Chapter 47
XLVII
The Bishop of Mende was noisy even in his sleep.
He huffed and snorted like a walrus, no doubt adrift in fond dreams of clerical overreach.
He was slumped against the headboard, with a sheaf of papers by his right hand and an empty brandy balloon in his left.
There was still venison grease around his mouth.
What are you doing holed away here, Your Eminence?
I briefly went through the bishop’s correspondence. Some was exactly as I would have expected: tedious administrative matters from Mende. But the rest of the letters were unusual.
What do they say? asked Sarmodel as I flicked hurriedly through the pile.
Inventory of lands . . . request for title deeds . . . why would any of this interest a man of the cloth?
Who knows? And isn’t he burning all the land around here anyway?
Yes. I put the letters down. Yes, he is. I almost wish he were awake to explain.
I stood over the bishop, shrouded in the Litany of the Dusk with my knife in my hand. The lavish chamber was uncomfortably warm, even with the snowstorm beating and sucking at the windows.
I had intended simply to confirm that it was indeed His Excellency hiding out in the Royal Suite—and to see what exactly he was up to.
But being so close to him, watching his overfed body rise and fall with every brandy-soaked breath, was thought-provoking.
Bare-headed, without his vestments and blowing raspberries in his sleep, he seemed much diminished and quite vulnerable. I wanted to kill him very badly.
Do it. You won’t get a chance like this again, said Sarmodel.
You know, I’m really quite tempted.
He was right; this was truly a once-only opportunity.
My personal antipathy for the man aside, killing the Bishop of Mende would lop a head off the ecclesiastical hydra in France.
It would be a significant blow to the Almighty’s operation which I would not again be in a position to deliver.
I suspected it would also bring an end to the burning of Gévaudan’s farms; the documents by the bishop’s right hand raised all sorts of questions about his continuing presence in Ocerne.
And it would be so simple—there was enough feather bedding on hand to smother an ox.
But the bishop was not alone. In my Arcane senses, the shadow of the great lion stood resolutely on the wall behind him, and the Archangel’s rose-scented breath filled the air.
Now, Michael and I often had competing interests, but I was not, technically speaking, his enemy.
That would change if I decided to start murdering the clergy, particularly right under his nose.
According to the tenets of the Covenant, I would be fair game for retribution, and it would be righteous.
I decided I really did not need the Lion of Judah stalking me alongside the Beast.
Oh, calm yourself, Michael, I sent to the menacing silhouette. It was just a thought.
I sheathed my knife, but I lingered a few moments longer in the Royal Suite. Before I took my leave, I collected the bishop’s correspondence and threw it into the fire. I also pocketed every piece of jewelry I could find.
I received an unpleasant surprise when I returned to the long hallway.
Sarmodel.
Enneval’s door, which had been closed when I entered the Royal Suite, was now standing open. I crept swiftly along the hall and peered around the doorframe.
Empty.
The fire still crackled cheerily in the hearth, but Monsieur Enneval the Elder was nowhere to be found. His great nest of pillows was scattered across the floor. It seemed the man’s strength had returned somehow.
But he was supposed to be the easy one! Where did he go? I said to Sarmodel.
Find out, quickly, he answered. After some swearing, I uttered the Litany of the Hunt.
Enneval’s trail went back along the corridor and then down the stairs. With my sharpened senses, I could still taste the rankness of his wound in the air; he must have walked right past the Royal Suite only minutes ago, while I was inside.
Where is he going? I demanded. What can he possibly be doing?
I hurried down the stairs, still shrouded in clinging darkness.
Dozens of glass eyes glittered from the trophies on the walls, and I detected the lingering traces of a half dozen people in the grand salon; the publican had been there recently, along with Bauterne.
Enneval’s trail was the freshest, but there was no sign of the man himself.
I followed the Norman’s scent farther, through the dim dining room and then into the kitchen. Bauterne’s scent—not nearly so fresh—went along the same route; Enneval had been following the lieutenant for some reason.
The door to the cellar was open.
Well. I suppose we were already going down there, said Sarmodel.
I don’t like it, Sarmodel. He can’t be up to anything good, following Bauterne like this. And they’re both in there together—that’s going to make it complicated.
Weren’t we going to kill them both anyway?
Were we? That might be a little hard to explain in the morning, my love.
He grunted impatiently and I felt the Litany of the Hunt begin to soften. Whatever you’re doing, do it quickly. I can’t keep this up all night.
I swallowed my trepidation and stepped silently through the doorway. The stairs went down a long way, and there was faint light at the bottom. I descended as softly as falling ash.