Page 17

17

A PHEASANT MOMENT BETWEEN ENEMIES

T he scheme took hold in Léon’s mind so quickly and so thoroughly that he was occupied with it all the way back to Henry’s cabin in the woods.

It was sound.

Souveraine had taken some convincing, but she was on board, more or less.

Now, there was just the matter of talking to his brother’s kidnapper, the vile madman that he was, and convincing him to leave the plot in Léon’s hands.

The excitement he felt at the thought of freeing Catherine was unprecedented.

He hadn’t felt so elated since childhood.

Indeed, he had forgotten that feeling existed—locked it away long ago—and now, between that and the very large brandy, he found himself feeling almost a strange sort of ally to Henry.

He hated him, no doubt.

Would have loved to tell everyone what he’d done.

Would have loved to see him have his day in court, to see him convicted, and to have taken his head himself.

But the aim they both now shared softened that burning hatred just a little.

But what, Léon worried, trudging deeper into the moonless, midnight-black woods, would he find when he came back to the cabin?

He slowed his pace and thought how to announce himself.

He didn’t want to spook him, should he have the gun aimed at émile.

He would need to call out that he had returned, alone, and play himself off as no threat.

For, after all, he was not one.

Not anymore.

Léon took a deep breath, ready to pose as the compliant peacemaker—ready to use every skill of diplomacy he’d learned to survive—ready to look into the heart of darkness and smile placidly.

But then the light dawned on him.

A warm flicker of firelight some way off in the distance.

He quickened his pace and came upon a scene that was the last he would ever have expected.

By instinct, his eyes sought émile first. He sat on a log, a plate of food on his lap, lit by the bright and crackling fire, a wide smile on his face.

A laugh rippled out of him.

He picked up whatever he was eating and shoved some more in, heartily, staring fondly across at his captor, following whatever he was saying with staid attention.

And there, across from émile, pushing something about in the fire, was Henry.

His form was as irritatingly handsome as ever, the leather of his breeches stretching across his thighs with the movement, and his shoulders, relaxed, the work of his arm easy, and what little Léon could see of it from his vantage point, a smile that was convivial and…

Léon refused to call it kind or warm or sweet or any of the things he might have attributed to it were it any other person.

“I’m back,” he said coldly, revealing himself in the firelight.

“Léon!” émile was before him in an instant, arms wrapped around his waist, babbling about Henri this, Henri that, and every detail of the wonderful afternoon they’d supposedly had while Léon had endured one of the worst of his entire life.

Seeing his brother safe and happy kicked the support of panic from beneath Léon’s feet, and suddenly feeling utterly exhausted, he all but collapsed onto the log émile pulled him to, only to be assaulted with phrases like, ‘the most wonderful swim in the river,’ and, ‘he’s the very best at bird calls,’ and ‘lets me have all the cake I can eat,’ and “the most amazing hunter. He caught us the fattest partridge, only by?—”

“Now, hadn’t I sworn you to secrecy about that?” Finally, Henry’s deep voice cut into the childish whirlwind of adoration, and émile’s look was exactly that of a sneaky child who knew he’d done wrong, but who knew he was likely to get no real reprimand from his new favourite adult.

“It’s only Léon,” émile attempted.

Henry, who’d kept his eyes keen on his task in the fire, shook his head.

émile gave in with the slightest change in conversation, directed at Léon.

“Taste it.” He grabbed a handful of meat from his plate and shoved it in Léon’s face.

Léon pulled back, like any normal person who suddenly has something thrust almost up their nose, but with twice the ire because this was Henry’s food.

Yet it was also then that Léon became aware of the way his hands shook.

Not because of stress and fear and exhaustion, though it was partially because of all those things too, but it was primarily from hunger.

He hadn’t eaten a thing for a full day and night, nothing but that triple brandy, and his body was in revolt.

It smelled good, whatever they’d been eating, and his stomach begged for it with a loud growl.

But Léon only sat there, glowering into the firelight.

Henry stood, the tall and powerful length of him moving in opposition to the way he had the night before.

The slow stalk across the bar room floor was now replaced by a swift, almost nervous lightness.

Well, no wonder, Léon thought to himself.

He must have known how much Léon hated him.

But even if he did, he carried on, pulling his food from the fire, busying himself with whatever it was.

“Are you all right?” Léon asked his brother, quietly and seriously, now that Henry was hidden behind a flame and a crackle.

