A/N: Thank you for the reviews! : ) Here's more….
III
.
"Be vigilant, Mistress!"
Shocked out of her fixed attention on the distant tower, Christine swung her gaze back around to where she steered the handheld cart, halting abruptly as three of the king's musketeers darted to the side of the road so as not to be mown down by her carelessness.
"Oh – pardon, messieurs," she blurted in embarrassment. "I was not watching where I was going."
"Clearly. You should take more care and not be wool-gathering while walking about the city streets - and mayhap, keep your eyes in the direction in which you are traveling?" the tallest soldier stated with an authoritative tone mingled in mockery as he whisked one hand over his cape where the cart had brushed the costly blue wool. Standing in between his comrades he had been in the greatest danger of being her unintentional target.
"Christine."
Surprised to hear her name, she brought her startled attention to what was clearly the youngest and the shortest of the three, no more than two or three years older than herself. Despite the faint stripe of a goatee on his chin and the hair gracing the area above his upper lip, his face still appeared that of a youth's. Fair curls brushed his narrow shoulders beneath the plumed hat. Blue eyes the color of his cape studied her face and then the cart she held.
Raoul de Chagny, the youngest son of the Comte.
"My lord," she breathed in wary surprise. "I did not see you."
Both his superiors gave muted snorts of amusement, and his pale skin flushed a shade darker.
"I mean – I did not recognize you. I had no idea that you were one of the king's men."
"Yes, I took up the position a fortnight ago," he stated a bit gruffly and glanced at the other two musketeers who looked on with curious interest. "If you would mind giving us a moment?"
The huskier one rolled his eyes. "But of course, monsieur!" He retreated backward a few steps, lifting his hands near his sides, palms upraised. "Take all the time you need. It is not like we are about, doing the king's business."
Raoul flushed even more at the careless jibe.
"Oh, give the lad his due, Mortimer," the taller man said to his jest, eyeing Christine curly head to linen-bound toe. "A few more minutes will not go amiss."
Amid shared laughter, the pair sauntered off, leaving Christine in the nobleman's company. She stood awkwardly and shuffled her feet, her grip on the handles tightening as she wondered what he would say to her, apprehensive to hear it...
He glanced down at the empty crates in her cart and cleared his throat.
"You have been delivering sacks of flour to the Bastille again?"
She did not miss the mild disapproval in his tone.
"Not flour – bread," she said before she could stop herself. At his arched brows, she hastened to add, "I bake the loaves for the kitchen guard my lord. He gives more coins when I do, but I only do so that we might have the income to pay taxes to your father and to the king."
At her fumbled reply, he shook his head as if it was of no account and no longer of interest to him. "Due to my new status you need not address me by title when I am in uniform. It can be awkward around the men."
Christine nodded, having witnessed the ribbing he was subject to, idly curious if it was a customary habit. As the youngest son, he wasn't in line to inherit his father's estate or his title, which would go to Phillipe, his elder brother. And so, as many younger sons of the upper classes did, Raoul evidently had assumed the position as a soldier of rank for the king.
"As for taxes due, I have told you there is a manner by which we can forget what is owed, Christine. If you would only agree to meet with me tonight, at our place near the river …"
"No, my lord - monsieur," she swiftly corrected. "I cannot do what you ask."
He frowned. "Is my company so undesirable? There was a time when you did not make excuses to keep time with me."
"It is not your company, I fear, but what you would expect of me should I agree to it."
The time to which he referred was in their childhood, and the number of instances they had come upon each other at the riverbank were few. He had been a different person then, a boy of ten and she a girl of six. While she had collected colorful flowers to weave into wreaths in what he referred to as 'their place,' he had told stories of derring-do and caught frogs and minnows with his bare hands.
Now his leather-encased hand settled on the hilt of his rapier hanging at his side in a rakishly familiar yet affronted manner. "I am no scoundrel, Christine. I would never force myself upon you, if you should be so disinclined. However, I have been told that I am not without certain...merits. You might find yourself pleasantly surprised."
