Chapter Twenty-Six
Faucher’s robes snapped in a wind as brisk and impatient as his strides as he crossed the bailey of Langeais Keep, merchants and chevaliers alike moving out of his path.
The comtesse had requested his presence at the keep.
She never summoned him. Always it had been she who came to him.
To the chapel. When one is betraying the man who held his fist around the throat of not only the keep but the entire county, one could not—should not—scheme within the walls of his domicile.
And yet, here he was. On his way to the comtesse’s private chambers to give her the sacraments.
He scoffed as he stepped through the keep doors. He no more believed she wished to pray than he would accept witches and werewolves were the children of God.
“Eveque Faucher?”
Faucher jerked to a halt. Lothair, accompanied by four of his keep guard, blocked his passage.
“I do not recall requesting your presence.” Lothair cocked his head. “To what do we owe the…pleasure of your company?”
“Mon Seigneur Comte.” He bowed his head. He would not grovel. “Madame le Comtesse has requested I attend to her immortal soul.”
Lothair’s expression was unreadable.
Archeveque Renaud had once posited the man did not have all his wits about him, but Faucher was not of a mind to believe that.
That the comte was unpredictable, of that there was no doubt.
That neither church nor king could control him was no secret.
But Lothair was no more witless than he.
And Renaud was missing, most likely dead.
Reaping the consequences of underestimating the man.
Faucher would not make that same mistake.
“Very well.” Comte Lothair inclined his head toward the keep. “Best not keep the comtesse waiting. She becomes shrill when she does not get what she wants.”
Faucher bowed and stepped aside as Lothair and his contingent of keep guard pressed on.
“Oh, and Faucher”—Lothair stopped, leaned in close and dropped his voice low—“best you pray very, very hard. Your God does not forgive easily those who consort with witches and werewolves.”
Faucher schooled his features and suffered the indignity of a pat on the cheek before Lothair continued on his way.
He stared after the comte, the swagger, the confidence of the man goading him.
If Lothair thought he could intimidate him, if he thought to throw him off the scent, then the comte was fooling no one but himself.
He smirked. Lothair did not know of his gift.
His ability to sense out those of the supernaturalis.
Witches, warlocks, werewolves. The only thing he had received from his godforsaken lineage he was proud of.
Like a hound on the hunt, he could, and would sniff them out.
All the foul creatures. And one day he would chance upon her.
She had been his beginning. He would be her end.
Faucher climbed the stairs, shaking off the bitter memories of his childhood and his irritation at the comte. Lothair would meet his maker soon enough, and judgment would be harsh for a man who allied himself with werewolves and aided witches. As he accused his wife of doing.
He stopped at the door of Comtesse Marguerite’s chambers, and chevaliers of House Allard ushered him into a room of excess he had never seen the likes of, floral unguents choking up the air.
“Welcome, my dear eveque.”
Surrounded by ladies-in-waiting, Marguerite lounged on an enormous bed draped in layers of silk, fur and jewels more befitting a queen.
A lady-in-waiting selected a piece of cheese from a platter piled high with all manner of delicacies, and the comtesse opened her mouth for the woman to place it on her tongue.
He pinched his lips shut. If not for his need of her chevaliers, he would not stoop to an alliance with this woman.
She was as deceitful a creature as she was repugnant in her opulence.
He should condemn her perfidy, but without her he was no more likely to gain access to information about Lothair’s dealings with the werewolves than he would be called to attend the pontiff in Rome.
He suppressed a grimace. Given his suspect heritage, that would never happen.
She pouted. “My husband has become aware of our little visits.”
It gave him no satisfaction his assessment of Lothair had been correct. The comte was no fool.
“There is no longer any point in hiding our association. And, since it is more fitting for a mere eveque to visit upon me than I upon him, you will come here to”—there was no sweetness to the smile on her lips, nor the look in her eye—“help me pray.” She eased from the bed.
“Come, let us sit and talk.” She rolled her eyes. “And pray if we must.”
She settled in a chair grander than any throne and gestured to the small wooden stool at its feet. He breathed through his contempt, taking the stool. Marguerite’s aspirations were not subtle. Let her have her delusions on her pretend throne. She was useful to his cause. For now.
The lady-in-waiting approached with her tray, offering up a piece of fruit.
Marguerite slapped her hand away. “Not now,” she snapped.
“Can you not see I am busy?” The woman flushed, curtsied and retreated.
Marguerite’s eyes narrowed on the women loitering around the room.
“Do you think to listen to my private conversations? Well? What are you all waiting for? Get out!” Marguerite sniffed.
“The quality of lady’s maids in this keep is sorely lacking. ”
The women filed out, heads bowed. Down to the last one, they were from noble, wealthy families. Not a peasant or servant among them.
The door closed, and Faucher was alone with the comtesse. Were it not for his robes and his rank, Lothair might well have his head for being in his wife’s chambers unchaperoned. Or Marguerite’s.
Marguerite looked down at him, more haughty than regal. “I ordered a man to confirm what we suspected. That the Montagnes have taken the woman to the d’Louncrais estate. He has returned.”
She laid her arms on the armrests with a flourish. A woman with ambitions to be queen on a throne without a kingdom. He hid his sneer. Anything to remind her of her superiority.
“And what news did he bring?”
