Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Michel’s crew remained in Turkmenabat for a week.
In that time, he worked with Francois to complete their business, gathered the men with whom he would travel on the next stretch of road, and built a tentative truce with Eve, now that she agreed to be his hired hand.
He loved having Eve around. She furnished the yurt with cushions and blankets to make it comfortable.
She made delicious food that filled him with warmth.
She packed and organized so efficiently that it could take days off his travel time.
Despite the fact that she stayed reserved and didn’t talk much more about herself, she gave him a peace of mind he didn’t usually have on these adventures.
They’d left Turkmenabat early that morning.
It would be a trek through open terrain and across several villages to get to Bukhara, an imperial city deep in the Zarefshan River Valley.
They were a heavy procession of carts for the collapsed yurts, wagons for the supplies they would need between towns, livestock, horses, and the crew itself, which was made up of porters hired to help move the goods and tradesmen who wanted the added security.
These men were used to travel, but many waited for Michel’s protection to go to the furthest cities.
Though the roads could be dangerous, Michel traveled with the sanction of France, which offered a certain assurance.
It was a great responsibility, but Michel enjoyed the journey and prided himself on having the tactical precision to balance the travel and the trade and keep the routes safe.
Every decision, every step, every transaction, Michel made with his home and its prosperity in mind.
However, despite all the planning and preparation, Michel could feel something off with the men.
That night, as they settled the camp, he scanned the grassy area.
Eve sat by the fire, working to mend a tear in Michel’s pants.
The men were scattered around, sitting on their bedrolls, some still eating their dinner, some engaged in a game of cards.
Gerald was heckling the new recruits. Michel had worked with some of these men before.
The rest were all vetted through Francois.
There was tension brewing with this group, and Michel hadn’t figured it out yet.
All through their travel that day, Michel kept a close watch over them, trying to pick off trouble before it began.
He took another pass over the men. When he was unable to spot anything out of place, he went to sit with Eve at the fire.
Eve didn’t look up as he came near, but she spoke. “You put a lot of tears in your pants,” she complained.
“I appreciate your help.” He smiled, even though she wasn’t looking at him.
He shuffled through his rucksack to pull out his writing utensil and the bound book he carried with him.
He was distracted by the tension in the air, but he needed to notate his progress.
He set the book out in front of him and went back to his bag, looking for his pen knife.
“I’m sure it was here,” he muttered, shuffling the contents of the bag.
“What can’t you find?”
“My pen knife,” he said, arm deep in his satchel.
“Will this work?” She pulled a small dagger from some fold of her skirt, holding it out for him.
“Why do you have that?” he asked, looking up.
She shrugged. “Protection.”
“Protection,” he repeated, irritated that she thought she would have to protect herself. From whom? Him? He reached forward to take the knife from her. “Thank you,” he said, deciding not to dwell and taking the small dagger to the goose quill. He scraped the dried ink from the nib.
She nodded toward his book. “What do you have there?”
“It’s my travel log,” he said. “Cardinal Mazarin likes to see the details of the journey. To know how each penny is spent.” He angled the quill, inspecting it, and ran the knife along the other side.
“I am not so good at organizing in this way. I like to hold the information in my head.” He tilted his head with a grin.
“Unfortunately, others can’t use it then. ”
“What do you record?” she asked, looking up from her mending. Her eyes went from the stitch she was pulling to the book at his feet.
“What materials we transport, the names of the men that travel with us,” he said. “Which merchants I deal with in each market. What we purchase, what we gift.”
He tilted his head and raised an eyebrow. “Every time I pay a lady’s debt or buy a rug for my yurt.” He gave her a wink, and she gave him half a smile in return. Then he turned back to the tools in his hands. “It’s all terribly boring.”
“I will do it,” Eve said, going back to the stitching.
“You’ll—you want to do my books?” Michel asked.
“Yes, I am good at those tasks.” She looked up at him, a tease in her eyes. “Unless you still think I am too poor and stupid to read and write.” She shrugged. “Perhaps I will just draw genitalia in your notebook.”
His eyes widened, and he let out a surprised laugh. Then he gave her a wry grin. “I don’t believe the Cardinal has that sense of humor,” he said. “You might get me beheaded.” He picked up the book and tossed it to her feet. “I’ll choose to trust you.”
Eve set the mending down beside her to take up the book. She flipped the bound pages. “There is nothing in here,” she said.
“I told you I keep it in my head.”
She shook her head and tssk’d. “You disappoint your king.”
With every word she spoke, he was more transfixed. The firelight flickered in her hair. Her laughter twinkled in the breeze. Who was missing this woman, he wondered, because it would be impossible that she could disappear and no one would be looking for her.
“Where do you come from, Eve?” Michel said, taking the chance to learn more.
She smiled. “The East.”
“I know that,” he said. “Tell me about your family.”
“I have six older brothers. I was the last child.”
“Six older brothers?” he asked with a whistle. “What was that like growing up?”
“They each protected me,” she said, still smiling. “I caused them all grief. Now their wives and children cause them grief.” She pressed her lips. “They would tear your arms off and beat you with your bones if they knew you purchased me.”
“Perhaps,” he sputtered, “perhaps, if they knew I was attempting to help—”
“My father prefers a cleaner execution,” she cut him off. “He is very conservative. You traveling with me without an escort? He would have you killed on sight.”