Her cheeks flamed with his arrogance and candid words, but she gave no response to his brash invitation. Papa often warned Christine to keep her distance and not invite unwanted attention, especially from the king's musketeers. Certainly the danger was magnified in that Raoul was now not only one of their number but also the son of the Comte, their feudal lord. And, unfortunately in this last year, Raoul made his interest in her blatantly known.
Christine was not so naïve to understand that for a man of his high standing the subject of marriage would never be introduced to a lowly born maiden such as herself. No, she was certain his interest stemmed only in getting her into his bed, as another conquest to be had.
Handsome he was, most assuredly. A charming chevalier. But she was not some trifle to be taken for his pleasure then cast aside once the craving no longer appealed, so that he might seek other delights. She had heard of his reputation with the ladies.
Christine looked away from his intense blue stare and down at her empty cart. "Forgive me, monsieur, I must go. My father is expecting me and I do not wish to cause him concern."
"He is well, I presume?"
"Yes, he is well."
His tone came less gruff, kinder, but Christine did not dare tell him the true state of things. She was fearful that if he learned that the labor was becoming more difficult for her papa with the passage of each new day, they would soon find themselves without a home. Seized from the weak and given to the strong – to a man who could better manage the mill and pay on time the frequent and ever-increasing taxes the king's law demanded.
"Should you change your mind the offer is always open, mademoiselle. I have found the river by moonlight to be quite the inspiration. Bonne journée." His eyes sparkled with hidden meaning as he gave a slight tug to the brim of his plumed hat in courteous farewell.
xXx
The one they called the Beast of Nullus stood on a bench to look into the distance through the bars of his high window and wondered if the speck of color in the brown dress pushing a cart could be the girl who'd knelt on the paving stones to give him bread. By their plumed hats and white crosses on the back of their short blue capes, three of the king's men spoke to her. Two had left, a short distance away. One remained, at last tipping his hat to her and joining the others while the woman continued on her way.
It was not difficult to understand the musketeer's interest...
Never had he seen a woman so close. Only a distant memory of a lady in black blurred into the fringes of his mind, the suggestion of a childhood he could not fully recollect. Women to him had always been specks of varied color that floated on the streets below in long billowy gowns of rainbow hues or skirts of earthen colors…
Until moments ago, when he stared into wide eyes of deep liquid brown rimmed with feathery black lashes. He had been stunned by their beauty, by her closeness, though the wariness that had become an integral part of him, brought about by violence and treachery, remained intact. He had been brusque with her, even cruel in grabbing her ankle, not knowing how else to respond to this strange turn of events. Always a guard delivered his meals through the bottom opening of the door. Never, in all the years that he dwelled inside this chamber in his solitude had that changed.
Until today.
Only after the girl left did he recall the slip of paper found in his bread loaf weeks ago, instructing him that danger was afoot and to be prepared and watchful for a sudden change to occur -
The signal that he must flee.
Damned if he would wait to see what peril was to advance upon him. Why such a message would be smuggled in to him presented a mystery that aroused suspicion, and by whom, but he was not so foolish as to ignore its counsel.
He had spent weeks in preparation – months before receiving the warning. In truth, years….
Confident that his solitude would not be disrupted at this time of day, he worked to remove the heavy mask of iron, as he often did when he knew he would not be discovered. He had spent a multitude of hours figuring out the network of thin chains held together by the small lock in back, working the tumblers loose with a slender hooked rod of metal he crafted. It had been a painstaking task, but necessary to ease the ache the weighty iron caused to his head.
The guards were ordered to leave the majority of prisoners alone, never to look upon their faces. He had heard the order given with regard to his own fate on the night he was concealed in a closed carriage and brought to this chill tomb of stone – and most of them did avoid his cell in the tower. Only one of those fiends considered himself far superior beyond obedience to that rule and, on occasion, dismissed it to employ his own method of commandeering subservience.
