Mary Gentle (83 page)

Reaching out to the masonry of the fireplace, I supported myself upright; all but cracking my head against the plaster of the smoke-hood by misjudging distance.

Under my gaze, red and orange flickered among the black extinguishing coals.

I said, “You must know, also—we will be dead and dust, either way, before your ‘comet.’ Each of us, every man, every woman. Here, or as far as Nihon and the New World. We will have died, been buried, rotted away; our bones put into piles in catacombs, then those decayed. Men will have breathed in and breathed out our dust before any of this comes to fruition. We will never know if we are right.”

“Yes.” His voice was thin.

I turned away from the hearth, facing him. “But if I don’t make some attempt to prevent the ills you may predict, then I am responsible for every suffering man. Generations of women treated as beasts. Children born to starve at a few months old. And even
with
your calculations, I cannot prevent it all. I have both knowledge and responsibility—and far too little power.”

Robert Fludd brushed down his robes. That did nothing but leave wet smears in the velvet. He met my gaze. “I often think—the Nolan Master ruined the brightest minds of a generation. No man can bear that responsibility that Magister Giordano Bruno gave to us. It belongs to God.”

“You, also, do not sleep well.”

“No,” he said.

Shadows crept in from the ceiling-beams and the gap under the door, the candles sputtering to their end.

“It was the hinge on which all turned,” Robert Fludd said, his eyes bright and piercing. “That year, two years past. There will not come another such year. Nor another single such act as James’s assassination. There will need to be a million acts, now, over generations; you and I will not see the end of them, Rochefort.”

“Perhaps that is no bad thing,” I said. “Let those who are the ‘Rosicrucians’ at that time make their own decisions.”

He staggered slightly, walking towards the door to the house.

“Time the destroyer,” Fludd added, now blinking repeatedly. “Fleeting time, the vanity of all things. Or Man, self-sufficient, the arbiter of his own destiny, the shaper….”

“You’re drunk.” I pushed him in the direction of the door; he went complaisantly enough. “Go and sleep it off.”

Behind me, I heard the noise of the back door’s latch lifting.

The door opened as I turned about.

Gabriel sloped in, a guilty look on his face, and three full, stoppered jugs in his arms.

“Raoul?” He dumped the jugs down on the table, and shot a wary glance at Robert Fludd.

Moved to a more buoyant mood, I smiled at Gabriel. “You might as well sit down. I have explanations to make.”

Doctor Robert Fludd, clinging white-faced to the lintel of the door, exclaimed in bemusement, “You’re telling a
servant?
”

“If Gabriel agrees,” I said, “I am telling the next brother of the Rosy Cross.”

Fludd’s mouth gaped open.

Gabriel gave me a look I have recognised, since the Low Countries, as indicating the desirability of a rapid explanation, complete in all details.

Reaching an equilibrium of mind that had long been denied me, I sat down on the bench, and reached to pour wine for Gabriel Santon.

“It will be no reflection on you if you refuse the part,” I said to him. “This will be dangerous, but I believe you have a right to know.”

I paused, putting the jug down.

“And—there will be a fourth one of us—if she will let me bring her home.”

T
he pearl-sewn silk sleeve covered her scar.

Any other man, I believe, would have looked first at her face, skilfully augmented with pigments as it was; or at the soft expanse of flesh, covered only by the finest lawn cloth, between her throat and her bodice.

I read in her stance that slight favouring of her left shoulder that any Master of Defence would require she train out of herself on the instant.

The great dark panelled chambers at the Montargis estate were made hot by the press of gallants, courtiers, prelates; ladies of the family and those belonging to visitors; all crowded in among the great stands of candles that shone down on satin and jewels, ruffs, and hats. Under the loud chatter, I heard her voice quite clearly.

“Monsieur
de
Herault,” Dariole said, and held out her naked hand.

The touch of her fingers, even offered with that sarcasm, was welcome to me. I put my lips lightly to them—and found myself all but undone by the scent of her skin.

One of her brothers, at her shoulder, rumbled questioningly, “And you, monsieur, are here because…?”

“Here at Montargis?” I smiled at him.
Ambroise, I think; all her brothers look very alike.
She must take after her mother.

“I have a keen interest in history,” I remarked, urbanely. “Is it not the case that one of your towers, here, is supposed to have held Jeanne the Pucelle, on her way to be tried at Rouen? But then, perhaps you do not approve of warrior women?”

Dariole—“Arcadie,” I should say—eyed me with a level and unrelenting stare. Her brother snorted.

She spoke. “I can deal with this.”

He gave her the look which a man gives a woman when he has lost a long-fought argument, and turned to lose himself in the press of bodies.