“Uh,” Michel stammered, eyes wide.
Eve laughed and looked at Michel. She set the book down next to her and resumed the mending. “Tell me about you. Brothers? Sisters?”
Michel blinked a few times, shaking her last statements out of his head. “I have two brothers. I am the oldest.”
“Of course you are,” she jested.
“Why do you say that?”
“You like to be in charge.”
“You are the youngest, and you like to be in charge,” he pointed out.
Eve gave him a wink as she snapped the thread.
Michel continued. “Serge is my middle brother. He captains the ship that takes me through the Mediterranean when I come East.” He shifted and stretched his legs out. “My youngest brother is Philippe. He was supposed to take this journey with me, but he was married just a few months ago.”
Eve nodded. “He did not want to leave his wife.”
“Couldn’t tear him away.” Michel grinned. “He helps maintain the region, Chevalerie, my home. His wife, Alex, is a swordfighter,” he said, looking for something to interest Eve.
She looked up, surprised. “A woman swordfighter?”
“She’s very talented,” he continued. “She trained with many of the same masters that my brothers and I did.”
Eve gave him a strange look, a smirk, then turned back to the mending.
“What’s that look?” he asked.
“You trained with that sword?” she teased. “It’s not just a toy?”
“What—” he started. “Of course—” he stuttered. Then he moved to catch her eye. “Do you think I don’t know how to use my sword?”
“I know very little about you. Though Westerners, nobles,” she said, “are known to wear weapons merely as part of the costume.” She gave him a once-over, her amusement on display.
His mouth dropped open. “I’ve been training since I was two years old,” he said, offended. “With masters from all over the continent.” He straightened his back. “I’ve won competitions…” he trailed off.
Eve just grinned at him and shrugged.
“Alright, alright,” he said. He didn’t know if she was just teasing him or truly believed he was a bumbler with his weapon, but he had to admit he enjoyed the playfulness of the conversation. He had nothing to prove, he reminded himself, and he laughed as he observed her.
Her golden hair was braided to the side.
Her posture was straight and proper as always.
He thought of what it would feel like to have her in Chevalerie, in his home.
To introduce her to his family, to walk with her through the gardens.
To let her see him spar and to stun her with his skill.
He let out an amused grunt at the thought of surprising her once more.
She paused her stitching and looked over at him, her expression bright and open.
He realized she was ready to share more of herself with him, that some bridge of trust had been built over the last few days.
Then, before he could decide how to move forward, he heard a noise, a scuffle, behind him.
The moment between him and Eve evaporated like beads of water in a hot pan, and Michel was on his feet.
“Excuse me,” he said to her before darting out into the camp, his frustration forming in his chest at having to pull himself away.
Just in the center, where the men had been playing cards, a large, bearded man named Iman, whom Michel had known for many years, towered above Terence, a spindly blond-haired French boy of only fourteen or fifteen who was the translator Francois had recommended.
Though Michel had been reluctant to take on someone so young, he had relented, knowing he still needed help communicating in the furthest reaches east. Plus, when he saw the gangly, scruffy boy, Michel couldn’t help it. He had wanted to help the kid with a job.
And now he had to get himself between Terence and Iman before Iman beat the boy to death.
“You sneak!” Iman fumed, his hands around the boy’s neck. “You cheat!”
Michel ripped Iman off Terence and then threw the boy back. Michel faced Iman as Iman charged, blindly trying to get through Michel to Terence. Iman slammed into Michel, but Michel braced and shoulder-checked him, knocking Iman back. Iman stumbled at the impact and fell on his ass.
“That little shit cheated me!” Iman fumed.
Michel, hulking between the two, turned to Terence.
“I did not!” the youth yelled, his voice still cracking with adolescence.
“You don’t get carte blanche in piquet four times without a cheat!” Iman jumped up, his posture threatening to jump over Michel to get to Terence again.
“Stop,” Michel growled at Iman. The man halted but still vibrated with anger. Michel turned back to Terence. “Whose deck is it?”
“Mine,” Terence shrugged.
Michel glared at him. “Pick up the cards,” he yelled. Then to Iman, “What was the wager?”
“A silver ring and my compass,” Iman said.
Michel tallied a conversion in his head and took coins from his belt. He tossed the coins to Terence. “The wager is paid. I don’t want to see you playing cards again.”
The boy nodded, but Michel caught a snicker in his expression. Michel snatched him off his feet and lifted him nose to nose. “Do you understand what I said?” Michel snapped.
This time, Terence seemed cowed. “Yes, Monsieur Michel. Yes.”
Michel set him down and helped him pick up the scattered cards. Then, like they were children, he yelled, “Enough drinking! Go to bed!”
Iman grumbled but seemed satisfied now that his debt was canceled. Terence scurried about picking up the cards. It was Terence, Michel realized, who was causing the tension among the men. A cocky young man who would steal from the men he traveled with. Not good.
After a moment of fizzling energy and some jeers from the others—taunting Iman for losing at cards and Terence for getting yelled at—the men quieted.
Satisfied that the two had gone off to their own spaces, Michel felt the tension in the campground dissipate.
Michel turned and made his way back to the fire near his tent, ticking this addendum to the mental list of things he would have to give attention to.
But just as he thought he would have to keep a closer eye on Terence, he looked up to see that Eve’s eyes were stormy, and they were all over him.