Chapter Thirty-Six #2
Lothair rapped his fingers against the arm of his chair. “Faucher. Lance. Marguerite and this warlock Douglas. We are racking up enemies at all turns here, Gaharet.”
Gaharet lowered himself to sit on the dais. “You can always set Marguerite aside. Send her back to her family in disgrace. Confine her to a monastery.”
Lothair could do a lot worse. Rumor about the village had it Lothair had hanged a man from a beam in his own stable for consorting with the comtesse. That Marguerite had a connection to the king was possibly the only reason she was still alive.
“Lance, we must find him first,” continued Gaharet. “And when we do, he will face pack justice. Faucher…” Gaharet set his elbows on his knees. “Faucher is an altogether different matter.”
“We cannot kill him,” agreed Lothair. “Not after what happened with Renaud. We do not need any more churchman poking their noses into how I run my county.”
“No,” said Gaharet. “But what if we could discredit him?”
Lothair crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “I am listening.”
“I have mentioned Faucher is a sensitive,” said Gaharet. “There is only one way that is possible. If he has witch blood.”
“Well, well, well.” Lothair smirked. “Is that not interesting?”
The doors swung open, and two keep guards propelled Comtesse Marguerite along the length of the hall.
Aubert had always trodden carefully around Lothair.
All the Langeais wolves had, but there was something about Marguerite that turned his stomach sour.
Draped in expensive fabrics and with jewels adorning her wrists, fingers and throat in a display of wealth so ostentatious Sabine would have wept, she carried herself with a haughtiness and an arrogance she had no claim to.
About her, beneath the strong floral unguents, was the bitter scent of greed, ambition and a good measure of deceit.
A muscle ticked in Lothair’s jaw, and he clenched his hands around the arm of his chair.
He turned away from his wife, barely concealing his revulsion, and his gaze settled on Isobella tucked in Edmond’s arms. For a fleeting moment, Aubert saw something on Lothair’s face, in his eyes, he would never have anticipated.
Emotions Aubert was all too familiar with.
Regret, and a longing so deep and strong it took Aubert’s breath away.
That he could find common ground with the man who ruled his county by fear startled him.
Then Lothair’s expression hardened, making Aubert doubt he had seen anything at all.
“Let go of me, you oafs.” Marguerite struggled against the hold of the keep guard. “I am not some wretched peasant girl. I am your comtesse.”
Lothair signaled the guards and they let her go.
Marguerite fell to her hands and knees amongst the soiled rushes on the floor.
For a moment, no one moved. Not one of the Langeais wolves, not her husband.
Then Isobella stepped out from beneath Edmond’s arm, intent on helping the fallen comtesse.
Edmond captured her around the waist and held her back.
Their mate’s empathy was a wondrous thing, but Marguerite did not deserve it.
“I am a kinswoman twice removed of the king.” Marguerite glared at Lothair, her hatred for him ravaging her pretty features. “He will be hearing about your treatment of me. Dragging me from my chambers. Humiliating me. I will not have it.”
The air in the hall grew thick. No one had ever dared speak to Lothair as Marguerite had.
That she did so in front of his vassals…
Connection to the king or no, she was risking life and limb.
That she was his wife would also count for naught, not if Lothair had not already deemed her life forfeit for her scheming with Faucher.
Or the matter of her chevaliers swarming the streets of Langeais, an insurrection if ever there was one.
Or her alliance with a witch. It would matter not Lothair was consorting with wolves and witches himself.
He was the comte. In his county he made the rules.
There was a disturbance outside the doors, and as one the Langeais wolves turned in their direction.
Lothair raised an eyebrow. “What is it?”
“Faucher has decided to pay us a visit,” said Gaharet.
Lothair’s eyes narrowed on Marguerite. Her grin was all malice. Marguerite had somehow summoned the one person Lothair did not have complete control of. The one man in this county who had the potential to rescue her from her situation.
Lothair heaved out a sigh and gestured at the door. “Let him in. We may as well deal with him now, too.”
Marguerite’s smile slipped, and she shuffled uneasily in place, no longer so certain of her victory.
D’Artagnon walked the length of the hall and opened the door, conveying Lothair’s orders to the guards.
Eveque Faucher, with a pointed glare at D’Artagnon, strode toward them in a swish of black robes and a woody swirl of frankincense and beeswax.
He came to a halt in front of the dais, taking in the Langeais wolves, Lothair, Marguerite on the floor, before settling his gaze on Isobella for a moment too long.
Both Aubert and Edmond stepped in front of their mate, shielding her, their growls echoing in the emptiness of the hall.
There was no point in keeping their secret. Faucher knew what they were.
Faucher held out his hand and helped Marguerite to her feet. “What is the meaning of this?”