But the prickling in her hands became an ache, more so when the marquis turned to look at them. She glanced at her brother; Adrian looked eagerly at de Bauvin, as if he had seen a long-lost friend. Then she looked at the marquis, and the ache in her hands turned into pain.
A dark glint showed in the folds and lace of the marquis’s cravat, and she looked quickly away toward the king, as if he took all her attention. She kept her eyes on the throne; it was an excuse not to look at de Bauvin and be drawn in to gazing at the amulet he wore. Despair clutched at her; she had hoped that with the return of her memories when she touched de Bauvin, her affliction would disappear. But it seemed the stigmata came back in response to the evil of the marquis’s amulet, and had little to do with the spell he had cast on her to lose her memory.
She cast a surreptitious look at her hands. She was glad she had chosen to wear sturdy gloves—they would conceal for a while any blood that might seep from her hands. The weight of her dagger in her pocket comforted her; if he tried to take control of her, she could use it to defend herself.
The threat was wider than merely to herself, however. De Bauvin must be behind Blanche’s illness; there could be no other explanation for the misty visitation. De Bauvin sought power. It was reasonable to assume he had used his sorcery to take what he could of it from Blanche.
And now he had the amulet. She recalled that it was after her cousin Jeanette had disappeared that he had used it on her, to subdue her in her bedroom. Now he wore it again. Her reasoning brought her to rising dread. If he wore it now, then it meant he wished to subdue someone, and it was wholly possible it was not some woman in a bed.
Catherine once again examined the king. He seemed distracted, his attention drawn away from the petitioners. From time to time the king would glance at the crowd of people in the audience chamber, frown, then pull his gaze back to the person in front of him. She saw de Bauvin move closer to the petitioners by the king, and Louis’s gaze flicked to the marquis. . . .
There was a pause in the proceedings, and she saw Louis give an impatient gesture. “It is enough for now. We will continue on the morrow.”
There was a surprised silence from the officials surrounding him, and Cardinal Mazarin looked disapproving. This was not according to the usual process, and King Louis was one who was very conscious of routine and duty. But he was the king, and the courtiers gave way, bowing politely.
She noted that the marquis moved toward His Majesty slowly, speaking with various other guests as he worked his way closer. Catherine glanced at Père Doré again . . . he was not far, and perhaps she could talk to the priest before the marquis got any closer to the king.
She turned to Adrian—he was watching the marquis as if compelled, his eyes looked more tired than ever, and her heart sank. She could only hope that the cross she had given him would protect him somehow. She touched his arm and shook it a little.
“Adrian . . . if you do not mind, I would like to talk to Père Doré—he is the priest who stands next to Cardinal Mazarin. Père Doré was my confessor while I stayed in Paris.” She glanced at the marquis from the corners of her eyes. He was moving closer to the king—no, she would only pretend to see the priest. She would not be fast enough to speak to Père Doré first. She would have to try to get to Louis before the marquis did.
Adrian drew his gaze from the marquis, slowly, as if in a daze. “What?”
“The priest, Père Doré, he was my confessor, and I wish to speak to him,” she said, her voice unsteady.
Her brother waved her away as if she were an annoying fly. “Go,” he said.
She did not wait any longer, but moved as quickly and as decorously as possible. She was not sure what she would say—accuse the marquis baldly of sorcery? Begin by explaining her presence? Whatever she said would sound insane—her whole existence had been insane from the time she had lost her memory.
No—it had gone mad the moment her father had forced her to betroth the Marquis de Bauvin.
Fierce anger rose at the memory, and she remembered her vow not to be afraid. She would have faith that what she was doing was right, and not foolish, and that all would go well. She put her hand to her throat—no, she had given her cross to Adrian, for protection. She would go on faith alone, then, and the conviction that she would prevent the king from falling under the most vile sorcery.
She stole a look at the marquis—dear heaven, he had already come up to the king. The ministers and courtiers surrounding His Majesty seemed about to protest, but Louis said nothing and merely gazed curiously at the marquis.
