Chapter 17 #2
“She might,” Oste laughed, then reached out and took Dorotèa’s hand under the table.
She squeezed it back and smiled. Oste’s mother had been a rare gift during it all.
Dorotèa assumed she’d only have her aunt and Jeanne to prepare her accordingly, but there was Madame Lézin at her door only the day after permission was granted to make sure Dorotèa had everything she needed and would be ready.
She was involved with every step, and for fleeting moments Dorotèa felt as though her own mother had helped her all along. A mother did, just not her own.
Nothing about this was going to wear off any time soon, so Dorotèa’s enamored gazing at Oste stopped her from seeing just who came up to the table next.
She’d been trained to be alert, so she ought to have at least heard the quiet hush that passed over the nearby crowd, or how people shuffled to the sides to make room.
She didn’t notice the figure, didn’t even realize anyone else was coming to greet them.
It only occurred to her that someone might be, a bad someone, because Oste’s entire body stiffened, and the hand she held began to tremble.
She turned to follow his trajectory and almost forgot to breathe.
Dorotèa had to lift her head to take in the full height and presence of the lord who almost ruined everything for them, and already had for hundreds of others.
Durand II de Pontevès, Sieur de Flassans, hovered before them in fine clothes that highlighted every inch of his muscled bulk and made clear how poised he might be to draw the thick blade shining at his hip.
It matched his eyes, dark and shining, just as they’d been that fabled night when he’d cut off the road with his men and told them they were free to fire.
Of course, they had. And so it goes.
A former First Consul and leader with the army of the Royalist Catholics like Flassans had no requirement to show up at such a wedding, city commissioned groom or not.
He had no cause, no—he’d have been suited to keep to the other side of Aix instead for having spoken the command that almost destroyed the man he stood before.
He’d been there, and he’d watched, and he’d have relished in it and finished the job no doubt if there hadn’t been someone who outranked even him and spared the physician’s tender soul.
There was no reason, so perhaps that was what the reason was.
Flassans’ very presence was a threat. Memories were reminders.
Men could stay angry. Men could want others to know their place on the happiest days of their lives.
The man in red who stood him down wasn’t in the city; men like Flassans could tell arquebusiers to fire all over again and not get so much as a slap on the wrist. He could end Oste for good, and Dorotèa knew that the lord was not a man Oste could survive a fight with, and neither could she. Death walked as a man.
Dorotèa wasn’t sure Oste was even breathing. His hand pulsed with raw fear under the table, and even though she squeezed it his body remembered every second of that night and he was small all over again. This was the Oste too terrified to pick up a blade and too terrified to hope.
Flassans flashed a smile, seemingly relishing in the terror he’d dressed Oste in as wedding garb of a new kind.
He looked over his shoulder, and that was when Dorotèa noticed he had another handful of representatives from the militias present.
Some of the men were from Cordeliers. Camsas.
Tirel. Ordinarily, representatives would be welcome.
Ordinarily.
When Flassans reached into his vest pocket, Oste flinched like the man was drawing a gun. Dorotèa quickly leaned sideways and wrapped her arm around his waist as though to stop him from toppling over; she didn’t trust that he wouldn’t.
“To your health,” Flassans drawled quietly, but frowned when his fingers found no purchase. “I’d thought to bring a gift, but it seems that it’s misplaced. You didn’t filch it ahead of time, did you, gypsy?”
Dorotèa gritted her teeth. She felt as frozen as Oste and the members of the congregation close enough to bear witness. She’d been trained for fair fights. This was the furthest thing from that.
Please stop. Please use his title when you address him. Please say voyageur like he does. Please be kind to him. Please leave and go very far away.
He’d not do any of that, she knew, because this was about power. This was about them never feeling safe for as long as they lived.
“There’s no need, Capitaine,” Dorotèa whispered. “You must have important business to return to.”
He held out his palms. “I had considered this important. You’ll have to excuse me. Maistre Galoup makes all my blades, so I hope he does not think I’ve snubbed his girl.”
