Jack shrugged. “The creature was dispatched with her sword. Both of us will have our own weapons. Therefore, we can dispatch any more that may come.”
Fichet cocked his head in a considering manner. “And then where will you take her?”
He wanted to say away, where no one could find either of them. But instead he said, “Only one place will explain who and what she is: the home of the de la Fers. You yourself said there was a mystery, Fichet, and there she will find the answer.”
“But the beatings—she must have received them at home, la pauvre petite!” Mme Felice protested. “You cannot wish to return her to that.”
Fichet shook his head. “My wife is right, M. Sir Jack. It is not right that she be treated that way.”
“I will not return her to abuse,” Jack said. “I promise it.” The couple before him relaxed. “It is on the way to Holland; if need be, I will leave her in Normandy, at her home”—Felice frowned—“if I am assured she will be well there,” he continued. “If not, she will continue with me, to Holland.”
“I am convinced it is not wise to leave now,” Mme Felice said stubbornly. “Think, monsieur! Mademoiselle has been here these many weeks and has not left the inn yard until now, and that only during the day. The demon came after darkness fell. If you go out now, who knows, but that you might be attacked again? You will be traveling in the deepest of night.”
Jack frowned. “There is something in what you say, but who is to say that she will not now be attacked here again, tonight?”
“You do not know, of course,” Fichet said calmly. “Therefore, it is best that you keep guard over mademoiselle this night, and travel in the morning when it is light.”
“No! That is, no,” Jack said, lowering his voice after his first exclamation. “And if this is yet another of your machinations to get me to admit to Mlle de la Fer’s attractions, M. and Mme Fichet, then it will not work.”
Mme Felice brightened, then said, “I had not thought of that, but it would be interesting—”
Fichet chuckled and put his hand on his wife’s arm. “Yes, ma chou, but that is not the intent.” He turned to Jack. “Think, monsieur. My wife is in the right of it. Such creatures must be allied with the forces of darkness, and is it not fit that they then come out when darkness is in force? We have not seen any such thing during the day, and my dear wife has said that it could have come at any time before they entered the church. If it is an evil thing, would it not be stronger in the presence of those who are not yet shriven? And yet, it struck when these two women were in their purest state, after confession. Darkness, therefore, must be a condition of its existence. It is reasonable to assume that you would be most open to attack in the dark . . . and forgive me, monsieur, for saying it has probably been a while since you have been in a sinless state. Is it not reasonable to stay here while it is dark, and depart during the day?”
Jack gave him an ironic look. “But as you say, I am not in a sinless state, and if more monsters are to attack, then I might be vulnerable. What, did you think I would not be tempted to sin more if I were to guard Mlle de la Fer in her bed? Yes, I admit, she is a temptation; but the less temptation there is, the better. Furthermore, she killed the monster some distance from here. Whoever sent it might not yet know that we stay here. If that is so, then the sooner we leave, the less likely we will be found. If it is known that mademoiselle is here, then the faster we go, the sooner we will be away from another attack. Either way, both of us would be safer if we left tonight rather than tomorrow.”
The couple’s cheer at his admittance of attraction to Catherine disappeared at his determination. Mme Felice nodded reluctantly, and Fichet threw up his hands in a shrug.
“I cannot argue with you, M. Sir Jack,” the innkeeper said. “Go, then, and with our blessings, and let us know what provisions you will need.”
Jack nodded. “Food, of course. Bread, cheese, and dried fruit, if you would, my good madame. That should keep us until—what is the next good inn, Le Chat Gras?”
Fichet curled a lip in disdain. “Not as good as ours, but it will do. Make sure Titon does not cheat you out of a good meal, and let him know I will take it from his chary hide if he does so.”
Jack grinned, and rose from his chair. “My thanks, Fichet and madame.” He bowed and kissed the back of Mme Felice’s hand. “I am fortunate indeed to have such good friends.”
