Epilogue

July 1660

SHE BASKED IN THE SUMMER SUN, feeling the warmth soak into her clothing and into her skin. Catherine closed her eyes and breathed in the warm air scented with the flowers from the abbey's garden. It was quiet but for the sounds of a bird chirping in its nest in one of the trees nearby.

The silence was restful, and she valued it. It seemed the only place she gained any peace away from King Louis's court and the only place where she would be left alone.

A rustling sound made her open her eyes, and she was prepared to be irritated, but it was only Père Doré. He smiled at her, and she rose, curtsying before she extended her hand to him. He took it and nodded over it.

“I am glad to see you well, mon Père,” she said.

“And I am glad to see you are much less harassed,” he replied, his smile amused.

She grimaced. “Does it show? I have tried to be patient, but the Jesuits have asked me over and over again the same questions, and I can only give them the same answers as I have given them before.” She held out her hands. “It does not help that they do not bleed any more, though I am thankful they do not.”

“It helps that the king is fully convinced of the divine nature of your condition and of your appearance in his court, however,” the priest replied, and he chuckled.

“To be sure,” she said, and sighed. It was indeed useful, for though her brother was implicated in the accusation of treason, her intervention and Louis's own experience of de Bauvin's sorcery absolved Adrian of all blame. “I can scarce leave this place any more but that I am pursued by those who think I have some kind of divine gift.”

Père Doré looked at her gravely. “Do you think you do?”

She gazed back at him, and her lips pressed together in impatience. “I do not know, and if I do, I wish to be rid of it as much as I wished to be rid of the stigmata. Who am I, after all, to have such a gift? I have not sought any kind of special treatment from God, only to be left alone.” She looked away, gazing at the roses that bloomed in the sun.

Or to be with Jack, she thought. If she had any wish at all, it was to see him again. He had left Versailles as soon as he was able, for his king had called for his services again; fueled with funds once more, King Charles had left Breda and joined General Monck to take the throne of England again. Jack had laughed when she had given him her list of wishes, for it was long and some of them impossible, she thought. He had tucked it in a pocket of his coat and promised he would give it to King Charles himself, and then he had kissed her long and hard before he left once again. But he had said nothing of the relationship between them, and there had been no offer of marriage.

“Miracles happen for a reason,” the priest said.

She turned to him and shook her head, remembering the year that had passed, so full of pain and despair, with only a few barely grasped instances of joy. “It is certainly not because I am better than anyone else, so tell me another reason,” she said.

Père Doré smiled mischievously. “God may work through anyone, saintly or . . . not,” he replied. “Perhaps He wished to turn the hands of kings to better things than with what they are normally occupied.”

She could not help feeling a little chagrined, for there was a little part of her that had thought perhaps all the things that had manifested had been because of some virtue in her. But she grinned at the priest; it did not matter to her, for she had enough of supernatural things for a long, long time.

She thought of King Louis's many mistresses and how the nobles aped him in his manners. That had not really stopped, but the court had become more subdued and thoughtful for a while, and she had heard rumors that King Louis had secretly sent funds to King Charles after wavering for so long. No doubt this was why it all happened, to persuade her king to support the King of England in regaining his throne.

Only one thing disturbed her, however. For all that she, Fichet, and Père Doré searched for it, they could not find the marquis's amulet. It seemed to have disappeared the moment he died. She was not surprised; the jewel seemed made of the darkness of his soul, and the red light within it was the violence he inflicted on others. It was just as well. The world was better off without such a vile thing.

A sound at the other end of the garden took her attention and she looked up. One of the Benedictine sisters waved at her. “Mademoiselle, you have a visitor,” she called.

“I hope it is not another Jesuit, or someone wanting a blessing,” Catherine muttered, but she grinned when she saw Père Doré bite his lip to suppress a laugh. She gave a last curtsy to the priest, then smiled at the nun as she followed her to the abbey's parlor; the sisters had been kind to her, and there was something comforting and normal in their daily rituals and work. It gave her a certain peace.

But she had felt restless lately; she wished to be doing . . . something. She had thought of returning to her home in Normandy, but there would be little there to greet her but unhappy memories. Her sister was well again, but had returned to the convent school she had left when Catherine had returned home. Her brother was still in Versailles, doing his best to be agreeable to the king and to dedicate himself to whatever task Louis set him. Though Adrian had been cleared of the charge of treason, the king still wanted to keep his eye on him, and Adrian was eager to clear his name of the stain that had been put upon him.

She could, of course, stay with him at the king's palace. He called it a mere hunting lodge, but it was so large that she could think of it only as a palace, and she had heard that Louis liked it so much he was wont to stay there rather than in Paris.

