Chapter Seventeen

 

While Emmanuelle had begged a few moments to tend nature’s call and perhaps find an ewer of fresh water to wash and freshen up, Athos stopped into the Broken Arrow to purchase a loaf of bread for the ride to Marle.

Luck had other plans for him. Sitting in a dark corner of the smoke and ash-infested room was the very man he sought.

Le Retrousser.

A dirty white ruff circled the marquis’s neck in crinkled disregard. A dented cuirass clung to his chest, a style out of fashion for decades. Only the poor, or the elderly still wore such. The ring on his littlest finger glinted red, a garnet or ruby.

When Athos was a child, his father had made sure he knew his place in this world. He knew the names of all the noble families in the kingdom, their genealogy, their alliances, their arms, and their origins. Whom to bow to, whom to expect a bow from. Adrien de Sillègue had taught his son the quiet respect a nobleman should possess.

Though Athos had tainted that noblesse oblige, and would be haunted by that crime until his death.

Of course, he needn’t genealogy to pin Marle. The curled lip was a giveaway.

The man the marquis spoke to over a meal of pale onion soup and crusty rye bread moved his broad shoulders to situate his body so he faced the tavern door. Athos did not recognize him. A single black plume danced around the wide brim of his beaver hat, and a pheasant quill dangled over the edge, running a shadow across the side of his face. The scar cleaving his chin promised a deadly mien. His voice was remarkable—it was as if he were whispering even when he spoke aloud.

And the twosome did speak aloud, drink having loosened their tongues and inhibitions. More than one serving wench let out a shriek at the marquis’s groping hands. The other kept to himself, though he did occasionally cast a preening gaze around the room. He had made no remark at Athos’s entrance, for Athos had removed his musketeer tunic and stuffed it in Anacreon’s saddlebags.

Now as he sat before the bar, his back to the conversing men, he took pains to keep his bejeweled rapier concealed under his cloak. A commoner could not afford such a weapon.

“Where is your destination after Marle?” his companion asked the marquis. He studied his tankard, though he did not once drink, Athos noted.

“South. Province, perhaps,” the marquis said in a voice thickened with drink, though he sat upright and kept his elbows to the table. The man had a reputation for not only being a womanizer, but, as well, an expert swordsman. Even when drunk. “And you?”

“Back to the coast. Though, not without proof.”

“She is dead,” the marquis said. “She was to hang yesterday afternoon in the Place de Grève.”

“Unfortunately, you did not see the body.”

Athos tilted his head to better listen. A woman hanged yesterday? They could only be speaking of Emmanuelle.

“I daren’t linger in the vicinity. I only drove by to ensure it was actually to happen. You would have had a better chance to witness the hanging—you are not known in Paris.”

“Save by that bitch, Chevreuse.”

Athos stiffened.

“I had not expected la Belle Dame sans Merci would be so easily captured. Nor hanged so quickly,” the quieter man said. “I wish you would have come to me directly after your skirmish with her.” He settled against the creaking slats of the chair. “Though I have sent scouts on to Ribécourt, I see now it is too late. The coin I would have given to see her face as the noose tightened around that slender neck. For her to see me standing in the crowd. Alive.”

Athos smoothed his finger along his chin. Why would Emmanuelle have been startled to see him alive? Should he be dead?

The marquis’s chuckle glittered in the darkness. “She is dead, for sure.”

Taking a chance, Athos swung around on the bench and teetered forward. Best to appear drunk. So he adjusted his tongue to form a slur. “You speak of the murderous wench la Belle Dame sans Merci? I was there, I was there. Such a sight to see the bitch hang!”

The younger man regarded him with tight, colorless lips and narrowed eyes. His pale irises danced with red flames. The marquis nodded, not looking at Athos, as he was too intent on milking his ale dry. The companion stood and pushed in his chair, as if he would leave.

“You should have seen it,” Athos insisted. “She put up a glorious fuss, she did.”

The man who had stood lifted a brow. “Did she?” Flat disbelief. Did he see through Athos’s drunken act?

“Oh, indeed.”

The twosome looked to one another—idiot drunk, was their obvious silent exchange.

Pressing his luck, Athos lifted the younger man’s tankard and downed the contents. He slammed the empty mug on the table and spluttered out in wet syllables. “Begged for mercy, she did. Pleaded with the hangman. Even went down on her knees.” He forced a smirk and a short chuckle. “Never seen one beg so much. Almost a pity.”