“I’m great,” émile said matter-of-factly.

Then he set off on another of his tales about how wonderful his kidnapper was.

Léon shushed him with a finger over his lips, his body turning in full towards émile, head dipping close in authoritative sympathy.

“We’ll be going home tomorrow. First thing. You sure you’re okay?”

émile’s face fell.

“I don’t want to go home.”

That hardly surprised Léon either, if half the things the boy was going on about were true.

It sounded like a marvellous day in the forest, running free and stuffed full of good food.

Nothing like his day to day in town, hungry and wretched.

The pink in émile’s cheeks, the boisterous spirit of him, drove a hot iron of guilt into Léon.

It was all the simple things he would have loved to give his brother.

Food and freedom. Not the dirty, grubbing life the pair of them had been condemned to.

Henry addressed him for the first time since he’d returned, and he did it softly, his voice submissive, in a way.

“We have extra.”

émile’s eager eyes watched the plate of food that Henry tapped down by Léon’s side.

The boy narrated, “It was the fattest partridge you’ve ever seen.”

“So you said,” Léon replied, ignoring both the food and Henry.

But then Henry required an answer.

“What did you find out?”

Léon glanced up, two sets of wary eyes meeting over the fire.

“She’s not to burn.”

A relieved almost-smile lightened Henry’s face.

His hands shifted to his hips, and he watched Léon, awaiting more.

But Léon could hardly go on, revealing the lot in front of émile.

Should he be caught, his aiding of a prisoner found out, émile would be questioned.

He had to make sure that émile knew nothing of the affair.

No more than he already did.

To that aim, he said to him, “It is past your bedtime.” émile looked, just as Léon did, towards the dark cabin.

Léon softened the idea with, “I’ll be staying here tonight. With you.”

He looked up at Henry, who nodded eagerly in agreement.

“I’ll be in shortly,” Léon finished.

But émile’s fingers were back in the tips of his hair, twisting.

“I want to stay with you.”

“émile…” Léon tried gently.

He needed to talk to Henry, urgently, but the sensation of those little fingers, the expectation on his brother’s face, and the great need he had to keep him close and safe all fought against his duty.

Henry seemed to understand, and in a parental voice that was both endearing and infuriating, he said to émile, “Lay your head down on Léon. We’ll wake you when we go in.”

“I’m not tired,” émile protested.

“Then what harm can it do?” Henry argued.

Begrudgingly following his lead, Léon said, “It’s that or the cabin,” and he patted his thigh.

émile looked askance at Léon’s leg, then, “Fine. But I won’t sleep. I’m not tired.” And he took the opportunity to cuddle up to Léon, who loosened his vest and dropped it over émile’s shoulders.

émile accepted the comfort, snuggling down, and Henry and Léon fell into a trained understanding of such situations, each trying to be as dull and quiet as possible, so as to lull the child off to sleep.

“Did you eat?” Henry asked softly.

Léon glared again at the plate of food.

“No.”

With a ruffle of his brow, “I’m sorry, I have no wine.”

“I don’t want wine,” Léon responded.

Barely.

“But we did get some water from the stream.”

Léon’s throat screamed for it.

He licked his parched lips.

He gave a slight nod.

Henry returned a small smile and fetched the water.

Léon didn’t look at him when he took it from his hand.

He drank the lot down fast, feeling his insides close over it, a sick crunch of his hungry stomach, cold and unpleasant, but it was desperately needed.

The cup was refilled the same instant, and Léon placed it aside on the grass by his feet.

Henry removed to a log opposite, and the two sat in silence.

Léon studied the flames licking and curling at the darkness.

It was cold that night.

But the fire went a long way to alleviating it, and it had a purpose until then, to cook their dinner.

Léon’s stomach groaned again at the thought of it, and émile opened his tired eyes to look up at him.

Despite his disgust with the situation, his stomach was not about to stop protesting if he did nothing, so Léon dutifully took up the plate and shoved the meat into his mouth.

It was nothing special.

There wasn’t even salt to add to the bird.

But the meat was as fresh as it came, and on Léon’s starving palate, it was delicious.

It took all his reserve of cold hatred to keep from wolfing the lot down in one go, but hate was something Léon had plenty of, and he chewed the pheasant slow, strand by strand, jaw tight, while he stared at the fire, waiting for émile to fall asleep before he would say another word to that man .