Gosford's Daughter (39 page)

Espying a piece of wood that might have been a
chopping block, Sorcha sat down without being asked. She sniffed
once or twice, recognizing an exotic scent. Was there more of Araby
about this strange woman than her flowing garb? Sorcha
wondered.

“
So,” the woman remarked after a
long, unsettling pause, “you are Sorcha Fraser, sister to the
much-admired Rob.”

To Sorcha’s surprise, the woman’s English was good.
She spoke forthrightly, though her tone was too self-possessed for
Sorcha’s taste. “I am,” Sorcha replied after more of a pause than
she’d intended. “I’ve been living in France with my sister for
about a year.” She hadn’t meant to divulge that much, but there was
something compelling about those lovely, chill blue eyes.

The woman held a long index finger against the gauzy
black veiling that concealed the lower part of her face.
Fleetingly, Sorcha wondered who waited upon the hermit woman in her
rude surroundings. Certainly her hands were better tended than
Sorcha’s.

“
I’ve heard much of your history,”
Athene said at last, the honey tone sharpening, the sibilant sounds
hissing with a trace of venom. Sorcha drew back in spite of herself
and tried to hide her puzzlement. Except for the fact that she was
Rob’s sister, there was no reason for the inhabitants of Compiègne
to be interested in her. Unless, of course, Athene, in her guise as
Brother Jacques’s mentor, paraded omniscience as part of her
arsenal of influence.

Whatever Athene’s reasons, the preliminaries had gone
on long enough. “Let us get to the heart of the matter,” Sorcha
declared, making a move closer to Athene to prove her own
staunchness. “I’m told that Brother Jacques has a mad plan to kill
King Henri. If this is so,” she ploughed on, despite a gesture on
the other woman’s part to interrupt, “then he must be discouraged.
I frankly find him a troubled soul.”

“
You’ve barely found him at all,”
Athene replied with more verve than Sorcha guessed she usually
cared to display. “You know nothing of Brother Jacques, nor the
King of France, nor what goes on in our world here. I suggest you
cease meddling and return to your peaceful convent in the
Seine.”

Athene folded her arms across her drapery-clad bosom,
her hands disappearing up the flowing black sleeves. Sorcha was
reminded of Mother Honorine, yet while the mother superior’s
movement suggested security and serenity, Athene’s gesture was
secretive, almost malevolent, as if a dagger might be hidden
beneath the folds of her artful hangings.

Briefly, Sorcha reflected upon Athene’s words, which
seemed intended to dismiss further argument. One thing was
clear—whatever Brother Jacques’s mad plan, it was at the bidding of
this mysterious recluse. Was she a nun, Sorcha wondered, a member
of one of those strange contemplative orders that sought salvation
through seclusion? But though her garb was black, it evoked
eroticism, not mysticism. A darting glance confirmed that there was
nothing—not even a cross—to indicate Christian zeal. It struck
Sorcha that there was more evil in the hut than good, and she was
suddenly not just uneasy, but afraid.

Taking a deep breath and summoning all her courage,
Sorcha stood up. “The matter of men and murder is everybody’s
business,” she asserted loudly enough so that if Brother Jacques
were eavesdropping, he would hear. “I cannot think why a Catholic
monk would kill a Catholic king, knowing that the heir to the
throne is a Protestant from Navarre. I know little of French
politics, but I do know madness.” Sorcha swept at the air with her
hand. “And herein, I see it; I smell it in my nostrils like any
other foul stench.”

In a breeze of draperies, Athene was on her feet,
arms outstretched in warning. “Begone! Away with you, Scots whore!”
She was close to six feet tall and towered over Sorcha like a
vengeful raven. The long nails slashed just past Sorcha’s face as
the chill blue eyes glittered hard as diamonds. “You, who consorts
with priests! Go, before I put a curse on you that will drag you
into hell twice over!”

The shrieking babble that erupted from Athene’s lips
sounded like no language Sorcha had ever heard. Unwilling to
concede defeat, yet aware of the need for retreat, Sorcha slowly
began to move backward toward the entrance.

“
A pox on your curses,” Sorcha
called out, again hoping Brother Jacques was listening. “You’ve no
more power than a whipped egg! If you had the brains of a board,
you wouldn’t sit about in a pile of unwashed window
curtains!”