Fichet grinned, and Mme Felice beamed at him, then bustled off to get the provisions Jack had asked for.
He turned, and went up the inn steps two at a time. They needed to hurry. It would probably be best if they traveled during the night. If it was true that such creatures favored the night, it was best if they were awake to defend themselves. He did not relish being attacked in his bed. There were plenty of inns that would accommodate customers who required a bed during the day. He winced. It would look damned irregular, but there was no help for it. He came to his room and found Catherine standing, waiting for him.
She was, much to his relief, clothed in men’s clothes; it meant they could leave quickly. She looked at him in her guarded way, and he regretted that he had been sharp with her. But he had been shaken by the appearance of the demon, something so outside of his experience, and he had no spare thought for careful words. Still, she should know by now that he wished her no harm. He wished she would not flinch when he came near her.
He approached her slowly now and kept his distance. “Come, we must go. Pack your things, please, if you have not already.”
She looked at him steadily. “I must go. I will not endanger you or anyone else.”
Irritation rose, but he squashed it. “Listen to me, Catherine,” he said gently. “There is sorcery about; you must see that.”
A cold chill crept up her spine, but she shook her head. She did not want it to be so . . . but she had seen for herself what had come after her.
She turned away from him, staring into the fire, swallowing down dread. The priest could be wrong; sorcery could explain her wounds and her bleeding. It might mean, then, that she was indeed cursed, not blessed. But surely not, for she had her sins forgiven and was in as pure a state as she could be when the demon attacked.
Discontent rose; she would never know if she did not go in search for the truth, and she would not find it here in Paris. She would have to go . . . home.
She turned to Sir Jack and nodded slowly. “Very well,” she said. “I alone shall go.”
“I cannot let you go alone. How will you defend yourself? I have not taught you everything you should know about swordfighting, after all.”
She gazed at him, her eyes wide, and for a moment he thought her lower lip trembled. But she pressed her lips together in a straight line and shook her head. “You are very kind, M. Sir Jack. But if the creature was after me, then it is not inconceivable that more will come, and that will endanger any who accompany me.”
“A creature that can be killed with a sword,” Jack replied. “Does it not stand to reason that two with a sword against such a creature will be more successful than one? Then, too . . .” He hesitated, wondering how much he should reveal to her of her past, for it clearly frightened her. He looked at her, at how she bent a look of stubborn determination upon him, and smiled slightly. She had borne much already; she should be able to bear a few facts here and there. “Then, too,” he continued, “does not your lack of memory trouble you? It frightens you, I know. Does it not stand to reason that there must be some answer to your affliction in Normandy, your home?”
A wild fear appeared in her eyes, and she said nothing for a moment, but then she nodded slowly. “I cannot hide from it forever,” she said. “I think . . . I think if I kept hiding from my past, I would live in fear for the rest of my life.” She gazed at him steadily. “Mme Felice said that fear obscures everything of worth in life, and since I have very little of worth, I cannot afford fear.”
Admiration for her courage warmed him, and he smiled at her, taking her hand in his
. He drew her fingers to his lips, and patted her hand. “You are a brave woman, Catherine de la Fer. I am honored that you consent to travel with me.”
Her lips parted in a smile, a light came into her eyes, and he caught his breath, for she was beautiful. Silence reigned between them for a long moment, and then she sighed, an uncertain look coming into her eyes.
He released her hand, feeling awkward. He did not look forward to traveling with her. She was a temptation to him, and he could not give in to it. She was not his, but belonged to her family, and perhaps to the Marquis de Bauvin. Until he knew the truth about her, it was best if he kept his hands off her. “Go, pack what you have. We will leave as soon as you are done,” he said, his voice sounding rough even to himself. She nodded and turned away.
He, too, had a few more things to pack. Stuffing the few remaining clothes he had into a saddlebag, the thought of a reward for his return of her came to him . . . there was that, too. Guilt accompanied the idea, but he put it off. Enough time to think of useless emotions later. If some sorcery existed in her, he would discover it as soon as they arrived at her home. And if it did . . .