De Bauvin bowed low. “Your Majesty—I intrude, I know,” he said, his voice low and apologetic. “But please forgive my eagerness in wishing to present you with a token of my deep reverence for Your Majesty, and all the magnificence you have bestowed upon our nation.” He put his hand to his cravat, and pulled the amulet from it. “A rare gem, Your Majesty, if you would consent to look at it.”
Jesu, Marie. Horror made her freeze. He was making the king look at the amulet, the one that had taken her mind and allowed him to force her to his will. She watched as he lifted the amulet before the king, lifted it high enough so that not only the king looked at it, but the courtiers around him, as well.
Despair and anger sped Catherine’s feet until she was running, pushing past the ladies and nobles surrounding the king, heedless of decorum or the rules that ran the court. The thought that the power of the amulet would move the king, no older than herself, of an age almost with her own younger brother, to do de Bauvin’s will, made her stomach turn.
The ache in her hands pulsed, and she gasped as a sharp pain seemed to slice her back. Mon Dieu, I do not know the purpose I bear these things, and I care not, but help me save the king, she prayed.
“Stop the marquis!” she cried out. “He does sorcery through the gem he gives to the king!” No one moved. She looked about her; all eyes were on the amulet. A glance to her side caught the glint of a courtier’s sword hung from a highly embroidered baldric, and she seized the haft and pulled it away from him, ignoring the man’s protest. She pushed aside a lady who cried out and tottered on her high heels, and she slipped past a gentleman who tried to seize her.
Please let me come between the king and the marquis before it is too late. She lifted her head—she had leaned forward in her rush—and the sword in her hand rose to slap the amulet from the marquis’s hand.
The crowd around Louis gasped as the dark jewel flew into the air—all eyes seemed to be fixed on it, on the seething red center of it, and Catherine felt the pull, as well. She closed her eyes and forced her attention away. She would not be sucked into its influence or under the power of the Marquis de Bauvin. She heard the sound of it falling to the floor—a sharp rocky sound, not a shattering as she had hoped. She opened her eyes to see that the marquis had stooped to pick it up and held it in his hand.
“She is mad.”
She was standing, facing him, the sword outstretched, her back half to the king. Fear struggled to seize her—she could be executed for this disruption, for putting her back to the king. She met the marquis’s eyes—cold, empty but for a chill light that promised death.
“No I am not.” Her voice came out a whisper, and she cleared her throat, forcing herself to speak loudly. “I am not mad. I seek to defend our good king from sorcery.”
No one spoke into the chill silence except for a few gasps from the court guests on the fringes of the group around them. She turned slightly to plead with the king, and her heart sank. He looked confused, lost, and she feared that he had already been caught by the power of the amulet. She looked about her—the other courtiers also looked dazed and confused, and some alarmed, but she could not tell if they had also been caught by the sorcery or if they did not know how to react.
The king seemed to struggle, shaking his head slightly. “What?”
“It is nothing,” de Bauvin said, his voice soothing. “Mademoiselle is disobedient to the wishes of her brothe
r the comte. She is betrothed to me, but I must say I am having second thoughts.” The marquis moved back a little and her hands burned with pain, and her back once again stung. She forced the sensations to the back of her mind and raised her sword.
“If you try to hurt King Louis, I will kill you,” she said.
“See, she is indeed mad,” de Bauvin said, raising his voice. “I only offered a gift, and she threatens me.”
“It is a sorcerous thing,” she said loudly, and her voice echoed in the room. “You have used it on me to strip me of my will, and it is only by the grace of God that I escaped it.” She knew her voice had an edge of desperation in it—had all the courtiers here been ensorcelled? It seemed none of them moved or even said anything in protest. She measured the distance between herself and the marquis. He was a sword’s length away, but the king was near, and her brother had come up closer, next to de Bauvin. Adrian’s face was pale, his eyes just as dazed. A young woman stepped closer and put her body against the marquis’s. Catherine felt ill; the lady could not be more than sixteen, but she had placed herself over the man’s heart, and so protected him from a killing thrust. He would use anyone to get what he wanted, Catherine thought.