The two of us standing together were not shielded from men, except by the windows at our left hand. The mild afternoon of the second week in November pressed against the glass, the sun not yet gone from the sky.

“Who have you said that I am?” I asked.

“Some man that ‘Dariole’ knew. Why are you here?” she demanded.

My gaze followed Ambroise—or Blaise, or Ogier; whichever of the brothers he was—and I saw him now speaking to another man, younger, and not possessed of the family features. Dark, with a pale skin, and something of that look about him that women like.

And yet the entertainment is being held here, and not at his family estate.

“That will be your husband, Philippe,” I said. And, because I felt reckless enough, followed that by a question. “Have you consummated your marriage with him?”

Any other woman would have gasped, or welled up with tears, or struck me; I expected at least the last of those reactions from Mlle Dariole. Not, perhaps, from Madame Arcadie—who only continued to look at me, with perfect self-possession.

She said, again, “Why
are
you here?”

I closed my eyes very briefly. The noise of the musicians could barely be heard above the provincial chatter of her guests. I might say what I pleased and not be overheard, here, in this moment.

Gazing down at her, and her eyes that had been shadowed by some maid’s skilled hand, I smiled.

“What would you expect of me?” I said. “I’ve come to beg.”

Possibly I would have abandoned all if there had been no response from her.

Her eyes flickered, and she stroked the pearl-strung cords that hung from her neck to the waist of her farthingale. Her index finger tapped them, irritably. That made me desire to smile more.

“Well?”
she demanded.

I raised a brow.

She glared at me. “There are six men in this room who’ll issue you a challenge if I slap your face—seven, if you count my husband—”

Restraint failed me; I grinned at her.

Her eyes became slits. “You
know
what I mean!”

“Oh, truly.” I made her a small bow, worthy of Fontainebleau for style. “But I did not know you disliked your family so much as to wish them all dead by the same sword….”

She made a tiny sound, like the squeak of a young kitten, that appeared to take her by surprise.

“
Roche
fort…”

The warning note in her voice pleased me, if only because I recognised it as that of Mlle Dariole.

I watched her for a moment or two, as I ceased to smile. Her farthingale was blue silk, under the pearls. Her bodice, cut flat across her breast, served as foundation for the great fragile ruff that curved up behind her head. There were diamonds in the web of lace.

I felt the old terror that I had felt riding here, that was naught to do with whether my disguise would hold against the hostile world. She has not written or otherwise sent word: how can I dare to see her? And when I come not just to offer, but to
demand
something of her?

Between she and I, there can be no secrets.

“As to that,” I said, “I have, first, apologies to make to you.”

She gave me a suspicious look, and moved her body’s stance unguardedly in response; settling back so that she stood with her weight on one hip, and her head cocked very slightly to the side. She folded her arms, like a young man. In farthingale and stomacher, it looked ridiculous.

“Apologies,” she said flatly—paused, and added, “More than one?”

The note of provocation crept back into her tone.

I reached out, soberly, and took her hand again.

“Mademoiselle, I must apologise for two actions of mine, at the least. No, three. Firstly, that I decided that I would not permit you to kill Robert Fludd. It was your right; I made the decision; I am sorry for it.”

She frowned, interrupting. “You think I
should
have killed him?”

“No, mademoiselle. I believe him extremely valuable—for a reason which I shall later fully explain. I should, however, have taken more care to bring you to my opinion, before I decided out of hand that he should live.”

Her face, that I had barely recognised under the rouge and kohl, relaxed into a rueful expression that was all hers. “I dare say I wasn’t in the mood to be argued with.”

My hand tightened on hers. By an effort of will, I loosed it. There may not be many more minutes we may spend in conversation, I thought, registering two more of her brothers now speaking with her husband.

She did indeed have five brothers.

Not one of them liked me.

I said quickly, “I am to apologise also, for choosing M. de Sully’s welfare over yours.”

Her eyes widened. “How—?”

“Fludd had time to predict only crudely; M. de Sully might have killed me—crippled me—” I stopped; began again. “I put myself into that danger, not regarding how you would feel.”

No matter how many people spoke and chattered around us, barely a yard from my back and hers, I heard the silence that issued out from her as she lifted her eyes and looked into mine.

“How
I
would feel.” She hit every word as if it were a challenge: a glove thrown into the face of another man.

“I apologise,” I repeated quickly, before she could say more. She held my gaze. I felt myself loose in sinew and frame, as if I might tremble; such a fear as I have never felt when I use a sword.

“So?” she said.

In the face of that flat tone, it was difficult to get out the words that I intended. I said, nevertheless, “Let me make my third apology.”

Dariole stared up at me, nothing of the demure young woman about her. I had a moment’s hysterically amused contemplation of what her brothers—and her husband—might do if she simply hit me.