The door to the parlor opened, and at first she thought the dark clothes she saw were that of a priest's frock. But the cloth had much embroidery on it, and as she entered the room, the tall figure turned.

She stopped, her heart beating wildly. “Jack,” she whispered.

He hesitated, looking at her uncertainly, as if he did not know whether to move toward her or step back.

“I am glad you have . . . are visiting,” Catherine said, feeling awkward. It was not what she wanted to say, but all that she could let out, for the words jumbled themselves behind her lips.

“I brought the list of wishes,” he blurted, and frustration crossed his face. “Damme, but that's a stupid thing to say.”

She laughed and ran to him, reaching for his hands. “Yes, but it is no more stupid than what I said.”

He took her hands in his and brought her fingers to his lips. “I've missed you, Cat,” he said, and she looked at him, her heart full. “There were a thousand times I wished I were here instead of in England.”

“But duty called you,” she said.

He groaned. “Damme duty,” he said, and pulled her into his arms. “Dear heaven, I love you.”

His lips were hard on hers and his arms nearly crushed her, but she did not mind. “You'll marry me, won't you?”

She parted from him a little, and smiled through her tears. “Did I not put it on the list?” she said.

He laughed. “A hundred times, I think. I believe King Charles gave me one task after another to torture me, for I did show him the list as I promised you I would.”

“Did he agree to any of the wishes?”

Jack grinned. “Not to the one about bringing down the moon, but he did agree to most of the others.” He paused for a long time, and she fidgeted, wondering which ones his king had agreed to. “The marriage one, of course.” He grinned.

“And—?”

“Greedy.” He kissed her again. “I've got my estates again, and a reward from both kings.” She did not ask how much—she did not care, but she knew that the return of his family's home meant a great deal to him. “It's enough to support a large family,” he said. “If you'll agree to marry me.”

She let out an impatient breath. “Agree? Now I wonder if I should, for it seems writing it on your list one hundred times has not made any impression on you.” She hesitated. “Is it that you do not really wish to marry me?”

“It's just that it's cold in England, and you like to be warm,” he said, and grinned. “Of course I wish to marry you.” He sobered, and sighed. “I've not lead a good life, Cat, and I've failed those who trusted me.”

“Where you are, that will be warm enough,” she said. “And you have never failed me. You gave me warmth and food and love from the day you found me, and now you have given me all except the moon.” She kissed him. “I cannot wish for more.”

A sound just outside the door made them part, and Catherine remembered that there was, no doubt, a nun waiting outside for propriety.

“When can you leave?” Jack said, not letting her move from his arms.

“Soon,” she said.

“Good. Fichet is waiting outside, and there is plenty of room in the coach he procured for your baggage. Oh, and did you know they are going to have a child? Mme Felice is sure that it's because you've said a blessing over her.”

Catherine groaned. “No. I have discussed it with Père Doré, and we agreed that I have no such powers.”

He gazed at her, a twinkle in his eyes. “Are you sure? I thought I saw a glow about you, and by heaven, I thought an angel entered the room when you did.”

She put her hand over his mouth. “Shh! It is nonsense. It is no such thing. I am very ordinary, and wish nothing more but to marry, have children, and fight you with swords.”

He laughed, and kissed her once again. “Very well, you shall have your wish.” He opened the door and pushed her toward it. “Get your belongings. I'll be waiting for you.”

She gave him one last smile and shut the door behind her.

Jack gazed at the door for a moment, then sat down on a chair near the fire. He thought about the woman he was to marry and shook his head. He'd grant her every wish her heart desired and keep mum about whatever she wanted, but she vastly underrated herself.

He put his hand to his left cheek and let his tongue wander to the tooth that had pained him for the whole of the trip from Le Havre to Paris. It had stopped hurting as soon as she had kissed him.

He grinned. She thought him a prize for attempting to get everything on her list of wishes, but he knew she was worth more than anything a king—or two—could grant him, gift or no gift, affliction or not, for better or for worse. He thought he heard her hastening footsteps past the door—he'd better go after her or else he'd miss her in her haste.

Jack paused as he passed the sanctuary of the abbey, and he eyed the font of holy water at the entrance. He fished around into his pocket and brought out a dark crystal, as black as night, but there was no longer a red fire in its depths. It had resisted smashing, burning, everything he could think to do to destroy it, so he had buried it near Fichet's inn. Misfortune took the inn as soon as he had left it there, and so he dug it up again.

He slipped it into the font of holy water and watched as the water boiled about the amulet. The boiling subsided, and the water became clear. Jack nodded. He thought that might do it. He'd have to tell Père Doré they'd need fresh holy water in that font.

Whistling, he walked out of the abbey into the noonday sun, and into Catherine's arms.