CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Darius had seen a lot in his years as a priest at Notre Dame, but he had never quite met a woman like Belle. She was unique in every way possible. The closest he had come was his Hanna, so many years ago. It was remarkable, really, how much they looked alike.

Her first-night claiming sanctuary within the church's walls when he'd watched her play her lyre, Darius thought he was seeing Hanna come home to him.

It had taken all of his restraint not to fall at her feet and beg for her forgiveness. The young woman was an incredibly hard worker. Darius had protested, insisting she was a guest and they could not possibly put her to work, but she'd insisted. Belle was, as she put it, not comfortable taking refuge in a House of God and not doing her part to help maintain it.

The morning after she'd arrived, Alice and Jeanne had entered the kitchens to find the brunette on her knees, giving the floors a much needed thorough scrubbing. The nuns hadn't known what to make of her at first. The Dupont woman was incredibly curious and a true delight to be around, with a vivid imagination and almost a childlike curiosity. It became clear to Darius and the sisters that the poor woman had a sheltered upbringing. Alice and Jeanne had taken an instant liking to the girl and had liked her immediately, which was rare for them. The two were a few of the toughest women in Paris.

They didn't put up with any horsing around and could see right through a lie and were quick to call people out on it.

Their sometimes colorful language filled the church's hallways, their personalities a delight to be around, despite their crude vocabulary and lewd suggestions when it came to men. Darius could only hope they'd spare Belle from the worst of their language. He could only pray for it. Whether or not they would, he didn't think so. The girl had been with them only a few days, and already, she'd formed a tight bond with the nuns, and with Darius.

Darius smiled to himself, the evening's scriptures in his hands as he made his morning rounds. He had some time before Lauds at dawn, so he decided to head for the kitchens to check with Alice, see how the Dupont girl was settling in and if there was anything that she needed to make her stay with them more comfortable. The priest had gone out of his way to ensure she had all the comforts Notre Dame could offer her while she stayed with them.

He wondered if Alice and Jeanne had corrupted her yet and what Belle would say about the pair of them. It was no secret that most within the cathedral walls thought the pair of sisters would be better off becoming madams in a brothel or bordello, but, for reasons that were a mystery, even to Darius, they had remained with the cathedral, content to do the Lord's work.

The priest grinned as he approached the kitchens, the sounds of the two sisters conversing loudly made him laugh.

Standing in the doorway, he silently watched the trio of women as they labored over making the church's bread for the week.

The scent of the bread as it baked filled his nostrils. The sisters were effortlessly pounding and proofing the dough. But Belle was delicately kneading and shaping the dough with a roller with careful, delicate hands, every move she made precise and elegant.

She concentrated as though she was crafting a work of art, a true masterpiece, and he could tell that she was. Belle either didn't notice or didn't care that she had a spot of flour on her cheek, or that a stray strand of brunette hair had escaped from underneath her brown headscarf. She looked tired and distracted, the circles underneath her eyes prominent and dark, as though she hadn't slept well. Darius frowned as he looked at her.

Turning his attention to the sisters, he caught Alice's eye and winked playfully. Alice and Jeanne were both in their early fifties and still quite beautiful. Despite his and the Archdeacon's protests, they staunchly refused to wear their coifs and habits, instead opting for plain brown habits that brought attention to their slender curves, causing more than a few interested glances from the male parishioners who were close to their age during the evening Mass and Vespers sessions.

Darius had long since given up on trying to get the two cousins to change their ways. Both women were tall and slender, with thin oval faces and high cheekbones, delicately shaped brows. Jeanne's hair was silver, long, thick, and luscious. Her hair fell past her breasts in natural waves and emphasized her thin face and mischievous green eyes. Jeanne had a strange glow about her this morning, making her look years younger.

Darius suppressed a snort as he watched her. If he had to guess, the sister had gone off the property with some man prior to starting her day's chores. He wouldn't put it past the woman to do something like that.

Alice was shorter than Jeanne, but only by a few inches. Her silver hair was wavy and fell to her shoulders in soft layers, showing off her kind blue eyes. Her face was pale and her cheekbones and neck elegant, like her. She was less ornery than Jeanne, but not by much. Despite their ways, Darius loved the pair of them. He loved their ability to make him laugh, no matter what. The two reminded him of his mother before she'd fled.

Father Darius de Barret watched as the young brunette politely excused herself, a strange, pallid look upon her features, the circles underneath her eyes darkening. The priest frowned and looked towards Alice, who offered a curt shake of her head and silently mouthed, "Later. Over wine. I promise."

He gave a curt nod of his head, signaling he understood and swiftly exited out of the kitchens towards the confessional. He could have sworn he'd saw a shadow enter the other side of the confessional booth but a moment ago.

Father Darius smiled to himself as he watched the young brunette lift her skirts just a bit to better climb the stairwell towards the north bell tower loft.