Dorotèa gripped Oste tighter. “He wouldn’t. He… He’s around here somewhere if you wanted to pay respects.”
“Oh, I’ll not intrude,” Flassans shrugged as he began to turn, but he stole a glance over his shoulder back at Oste as he did. “You stitched yourself back together better than I thought you would. I could use more hardy fellows like that in the army.”
That was too much to bear. He’d not be mocked. He’d not be used. Dorotèa shot up to her feet, but as soon as she felt insults come to her tongue, it became twisted all over again, and she rocked unsteadily. Flassans watched her, pitying, then continued out through the throngs in Saint-Sauveur.
Dorotèa caught Camsas staring, but as soon as she noticed, he quickly flushed and spun away.
He did recognize her, then, but there was no lingering on the fact, because Tirel, who she recognized by the rank on his doublet and his face during patrols, stepped quietly up to the table and procured a small silver chalice.
He set it down and offered both horrified newlyweds a sheepish smile.
“I apologize for his antics,” the man murmured. “Some provocations are better off ignored. His gift—”
“Throw it out,” Dorotèa breathed.
“Madame—”
“Throw it out,” she repeated, “because I curse him to hell, I do.”
Tirel’s brown-eyed stare stayed on her for just a little too long.
He hardly seemed fazed by her belated outburst, since he lazily flicked his gaze down her, from her reddish hair, to her collarbones, and last to her narrow wrists decorated with floral bracelets.
He too shrugged, then tucked the chalice back onto his person.
“To your health,” he repeated, then he, too, left.
Dorotèa was back into her chair in an instant, and the footsteps approaching them were much too loud.
She was glad for the lavender canopy that shrouded much of their bodies from different angles, because she didn’t want anyone to have to see Oste’s distant stare and how she had to hold the sides of his face to rouse him back into his senses.
It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t remotely fair.
Wretched brute!
“He’s nowhere near the man you are,” Dorotèa told him gently. “You’re alright. It’s safe. Nothing is going to happen. The rest of the night is going to be just as merry.”
He blinked rapidly, and she took notice of the others who had joined them.
Oste’s parents, Jeanne and Eflamm all over again, and, God above, even Jehan.
Their comfort inadvertently became a wall; no one could take notice of the agonies one man wore in silence.
Oste trembled under their hold, and her mind again echoed with despair.
He is extraordinary. He is magnificent. Let him feel that way. Please, please let him feel that way.
Please.
“I could…” Dorotèa tried, “…well, I could sneak into his study and sabotage the legs of his chair so that when he goes to sit he’ll fall instead.”
“I don’t see why nobody has managed to kill him y—” Monsieur Lézin grumbled, but then noticed Jehan at his side and quieted.
The lieutenant raised his palms. “I was never here.”
Oste made them all draw back when he suddenly scowled and snatched the wine glass in front of him. He tilted his head back and downed its contents like it was the watery mead at Borvo’s. When the deed was complete, he set the glass back down and pushed up to his feet.
“I’m not letting him ruin this,” he said as he rubbed his eyes. “Let’s have a dance.”
Dorotèa drew her brows together. She thought to remind him that he couldn’t dance worth a damn, but by her calculations encouragement would be more helpful. She plastered on a smile and tried to hide her concern. “Of course!”
Oste snatched up her hand and tugged her to the center of the reception.
The handful of musicians paused what they were playing to prepare a cheerful beat—Clotilde’s handiwork, she realized, when she noticed how swiftly the matron had made it to them.
Nothing was wrong. They were happy. Everything was fine.
The crowds circled to join in on the festivities. Bodies bunched around them, but Dorotèa saw only her husband, tense and searching her face.
“Oste,” she said softly, “I have a confession.”
He frowned. “Yes?”
Forget what just happened. Please.
Dorotèa bit her lip. “I believe in you in just about everything except for dancing. My toes are at risk.”
His surprised laugh told her that maybe things would never be perfect, but they might perhaps be manageable enough.