“She begged?” The younger man leaned over the table, pressing his knuckles to the grease-stained boards. He tilted his head, studying Athos’s face with the intensity one devotes to an insect crawling up the wall. “You lie.”

Unsettled by the presumption, Athos stared into the pale depths that held him a beetle skewered by the pin. Shivers trickled up the back of his neck. He stood in the presence of true evil, for `twas the only time his body reacted in such a startling manner. But he did not waver. “You call me a liar, monsieur?”

“That, I do.” The dark man remained leaning forward, the accuser defying the accused. A thick blue vein on his forehead pulsed. “La Belle Dame sans Merci would never beg. Ever.”

That last word reached Athos’s cheek in a projectile of spit. But he didn’t flinch as the man straightened and walked toward the door. Broad and muscled, he paused, one hand pressing the door outward to emit the cold air, and turned to study Athos.

For a moment, he supposed the man considered crushing the specimen. He lifted his chin, holding the stare, marking him, and memorizing the enemy’s features. Behind the man’s silhouette thick snowflakes swirled. And like a wraith, he slipped out into the night.

Blowing out his held breath, Athos stared for a long time at the swinging door. His heart froze. Death had just breathed upon his grave. And in le Mort’s eyes had lived cunning, and a cold, emotionless void.

The man knew Emmanuelle. Athos would lay bets on it. He must be from le Pacte des Justice. Together, he and the marquis had tried to frame Emmanuelle. And it was apparent the younger man would not rest until he laid eyes upon her cold body.

She could have no idea such danger lurked so close.

Athos had to find her. Before the Brotherhood did.

He crossed the square with stealthy strides. Right now he sensed more danger to Emmanuelle from this nameless shadow than from the drunken marquis. The man’s footsteps led into a darkened shed that earlier in the day had echoed with the clang of metalworkers’ hammers.

As Athos sneaked by carriages lined up inside for repair, he briefly wondered what had become of the youthful valet who had sworn he’d seen the marquis dead. Also a member of the Brotherhood? Or merely a hired mark? The boy had deliberately lied. Well enough to convince D’Artagnan. For a while, at least.

You are a liar.

The shadowy man in the tavern had looked Athos in the eye and judged his words—deducing correctly. He must know Emmanuelle well, to be so certain she would not beg.

There was only one way to find out. Athos drew his rapier and cut the silence with an icy note. Out from the shadows the man sprang, wielding the dagger he had been using to cut the loaf of dark bread.

“Who goes there?” He squinted, adjusting his eyes to the darkened shed.

Athos stepped forward.

“The drunk from the tavern. Yet you wield a sword with skill. You are not so soused as you appear, eh?”

"Not nearly as drunk as Marle.”

Athos crossed the room and dashed his rapier across the man’s feeble dagger. His opponent returned with a steady determination, slashing the short blade menacingly before him.

“Who are you?” Athos demanded. Another strike to the dagger swung the man’s arm back far enough for Athos to step forward. Dropping his rapier, he pinned the man to the wall by the shoulders. “What is your name? How do you know Emmanuelle Vazet?”

“Ah.” Slowly, the man comprehended. A crumb-littered smile curled in the darkness. He still gripped the dagger, but near his thigh. Athos remained keenly aware of the weapon—within gelding range. “I knew you were a liar.” He tilted his head. Candlelight brightened one side of his face and shadowed the other. “How well do you know la Belle Dame sans Merci?”

“It is I who is doing the questioning,” Athos returned. “Who are you?”

The man shook his head.

“Speak!” Athos shoved hard against the man’s shoulders. Sinewy muscles flexed beneath his palm. Much stronger than he appeared.

Much like Emmanuelle.

“Why are you so interested in her death? Do you work for the marquis? Are you of le Pacte des Justice?”

“So many questions,” the man said in his whispery drawl. He opened his mouth and made a hacking noise. “Your ill-finessed charge made me choke on my bread.”

Gripping the leather doublet at the man’s shoulder, Athos swung him around and flung him to the straw-covered floor. He toed under the hilt of his sword, kicked up and expertly caught the blade, then placed it to the man’s neck. “Name.”

“Not your concern.”

“From the coast of Normandy?”

“Is that a guess?”

“You are—” The truth was obvious. He spoke so knowingly of Emmanuelle.

What I wouldn’t have given for her to see me. Alive.

She must believe this man dead. Which could only mean one thing.

Athos hated this man immediately. Everything she had told him of her torturous training stood before him now. “You are Michel Clément.”