Darius knew the girl would go up to the tower. He'd seen it in her eyes before she'd even made up her mind. Upon entering the confessional and taking a seat, he found in his habit pockets his favorite chess piece, the white knight.

Turning it over in his hands a few times as he examined the chipped piece, he mused that life was in some ways, like a game of chess, a game of strategy, of risks and chances.

These two, my brother and Belle are about to have their own game if she goes up there and he apologizes like he ought to. Will they both come out victorious? Who's going to make the first move? God knows he won't. It's up to her. God only knows our bell ringer deserves a good life. Maybe this girl is the one for him. Only time will tell.

Darius frowned and sighed. It had been a trying life for the lonesome bell ringer.

The priest had hoped with Claude Frollo's death, of which he and Archdeacon Luc had pardoned him of any wrongdoing, that he would emerge from his shell and venture out into the world, but the exact opposite had happened. The man built a wall around his heart, refusing to let anyone in and get close to him. The priest smiled as his mind filled with visions of their new refuge, of Belle, his blue eyes twinkling with hope.

Perhaps it was a good thing this girl was here with them. She could talk to him and encourage him, perhaps.

God knew the boy deserved his own happiness. He'd suffered enough. Darius considered their bell ringer a younger brother when he'd had no other siblings or family in his life, and it pained him to see Quasi so full of self-hatred and loathing when he'd done nothing wrong. Frollo would have burned down the entire city of Paris and destroyed Notre Dame if it hadn't been for the King's intervention.

Darius could never admit it to anyone, but he was one of the few who firmly believed that sometimes there was no other alternative than to take a life if it meant saving the lives of thousands, even millions. He'd done it before, several times. He was something of an expert on the subject.

"Father Darius!" a man's voice on the other side of the confessional shouted, a little too loudly, jolting the priest out of his musings and back to the reality of the confessional. Darius jumped and fumbled his white knight chess, which clattered to the floor with a loud clang, louder than he would have liked. Damn.

He'd almost forgotten there was someone on the other side. "I'm sorry," he apologized, grateful whoever was on the other side could not see his embarrassment. "I apologize for my late arrival; I was preoccupied with another matter."

"I wish to make a confession, and it has been three weeks since my last," the man's voice said, quiet and slightly grating. It was a voice he did not recognize. The voice on the other side of the confessional was new.

Intrigued, his intuition told him something was wrong. "What is your sin, my son?"

"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, I wish to make a confession. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned."

"What is your sin?" he repeated, growing agitated. He didn't like the sound of this man's voice; he didn't trust it. Darius knew it was wrong to judge prematurely, but he couldn't help it. Whoever this man was, he could tell he was growing irate and recognized the hardened edges around his voice. The man's voice was smooth, silky, seductive, even.

"I have…" the stranger's voice hesitated as if he was unsure of how to phrase his confession. "I have lusted after a beautiful woman to whom I am not married. I—I want her, Father. I must have her. I cannot control my urges when I'm around her, the things she does to me, and it's unforgivable. I will make her mine and kill anyone who stands in my way, Father Darius. I—I can't help it."

Darius froze. The one thing he never tolerated well as abuse against a woman. "Who is this woman of whom you speak?" he demanded, swallowing hard to control his temper. The priest had a sinking feeling he knew, but he had to be sure.

"I believe she is here," the man replied, almost in a hiss like a serpent. "My sources in the streets told me they saw her enter this cathedral but just a few weeks ago. Where is she, Father?" he growled darkly. "I must see her. I need to speak to her. Her name is Belle; she's a brunette, recently widowed if the rumors are true, and a tiny little thing. Perhaps you've met her?"

Lord, grant me strength. Darius clutched the knight chess piece in his hand tightly. "She has claimed sanctuary here. You cannot touch her on Holy Ground, and you would incredibly foolish to try," he snarled through clenched teeth, his entire body shaking as he fought back the worst of his temper. "Leave right now."

The man laughed. There was a low growl to the man's tone that Darius didn't like. "Oh, but I can, for you see, I am a patient man, Father," he whispered menacingly. It became clear to Darius that this was not a confession at all, but a taunt. The man was taunting Darius. "Do be careful, Father Darius," he warned.

"You can't—" he started to say but was cut off.

"I'd hate for something to happen to her, or to her new…friend, the bell ringer," the voice spat, disgusted. "She will be mine, Father. I'll take her, no matter what I have to do. I'll kill anyone that stands in my way, including you. Try and stop me, or tell anyone we had this conversation, and you'll very much regret it."

"Why are you doing this?" Darius asked, fuming.

