Chapter III
III
Morning found me at the gate, ready with a small loaded wagon and a flatulent draft horse. She was no destrier, but she was sweet-tempered, unflappable and strong enough to carry me and pull the wagon at the same time.
I looked back on the familiar trio of handsome tiled rooftops—manor, stables, storehouse—and wanted nothing more than to change into my robe and sink into the reading chair in the solar.
The day was dreary and overcast, the perfect morning to be reading in front of the fire with hot coffee and an almond pastry.
Instead, I was bidding farewell to my home as I had so often in the past, more than a little unhappy at leaving at such short notice and on such unpleasant business.
I looked wistfully at the orchard behind the main house, just beginning its autumnal transformation.
I would miss this year’s beautiful display of foliage, as well as the bounty of my kitchen garden and pumpkin patch.
I took a moment to dwell on uncharitable thoughts of Monsieur Jacques Avenel d’Ocerne.
I wore black buttoned breeches of soft leather, a cream shirt and a long waistcoat of stormy gray to suit my mood.
My boots were knee-length and hardy, ready for the muddy backwaters we would be visiting.
As Jacques appeared in the doorway, I pulled on a long coat of fine-spun wool in a deep forest green, handsome enough for the gentleman I was supposed to be, but durable enough for the road as well.
I carried a silver flask of strong pomace brandy clipped to my belt.
We faced over three weeks of riding to reach the mountains of Gévaudan, and I had a feeling they would not be easy.
“My apologies for keeping you waiting, Professor,” said Jacques.
“The journey must have tired me more than I knew.” I had ensured that Jacques overslept, to give me time to set the appropriate Wards around the estate.
I felt it prudent to add some extra precautions to deter burglars, half-breeds and Christians in my absence.
They would also help to keep Livia in check.
Twice in the past I had been forced into hurried relocations because she lost her self-control while my back was turned. 1
“Not at all, sir,” I replied. “It has been a busy morning. I trust you enjoyed your breakfast?” Jacques’s traveling garb had seen more use than mine.
He had prudently eschewed the buckles and ridiculous hats that marked a French nobleman of the time.
Instead, he had chosen simple brown leather for his boots and breeches, with a black waistcoat and dun cape. I was quite the dandy in comparison.
“It was most satisfying. Please thank Mademoiselle Livia for me,” he said. “I could not find her.”
“I believe she went to town for larder stock.”
“Perhaps we shall pass her on the way.”
“I rather doubt that, sir.” “Mademoiselle” had been kept very busy since her performance in the scullery. She was currently in the root cellar, counting grains of rice with a hairpin. “Shall I bring your horse?”
It began to rain as we rode out, Jacques on his fine gelding and me on my gentle draft horse with the wagon in tow.
Tally-ho, said Sarmodel. Wake me when we get there.
Jacques and I barely spoke the first day. After stopping for some basic supplies in Corvano, we headed west, planning to follow the old Roman road to the French border. With some luck we would reach the foothills of the Alps within the week.
Our route was a busy thoroughfare for merchants and travelers from the surrounding lands, most of them braving the rain as we were.
Jacques seemed to travel in a half doze for most of the afternoon, swaying lazily in the saddle and muttering to himself.
Occasionally he would look sideways at me, as though he thought he had heard me speak.
We stopped for the night at Ferno, a small village tucked in among the forested foothills.
I dismounted at the first building with a shingle, a little trattoria with a few rooms available to rent.
It was clean, reasonably priced and filled with the smell of warm bread, garlic and pinewood.
Jacques seemed to take great exception to the place, however, and barely managed to thank the staff as they took our horses.
I gave the ostler a generous tip and asked him to take extra care with our animals and the wagon.
I wasn’t worried about thieves; my Wards ensured my goods were well protected.
But I had noticed Jacques’s gelding flagging badly for the last few hours.
The poor creature was too thin and I suspected that it needed new shoes.
But most importantly, it needed food and rest, and it seemed that my companion was blind to its condition.
How has he made it this far? I asked. Antoine would never have let an animal reach this state.
The young Ocerne is not his father, Sarmodel replied. But you are right. He is distracted—lost in his own thoughts. Watch him tonight.
We had a pleasant meal of cabbage and potato stew, with slabs of dense, chewy bread. Again, Jacques ate like a man near starvation. I felt a measure of compassion for the boy and had resolved to be as charming and amiable as I could be.
“Your father must be proud of you, Jacques,” I said. “A courageous son who cares about his people and the land he governs.”
“Papa will be pleased to see me return” was all he said, though he seemed to brighten a little. He laid a hand over his breast pocket, his mind momentarily elsewhere.
“And do you have a wife waiting for you at Chateau d’Ocerne?” I pressed on.
“I do. Eloise and I were married not a year ago.” A group of German travelers sitting by the fireplace rose up in laughter as one of their number spilled a tray of drinks, and by the time they settled again, Jacques had lost his inclination to converse.
He offered nothing more on his wife and was curt to the point of rudeness for the rest of the meal.
Defeated, I agreed to his suggestion that we retire early.
We had a small room above the kitchen, a little noisy but warm and dry. As we ascended the stairs, Jacques hunched like an old man, cradling his left arm. And, like his horse, he was much too thin.
The young one is not well, remarked Sarmodel, in body or spirit.
