Chapter XLIV
XLIV
The Bow and Brace
Eastern Ocerne, France
The Bow and Brace hunting lodge was a nobleman’s playground, replete with luxuries and on a scale to rival a provincial castle.
Two enormous fireplaces faced each other across the opulent grand salon.
Chairs upholstered in velvet and satin were arranged around tables inlaid with chess and backgammon boards.
The publican’s astonishing collection of antiquities, weaponry and heirlooms was on display alongside the real trophies of his estate—the heads of deer, boars and wolves which covered the walls.
There was even an enormous bear head glaring down at us with its twinkling glass eyes.
It was all slightly grotesque (and quite morbid), particularly in comparison to the impoverished farmlands only a few miles away, but it was impossible not to be impressed.
As we entered, we were greeted by angry shouting from somewhere over our heads; someone on the floor above was dreadfully unhappy. It subsided immediately and Antoine gave me a shrug, with a mischievous smile.
Antoine barely seemed to notice the lavish surroundings; he was a nobleman’s son after all.
We accepted glasses of warm brandy from the butler, who introduced himself as Gaspard and extended an invitation to enjoy the comforts of the grand salon until the publican arrived.
Antoine finished his brandy in a gulp and then took mine, sipping it nonchalantly as he examined the publican’s antiques.
I browsed a bookshelf, selecting a hunting manual filled with delightful woodcuts.
We were not the only ones taking refuge at the lodge. As we dried ourselves by the fire, two more luckless travelers arrived on the doorstep.
The first was a young woman, finely dressed in a silver riding habit and teal hooded cape.
The cape was a fashionable choice that had fared poorly in the storm; she left small green-blue puddles in her wake.
“Messieurs,” she said when she saw us, offering a gracious curtsy in spite of her bedraggled appearance.
Antoine and I both bowed in return. The red-haired, middle-aged man who accompanied her had a harried aspect.
He offered only a cursory greeting before taking the young lady upstairs.
Outside, the sleet had turned into fast-flying snow.
The storm-head over the mountains was about to make good on its promise of a ferocious blizzard.
I was, however, more concerned about the perils inside the lodge.
Bauterne and the Ennevals had made it their home for the winter; we would be company most unwelcome at the dinner table.
While he could not turn us away—it would be a death sentence—Jean Chastel the publican was not afraid to show his displeasure. The tip of his elegant black cane rapped sharply across the Versailles parquet as he entered the grand salon, snapping orders to his staff.
“Have you come to the right establishment, young Lord Ocerne? You’ll find no whores here,” he said by way of greeting.
The publican was handsomely dressed in a russet-colored ditto suit, trimmed with gold thread.
His silver hair was neatly secured with a black bow and I was again struck by the taut power of his movements, even though he walked with some difficulty.
His military bearing was unmistakable, well past the end of his career.
“I am glad to hear that, Monsieur Chastel. It was my intention to give the ladies of Gévaudan an evening of rest,” replied Antoine glibly.
Chastel grunted, unamused. “I presume your father will be paying your account?” he asked bluntly.
“Of course, Monsieur Chastel. He bade me convey his regards.”
“Did he indeed? He must be a man of remarkable foresight. You’ve not seen Chateau d’Ocerne for months by the look of you.”
I smirked into my book as Antoine stuttered a reply. I found that I couldn’t help but like the publican; there was something reassuring about his gruff manner and barbed conversation. But my levity was short-lived.
“Welcome back, Professor Grave. I did expect that I might see you again, given how much you enjoyed the amenities of my lodge the last time,” said Chastel.
His tone was mild but his steel-bright eyes were accusatory; I had the sudden irrational fear that there was still stolen silverware protruding from my pockets.
“I would have returned sooner, good sir, but we have been quite consumed with the hunt. I am looking forward to sleeping in a bed again after all this time,” I replied carefully.
He looked us over with an appraising eye. “Very well. We have one remaining room for you—an expensive one. Gaspard will inform you when it is ready. My staff will see to your horses—”
He was interrupted by more muffled shouting from the floor above.
He did not mention the disturbance, but the publican was more than a little irritated.