"Father, you were once the greatest warrior mankind had ever seen. You could have gone on to conquer entire continents, maybe even the world, and yet, here you sit, a priest," he spat, disgusted. "What are you doing with your life? Your talents are being wasted! You don't belong here. You could easily reach across this screen and kill me, yet I know you won't. You're weak! You don't have it in you to do what needs to be done. I will take Belle for my wife and kill anyone who gets in my way. You can't stop me, and you can't tell a single soul of our conversation, Father. You're bound by the rules of confession, remember," he sneered.

Darius decided right then and there that whoever this man was, he hated him. "If you even think about coming near her—"

"You can't do anything to stop me, Darius. If you do," he smirked, "Well, I'd hate to think what would happen to the poor girl or to you if you tell anyone," he replied coldly, his shadow covering Darius in darkness as he rose to leave. "Until next time. Father," he taunted.

Darius remained in the confessional, shaken, and at a loss. The bastard was right. By God, he's right. Belle was in serious trouble.

This man was threatening her life and had taunted Darius at being unable to do anything about it.

And he could tell no one.

An hour later follow his little game with the priest, Claude Frollo cautiously surveyed the still pretty nun over the rim of his goblet of wine in his study, where Sister Alice sat perched in the chair opposite him on the other side of his desk.

"You are quite certain of this, Sister? How can you be so sure?"

Oh, he was a bloody, blind and deaf fool to ask this question of the well-known nun when he himself felt as though he already knew the answer as to how it had happened, by the gods and seven hells below, he was going to kill his misshapen ward if this was true.

But now, with a welling sense of dread in his chest, he felt a wash of cold engulf his entire body as his mind struggled to process Alice Beaumont's words.

Claude felt the need for the nun's error on this matter, though she, being a woman and knowing of the signs, knew better than most, and Alice, timid and ever observant, coughed once to clear her throat and almost choked on her red wine.

"Belle, Your Honor, she came to me. You were there, do you not remember?" she added sardonically, quirking a thin graying brow the judge's way, who airily waved a hand in protest, as if to silently communicate, Yes, yes, get on with it.

"Yes, I was, but I was not there for the...initial examination," Claude growled. "You are the expert, Alice. What is ailing the girl?"

"At first," Alice began hesitantly, glancing down at her hands and twisting them painfully together, fiddling with her rosary, and shrinking into the brown monk's habit she'd stolen from Darius for warmth as much as possible, "I thought it to be a mere complaint of the stomach, but then she was asking me of strange bleeding she had been having over the last couple of days. I am…quite positive that this is what we believe it to be, Your Honor."

Judge Frollo pursed his lips into a thin rigid line and folded his arms across his chest. He felt his heart sink to the pit of his stomach. For how long, Sister?" he growled, clenching his jaw and grinding his teeth in anger.

He did not even realize his hand was shaking until his goblet trembled and a bit of wine splashed onto the surface of his mahogany desk. His scowl deepened, creating a groove near his mouth and lines on his otherwise smooth forehead as he dabbed at the spilled liquid with his handkerchief.

"Four days, Judge." The nun cast her gaze downward and began absent preening of nails that were already quite short, cut down to the quick, almost.

"But could it have not been her…her moon's blood?" the Judge asked desperately, a light pink blush speckling along his cheeks, grinding his teeth even harder in anguish. "Need I remind that should a single word of this conversation extend beyond these doors, Sister Alice, and I learn about it, you'll lose that tongue of yours that must be hung in the middle so it can wag at both ends, woman," he growled threateningly, lowering his voice an octave on purpose, pleased to see that his threat had the desired effect as he watched the nun's face pale as she gathered her gray hair into a loose bun and resumed picking at her nails to avoid looking him in the eyes.

"It won't," she answered simply, a hardened edge to her voice. "And for the record, Your Honor, I too asked of her that very question." Alice licked her lips to moisten them and swallowed, shrinking back against the rest of her chair as much as she could go as she watched with skittish eyes as the Judge leaned forward, almost conspiratorially in his own chair and regarded the nun with narrowed, beady eyes.

"And?" he growled, unable to keep the desperation out of his tone. He winced and sat back in his chair, keeping his fingers interlaced and woven together, fidgeting with one of his ruby rings he wore proudly on his right hand. "What did she say?"

"She believed and said to me that it was much too early for that, according to her count, Your Honor. I think you and I both know the answer. She is not lying to me."

Seven hells. I'll—I'll kill it. And I'll kill the boy. I'll do it. Kill them all…

Fuming, Claude felt himself emanate a tense exhale and sighed, wearily rubbing his temples with his thumb and forefinger, propping his elbows up on the desk. The Judge clenched his teeth and ground them in anger as fires of fury swept through his bloodstream, igniting a rage so hot at the thought of the accursed little wretch upstairs in his precious bell towers blatantly ignoring his orders to stay away from the Dupont widow and now…this.

By the gods, he was going to murder him.