“I would suggest she be arrested,” de Bauvin said softly, and a pulse of darkness seemed to seep from his words.
Another wave of pain seized her, but strength also came, and she somehow shook off the hands that grabbed her.
“No,” she said, and anger was a fire in her heart. “No. You coward, you fiend. You use young girls to fuel your sorcerous power and to protect yourself from an honest fight. You cannot even face a woman who dares stand against you.” She sneered at him. “Coward. A snake that crawls on his belly, pretending to offer gifts, but bites like a viper. A slime-filled, offal-filled sack of a man; no, not even a man, but a sniveling eunuch who cannot even get a woman in his bed unless he uses sorcery.”
Sudden fire dispelled the empty coldness in the marquis’s eyes, and he thrust the girl from him. Something bright flashed, and Catherine jerked aside as cold air brushed her neck. A cry beside her made her glance down—an elderly man had taken the marquis’s dagger in his throat.
The girl who had stood at de Bauvin’s side cried out. “Grandpère!” She rushed to the man’s side, shaking her head, screaming in short pants.
Fury seized Catherine, and she leaped forward, willing the sword to pierce the marquis to the heart, even as pain sliced her hands and her back at the sight of the fallen man and his granddaughter. But another flash came up and parried her thrust. The marquis had his sword out at last.
A fierce satisfaction surged through her. This she understood and was trained for. Jack had taught her this, it was his gift to her, and she loved him for it, this gift of survival.
She moved, carefully, so that she stood between the marquis and Louis. She could not risk that he would try to kill His Majesty. The marquis had planned his attack well; the king’s brother Phillipe was away, and if he could control the king or even kill him, he could seize power and perhaps raise enough of a force to eliminate the king’s brother.
The marquis feinted to the left, but she refused to be drawn by it. He clearly wanted her to turn away so that the Louis would be exposed. She attacked instead, and de Bauvin barely managed to parry it, and it forced him back, away from His Majesty. She smiled grimly. She was glad she had concealed her expertise. It would give her an advantage, at least for a while.
Still too close to the king. She wanted to save her strength, for the darkness that oozed from the marquis sapped her of it, and each time she felt the darkness, she also felt pain in her hands and on her back. That she wore skirts did her no good, but at least she had made sure that her stays had been loosely tied.
She gritted her teeth against the pain, focusing on the movement of her body, on the minute shifts of balance that would propel her and her sword forward or to the side. The pain receded, and strength grew, and she let out a little laugh of relief.
The marquis gave her a sharp look, and then it became calculating. “Mlle de la Fer, give it up. You know I will win.”
She parried a thrust that would have pierced her throat if she had not been watching for it. “I know of no such thing,” she said. She was glad to see that she breathed heavily but easily. Her pain was almost gone now, though she was beginning to tire. The sword she wielded did not fit her hand as the one she was used to. She thought of the dagger she had in her pocket—it was in her right pocket, not her left, for she had thought she’d only have her dagger rather than a sword. Useless, for she dare not feel for it in the pocket of her skirts while she was fighting.
King Louis’s court had formed a wide circle around them, and she was glad they were well away from the king. It was one less thing to fear. The marquis lowered his voice, nevertheless. “I will win, mademoiselle. You see how they are in my control. You think you disengaged my influence from your sister? You are a fool if you think it.” His voice grew mocking. “I am taking her—and your brother’s—power even as we fight.”
Fear struck her again, almost choking her, and she faltered as she glanced at her brother who had fallen to his knees, and then to the floor. The marquis lunged, but she parried—barely—and stepped back, breathing harshly.
“Do you seriously think I cannot take your power even now? I still have the amulet. You will look at it, whether you like it or not.” He held up the stone in his left hand, even as a ripping sound and a sharp pain lanced her left shoulder.
