Dark Enchantment

by Karen Harbaugh

  A knock on the door made her jump, and she stood suddenly. She made herself relax. It was no doubt Mme Felice. “Entré!” she called.

  The inn-wife smiled at her as she entered the room carrying a brush and comb. “M. Sir Jack said you were ready for your clothes.” An amused, mischievous look entered her eyes.

  Catherine frowned at her. “You knew he would find me in my bath,” she stated.

  Madame shrugged. “Perhaps, perhaps not.” She held a bloused chemise out to her. “Here, put this on quickly so you will not become too chilled.” A sudden billow of cotton went over Catherine’s head, and she lifted her arms up to swim her way to sleeve and neckline. Mme Felice adjusted the drape with smart jerks here and there before she tossed the skirt over Catherine’s head, as well.

  “I think you mean to drown me in clothes madame!” Catherine protested.

  The inn-wife grinned. “Eh, you have made a joke, mademoiselle! It is good to hear.”

  Catherine gazed at her, frowning. “Am I so somber, then, madame?”

  Mme Felice smiled as she tied the skirt ribbons around Catherine’s waist, and there was a great deal of understanding in her eyes. “Mademoiselle, if the scars you have had on your hands and your back were the story of your life, then you have a reason to be somber.”

  Fear seized Catherine, for she wondered if the inn-wife thought perhaps she had been at fault for her whipping, and she said nothing for a moment. But she looked again at Mme Felice and saw nothing but kindness.

  “There . . . the wounds are not there any longer.” She waited, wondering if Mme Felice would change and look at her with fear or hatred.

  The inn-wife’s hands only paused for a moment as she pulled the bodice around Catherine’s torso and began to lace it. She sighed. “M. Sir Jack has told me what he saw; indeed, I have wondered at how quickly your wounds have healed. But I am only an inn-wife, mademoiselle, and though I can read and write and keep our inn’s accounts, I am not a priest. I do not know what is a curse and what is a blessing, except what I know of my own life and my husband’s. But I cannot think whatever has . . . happened to you is because you are a bad woman. What is it that our Lord has said of he who sacrifices his life for another? M. Sir Jack told me you almost sacrificed your life trying to save that girl. Surely such an impulse came from the goodness within you, and surely the Blessed Mother of our Lord would intercede for you for such a good act.”

  Catherine let out a deep breath, and her shoulders ached suddenly from the release of tension. “I have been afraid that I have been cursed, madame.”

  Felice smiled kindly and patted Catherine’s shoulder. “Well, even if you were, did not M. Sir Jack bring you to us, and is that not a blessing? You have not the scars now, and you are looking very pretty.” She grinned suddenly. “En vrai, I believe M. Sir Jack has noticed it, and if he has not, then he is surely blind.”

  A hot blush warmed Catherine’s face, and she looked at Mme Felice accusingly. “You did know I was taking my bath when M. Sir Jack came up, and did not tell him!”

  The inn-wife wrinkled her nose as she helped Catherine into a warm jacket. “Bah! What if I did?” She waved her hand dismissively. “The man is stubborn and would not see a dead herring in front of his face even if he were slapped with it, especially if he denied its existence at the start.”

  Catherine pressed her lips together to suppress a laugh. “I am not a dead herring, madame.”

  “Dieu merci!” the inn-wife said tartly. “Come, turn and sit, mademoiselle, so that I may comb your hair.” Catherine obediently turned and sat on the stool in front of the fire, and Mme Felice gave her a hand mirror, which she laid on her lap. She closed her eyes as the comb pulled through her hair, slowly and gently, with soothing strokes. “No, you are not a dead herring, but it is necessary to show M. Sir Jack the truth.”

  “I am glad you do not think me a dead herring,” Catherine said, chuckling at last. “What truth does M. Sir Jack not wish to see?”

  “That he is in love with you, mademoiselle.”

  All of Catherine’s laughter stopped, and she drew in a deep, shuddering breath. Confusion gripped her—in love with her? She had not thought it; she had heard he preferred women who looked different from herself. And . . . she was not sure it was a good thing; she realized suddenly she did not know what love was like or even if it were real.