He clenched his teeth. If it did, then he would be well rid of her, and no doubt it would be good for him to be rid of one who tempted him sorely, body and soul.
Catherine stretched out her arms as she stood in the stable yard, readying herself for the ride ahead. The men’s clothes Mme Felice had given her during her stay were more comfortable and well made than the ones she had worn when she had first come to the inn, and for that she was thankful. She gazed at the horse she’d been provided—a gentle yet strong mare—and stuffed the clothes in which she usually practiced into one saddlebag, along with the packet of food the inn-wife had given her. There! She was done . . . except that when she turned around, Mme Felice held out yet another bag.
“It is a skirt and bodice, mademoiselle,” she said in answer to Catherine’s questioning look. She held up a hand as Catherine began to shake her head. “No, take it. There will be some time when you will need it, I think. You cannot always be a boy, but will need to be your true self.”
Her true self . . . she smiled wryly at the inn-wife. “I do not know who my true self is, Mme Fichet.”
Mme Felice smiled in return and put a brief, gentle hand on Catherine’s cheek, reminding Catherine of a mother’s touch. “You will find out, mademoiselle.”
Tears threatened to burst from her at the inn-wife’s kindness, but she bit her lower lip against them, then took the package. She gave the woman a wavering smile. “I thank you, madame. I . . . I will repay you some day, I promise it.”
Felice glanced at her and hesitated. “There is something you may do . . . your wounds, mademoiselle—I do not think it is a curse or an illness. We . . . my sweet Robert and I . . . we have ached for children, but we have not been blessed with any. Give me a blessing before you leave, that we might have a child at last.”
Alarm and embarrassment made Catherine blush and shake her head. “I have no special powers, madame, and am as bad a sinner as anyone, not worthy to give anyone a blessing.”
Mme Felice smiled. “You have a good heart, mademoiselle. If you will not give me a blessing, then add your prayers to ours that we may have a child.”
“That I can do, madame, and willingly, though I think you would be better prayed for by Père Doré.”
Mme Felice pursed her lips skeptically. “Eh, he is a man, and dedicated to chastity at that. What would such a one ever know of bearing children?”
Catherine bit her lip again, this time to keep back a laugh at the woman’s unconventional but practical perspective. “Well, let us both pray to the Blessed Mother of our Lord, for surely she knows what it is to bear a child.”
Mme Felice nodded. “That will do.” She cast a suddenly shy look at Catherine. “And . . . if you will allow it, mademoiselle, I would be pleased if you would call me Felice, and know I will be your friend if you need it.”
Tears came to Catherine’s eyes, unchecked now, at the inn-wife’s kindness, and she took the woman’s hands in hers. “Madame—Felice—I am honored that you wish me to be your friend. If it pleases you, you may call me Catherine.” She turned to Fichet. “And you, too, Fichet.” The man bowed and grinned.
Felice beamed. “There it is, then! We shall be friends, and surely the prayers of a friend are worth much.”
A laugh bubbled out of Catherine at the inn-wife’s clever argument. “Very well, Felice, I shall pray that you and Fichet have a child—children, yes?”
Felice shook her head. “I will not be greedy, mademoi—Catherine.” She paused, seeming to take pleasure in saying her name. “No, if we have a healthy one, we shall count ourselves blessed.”
“Very well.” Catherine smiled, then before she could move, Felice gave her a brief and spontaneous hug.
“Au revoir, Catherine, and take care of M. Sir Jack, for I fear he will sacrifice much for his king, even his life.”
Catherine nodded, then turned toward the horse, letting Fichet put his hand under her heel to hoist her up into the saddle. She did not know what she could do to protect Sir Jack, but if she saw he needed protecting, she would do it, if only for the sake of his friends, these two good people. She watched as Sir Jack strapped his saddlebags securely and mounted his gelding. She still believed she should be away from all of them, even Sir Jack, and she would make sure she’d leave him if another supernatural manifestation came after her again. But it was comforting to have his company for now, she admitted. She saw Sir Jack turn to look at her, but she could not discern his expression, for his face was in shadow. “Are you ready?” he asked. His voice was just as expressionless.
