Page 45 of Wolf’s Return (The Wolves of Langeais #4)
The early rays of morn were turning the walls of Langeais a soft golden color as Didier guided the poor lathered horse from the gloom of the forest. Constance’s whole body ached—from sitting behind Didier on the horse, jolted by every stride, and from holding on tight, her arms clasped about his waist so she would not fall off.
Many a time on their journey through the night she had contemplated letting go, sliding off the back of the horse, but Constance had tended many a patient who had fallen from a horse.
Broken bones, a cracked skull. A fall at that pace could have been fatal.
Perhaps she would have a better chance of evading him in the streets of Langeais.
Didier—Constance could not bring herself to acknowledge the man as her father—dismounted at the gate, dragging her from the horse and into the village.
He handed the animal to a beggar boy with a few coins. “Take her to the stables.” He fisted his hand in the boy’s worn shirt, dragging him close. “Do not think of double crossing me, boy. I will hunt you down and you will regret the day you were born when I am through with you.”
The boy nodded, his eyes wide. “ Oui , Monsieur. I will take the horse to the stables, as you say.”
Didier let the boy go, cuffing him across the ear. “See that you do.” The boy hurried the horse away, and Didier hauled her along the street.
If she could get free, maybe she could lose him in the crowd. She struggled against his grip, but he was too strong. “Where are you taking me?”
Didier smirked. “I never imagined I had a daughter. But now I know I do, you are going to earn your keep.”
What did he mean by that?
As Didier weaved his way through the streets, Constance searched the people they passed—merchants, nobles, villagers—looking for a kind face, someone who might help her.
Madam Dufont, her little boy in tow, turned her head away as they walked past. A merchant, whose boils she had prepared a poultice for, refused to look at her.
The drunken blacksmith who had burned himself in his own forge, the girl from the pleasure house with the unwanted pregnancy—all these people she had helped, and none of them would come to her aid.
Constance was on her own. She eyed the dagger strapped to Didier’s leg. Unlike Kathryn, she had not the skill to brandish it like a sword, but Erin was right. She was a powerful witch. She was not without a weapon. All she needed was a drop of her own blood.
She would have to be careful. Cries of witchcraft in the Langeais village would attract the comte. And Didier knew what she was and what she was capable of. She would need to distract him.
“You say you are my father. How can you be certain?” She edged closer as he tugged her along, keeping her hand low. “My mother never mentioned you.”
Didier shoved his lank hair out of his eyes. “Just like Helene, always asking questions, demanding answers. You women never learn when to hold your tongue.”
Constance swallowed but pushed on as they entered the busy square.
“You said I have your mother’s eyes. Is she still alive?
Is she a healer, too?” A man jostled her shoulder and her fingers brushed the sheath.
If she could grasp the hilt, she need not draw the full blade.
A nick of her skin was all she required.
“Healer?” Didier snorted, dragging her close. “My mother is a witch to the core.”
She grasped the hilt and tugged. The blade slid up, but before she could nick herself, he stepped back. She eyed the crowd, waiting for the moment she would have reason to bump into him, get close again. “I would like to meet her. I have never met another like me.”
“You think you are stronger than Helene, girl? That you would be a match for your grand-mére ?” Didier barked out a laugh. “Meeting my mother was enough to make Helene flee.”
Villagers gathered around a market stall of fabrics. If she could…
“Once boiled a man alive because he crossed her, she did.”
Constance gasped. Nausea swirled in her gut and Constance shivered. “Cordelia?” Could it be…? No. Tumas had been but a boy when the witch Cordelia had boiled the blood of farmer Brun.
“Heard about that, did you? About her? From grouchy old man Tumas?”
“It cannot be the same Cordelia. It is not possible.”
Didier snorted. “Anything is possible if you have the knowledge. Time itself is no barrier.”
Time is no barrier?
A group of women stepped back from the merchant’s wares, bumping into them, pushing Constance into Didier. She grabbed for the dagger, heedless of doing serious injury, but a large hand slapped over hers.