Yet upon whipping 'the Beast', that guard never looked close enough at the monster's head to realize the iron mask, hastily donned upon hearing heavy footsteps approach, had previously been loosened. His attention had been focused solely to his pale torso, stripped bare, so as to issue the bloody stripes upon his back and wherever else the lashes may happen to land…
Now the Beast cast the mask aside one final time, grimacing as he dropped the heavy covering to the stones and it made a dull clang. He knew part of what the mask hid, having once made the mistake of looking into a bowl of rainwater and witnessing his horrible visage. It was then he fully reckoned apropos the callous term of 'Beast' given him. Beneath the iron, unbeknownst to his jailers, he had worn for comfort a scrap of black silk fashioned into a mask that fitted closely to his features. It would help him now, to hide in darkness as well as to act as a concealment of his disfigured countenance.
Ensuring the silk was securely tied at the back, he went to a shelf of books once brought him by the stranger who used to visit twice a year, the one man who had, in fact, given him all of what little he possessed. The only man ever to show a morsel of kindness since the time he'd been brought here as a small boy. It had been in his carriage that the Beast had ridden.
Withdrawing the crude knife of sharp slate made years ago, the Beast sawed against the deep crease he'd made in the window's metal bar, the last of three he had slaved over for nights upon nights. While he worked, he hummed loudly to cover the rasping noise, giving a start of surprise at the sudden give of the knife.
Finally!
Vicious in his impatience, he knocked into the three fractured rods of iron with the flat of his palm, forcing them away as well as a chunk of rock that crumbled from the wall with the damage made.
He looked with satisfaction at the narrow opening and at the various articles of cloth tied end to end that would aid him at least a third of the way down the tower.
His frame was nearly skeletal but strong. The hole made would be a tight fit but one he could accomplish once night fell over the land. It was the lengthy descent into black waters that ringed the prison fortress far below that made him hesitate. Even with the makeshift rope it was a long fall. As a boy, he recalled swimming in a deep pond and believed he remembered enough of thrashing with his arms and legs that he would not drown …
That is, if the drop did not kill him first.
xXx
"Papa, are you not feeling well?"
"I am alright. There is no need for concern, daughter." He coughed again into his kerchief and quickly closed it in one hand.
Christine pretended she had not seen the blood that spotted the linen scrap, and he made no mention of its presence, quickly dabbing at his mouth then tucking the cloth back into his sleeve.
"I am leaving to collect some watercress," she announced her sudden decision, grabbing a basket near the hearth. The herb both ground into a tea and made into a poultice would help her father with whatever ailed him. By his crass words spoken of the man when the subject was introduced, her father had no faith in the local physician to contact him. But at least he did allow his daughter to give him aid when he needed it.
"Night has fallen," he countered with a frown.
"I will take a lantern." She smiled brightly, struggling not to show her alarm for him.
He grumbled something unintelligible and she lit a taper from the flames of the hearth and set it to a short wick inside the milky glass container. Once the lamp filled with golden light, she quickly fastened its small hinged door.
"This is not the first evening I have gathered herbs by moonlight, Papa."
He shook his head slowly in clear disapproval though he did not forbid her.
"Be careful, ma fille."
"I am always careful." Christine grabbed the dagger she used for cutting plants and placed it at the bottom of the shallow basket. "I do not fear the animals of the wild," she stated with more conviction than she felt. "It is rare that they draw near."
"It is not the four-footed variety of beast to which I refer."
The words brought back Raoul's scandalous invitation for an intimate tête-à-tête, though thankfully the locale to which he tried to coax her was nearer to the palatial home of the de Chagnys and not to be found on this part of the river. There was little chance she would run into him, if he should be out for an evening stroll.
She managed a smile. "I will be careful, Papa, I promise."
"Take no unnecessary risks. Return soon."
She nodded at his expected admonitions and let herself out the door, glancing briefly toward the huge water wheel in a perpetual state of slow and steady motion, before taking the well-trodden path down to the wide strip of river that ran behind their cozy little cottage. The final vestiges of twilight washed the area in the darkest of violet, but with the aid of her lantern obscure silhouettes attained color and she could easily see her goal growing at the water's edge.