She had deflected the thrust in time, but her eyes were still drawn to the dark amulet. The red spark in the midst of the darkness crawled within like a living thing.
No. No. She forced her eyes away from it and deflected yet another thrust. Her hands hurt now and felt moist, and her back pained her. She had almost let the amulet’s evil into her mind.
She cast a quick look about her before she parried another thrust—she was being forced back to the edge of the circle. The marquis may have the court in his thrall, but she doubted he could do anything but keep them from moving. Surely if he could animate them to harm her, he would have by now.
She gritted her teeth and looked for a weakness, any opening in the marquis’s defense. She tried not to look at the amulet, but it was difficult. If she were to fight de Bauvin, it meant that she had to look at him. He knew what he was doing when he waved the amulet before him as he fought; he smiled coldly, confident that her gaze would be caught by it. Every time her eyes were drawn to it, the pain in her hands and on her back increased. The sounds of the girl sobbing over her grandfather added to it; the girl’s grief poured into Catherine’s heart and she felt like weeping.
She heard a low chant, and a relief from the pains came to her; it was Latin, a prayer, and it sounded like Père Doré’s voice. He must have been able to avert his eyes from the amulet.
Another lunge from the marquis, and this she also deflected. She whirled around, hoping the edge of her sword would catch him, but it swished by harmlessly.
Time passed; she did not know how long. The courtiers, the king, her brother, still seemed frozen, unmoving. The spell of the amulet was strong, but the sound of prayers stayed in her ears and sustained her, though she could feel her muscles aching with effort and fatigue.
She gazed at the marquis—he did not seem to be tiring at all. Blanche. Dear heaven, did he speak the truth when he said he was drawing power from her still? Fear seeped into her at the thought, and the marquis’s amulet caught her gaze.
The red depths seemed to strike at her, strengthening the fear pouring into her heart. She saw another flash of steel before her and deflected it, then deflected another, but it was all that she could do, for her hands became slick with blood and hurt, hurt with a fiery agony. She managed to move her gaze from the amulet and stared at the marquis instead, but it did no good; the same sickly red light was in his dark eyes, and forced all the fear she had ever experienced, had ever felt for her brother and her sister, for the girl
in the alley, for the girl and her grandfather here in the court, deep into her bones.
She trembled, and the amulet loomed large in her sight. It pulled her into the depths of it, until a fog entered her mind. She could still hear the sounds of steel against steel—she must still be fighting, her body reacting to whatever sense she must have left.
But a sharp shock shot up her arm, and her knees hit hard on the floor. She shook her head, blinked, and tried to focus on what was before her. The sounds of prayer continued, but she could hear uncertainty in the priest’s voice even as he prayed.
The Marquis de Bauvin seemed unaffected by the prayers, and hope began to seep from her. He smiled coldly at her, his sword still in his hand. He kicked another sword—she foggily remembered she had used it—to the side, beyond her reach.
“Stupid, stupid Catherine. You should have yielded to me, but you did not. It is a pity.” His smile grew wider, and he lifted his sword. “For you see, you have been too much of a nuisance and so must die.”
The world whirled around Jack’s head, but he bit the side of his cheek—the street steadied and he could focus on it again. He was on another horse, and the presence of the red-hot poker in his side was permanent now. He was, frankly, glad that Fichet was with him as they hurried their horses down the avenue to the chateau of Versailles.
Fichet said nothing, merely glancing at him from time to time. Jack was grateful for his silence. It was trouble enough to ride, much less speak.
He hoped Catherine was not in danger, but he feared she was. He had tried to reason it out, had tried to convince himself that even if she was in danger, it was not immediate, that he would bring King Charles’s missive to Louis in time to prevent any harm. He did not know whether it was his fever or his gut feeling that countered his reasoning, but either way, he feared he might be too late.
He almost rode his horse up the steps of the palace before a shout roused him. He opened his eyes, and blearily noticed that a footman stood, looking agitatedly up at him.
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