“You speak my name with some regard. Which explains your expert guess at Normandy. She has told you so much? Interesting. So, mon tombé ange has grown weak since her escape. She has allowed the enemy to know her mind.”

“I am not the enemy.”

“You reek of the king’s guard.”

“You are supposed to be dead.”

Clément spread his arms wide across the straw, a gleeful smile twisting his features. “Do I look like a stiff?”

Athos noted the way Clément’s doublet stretched over the muscles on his biceps. His long, wide hands were strong and powerful. Why did Emmanuelle suspect he was dead?

“Why did you wish to see her hang? The marquis is alive. An innocent woman would have swung at the gallows for a crime he committed.”

Clément laughed so heartily Athos thought him unhinged. He kept an eye on the dagger. The man casually set the blade on the table to his right, then placed the tip of his finger upon the handle. Dark eyes filled with a strange malice looked to Athos. A grin sparkling in his eyes set forth a challenge. Taunting him to act. Daring him to slice the tip of his rapier across the man’s neck.

Clément moved so swiftly Athos only registered the kick of a boot to his blade. The man now stood before him, dagger held in his right hand, and Athos’s rapier in his left.

He’d trained Emmanuelle. But the master was more skilled.

“How— Why did you do that to her?” Athos demanded.

“Do what?”

“Make her so…hard.”

“I did nothing beyond teach her to survive. I’m sure you’ve had a taste of her skill. Or have you tasted her sweetness? Have you fucked my delicious whore, musketeer?”

“You are of the Brotherhood of Justice, and so is the marquis.”

“So quick on the catch,” Clément mocked.” I understand now why Louis’s army is fraught with lackwits.”

“You tainted her. An innocent. She was but a girl.”

“Emmanuelle was never innocent, get that straight. My fallen angel is your worst nightmare. A challenge to any man with a blade.”

My fallen angel.

No. She was Athos’s dark angel.

Don’t taint her. She is mine!

Athos studied the man’s maniacal gaze. “You’ve come to assassinate her because she no longer believes in your twisted truths?”

“I have never twisted a thing.”

“Now you lie. You made her believe Les Grandes assassinated her father.”

“She formed that conclusion the day she witnessed Henri Vazet’s bloody murder. Who was I to meddle?”

“If you cared so much for her, why this plot with the marquis? It is a plot, isn’t it? A trap to lure in the renegade? She broke from the Brotherhood, and they will not stand for sedition.”

“Exactly.” Clément spoke matter-of-factly. “She deserves to die. And she will.” He twisted his wrist, spearing Athos under the chin with the sword point. “Where is she? You know, musketeer. As sure as you’ve fucked her, you know where to find her should the urge to spill your seed return.”

Athos swung to the side and lunged to extract his rapier from his opponent’s fingers. The man riposted and returned with a parry that connected. Athos’s arm flung outward, leaving his face open to the oncoming kick. He took a boot to the chest, his breath chuffed out, and he stumbled backward.

His vision flickered between blackness and dazzling light. And in the brief seconds before he went down, he recalled receiving much the same kick from Emmanuelle only days ago.

Clément had trained her well.

A fallen angel, indeed.

The floor caught his shoulder. His jaw clattered. Blackness reigned

***

Where the hell was that musketeer?

Emmanuelle tightened the belly-strap on Delilah’s saddle and looked to the men loitering around the waning bonfire. The sun had set, save a flash of amber decorating the black treetops on the horizon. Sizzling sparks sprang from the fire, some spiraling to the heavens, others spewing to attack the muddy ground.

Stamping at a landing spark, a tall man clad in black replaced his rapier in his hip sheath. He nodded to a ruffed man standing unsteadily beside him.

Recognition choked the breath from Emmanuelle.

Her body snapped rigid, her shoulders squared. Ultra-alert, her ears zoomed onto the men’s conversation. Difficult to make out through the maniacal crackle of the blaze. But though individual syllables were distorted, and no actual words could be determined, the timber of one of the men’s voices dropped Emmanuelle’s heart to her knees.

Paralyzed, she stood there in the courtyard. Villagers brushed past her. She remained oblivious, her vision fixed to the two men who gave her no notice, for they were deeply involved in conversation.

Standing with his profile toward her, his malformed lip curled to reveal teeth, the Marquis de Marle dipped his head closer, listening to the other man talk.

Emmanuelle gulped down a shriek. Impossible!

But it wasn’t. She would know that raspy voice anywhere. For speaking to the marquis in the calm manner of a living, breathing person was...

The last voice she had ever expected to hear again.

The voice of the man she had killed six months earlier.