Kneeling to the ground, Christine busily set to work, using her dagger to cut the hardy plants that grew in profusion in this area. Moonlight cut a swathe along the black water, well cloaked by tall trees on both sides of the bank, the muted sounds of night's approach calming and peaceful. She cut the slender roots, humming softly into the silence, words soon taking form until a beloved hymn spilled from her lips.
After some time of this, she had just pulled up a thick bunch of cut leaves and laid them in the nearly overflowing basket, when a strong disturbance rippled the slow moving water a few feet from her, startling her attention that way. Her grip on the dagger tightened, though surely it was nothing more than a school of fish swimming near the surface or perhaps a snake…
In the next instant something burst up from the water spraying her with icy-cold droplets
No fish this! Nor a snake – but a man's form - and seemingly without a face! And then - a pair of golden eyes glowed fiercely at her from the thick darkness, caught by the light of her lamp.
Christine gasped in stunned terror, a scream strangled in her throat, as she rocked backward on her heels then struggled to stand, her grip on the dagger frantic.
The river intruder coughed and spluttered, inhaling great gulps of the cool night air. He struggled to find his footing and stood waist deep in the water. A white linen shirt was plastered to a lean masculine body, but to her horror his face still seemed absent, until the eyes opened and again shimmered in gold.
"What are you…?" she barely spoke.
He remained motionless, staring at her a long moment while she stood and held the dagger outstretched in trembling hands with the blade pointed in his direction. Sluggishly he moved – away from her and further down the bank.
Christine nervously watched his slow progress, aware that once the moonlight hit him, it silhouetted the outline of his head. She noted with a measure of relief that the creature was indeed human – no water demon of lore that certainly did not exist. This was mingled with a greater apprehension to realize why his face appeared to blend into the night - a black cloth had been tied around his head, entirely shielding his features.
Why should he need such a disguise, any disguise, unless his reason for being here was one of treachery?
She wondered what she should do when another thought hit with force: Never had she seen eyes of that color, save for once, hours ago…
At the sudden knowledge, she studied him more intently while he waded through the water with some difficulty and toward dry land. It was then she saw the splotch of darkness on his shirt near his side and understood the cause for it.
"You are wounded..."
He gave her no heed.
Cautiously she approached, her defensive pose with the dagger unwavering as he reached dry land. Wearily he fell to sit down, drawing long legs up and resting his arms on his knees, his linen-bound head bowed.
"You were at the prison," she blurted her suspicion. "The one with the angel's voice."
At her awed, anxious words that did not pose a question, he turned his head sharply to look at her, head to toe, as intensely as she studied him. If he did not recognize her face in the dim yellow light of her lantern, by her words he would surely know that she was the one to bring him bread.
His attention settled on the point of her dagger before dropping away as he turned to look back out over the dark river.
"I mean you no harm," he said at last, and though his voice came low and strained, she heard the beauty inside it. Indeed, it was the same voice of hours ago. "I need only a moment's rest and will be on my way."
"Did you escape?"
At the sudden brand of his fiery eyes upon her, she regretted her curiosity to always know more and her impulsiveness to question.
His eyes were fierce as he pushed himself up from the ground. She took a swift step backward, moving the dagger a little higher at chest level. Yet the river intruder did not draw near to attack, instead completely ignoring her, set on his course to leave as he moved in the opposite direction.
Suddenly he doubled over, falling to his hands and knees.
Her next course of action was most certainly foolish, but Christine took no time to consider as she dropped her hand with the dagger to her side and rushed to kneel beside him.
"You are wounded," she repeated. "Bleeding…" She looked at the white linen shirt plastered to his skin and the watery dark smear that covered much of his side. "I can help, if you will allow it."
Tentatively she lifted a hand toward his shoulder and was surprised by his abrupt recoil before she could touch it. He seemed more wary of her than she was of him – and in that knowledge, Christine laid down her weapon on the ground beside her.