Sorcha was back-pedaling through the door, hoping
that the spate of invective would keep Athene off guard until the
clearing could be reached. But the other woman was moving with long
strides toward Sorcha, a hand wrenching at the flowing veils.
“Bitch!
Chienne des chiennes
! Your wild, foreign face can’t
compare to mine, even now!” She yanked the veil away, revealing
perfect features and golden curls. She was the most beautiful
creature Sorcha had ever seen. With a little gasp, Sorcha stood
stock-still, one hand braced on the rough doorway. Yet even as she
took in Athene’s stunning appearance, the hermit woman lifted a
handful of shimmering hair to reveal a great puckered scar that ran
from ear to shoulder. “Well?” demanded Athene, the blue eyes
searing Sorcha with both malice and triumph. “Are you satisfied? Do
you see that Athene is made of pleasure—and pain?” The golden hair
fell back down over her shoulder to hide the brutal scar as Athene
again marched on Sorcha. This time when the hand went inside the
black draperies, it emerged with a sinister slender shaft. The
ivory handle was carved into a death’s-head; the steel blade shone
like silver.

The time for courage was over: Sorcha whirled, half
expecting to crash into Brother Jacques, but he was nowhere to be
seen. Scrambling over the logs that barred the way to the hermit’s
hut, Sorcha regained her footing and raced off through the
evergreens. The shrieking mockery of Athene’s laughter followed her
all the way to the bustling stream at the edge of the forest.

She began to slow down as the trees parted to let the
early afternoon sun beat upon her perspiring body. Some time later,
barefoot, dirt-stained and weary, Sorcha gratefully spied the walls
of Compiègne. She was about to cross the river by the little
footbridge when a lone rider raised enough dust to make Sorcha put
a shielding hand up to her eyes. Stepping aside to let him go over
the bridge first, she sensed, rather than saw the man in the
saddle.

“
Gavin!” she cried, half choking on
dust and surprise.

At first man and horse didn’t seem to pause, but just
as he was about to guide his mount over the bridge, Gavin Napier
reined up and stared in wonder at Sorcha’s bedraggled form.

“
Praise God!” Napier exclaimed, and
leaped down from the horse. He moved as if to take Sorcha’s hand,
then rooted himself into the dusty road. Dressed in a white cambric
shirt and black breeks, he wore the same high leather boots Sorcha
remembered, and the long-handled dirk was at his hip. He was
bareheaded and faintly sunburned, yet his skin seemed even darker,
and the hunter’s eyes were as deep and unrevealing as ever—save for
that brief moment of relief when he had recognized
Sorcha.

Despite his hesitation, Sorcha refused to let either
time or distance keep them apart another moment. Without shame, she
hurled herself at his chest, her arms wrapping tightly around him.
“Thank the Virgin and all the saints! I’ve found you! I thought God
had stopped answering prayers!”

Napier said nothing at first, though Sorcha could
hear his deep breathing. Slowly, his own arms encircled her. “You
should have forgotten me by now,” he asserted, his tone too rough.
“I prayed you had.”

But nothing he said or did could spoil Sorcha’s
glorious happiness in finding him again. She looked up at him, the
tangled black hair falling away from her elated face, the green
eyes shining with joy, the wide mouth laughing with little gurgling
sounds, like a brook gone berserk. “I told you at Fotheringhay I
could never let you walk out of my life. But you did, and I kept
waiting … and then”—she hurried on, trying to make sense and
at the same time to drink in his presence—“I came to France, to be
with Rosmairi, yet I knew I was searching for you.” Sorcha pressed
her face against the cambric shirt. “I found you, too, by all
that’s holy!”

Gavin Napier emitted a rumbling sound that was half
rebuttal, half chuckle. “Or profane.” He stood very still, the
faint breeze rising from the river to ruffle their hair. Gazing
over the top of Sorcha’s head, Napier’s features relaxed ever so
slightly. “Rob tells me you came here at my brother’s urging.” He
paused as two young boys drove a flock of geese over the little
footbridge. “Have you seen Brother Jacques this morning?”

“
Brother Jacques!” Sorcha all but
spat out the name. She pulled away just enough to look up into
Napier’s face. “God’s teeth, are you going to tell me it’s Brother
Jacques you were hastening to find just now instead of
me?”

Napier had the grace to flush under his tan. “It
is
an urgent matter, after all.” He let go of Sorcha to take
his horse by the bridle. “Come, this isn’t the place to chat. Let’s
return to the monastery.” Deliberately, he led the big bay over the
bridge.

