by the chambermaid, letting the hot water cover her like a blanket. Warmth, dear heaven, warmth. She had felt cold forever, it seemed, and now she could bathe and be clean and warm as she pleased. The heat soothed her muscles, sore from her fighting practice. She let the sounds of the hotel below flow over her: muffled voices of guests, shouts of the ostlers outside, the hesitant knocking and thump of closed doors out in the hall as chambermaids and bootblacks performed their duties. She had come to understand over the weeks that they were friendly sounds, made by people who wished her no harm, at least not at present. She had become good at ignoring them; she would ignore them now and let her creature-in-the-alley senses be flooded by the bounty she had before her. She never knew when it would be taken from her, after all.
She took a small slice of cheese and let it lie on her tongue and melt for a while, savoring the saltiness before swallowing it. She moaned again—the taste was exquisite. There was more food, a little farther away—little biscuits and slices of dried winter apple. She frowned. She would have to come out of the water if she wanted some of it, but she would be back in the warmth quickly enough. She rose and leaned over the edge of tub, ignoring the drips of water that fell to the floor.
A harsh sigh sounded a little behind her, and she turned lazily. Perhaps it was Mme Felice, come with her new clothes—
It was Sir Jack.
For one moment, she stared at him, at his eyes that were so very blue, and the silence stretched out long between them. The snap of firewood seemed to startle him, making him blink, and his eyes drifted lower. He let out another harsh breath.
Her gaze went to the food she had been eating. Perhaps he was here to take it away; she was still hungry, and she never knew when there would be food next. She looked at the knife she had been using to cut the cheese. . . . Quickly she slipped the knife into her hand and sank into the water. Food was important, more than anything else.
However, Sir Jack was not looking at the food but at her, as if she were something to be eaten, rather than the cheese and the fruit. She was not used to a ma
n looking at her; her face flushed hotter than warranted by the heat of the bath. A flurry of words too numerous and confused to speak, stopped her tongue, and she sank farther into the water, up to her neck. She bit her lower lip, vexed. The silence aggravated her—what did he want of her? She should have heard him enter, but had ignored the sounds of the inn, to gorge herself on food.
“I—that is, I thought you were—” The words came out as scrambled as they had been in her mind.
“I-I did not know—” Sir Jack said at the same time. His voice sounded strained. Was he angry with her? She shrank farther into the water, up to her chin, and clutched the small knife with which she had cut the cheese, but she was not sure how much damage she would cause if she used it. If he were angry, and decided to hurt her . . . But he made no sound, and she dared to turn slightly to look at him.
He was gazing at the ceiling, breathing in deep breaths. He had not come any closer to her, however, so perhaps she would not need the knife for now. She glanced at him again. He was still breathing deeply.
“Are you well, M. Sir Jack?”
He gave a sidewise look, then nodded curtly. “I am well, thank you.” His voice sounded stiff, formal. “And you?”
“I am well, monsieur,” she replied, equally formal. He nodded again, and another silence stretched thin between them. Impatience niggled at her. The bath was still warm, but she was still hungry, and did not want to expose herself further while getting the apples. She eyed Sir Jack speculatively. He had not hurt her since he had come to her aid in the alley, and had not spoken to her in anything but a moderate tone of voice unless it was to shout an instruction to her in dueling above the clash of swords. He had not touched her since she had requested that he refrain—again, it was during the course of her instruction—but all the times he had, it was with gentleness. Perhaps he could be trusted . . . at least to bring her food. It would be a test. If he took it away instead of giving it to her, she could cut him and get it back.
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