Page 55 of Wolves’ Witch

She had no power here, despite her command of the chevaliers of House Allard. For all her schemes and manipulations, her visions of future grandeur, she was nothing but another woman grasping for something she did not deserve.

The door opened, and two chevaliers dragged in a peasant. Shaking off the chevaliers’ hold, he stumbled, then gained his feet. He reeked of cheap ale, and… Faucher’s senses tingled along his spine. This man was no ordinary peasant. He was a warlock.

Lothair’s words rang in his ears, and he speared a glance at the comtesse. Did she know? That she consorted with the likes of what they hunted?

The hum, the awareness emanating from the peasant was subtle. A warlock he may be, but not a skilled one.

In Faucher’s experience it was the women, the witches, who had all the power. His own father had been a warlock. Not the man who had raised him as a son, but the man from whose wretched loins he had been begotten. A pitiful warlock at best, he had lacked any real power. His sire’s charms were not spells or potions at all, but mere bundles of random herbs to satisfy gullible peasants. Love potions that would not bring love, warding spells that would not repel an insect. Charms that would be no more likely to attract riches than a peasant would be to become king. As soon as he had become bishop, Faucher had wasted no time in hunting him down. His mother, the woman who had borne him… Cold seeped up his spine. Now there was a witch to fear. And to hate.

“This is Didier.” The comtesse held a cloth to her nose. “He was once a servant of the d’Louncrais. Now he is mine. And he would do well to remember he is still alive at my pleasure.”

The man lifted his head, flicking his lank hair off his face, a spark of defiance in his glazed eyes. Faucher recognized the man at once. How he had not known then, when they had first crossed paths, he could not surmise. Perhaps he had been all too consumed with the prize Didier had thrown at his feet. For this was the man who had brought him his daughter. A witch with two different colored eyes. Sold her to him. He remembered her well, and his elation at his apprehension of her. For it was not the first time he had encountered a woman with such eyes. His mother had them too.

* * * *

Remi paid the boy in coin, and the grubby little spy grinned and skipped off with a promise of more information. Remi hustled down the street. The thieves of Langeais had not been so well paid in all their lives. There was no help for it. He could not be caught hunting the streets for Didier, nor the warlock nor the witch. They would be sure to recognize him. He could not follow Faucher. Not if he wanted to keep his ears. And the comtesse… The chevaliers from House Allard were plentiful, and more and more of them were arriving every day. No one got near the comtesse without their say so. But Remi’s former companions were many, and invisible to anyone of the nobility. So Remi had put them to work. They would find a way.

He ducked into the pleasure house, skipping up the stairs. They had discovered Didier lived a few streets from the gate in one of the worst kept cottages in the village. The warlock was staying there too, though, according to Remi’s spies, he seemed none too pleased about it. No one had spotted the witch, but he had someone watching for her outside the cottage. The comtesse had visited Faucher in the chapel, but not for mass. Unusual. Aumônier Touissant and Archeveque Renaud had always gone to her, not the other way around. Remi would have given every coin in Aubert’s purse to know what the comtesse and the eveque discussed, but not a single beggar or thief had got beyond the nave. Faucher was more vigilant since he had caught Remi listening in on his conversation.

This morn, according to a beggar working the keep bailey, the comtesse had sent for Faucher. Interesting. What had changed?

He dodged a client straightening his tunic and breeches as he came down the hall toward him, smiled as he passed the girl draped in a robe standing in the open doorway next to his. At his door, he paused, checking the corridor. Empty. He unlocked it, swung it open and froze.

In a chair by the window sat the Comte de Anjou. Merde.

Remi eyed the four chevaliers standing guard beside the comte. He could outrun them. They were all weighed down by armor. He was not. But did Lothair have more of them hidden on the street ready to snatch him up should he try to escape?

“Uh, uh, uh.” The comte wagged his finger. “It is not worth your life to run. Come in. Take a seat.”

Remi swallowed. Was he about to lose more than his ears?

“Do you know what I do to thieves, boy?”

Remi’s knees shook. Oh, he knew. There was an old beggar minus a hand who worked the gate. He had once been a thief. Until a merchant had caught him and brought him before Lothair.

Remi’s mind worked furiously as he closed the door and edged his way to the chair opposite Lothair. What did the comte want with him?

“Sit.”

He sat on the chair.

“Wise choice.” Lothair motioned to the guards, and they filed out, closing the door behind them.

He was alone with the Comte de Anjou. A man who liked to kill those who disobeyed him in imaginative ways. Cutting off their heads and sticking them on a spike. A sword through the gut, the throat, or anywhere else one could stick a blade. Roasted to a crisp on a bonfire in the public square. Remi fidgeted with the collar of his tunic. A long drop from a short rope.

“You will tell me what you have learned—” He held up his hand as Remi went to protest. “Oh, I know all about you and your little army of spies. You will tell me what you have learned, and you will tell me all about the woman the Montagne twins rescued from the chapel. The one Faucher seems determined to find. Then you will take a message to Gaharet d’Louncrais. You will inform him Lance has been here. In my keep. Talking to my wife.”