Scowling, Sorcha followed him, forcing her tongue
into silence until they reached the abbey’s entrance, where a
porter was eating strawberries out of a small wicker basket. “Back
so soon, eh?” the man said to Napier and popped another fat red
berry into his mouth.

“
Aye,” Napier replied pleasantly
enough as the porter opened the gates.

“
Hold on!” Sorcha tugged at Napier’s
sleeve. “Where are we going?”

The porter eyed her with curiosity as a young boy
raced across the courtyard to tend Napier’s mount. Napier flipped
the boy a coin, then frowned at Sorcha. “To rejoin Rob, of course.
He awaits news of Brother Jacques.”

“
A pox on Brother Jacques!” Sorcha
folded her arms across her breast and rocked angrily on her bare
heels. “Either you and I speak privately now, or I shall refuse to
offer further assistance with this mad monk. Nor will I tell Rob—or
you—what I learned this morning. Brother Jacques can eradicate the
entire French court for all I care.” Whirling around, Sorcha turned
her back on Napier and ignored the now mystified porter, who had
inadvertently allowed strawberry juice to besmirch his white
cowl.

Gavin Napier stood on the dusty walkway, shifting his
weight from one booted foot to the other and rubbing his bearded
chin in vexation. With great effort, he stifled an urge to pick up
Sorcha and haul her into the monastery. Instead, he took a deep
breath and set his jaw. “There’s an inn, Le Chien Rouge, just a few
streets away, by the river.” With forced gallantry, he offered his
arm. “Shall we?”

“
I have no shoes,” she said, and saw
his dark brows edge even closer together. “Though it
is
summer and many peasants are about,” she added hastily. With far
less enthusiasm than she had shown just a few moments earlier,
Sorcha placed her hand on Napier’s arm and let him lead her past
the porter and back into the narrow street.

They walked the short distance in silence. Sorcha had
not yet seen Le Chien Rouge since arriving in Compiègne, but noted
that it seemed respectable, no doubt a haunt of the town’s
bourgeoisie.

Indeed, its very respectability was affronted by
Sorcha’s disheveled appearance. An owl-eyed young man wearing a
white apron and carefully patched hose eyed the newcomers with a
suspicion that bordered on panic. In a peculiar, high-pitched nasal
voice, he inquired if Napier and his companion wished to eat.
Before Napier could reply, Sorcha intervened. “Certainly, my good
fellow. Pheasant and artichokes and onion soup and cheese and
crusty bread. Wine, too, of course.”

The young man, who called himself Bertrand Fils,
seemed much relieved that his visitors desired food. He ushered
them to a corner table, however, where they were somewhat shielded
from the prying eyes of other patrons.

Sorcha watched his spindly-legged departure and
snorted. “Monsieur Bertrand thought I was a strumpet, I’ll wager!
When will people cease mistaking me for what I’m not?” She glanced
at Napier for commiseration, but noted his frown and flushed. “Oh,
by heaven, you’re thinking I’m a strumpet, too!” Distressed, she
wriggled about on the bench, which was worn into grooves by at
least three generations of diners.

The wolflike face softened. “You know that I think no
such thing. It may be that I understand you better than anyone
else.” Forcing herself to grow calm, Sorcha contemplated his words.
“Perhaps,” she admitted at last, “though I can’t say that I
understand—or even know—you so well.” She saw his dark eyebrows
lift ever so slightly and resumed speaking: “So then—what brings
you to Compiègne?”

Gavin Napier’s impulse was to respond that it was
fate. He could scarcely believe that after not having passed
through Compiègne in over two years, he would arrive within
twenty-four hours of Sorcha Fraser. He had learned from Adam that
Rob was with his kinsman, Brother John, at the abbey. It had seemed
prudent to visit his former protégé and offer an explanation—as
well as an apology—for his deception. In the time that had passed
since Fotheringhay, many things had troubled Gavin Napier; not the
least of these was allowing the innocent, guileless Rob to believe
in a vocation that didn’t exist.

As Bertrand brought the platter of food and a bottle
of wine, Napier sketchily answered Sorcha’s question. Between
mouthfuls of cheese and pheasant breast, she watched him closely,
her disappointment mounting. Obviously, Gavin Napier hadn’t ridden
to Compiègne because he knew she was there. At best, it had been a
fragile hope, but Sorcha had nurtured it all the same, not quite
able to believe in the coincidence of their both arriving in the
same place at the same time.