“He has yet to report.” Tight-lipped, she glared at the door, as if her ire might force his appearance. “I have sent for him. He should arrive anon.”
She had no power here, despite her command of the chevaliers of House Allard. For all her schemes and manipulations, her visions of future grandeur, she was nothing but another woman grasping for something she did not deserve.
The door opened, and two chevaliers dragged in a peasant. Shaking off the chevaliers’ hold, he stumbled, then gained his feet. He reeked of cheap ale, and… Faucher’s senses tingled along his spine. This man was no ordinary peasant. He was a warlock.
Lothair’s words rang in his ears, and he speared a glance at the comtesse. Did she know? That she consorted with the likes of what they hunted?
The hum, the awareness emanating from the peasant was subtle. A warlock he may be, but not a skilled one.
In Faucher’s experience it was the women, the witches, who had all the power.
His own father had been a warlock. Not the man who had raised him as a son, but the man from whose wretched loins he had been begotten.
A pitiful warlock at best, he had lacked any real power.
His sire’s charms were not spells or potions at all, but mere bundles of random herbs to satisfy gullible peasants.
Love potions that would not bring love, warding spells that would not repel an insect.
Charms that would be no more likely to attract riches than a peasant would be to become king.
As soon as he had become bishop, Faucher had wasted no time in hunting him down.
His mother, the woman who had borne him…
Cold seeped up his spine. Now there was a witch to fear. And to hate.
“This is Didier.” The comtesse held a cloth to her nose. “He was once a servant of the d’Louncrais. Now he is mine. And he would do well to remember he is still alive at my pleasure.”
The man lifted his head, flicking his lank hair off his face, a spark of defiance in his glazed eyes.
Faucher recognized the man at once. How he had not known then, when they had first crossed paths, he could not surmise.
Perhaps he had been all too consumed with the prize Didier had thrown at his feet.
For this was the man who had brought him his daughter.
A witch with two different colored eyes.
Sold her to him. He remembered her well, and his elation at his apprehension of her.
For it was not the first time he had encountered a woman with such eyes. His mother had them too.
* * * *
Remi paid the boy in coin, and the grubby little spy grinned and skipped off with a promise of more information.
Remi hustled down the street. The thieves of Langeais had not been so well paid in all their lives.
There was no help for it. He could not be caught hunting the streets for Didier, nor the warlock nor the witch.
They would be sure to recognize him. He could not follow Faucher.
Not if he wanted to keep his ears. And the comtesse…
The chevaliers from House Allard were plentiful, and more and more of them were arriving every day.
No one got near the comtesse without their say so.
But Remi’s former companions were many, and invisible to anyone of the nobility.
So Remi had put them to work. They would find a way.
He ducked into the pleasure house, skipping up the stairs.
They had discovered Didier lived a few streets from the gate in one of the worst kept cottages in the village.
The warlock was staying there too, though, according to Remi’s spies, he seemed none too pleased about it.
No one had spotted the witch, but he had someone watching for her outside the cottage.
The comtesse had visited Faucher in the chapel, but not for mass.
Unusual. Aum?nier Touissant and Archeveque Renaud had always gone to her, not the other way around.
Remi would have given every coin in Aubert’s purse to know what the comtesse and the eveque discussed, but not a single beggar or thief had got beyond the nave.
Faucher was more vigilant since he had caught Remi listening in on his conversation.
This morn, according to a beggar working the keep bailey, the comtesse had sent for Faucher. Interesting. What had changed?
He dodged a client straightening his tunic and breeches as he came down the hall toward him, smiled as he passed the girl draped in a robe standing in the open doorway next to his. At his door, he paused, checking the corridor. Empty. He unlocked it, swung it open and froze.
In a chair by the window sat the Comte de Anjou. Merde.
Remi eyed the four chevaliers standing guard beside the comte. He could outrun them. They were all weighed down by armor. He was not. But did Lothair have more of them hidden on the street ready to snatch him up should he try to escape?
“Uh, uh, uh.” The comte wagged his finger. “It is not worth your life to run. Come in. Take a seat.”
Remi swallowed. Was he about to lose more than his ears?
“Do you know what I do to thieves, boy?”
Remi’s knees shook. Oh, he knew. There was an old beggar minus a hand who worked the gate. He had once been a thief. Until a merchant had caught him and brought him before Lothair.
Remi’s mind worked furiously as he closed the door and edged his way to the chair opposite Lothair. What did the comte want with him?
“Sit.”
He sat on the chair.
“Wise choice.” Lothair motioned to the guards, and they filed out, closing the door behind them.
He was alone with the Comte de Anjou. A man who liked to kill those who disobeyed him in imaginative ways.
Cutting off their heads and sticking them on a spike.
A sword through the gut, the throat, or anywhere else one could stick a blade.
Roasted to a crisp on a bonfire in the public square.
Remi fidgeted with the collar of his tunic. A long drop from a short rope.
“You will tell me what you have learned—” He held up his hand as Remi went to protest. “Oh, I know all about you and your little army of spies. You will tell me what you have learned, and you will tell me all about the woman the Montagne twins rescued from the chapel. The one Faucher seems determined to find. Then you will take a message to Gaharet d’Louncrais.
You will inform him Lance has been here. In my keep. Talking to my wife.”