  “You must be mistaken, madame. I have not seen it.”

  Catherine heard the sound of an impatient huff of breath behind her. “Then you are well matched with him, for it seems you are both blind to what is in front of you. Tiens! Did he not agree to teach you the swordfighting? He has taught others in the past, but never a woman. It is clear he can refuse you nothing. The man looks at you as if you were a feast and he a starving fool. He would gobble you up in a moment if you let him.”

  “First I am a dead herring, and now a platter of food—I suppose that is better,” Catherine said, trying not to laugh. “But I do not wish to be gobbled up.” The comb tugged suddenly at a tangle and she winced.

  “Foolishness!” Mme Felice said as she worked at the tangle. “Of course you wish to be gobbled up, you simply do not know it.”

  Catherine frowned to keep back a laugh. “Madame, I have never wanted to be gobbled up in my life. En fait, I think it would be a frightening thing to be so consumed.”

  She felt Mme Felice’s hand pause on her head, then resume the combing. A sentimental sigh came from the older woman. “Ahhh. To be consumed with love . . . so it is at first. But I tell you, you will not mind it with the right man . . . and I am sure you have not met the right man until now,” she said confidently.

  Catherine could not help chuckling at the woman’s self-assurance. It was clear she was well matched with the very self-assured Fichet. “You are more sure than I . . . and should I not be more sure than you in these matters?”

  “No,” the inn-wife said bluntly. “For you are full of fear, mademoiselle. As is M. Sir Jack. Fear always obscures love—and most everything else of worth.”

  Catherine drew in a deep breath. It was true, she realized. She lived in fear as if it were a second skin, though she did her best not to show it. It was clear, however, that she did show it, for Mme Felice could see it. “Madame, I do not know if I understand love, or can feel it.”

  “Ah, that is a problem,” Felice said, and moved around to gaze at her. She frowned critically as she used the brush here and there on Catherine’s hair, then with a last tweak on an errant curl, nodded with satisfaction. “La voilà! c’est bien. You are a pretty lady, mademoiselle. I think, in time, you will understand what love is, and most certainly you have attracted it.”

  Fear grew in Catherine’s belly at the thought of attracting a man’s interest, but she remembered the inn-wife’s words. She had very little in this world, but if fear did indeed obscure everything of worth, then she would have even less if she continued to fear. She took a deep breath and let it out. She would do her best not to be fearful.

  She looked at Mme Felice gratefully. “Thank you, madame. You have been very kind. I will try not to be afraid.”

  Soft sympathy was in Mme Felice’s smile, and she gently patted Catherine’s cheek. “You are a brave lady, Mlle de la Fer. I know you will succeed.” She lifted the hand mirror from Catherine’s lap. “Now, look you—see, it is as I have said. You are a pretty lady, and it is no wonder M. Sir Jack has fallen in love with you.”

  Catherine smiled a little at the inn-wife’s persistence, and shook her head, but picked up the mirror.

  The mirror was not perfect, for it was old and had a few scratches in its polished metal. But it showed enough to make Catherine feel . . . odd, as if she looked on someone else’s face that moved as she moved. Another image came to her mind, of what she had looked like before she had become the creature in the alley; except for the eyes, which were just as green and wide as they were before, and her nose, which was just as straight, everything had changed. She had had a roun
d face before; now it was lean and heart-shaped. Her lips took on a severe line at rest; before they had turned down. She touched her throat—it was lean and long, not rounded and plump. Her hair, which she remembered had been short, now curled around her face in a fashionable masculine style.

  She slowly handed the mirror to Mme Felice and shook her head. “I do not look like what I remember, madame.”

  The inn-wife nodded. “No, you would not. You were thin and starving when you first came to us. You have filled out, I believe.”

  It was not what Catherine had meant, but she let the matter rest; it was better than talking of love and fear and other uncomfortable things. Then, too, she felt pleased at her appearance; she looked different than she remembered, and therefore not easily recognized from before the days of the alley. It gave her a measure of protection . . . which would be lessened when Sir Jack left. She looked at the inn-wife. “M. Sir Jack is leaving tonight.”