It could not be so. There has to be some kind of mistake. The Judge blinked once to clear his throat and forced his attentions to return to Sister Alice, who was eyeing him quizzically in her chair, looking as though she were wishing nothing more than for the floor to open up beneath her chair and swallow her completely.

"Have you asked of Belle an illness? Perhaps it was something she ate or drank."

Sister Alice Beaumont made an odd little strangled noise at the back of her throat and had she not lowered her goblet of wine onto his desk at that moment, she would have undoubtedly spilled her drink all over her set of robes. "Yes, Your Grace."

For a moment, the briefest flickers of annoyance darted through Sister Alice's eyes, as though she was looking offended that the Judge would dare to question or doubt her years of experience. "She says there was naught but a light cramping on her stomach and then the bleeding, for four days, Belle told me."

Claude took in a sharp inhale of frigid air, balling his hands into claws and feeling his nails dig into the skin of his palm as he clenched and unclenched them, quite sure if he could not find a way to control his ire that he would strike out at her.

"This ah…this bleeding, you say, Sister, it happens how many days after…?" The Judge's blush deepened and he waved his arms about in circles, his black sleeves of his robes flailing with his movements as he struggled to formulate his thoughts, thinking it impossible how it was that he could have been struck dumb by the nun's revelation as to the girl's sickness of the stomach, though the thought of his wretched ward and the Dupont widow laying together was enough to inspire thoughts of rage and lust and an insatiable desire for bloodlust, to rid himself of Quasimodo's wickedness. He should have known.

A boy, already grown in body and mind, possessing the urges of every other simple-minded fool in Paris, the temptation of the Dupont woman's spell over him had simply been too great, and now…this. This.

Sister Alice's frown deepened, and a light ignited in her cobalt eyes as the nun was quick to comprehend the Judge's question. "A turn of the moon, Your Honor, or a fortnight, though…there is every possibility that your…suspicions are wrong. It could very well be that this is her husband's, not…his," she whispered, voice faint.

Judge Claude Frollo stifled a groan and rested his head in his hands. "Of course, Sister. I should not have doubted you. It will not happen again."

This time, he really did let out a moan of exasperation laced with anger and sheer disbelief at this troubling news. Out of all the problems that he was dealing with, this was by far, the most troublesome

Belle's case could not have fallen upon worse timing. The Judge clucked his tongue in disappointment and heaved a heavy sigh, hating that it had come to this.

"What have you said to her, Alice?" The Judge inquired of Sister Alice again.

"Nothing, Your Grace." Alice Beaumont dipped her head in acknowledgment, clasping her hands together. "I have only told the poor child to come back should the bleeding and her unfortunate sicknesses persist. She does not seem to be tolerating meat, much less most foods these days, if what she was telling me is true. It could be what we thought should be, or it could also be that the dear sweet thing is suffering from a different complaint of the stomach."

Claude sighed. "Have it that way. When she comes back to you, you do not dare breathe a single word. She does not need to know of this news, Alice. You hear me?"

Sister Alice blinked, feeling quite certain she had misheard.

"Sir? But…the girl, she…she needs more care, Your Honor. The first few months are the most crucial, you and I know this! You would truly see your own son's child perish?" she shouted, balling her hand into a first and bringing it down hard enough that the tin flagon of wine and a side cup of tea laced with honey to ease Belle's sickness tilted and spilled, causing both Claude and Alice to leap back to avoid the garish, sticky liquid from splattering onto their boots or their pristine clothing.

"I know what I said, Sister." Claude glared, even he could not hide the guilt that marred his pristine glistening gray eyes. "I do not think I need to repeat myself, Sister, do I not? You will breathe not a word of this to the girl, nor to my ward, lest you value keeping your tongue."

Sister Alice pursed her lips, and finally, reluctantly nodded, keeping her hands clasped in front of her on her lap,

"I will take my leave of you now." The Judge finally said, hearing the sigh of relief from the nun as the long brown habit she'd stolen from Darius made soft scratches the way she wobbled off the table behind which he had perched himself on top.

Alice watched with furrowed graying brows and a heavy scowl on her face, emanating a tense exhale through her nostrils and cocked her head to the side, gingerly closing the door of the chambers behind her and resting her back against the door's frame as Alice stared blankly after the spot where only moments before, the poor dear child had stood, practically in tears and distressed, wanting to know why she could keep nothing down and why she felt so queasy and sick in the mornings.

A look of exasperation in her eyes and on her face was paramount as her blue eyes widened with shock and surprise as she felt her hand reach for the tin flagon of wine, pouring what was left into a small chalice and raising the cup to her lips, throwing her head back and draining the goblet in one swift motion.

Sister Alice slammed the cup down on the small wooden side table and folded her arms across her chest and let out a heavy sigh, glancing over her shoulder.

"Well," Sister Alice said to no one in particular after a long silence, "That went even worse than I expected."