“Yes,” she said. She did not know what else to say.
He gave a curt nod then, and turned his horse away, toward the road. Catherine sighed, shrugged, and with a last wave to Fichet and Felice, rode after him.
When the Marquis de Bauvin peered into the scrying hand mirror he held in front of him, it showed nothing but darkness. Slowly he put it down on the table next to him and sank back into his armchair, his fingers steepled as he gazed through them at the fireplace. For a while, he had found Catherine de la Fer. Paris, he thought, from what he could scrye in the mirror. He had caught a few glimpses in the past few weeks of her signature—a gleaming, feminine shape—in what seemed like an alley, or some place made of cobblestone and brick; any city might have such things. He had patience, however, and held his attention to her shape, hoping that there might come a time that the mirror would show her and where she was more clearly. He had even summoned a dark seeker to search for her and bring her back to him, though the effort had cost him much energy that he needed for healing.
It had been worth it, he thought. For at last he could see, through the eyes of the seeker, her gleaming form, shining more brightly than before, so that it illuminated her surroundings. She wore the dress of a common woman, and she had been accompanied by another woman also in common dress. She had come down the steps of a church, and as he pushed the seeker to seize her, he noted the surroundings—most definitely Paris.
But then she had fought the creature, and just as he thought he’d successfully retrieve her, the obsuring light had surrounded her, the hand mirror had darkened, and he knew that somehow the creature had been destroyed.
It was a disturbing development. The marquis frowned slightly. He knew the de la Fer women had some power, and indeed, Catherine had resisted him strongly when he had tried to take that power. However, she should not have had the strength to destroy the seeker; it would take at least the strength of a large man, if not two.
Perhaps she had had a helper. That was possible. Not that other woman—she had run off, from what he could tell. Someone else. The light around her had clouded everything, however, and he had not been able to see who.
The marquis rose again, careful not to turn too quickly, for his head still ached and he became too dizzy from time to time. Anger boiled again at th
e memory of Catherine de la Fer’s resistance and defiance of him. He had managed to seize some of her power when he had taken her in her bedroom; but it had been temporary, for she had concealed a dagger from him and had stabbed him. The shock of pain and the flow of his blood had almost negated the power he had taken, but he had managed to retain a sliver of connection to her nevertheless and to strip what he could of her mind.
He would find her, and soon. He had made contact, and the next seeking would be faster, stronger. And he would not make the same mistake again.
He went to the fireplace, gazing into it for a moment before gathering a handful of herbs from a bowl on the mantelpiece. He made a few quick signs and cast the herbs into the fire. A thin grey smoke arose from the flames, and as he breathed in the fumes, he gazed through the hazy veil that rose up in front of the fire and saw a light, laughing face, crowned with golden hair. It was Blanche de la Fer, his bride-to-be. She was quite young, and therefore more malleable than her sister. He had not sensed as much power in her as he had Catherine, but it was there, little though it was. He’d be more careful about this girl, nevertheless. If he played his cards wisely, he’d have them both, and he’d have all that he’d need to have his vengeance.
Indeed, he’d been too hasty with Catherine. He had thought her easily led; he had been mistaken in thinking that her compliant manner had been natural instead of beaten into her. When he had found she’d been beaten into agreement, he had thought it would not matter. But perhaps the strength of her power had given her a strength of will that had enabled her to defy him. If that was the case, then he would be sure to be careful with Blanche.
It would be easy, he thought, easier than it had been with Catherine. He had made sure to cultivate Blanche’s company and was glad that her father was no longer alive to make a blunder of the marriage arrangements. He had made sure of that, especially when he found the de la Fer fils to be more intelligent and yet more suggestible.
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