  The older woman raised her brows. “Ah, so that is when. He would not tell us.”

  Catherine grinned. “Yes, I know.” She paused, venturing cautiously in assessing her emotions. “Should I go with him, do you think?”

  Mme Felice hesitated. “I . . . do not know, mademoiselle. Has he asked you?”

  “No. But that does not mean I cannot go. He did not precisely say he forbids me.”

  Madame chuckled. “You are a clever one.” She sobered again, however. “Do you know what is before you, mademoiselle? You will go through Normandy to Breda, where M. Sir Jack travels.”

  Normandy . . . fear rose again, but Catherine suppressed it. I will not be afraid, she told herself fiercely. It was not necessary that she come close to her home, after all.

  “You are always welcome to stay with us of course; indeed, it is what M. Sir Jack wishes,” Mme Felice continued.

  Catherine bit her lip in indecision. It would be easy enough to stay where she was; there was no real reason why she should go or stay. She glanced at the inn-wife. “Perhaps I should do as M. Sir Jack wishes, and stay.”

  The older woman smiled, her eyes twinkling with delight. She nodded. “C’est bien. We shall be glad to have you.” A clock tolled in the distance, and the woman looked up and out the window. “Ah. It is time I go.”

  Catherine thought of Sir Jack’s imminent departure and felt suddenly as if she did not want to be alone. “May I go with you?”

  Felice smiled. “I am going to Père Doré for my confession. If you wish to come with me, you may.”

  Catherine hesitated. She had not gone to confession or Mass since she had come to this inn; she knew there must be heavy sins on her soul if the images that came to her of her past were true. But there were her scars, and the bleeding that had come from them time and again. Fear rose, hard and sharp. Surely she was cursed. . . .

  No. Fear again. She would not let herself be afraid. She lifted her chin and looked firmly at Mme Felice. “I will go with you.

  The inn-wife patted her hand. “Very good. Let us go down, then.”

  Catherine nodded, pulled a shawl around her shoulders, and tucked her dagger in her pocket. Mme Felice frowned slightly at the inclusion of a weapon, but said nothing, merely leading Catherine down the stairs and out of the inn.

  The late afternoon winter sky deepened the purple shadows between the buildings, giving them a bruised look, Catherine thought. It was as if winter had taken the city in a hard grip, leaving marks, and she saw it was indeed so as she passed streets where beggars shivered in corners. She regretted that she did not have money in her pockets to give any of them; she thought perhaps she would indeed take some of the small jewels in her rosary and replace them with paste.

  She hunched her shoulders against a sudden chill, but a shivering took her nevertheless, raising the hairs on the back of her neck. She glanced behind her—there was no one.

  “Is there something wrong?” Felice asked, her brows creasing in a frown.

  Catherine shook her head. “No—my imagination, I am sure.” And yet she still shivered, and a pain began to grow in the palms of her hands. Her shivering seemed not to have much to do with the winter air, for she was well clothed. But it seemed almost as if a dark mist seeped out from the corners of the street, and she was glad when their hastened steps brought them to a small church. She looked up at the spires that caught the brightness of the last few glimmers of the sun. It lifted her spirits somehow, and it was with a lighter heart that she climbed the steps to the church doors.

  It was quiet inside, only the whispers of feet against stone, of cloth against cloth, as she and Mme Felice approached the font and crossed themselves with holy water.

  It was not long before the priest came; he looked familiar, and Catherine recalled that this was the church she had come to for shelter when the alley had become too cold, and from which she had run away that day she had met Sir Jack. She had been afraid and ashamed, so much so that she had run when the priest had called to her. She wondered what would have happened had she stayed. . . . Her life would probably not be so confusing, she thought ruefully. On the other hand, she would not have saved the girl from her rapists, and she would have not met Mme Felice, Fichet, or Sir Jack. She could not regret any of that . . . except she was not sure about Sir Jack. She almost shook her head in wonder. How odd it was that a choice made in fear and shame should bring her to do something that was good, and to people who were kind. An unfamiliar feeling—a good feeling, she thought—flowed into her. She felt stronger . . . perhaps even more confident.