He is certainly nursing an injury of some kind. But what?
Jacques was weary to the point of collapse after the short climb to our room. He removed his waistcoat, belt and boots before falling onto the narrow bed.
I waited until he was properly asleep and then spoke a Litany 2 of Rest, sealed with a mark of the dawn.
He would not wake before the sun, and hopefully he would get some respite from whatever harried him so.
I watched him for a few minutes, seeing the boy beneath the ragged blond stubble, and the uncertainty held in check behind the stubborn jaw.
Jacques began to breathe more peacefully, no doubt dreaming of his gentle Eloise.
“Rest now, troubled young sir,” I murmured.
It only took a few seconds to empty his pockets.
His waistcoat yielded a handkerchief and some crumbs of barley cake.
On a hunch, I checked his breast pocket, where he had placed his hand so protectively earlier.
Inside was a cameo brooch depicting a young woman in amber and ivory, with a jet-studded silver setting.
It was a woman’s fancy—Jacques likely carried it as a keepsake from his wife.
I held it to the light, admiring the craftsmanship (if not the gauche choice of materials), and then returned it to his pocket.
The weapons in his belt were in good condition, as I would have expected.
He had brought a short sword, a hunting knife and a flintlock pistol.
I found the blades were sharp and oiled, and the gun ready for use.
3 I could feel an anima residue on the knife; he had killed something small with it recently, perhaps a rabbit or scrub fowl.
But the real horror was in his breeches pocket.
“Sarmodel,” I whispered. “Do you see this?”
The young man’s purse was all but empty. He had enough florins to maybe—maybe—cover our night at Ferno. Things were not going to improve on the other side of the Alps. Three French livres huddled miserably in the leather fold at the bottom of the pouch. And that was all.
“Are we to sleep in the mud all the way to Gévaudan?” I muttered, upending the man’s saddlebag onto the floor. A pouch of gunpowder tumbled out alongside a handful of lead pellets, a flint and striker and some hardtack. Still no money. “How?” I hissed. “Why?!”
Oh Sebastian, said Sarmodel. Oh dear.
“Surely not.”
It took me a long, dreadful moment to understand. My companion’s disapproval of our lodgings, the condition of his horse and his general shabbiness all aligned on a dismal trajectory.
Jacques did indeed plan for us to sleep in the mud, all the way to Gévaudan.
I took immediate stock of my own coin. I would have enough money in my purse—barely—and certain emergency reserves hidden in my boot heels. With a little haggling and some judicious devilry, we could manage beds most of the way—cheap beds.
But it made no sense. The Antoine I knew was a gifted spend-thrift. I would have expected a certain allowance for expenses, on his son’s behalf if not mine. But the boy was traveling on a pauper’s wage.
“Be assured I will be running an account!” I declared to nobody. I began to pack Jacques’s belongings back into the bag, none too gently. I was tucking the flat, wretched little purse back into his pocket when Sarmodel flinched in my mind.
Sebastian, can you smell that?
“The young lord is none too fresh,” I agreed. “But I shan’t be financing a trip to the bathhouse.”
No. He’s . . . contaminated. He directed my attention to Jacques’s left arm. There.
I would barely have noticed it if not for my Guest. There was a slight bulge below his left shoulder—the binding on the wound I had suspected earlier.
What is it? I asked.4 I had switched instinctively to mental discourse; it didn’t feel right to discuss the young man’s health aloud with him lying right there.
How should I know? I’d need to see it properly.
There was an expectant silence.
I can’t just take his clothes off, Sarmodel.
He shifted irritably. I will never understand this! You are quite happy to do it for every passing milkmaid and carpenter.
That is different. And in this case, I believe it may be unnecessary.
Now that I was closer, I could feel the corruption Sarmodel had mentioned.
Frowning, I placed my hand lightly on the wound.
Beneath my palm throbbed the young man’s troubled anima, so similar to Antoine’s in spite of their obvious differences.
It glowed through his body, driving his pulse, his warmth and his healing.
But there was something else growing in the flesh, poisoning his blood.
The sensation was still light, but it was unmistakable.
You’re right, the wound is infected. No wonder it’s bothering him.
And he travels with a physician, yet seems determined to keep it concealed, mused my Guest. The young baronet is quite the tangled knot.
That’s one thing we can agree upon, I replied, standing up sti?y. A full day of riding had begun to work its way into my legs and spine, and I crackled like a bunch of kindling. But he is carrying burdens much too heavy for such a young man. A little stumble and he will drop them all.
1. To be fair, the last one was not entirely her fault.
Livia had attracted a very persistent suitor from the local town despite my best efforts to keep her hidden.
I returned from town one day to find her in the kitchen, delirious with satisfaction atop his smiling husk.
If I leave one piece of cautionary wisdom for the young men of the world it will be this: do not put your penis inside anything with a tail.
2. A small invocation of power from a patron Spirit, Sarmodel in this case. Think of it like a prayer that works.
3. As ready as it could be. It would still take the better part of a minute to prepare and load, or half as long if Jacques was really good. Gunfights in the 1700s were a very tedious affair.
4. Sarmodel will often detect things that escape my notice, though for all practical purposes we share the same set of senses.
He tells me it’s a matter of focus. My attention only allows me to register a very small amount of what I see, smell and hear at any time, while he assimilates every speck and trace.