“So very pale,” he murmured. “So fine. I believe I could see the blood flow beneath your skin.”
He let go of my hand then and sat regarding me. I was extremely good at reading faces, but Louis’s was quite impenetrable at the moment. I realized suddenly that he’d been a king since the age of five; the ability to hide his thoughts was as much a part of him as his Bourbon nose or the sleepy black eyes.
This thought brought another in its wake, with a chill that struck me deep in the pit of the stomach. He was the King. The Citizens of Paris would not rise for forty years or more; until that day, his rule within France was absolute. He could free Jamie with a word – or kill him. He could do with me as he liked; there was no recourse. One nod of his head, and the coffers of France could spill the gold that would launch Charles Stuart, loosing him like a deadly bolt of lightning to strike through the heart of Scotland.
He was the King. He would do as he wished. And I watched his dark eyes, clouded with thought, and waited, trembling, to see what the Royal pleasure might be.
“Tell me, ma chère Madame,” he said at last, stirring from his introspection. “If I were to grant your request, to free your husband…” he paused, considering.
“Yes?”
“He would have to leave France,” Louis said, one thick brow raised in warning. “That would be a condition of his release.”
“I understand.” My heart was pounding so hard that it nearly drowned out his words. Jamie leaving France was, after all, precisely the point. “But he’s exiled from Scotland…”
“I think that might be arranged.”
I hesitated, but there seemed little choice but to agree on Jamie’s behalf. “All right.”
“Good.” The King nodded, pleased. Then his eyes returned to me, rested on my face, glided down my neck, my breasts, my body. “I would ask a small service of you in return, Madame,” he said softly.
I met his eyes squarely for one second. Then I bowed my head. “I am at Your Majesty’s complete disposal,” I said.
“Ah.” He rose and threw off the dressing gown, leaving it flung carelessly over the back of his armchair. He smiled and held out a hand to me. “Très bien, ma chère. Come with me, then.”
I closed my eyes briefly, willing my knees to work. You’ve been married twice, for heaven’s sake, I thought to myself. Quit making such a bloody fuss about it.
I rose to my feet and took his hand. To my surprise, he didn’t turn toward the velvet chaise, but instead led me toward the door at the far side of the room.
I had one moment of ice-cold clarity as he let go my hand to open the door.
Damn you, Jamie Fraser, I thought. Damn you to hell!
I stood quite still on the threshold, blinking. My meditations on the protocol of Royal disrobing faded into sheer astonishment.
The room was quite dark, lit only by numerous tiny oil-lamps, set in groups of five in alcoves in the wall of the chamber. The room itself was round, and so was the huge table that stood in its center, the dark wood gleaming with pinpoint reflections. There were people sitting at the table, no more than hunched dark blurs against the blackness of the room.
There was a murmur at my entrance, quickly stilled at the King’s appearance. As my eyes grew more accustomed to the murk, I realized with a sense of shock that the people seated at the table wore hoods; the nearest man turned toward me, and I caught the faint gleam of eyes through holes in the velvet. It looked like a convention of hangmen.
Apparently I was the guest of honor. I wondered for a nervous moment just what might be expected of me. From Raymond’s hints, and Marguerite’s, I had nightmare visions of occult ceremonies involving infant sacrifice, ceremonial rape, and general-purpose satanic rites. It is, however, quite rare for the supernatural actually to live up to its billing, and I hoped this occasion would be no exception.
“We have heard of your great skill, Madame, and your… reputation.” Louis smiled, but there was a tinge of caution in his eyes as he looked at me, as though not quite certain what I might do. “We should be most obliged, my dear Madame, should you be willing to give us the benefits of such skill this evening.”
I nodded. Most obliged, eh? Well, that was all to the good; I wanted him obliged to me. What was he expecting me to do, though? A servant placed a huge wax candle on the table and lighted it, shedding a pool of mellow light on the polished wood. The candle was decorated with symbols like those I had seen in Master Raymond’s secret chamber.
“Regardez, Madame.” The King’s hand was under my elbow, directing my attention beyond the table. Now that the candle was lighted, I could see the two figures who stood silently among the flickering shadows. I started at the sight, and the King’s hand tightened on my arm.
The Comte St. Germain and Master Raymond stood there, side by side, separated by a distance of six feet or so. Raymond gave no sign of acknowledgment, but stood quietly, staring off to one side with the pupil-less black eyes of a frog in a bottomless well.
The Comte saw me, and his eyes widened in disbelief; then he scowled at me. He was dressed in his finest, all in white, as usual; a white stiffened satin coat over cream-colored silk vest and breeches. A tracery of seed pearls decorated his cuffs and lapels, gleaming in the candlelight. Sartorial splendor aside, the Comte looked rather the worse for wear, I thought – his face was drawn with strain, and the lace of his stock was wilted, his collar darkened with sweat.
Raymond, conversely, looked calm as a turbot on ice, standing stolidly with both hands folded into the sleeves of his usual scruffy velvet robe, broad, flat face placid and inscrutable.
“These two men stand accused, Madame,” said Louis, with a gesture at Raymond and the Comte. “Of sorcery, of witchcraft, of the perversion of the legitimate search for knowledge into an exploration of arcane arts.” His voice was cold and grim. “Such practices flourished during the reign of my grandfather; but we shall not suffer such wickedness in our realm.”
The King flicked his fingers at one of the hooded figures, who sat with pen and ink before a sheaf of papers. “Read the indictments, if you please,” he said.
The hooded man rose obediently to his feet and began to read from one of the papers: charges of bestiality and foul sacrifice, of the spilling of the blood of innocents, the profanation of the most holy rite of the Mass by desecration of the Host, the performance of amatory rites upon the altar of God – I had a quick flash of just what the healing Raymond had performed on me at L’Hôpital des Anges must have looked like, and felt profoundly grateful that no one had discovered him.
I heard the name “du Carrefours” mentioned, and swallowed a sudden rising of bile. What had Pastor Laurent said? The sorcerer du Carrefours had been burned in Paris, only twenty years before, on just such charges as those I was hearing: “ – the summoning of demons and powers of darkness, the procurement of illness and death for payment” – I put a hand to my stomach, in vivid memory of bitter cascara – “the ill-wishing of members of the Court, the defilement of virgins-” I shot a quick look at the Comte, but his face was stony, lips pressed tight as he listened.
Raymond stood quite still, silver hair brushing his shoulders, as though listening to something as inconsequential as the song of a thrush in the bushes. I had seen the Cabbalistic symbols on his cabinet, but I could hardly reconcile the man I knew – the compassionate poisoner, the practical apothecary – with the list of vileness being read.
At last the indictments ceased. The hooded man glanced at the King, and at a signal, sank back into his chair.
“Extensive inquiry has been made,” the King said, turning to me. “Evidence has been presented, and the testimony of many witnesses taken. It seems clear” – he turned a cold gaze on the two accused magic – “that both men have undertaken investigations into the writings of ancient philosophers, and have employed the art of divinations, using calculation of the movements of heavenly bodies. Still…” He shrugged. “This is not of itself a crime. I am given to understand” – he glanced at a heavyset man in a hood, whom I suspected of being the Bishop of Paris – “that this is not necessarily at variance with the teachings of the Church; even the blessed St. Augustine was known to have made inquiries into the mysteries of astrology.”