My mouth felt entirely dry. “Which is this. I am sorry, mademoiselle, that I have not come here tonight solely out of my love for you.”

Her expression turned into a blank.

I plunged on, running one finger under my falling bands, my doublet collar very much too tight. “I desire your assistance—in a matter to do with M.Fludd’s abilities—your help—”

One look at her face silenced me. I stuttered; abruptly broke out again.

“What am I supposed to do, mademoiselle?
Forget
you’re a duelist second to none—or, second only to myself? Am I to
ignore
your ability with a sword?”

Waspish, she snapped, “God knows you’ve been trying hard enough! And for long enough!”

That is not the true subject of her anger.

I drew in my breath, and made an attempt at recovering dignity. “Mademoiselle. I admit it. You are a—very young—but very accomplished duellist; you can, moreover, pass anywhere. True, you are a woman, and with very little in the way of wit, but you will mature.”

“Yeah. The day after
you
do.” She lifted her chin, glaring. “You want my ‘help.’ Do I look like a duelist?”

Even in skirt and bodice, I could see how every muscle tensed, and how she came alive. And yet….

“No,” I said.

In the farthingale, truth told, with the embroidered toes of her shoes peeping out from under the hem, she appeared a wooden doll.
And this pleases her?
How can it? And yet, it evidently does.

“No,” I repeated. “Listen to me, Dariole. I suggested you come back here, because I desired you to be happy. You are, evidently, happy. And now…if it were me, I would leave. But if
I
did not know I was a fool, Gabriel has hardly been backward in telling me of it—he appears to have strong opinions on my taking decisions for others without informing them.”

The corner of her lip moved.

If I see that smile that is all hers, I shall be robbed of words.
I pressed on.

“The fact remains, mademoiselle—
madame
. I come here tonight and, you are happy. Content. You have stayed here. Your husband loves you. Your brothers desire to protect you. I dare say your father will be happy to have his grooms throw me off the estate. Why am I here?”

My voice had become loud, I realised. Dariole gave me an encouragingly demure expression.

“Why
are
you here, messire?”

“I am creating an organisation to use the work of M. Fludd,” I said plainly. “While he and his future pupils appear to work their conjurations for kings, he will in reality work for me. And I desire your help in this.”

She looked at me frigidly. “Because I can use a sword.”

“Yes. No! Yes. Mademoiselle!” I found myself stuttering again. “If I could but speak with you privately, explain—”

Her stance changed, within a heartbeat; as if she had sudden reason to realise how ill it became a woman, and settle to demure femininity again.

She flicked her fan open. “Madame aunt.”

A tall, eagle-nosed woman in black ignored Dariole in favour of me. She swept me with her gaze. “Monsieur! You’ll join the set, won’t you? Arcadie, you also; you neglect your guests.”

Her invitation had far more the tone of an order, I noted. A glance around showed me several miscellaneous brothers about to move forward en masse and correct their relative’s error. The de Montargis de la Roncière brothers, all of whom seemed to be in their early twenties (but surely could not be) had made it clear, these last two hours, that I was not welcome—by every method short of calling me out.

And now, after three months of waiting, I have managed to confirm their every insult of me in her mind.

I made a bow, offered my arm to their sister, and said, “I shall be pleased to dance in madame’s company.”

Dariole snorted under her breath. “Yes, but
I’m
not sure I want to be crippled!”

Instantly I ached from throat to groin. It was all the old vicious, mocking, boy’s tone. For a moment I could not speak, following in the wake of the tall woman to a more spacious room.

I
must
endure it, to speak with her.

Musicians here sounded audibly, at least. A thousand wax candles burned, filling the air with honey-scent. Every last junior member of the noblesse d’épée seemed to be packed into the dark panelled room.

“What do you dance?” I managed to return at Dariole, as we were sorted into place, too exposed to potential eavesdroppers for private talk. “The voluta, perhaps?”

In that particular court dance, the gentlemen lift the ladies from the ground, with one hand to their back and one hand to their belly. Or lower.

I added, “Or is that too energetic for your husband?”

Idiot!
I raged at myself as she glared.

“It’s entirely likely your husband
will
challenge me, if you slap my face,” I put in quickly. “I hope you bear that in mind.”

Her gaze flashed at me. “I wouldn’t slap you, messire. I might just give you a punch in the mouth.”

The aunt (Cleophine, I now recalled) clapped her hands, summoning the musicians in that moment to play. Sets of men and women began to move, dancing—nothing so modern as the voluta. I gave a hand to Mlle Dariole, wished desperately that I might speak—and the music took us away from each other, silent among the loud chatter of the other dancers.

I had a moment to reflect on how being the tallest man in the room leads me to feel like a Jack-on-stilts while dancing.