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Chapter Twenty-Six

Faucher’s robes snapped in a wind as brisk and impatient as his strides as he crossed the bailey of Langeais Keep, merchants and chevaliers alike moving out of his path. The comtesse had requested his presence at the keep. She never summoned him. Always it had been she who came to him. To the chapel. When one is betraying the man who held his fist around the throat of not only the keep but the entire county, one could not—should not—scheme within the walls of his domicile. And yet, here he was. On his way to the comtesse’s private chambers to give her the sacraments.

He scoffed as he stepped through the keep doors. He no more believed she wished to pray than he would accept witches and werewolves were the children of God.

“Eveque Faucher?”

Faucher jerked to a halt. Lothair, accompanied by four of his keep guard, blocked his passage.

“I do not recall requesting your presence.” Lothair cocked his head. “To what do we owe the…pleasure of your company?”

“Mon Seigneur Comte.” He bowed his head. He would not grovel. “Madame le Comtesse has requested I attend to her immortal soul.”

Lothair’s expression was unreadable.

Archeveque Renaud had once posited the man did not have all his wits about him, but Faucher was not of a mind to believe that. That the comte was unpredictable, of that there was no doubt. That neither church nor king could control him was no secret. But Lothair was no more witless than he. And Renaud was missing, most likely dead. Reaping the consequences of underestimating the man. Faucher would not make that same mistake.

“Very well.” Comte Lothair inclined his head toward the keep. “Best not keep the comtesse waiting. She becomes shrill when she does not get what she wants.”

Faucher bowed and stepped aside as Lothair and his contingent of keep guard pressed on.

“Oh, and Faucher”—Lothair stopped, leaned in close and dropped his voice low—“best you pray very, very hard. Your God does not forgive easily those who consort with witches and werewolves.”

Faucher schooled his features and suffered the indignity of a pat on the cheek before Lothair continued on his way.

He stared after the comte, the swagger, the confidence of the man goading him. If Lothair thought he could intimidate him, if he thought to throw him off the scent, then the comte was fooling no one but himself. He smirked. Lothair did not know of his gift. His ability to sense out those of the supernaturalis. Witches, warlocks, werewolves. The only thing he had received from his godforsaken lineage he was proud of. Like a hound on the hunt, he could, and would sniff them out. All the foul creatures. And one day he would chance upon her. She had been his beginning. He would be her end.

Faucher climbed the stairs, shaking off the bitter memories of his childhood and his irritation at the comte. Lothair would meet his maker soon enough, and judgment would be harsh for a man who allied himself with werewolves and aided witches. As he accused his wife of doing.

He stopped at the door of Comtesse Marguerite’s chambers, and chevaliers of House Allard ushered him into a room of excess he had never seen the likes of, floral unguents choking up the air.

“Welcome, my dear eveque.”

Surrounded by ladies-in-waiting, Marguerite lounged on an enormous bed draped in layers of silk, fur and jewels more befitting a queen. A lady-in-waiting selected a piece of cheese from a platter piled high with all manner of delicacies, and the comtesse opened her mouth for the woman to place it on her tongue.

He pinched his lips shut. If not for his need of her chevaliers, he would not stoop to an alliance with this woman. She was as deceitful a creature as she was repugnant in her opulence. He should condemn her perfidy, but without her he was no more likely to gain access to information about Lothair’s dealings with the werewolves than he would be called to attend the pontiff in Rome. He suppressed a grimace. Given his suspect heritage, that would never happen.

She pouted. “My husband has become aware of our little visits.”

It gave him no satisfaction his assessment of Lothair had been correct. The comte was no fool.

“There is no longer any point in hiding our association. And, since it is more fitting for a mere eveque to visit upon me than I upon him, you will come here to”—there was no sweetness to the smile on her lips, nor the look in her eye—“help me pray.” She eased from the bed. “Come, let us sit and talk.” She rolled her eyes. “And pray if we must.”

She settled in a chair grander than any throne and gestured to the small wooden stool at its feet. He breathed through his contempt, taking the stool. Marguerite’s aspirations were not subtle. Let her have her delusions on her pretend throne. She was useful to his cause. For now.

The lady-in-waiting approached with her tray, offering up a piece of fruit. Marguerite slapped her hand away. “Not now,” she snapped. “Can you not see I am busy?” The woman flushed, curtsied and retreated. Marguerite’s eyes narrowed on the women loitering around the room. “Do you think to listen to my private conversations? Well? What are you all waiting for? Get out!” Marguerite sniffed. “The quality of lady’s maids in this keep is sorely lacking.”

The women filed out, heads bowed. Down to the last one, they were from noble, wealthy families. Not a peasant or servant among them.

The door closed, and Faucher was alone with the comtesse. Were it not for his robes and his rank, Lothair might well have his head for being in his wife’s chambers unchaperoned. Or Marguerite’s.

Marguerite looked down at him, more haughty than regal. “I ordered a man to confirm what we suspected. That the Montagnes have taken the woman to the d’Louncrais estate. He has returned.”

She laid her arms on the armrests with a flourish. A woman with ambitions to be queen on a throne without a kingdom. He hid his sneer. Anything to remind her of her superiority.

“And what news did he bring?”

“He has yet to report.” Tight-lipped, she glared at the door, as if her ire might force his appearance. “I have sent for him. He should arrive anon.”