He turned on his heel and limped back toward the dining hall.
“We dine at eight. You will have time to make yourselves presentable. I suggest you take advantage of it.”
After his fourth brandy, Antoine fell asleep in the cavernous armchair.
There was nobody else in the grand salon, so I took the opportunity to do some snooping—something was definitely happening upstairs.
A voice raised in displeasure within the opulent suites of the lodge was enough to rouse my suspicion.
I uttered a Litany of the Dusk and crept up the stairs, just another shadow in the vaulted hall. On an instinct, I drew my envenomed hunting knife very carefully as I ascended.
What are you doing? Are we going to kill someone? asked Sarmodel, his excitement palpable.
I’m not sure. I want to know where all the noise is coming from and I’m feeling cautious.
The upstairs gallery was exquisitely furnished and the walls were hung with an absolute bounty of religious paintings and tapestries.
Directly in front of me was a pair of doors decorated with carved stags and gilded scrollwork—the Royal Suite.
I counted eight other rooms in total. Thankfully, I didn’t need to go opening doors to find the right chamber; I had only to follow the shouted obscenities that issued anew from a room at the end of the hallway.
I moved silently over the furs on the floor, still shrouded in the Litany. To an observer, it would have seemed that the lamps guttered briefly in a sudden draft.
I stopped outside the door and listened for a moment.
“He knew you were a dog-fucking bastard from the first!” snarled a man’s voice from within. “Dog-fucking bastard! That’s what he called you!”
The voice with its Norman accent could only belong to Enneval the Elder. Another familiar voice replied, in soothing tones.
“Sir, you are not yourself,” said Bauterne with his urbane courtly inflection. “I fear your injury has taken a toll most—”
“Shut your arse-licking mouth! Where is my son?!” Enneval screamed.
I winced, chewing my lip. Perhaps we should go.
Sebastian, no! They’re just warming up!
Sarmodel, if Bauterne is here, so is the Archangel.
Unless he decides to manifest,1 we can manage anything Michael pokes across the Rift.
The decision was made for us a moment later.
“Who is there?” Bauterne’s voice rose sharply and he jerked open the door.
This close to him, there was no hiding, even with magical assistance. My concealing shadows slipped away like a heavy cloak, and I was left looking into the weary eyes of the Lieutenant of the Hunt.
He did not seem surprised to see me. “Professor Grave. As though we required any additional troubles here.” He raised an eyebrow at my drawn blade. “Are you going to stab me, sir?”
“My apologies, Lieutenant. We took shelter from the snowstorm and I heard a disturbance. I assumed the worst.” I sheathed my knife with an apologetic smile. Behind Bauterne, the fire was roaring in the hearth. A pile of bloody bandages sat on the floor before it.
“I see. Your concern is unnecessary. Lord Enneval has suffered a grave injury and it has left him somewhat . . . confused. I am sure he did not intend any disturbance. I will see you at dinner, no doubt.”
He stood looking at me implacably and I turned to leave with a slight bow.
But then I turned again.
“Lieutenant, among other things, I am a physician. Though we are rivals in the hunt, I would gladly offer my services if you have need,” I said.
Bauterne’s first instinct was to refuse; he sucked in a breath to offer a swift retort.
There was an Arcane fluttering of wings behind his head; a gentle flicker of gold and malachite green. The Archangel’s presence was soft—conciliatory, even.
Bauterne’s angry refusal remained unsaid. His shoulders fell and for a moment he looked utterly defeated.
“Be assured, sir, that under ordinary circumstances I would not trust you with so much as a lame pup. But I am near the end of my endurance with the Norman, and I am not fool enough to believe there will be any other help coming for us tonight.” He stepped aside with a nod of resignation.
“Any assistance you can provide is welcome.”
I stepped into Enneval’s chamber in time for another flood of obscenities.
This time the vitriol was directed at me. “Ah! Professor Petticoat!2 Where is the young Lord Ocerne? Surely there is room for one more sodomite in here.”
I gave a bland smile to cover my surprise. My private world with Antoine had obviously not been quite as private as I imagined.
“Monsieur Enneval. I understand you are unwell.”