  The priest frowned slightly when he gazed at her, as if he, too, were trying to recall who she was. But he shook his head as if to dispel a slight disturbance, and his smile was welcoming as Mme Felice introduced her. The inn-wife patted her hand. “Come, sit with me in the sanctuary. I will pray, then make my confession, and then you may go next, if you wish.”

  She nodded, and followed the older woman into the sanctuary.

  Catherine hesitated at the door, once again feeling afraid, but she shook her head at herself. She had been in more dangerous places than this, surely, and there was no sense of . . . being watched, as she had felt outside the church. Still, there were the wounds that had been on her back and her hands, and the possibility that she was cursed.

  No. She would not be afraid. She put her hand on the sanctuary door and pushed it open.

  The door swung open to an arched ceiling, drawing her eyes to the altar and the cross above it. She swallowed, hesitating, then stepped within.

  The slight pinprick of sensation on the palms of her hands and on her back almost made her turn and run, but she gritted her teeth and made her feet move forward instead. She forced herself to look around the sanctuary as if it was usual for her to come here, as if she belonged. It was nearly empty, except for an old woman and a little girl who fidgeted at her side, and of course Mme Felice, who quickly entered a pew, kneeled, and began to pray.

  As Catherine kept her eyes on the cross above the altar, the prickling on her palms grew stronger. She pulled off her gloves and glanced down at her hands—they looked bruised, but did not bleed. She sighed; she could bear it, for the prickling was not much more than a strong tickle, and at least it did not seep blood.

  She moved into the pew next to Mme Felice and closed her eyes, letting her shoulders relax. She should pray, but did not know what she should say; she felt she was at a crux in her life. Choices . . . she wondered if she was meant to do something other than merely survive, but what, she did not know.

  A movement beside her made her glance up—Mme Felice had risen and, with a kind glance at Catherine, left for the confessional. Catherine thought of the inn-wife, and how she went about her business with a sense of purpose and satisfaction. She did not think that such a life was for her; she had tried to help with the work at the inn, but she was not good at it, for all that the inn-wife tolerated her unskilled help. She grimaced. Mme Felice even helped her dress, as if she, Catherine, was a lady of high estate. Well, she might have
been, but she was not now. She shook her head at herself; the least she should do is learn how to dress herself. She glanced up at the cross again and sighed. It was good she had come here; a measure of clarity had come to her, and she felt less like the creature in the alley and a little more human. She sighed, giving up knowing how and what to pray for, and settled for the Lord’s Prayer instead. She felt glad that she remembered it among the few things she did remember.

  A lightness, a sense of optimism filled her as she finished the prayer. Her hands had ceased prickling, and a heat entered them instead, so much so that she left off the gloves she had worn and put them in her pocket instead. Another warmth seemed to center around her throat; frowning, she pulled out her crucifix and looked at it. It looked no different than it usually did, but it was as warm as if she had set it in front of a fire. She wondered what it meant; good, she hoped.

  She sighed. Surely her life would become better after this; did she not have a place with the Fichets if she so chose, until Sir Jack returned? And then . . . well, she would not think what would happen then, but the more she thought of him, the more she believed he would do her no harm, none that he intended, anyway.

  A rustling at her side made her look up to see Mme Felice smiling down at her. “I am done, mademoiselle. Shall we go?” Catherine nodded and rose to her feet, following the woman toward the church foyer.

  As they stepped out of the sanctuary, Catherine glanced at the confessional; she could hear a stirring within and was sure the priest was still there. She hesitated, then briefly touched Mme Felice’s arm.

  “I . . . I have not been to confession in a while, madame. If you do not mind waiting . . .”

  The older woman smiled. “No, not at all. I will wait in the sanctuary; a few more prayers will surely be for my good.”

  Catherine nodded and went into the confessional, keeping enough control over her fears so that she did not flinch or hesitate before entering. She sat for a moment, savoring the silent anonymity, though she sensed that the priest was waiting. She took a deep breath. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. . . .” she said at last.