“Uh, uh, ah.” Didier squeezed her fingers tight, forcing her to release the hilt. “Do not try that again, daughter. Behave, or I will truss you up like a pig for roasting.”
Constance wrenched her hand free and clutched it to her chest, her fingers smarting.
“Eveque Faucher will not care how he receives you, only that you are alive.”
Eveque Faucher? The one Seigneur Gaharet spoke of?
The betrayal burned a path down her throat and settled heavy in her chest. All her life, she had longed to know who her sire was.
To have him in her life and live like a normal family, as everyone in every village she had lived did.
But Didier was not who she had envisioned him to be.
Small wonder her mother had kept Constance’s existence a secret.
They left the square, following the main road up to the keep and the chapel. Constance struggled harder. Didier released his grip on her arm, but before she could run, he had dipped at the knees and flung her over his shoulder.
“No.”
He carried her, kicking and screaming, through the village, past the gate guards and up to the chapel. Not one soul came to her aid.
In the quiet chapel, her shrieks echoed.
Running footsteps pounded toward them. “What is the meaning of this? What are you doing with that woman? Put her down.”
Didier dumped her unceremoniously on the chapel floor, and pain shot through her hip. She tried to scramble away, but he grabbed a fistful of her hair.
“Unhand her.”
Tears smarted in her eyes and Constance glanced up at her champion. The aum?nier.
Another set of footsteps, brisk and purposeful, strode out of the sacristy and across the nave. “Aum?nier Touissant, what is the cause of all this noise?”
Constance’s blood froze. An angel-faced priest rushed toward them.
“They say you are a witch hunter,” said Didier. “I have brought you a witch.”
A witch hunter? The Fates protect her.
“What proof do you have this woman is a witch?” asked Aum?nier Touissant. He turned to the witch hunter. “This may be but a man who wishes to rid himself of a wife. Or she has refused his advances.”
“She is my daughter, and I say she is a witch.” Didier wrenched Constance’s head back, forcing her to look up at the men. “Look at her eyes.”
Aum?nier Touissant frowned. “You would condemn a woman because she has eyes of different colors?”
The witch hunter pulled her from Didier’s grasp. “To the storerooms with you, witch.”
Didier grabbed hold of her arm. “Not so fast. A witch of this caliber is valuable.” He held out a hand. “Payment is required before I release her into your…care.”
The aum?nier recoiled. “You would hand over your daughter as a witch for coin?”
Didier shrugged. “Duty to the community, to the church, is all very fine, Aum?nier”—he rubbed his fingers together—“but coin is far more useful.”
“Pay him,” commanded the witch hunter. “Two livre .”
“Four,” countered Didier.
“Three livre . No more.”
Didier released her and the witch hunter dragged her to her feet and propelled her further into the chapel. Constance sought the aum?nier, pleading with her eyes.
“Eveque Faucher.” The aum?nier chased after them. “I do not think—”
“You know naught of these matters, Touissant. Two different colored eyes is a sign she has the second sight. She is a witch, there is no doubt. Now pay the man.”
The witch hunter pushed her through the door of the sacristy. The aum?nier, wringing his hands, did not follow.
Constance’s heartbeat wildly in her chest. “Please, please. I am not a witch. That man lies.”
The witch hunter ignored her, dragging her down a set of stairs.
“He says he is my father. I only met him last eve. When he snatched me from the keep and took me into the forest.”
He opened a door and dragged her into a dark and dank room. “Be that as it may, I know a witch when I see one.”
From a hook on the wall, barely visible in the flickering light from the oil lamps in the corridor, he took a loop of rope and bound her wrists together.
He shoved her to her knees. “Say your prayers, witch. Perhaps God may see fit to forgive your black heart.”
“Please. I am begging you. Please believe me. I am not a witch. Ask Seigneur Gaharet d’Louncrais. He will vouch for me.”
“D’Louncrais?” The witch hunter smiled. “Little witch, you have just sealed your fate.” He turned on his heel and left the room, slamming the door behind him.
A scrape of wood and a thunk echoed in the darkness as he barred the door.
Constance slumped to the floor. Of the two visions of herself yet to prove true, it was this one that would come to pass.