"I have no wish to do you harm. I swear it." She held her hands, palm up, so he could see they were empty. "I have knowledge with herbs, to heal. I was picking watercress for that purpose." She motioned to the basket she'd left behind with the lantern.
He looked utterly exhausted, barely able to keep his head raised, and she made another impulsive decision.
"The cottage where I live with my father isn't far from here. Come with me, and I will tend your wound."
This brought his unique eyes back to hers. "Why would you do that? You do not know me. For all you know, I could be a murderer."
A shiver of apprehension tingled down her spine. "Are you?"
A tense heartbeat then –
"No."
She pensively nodded, realizing he could be lying and she would never know the truth.
"Come then. Warm yourself by our fire, and I will help you."
Uncertain and still more than a bit anxious, she slightly pulled at her lower lip with her teeth and stood to her feet. Perhaps this could be counted as yet another foolish act this day, even reckless, but she did not reconsider her words. Nor did she retrieve them.
He craned his head to look up at her. It was unsettling to see nothing more than golden eyes within the black shimmer of cloth and the dimmest outline of his mouth through a third hole cut in what looked like silk. Did he wear the covering as a disguise so he wouldn't be seen? That must be his reason… though that did not explain why he had worn a mask of iron inside the solitude of his cell, where no disguise was needed...
"Your father," he said at last, his voice rich and deep even when weary. "Will he not send for the soldiers?"
She shook her head. "No, he wouldn't do that. He has a kind heart and would do the same if he were here, in my place."
When he did not respond, she continued, "I can return home and you can be your own way, if that is what you truly wish. But from what I can see of that wound you will not make it far." She hesitated with what more to say to convince him. "I think, in this, we must trust each other, monsieur. I have sworn not to harm you, and I trust your word that you will do the same with me..."
It was inconceivable – only moments ago Christine threatened any advance he might have made with a dagger outstretched in both hands. Now she held out one of those hands in invitation to encourage him to come and sit by her hearth.
Was it any wonder he hesitated?
She did not anticipate her father's reaction. He would never deny aid, of that she was certain. But she knew enough to expect cross words with regard to her lack of prudence once they were out of the stranger's hearing...
The fact remained, he was mortal and he was hurt. Had she never heard him sing and what sounded like a hymn at that, she might not have been so quick to offer him aid. Yet surely someone with so angelic a voice could not possess a soul that was purely evil.
She had heard it said that many a prisoner was locked inside the Bastille at the whim of the king for something as minor as an insult or even a difference of opinion, considered treasonous, since he considered himself like God or a god unto himself. She hoped that so trifling a crime was the case with this man and half convinced herself that he had been imprisoned unjustly. Perhaps even put there by parents who wanted to set their wayward son on a righteous course.
Despite his bizarre appearance, he did not seem a threat. Her initial fear at his abrupt entrance had mostly dissolved, to see him so injured.
To her consternation, again he attempted to rise, this time with one hand plastered to his bloody side. He gasped, though shakily made it to his knees.
Without a word, Christine retraced her steps to retrieve her lantern and basket of watercress then returned to stand in front of him. After a moment's hesitation, she offered her hand to help him the rest of the way up. Once more he ignored her.
Bending instead to retrieve her dagger, she laid it in the basket hooked over her arm then again picked up the lantern. She waited, watching as with clear effort he at last stood to his feet.
Her eyes went wide to see him straighten and stand tall, taller than her by a head at least. His shoulders were broad but he was bone thin, the clothes plastered to his body revealing that sad truth. He swayed a little on his feet, yet this time she did not put out her free hand to help him. Nor did he ask for assistance.
"Will you come with me?" she inquired softly.
He hesitated a long moment, then finally nodded.
xXx
A/N: Hope you enjoyed their second meeting. And now that the groundwork is laid, let the games begin. ;-) Thank you for the reviews!
Next up more of Through Bonds Immortal...
