Chapter Sixteen: Winter, Moves and Countermoves
Loyalty and Honor were sociopolitical minefields, Addison hadn't been prepared to navigate when she'd first departed from Sept-Tours. But once she saw these dynamics for what they were, she realized they had been haunting her like a shadow since the moment she fell face first in the dirt all those years ago when she became Malvina.
Philippe was the head of the de Clermont family. He was the most powerful man in the western world, if not the entire world over. He was the Grand Master of the Knights Templar, as well as the far more secretive Knights of Lazarus. Fernando Goncalves was a wealthy landowner and warrior, and he was her father. Philippe had command of the men. He had authority over her as any grand master would over their knight, even if that knight was a reluctant 20-year-old female with no fighting abilities whatsoever. But Fernando had promised to be her blade if she would promise her fealty to the cause. Fernando would go to war in her stead, in exchange for Philippe's protection of his daughter. It was a careful balance of authority, father versus commander. The man who shaped the world, versus the man who would stubbornly do everything in his power to make sure his child didn't get swept up in the maelstrom too.
Then there was Gallowglass.
He was good at flying under the radar. Addison had known this for about as long as she'd loved him. He was quick to accommodate you, and easy with his humor. Quick to offer a friendly grin, or a hand up out of the dirt when you needed him to. And while it spoke to something at the core of him, that Addison loved quite fiercely. It could no longer hide the truth.
Eric was sharp as a double-edged blade. He was slow to temper, but quick to act when he saw the need for it. He outranked her own father in all but one thing, and that thing was her.
Addison couldn't quite fathom how she had become the nexus for a cold war on the authority of these men, but she had, and it rankled.
Every single one of them.
Balder who was a Knight of Lazarus, Eric's friend, and her guard, had layers and layers of boundaries and creeds that constantly contradicted each other, and Addison couldn't process how he kept track without giving up and just leaving.
Matthew de Clermont, the prince without power. The black sheep of the family with his own demons to overcome, was caught between loyalty to people he didn't fully trust, occasionally loved, and held the secrets of, and a friend that frankly Addison couldn't get a read on.
Domenico Michele had to be someone important. Addison didn't know his story though. He acted separately of the de Clermont family in almost a callous, antagonistic manner. As though he enjoyed playing games with their complex power structure. He deferred to Philippe, and Eric often regarded him as though he were a stain. But Addison wasn't fooled by the way he sauntered into any room practically unhindered. She didn't take lightly his friendship with Matthew either.
Matthew de Clermont would not take a friend that was not advantageous to him.
She knew that without really knowing Matthew, because she knew the ways the people in this family moved. Nothing was without purpose. Nothing without a deeper meaning or motive. All day, every day, for all of eternity, their lives were composed of moves and countermoves.
Baldwin who commanded the men but not his brothers. Godfrey who wrote the laws that Matthew didn't seem to adhere to. Hugh who defied his father's authority but kept the rights to the crown. Domenico who took breathtaking liberties with her and lived to tell the tale. Philippe who bowed to creature law, but as a grand master held no such qualms about creature politics and the affairs of man.
She'd never completed her lessons in politics and creature dynamics, but she'd learned enough to know that exceptions were being made for some of them more so than others.
But they were always checking each other, correcting each other, asserting their authority and then pulling back in a careful game that was bound to one day spiral out of control. It was exhausting to watch and even more exhausting to try and wrap her head around.
Looking back, Addison would be able to say quite clearly that the events that would follow were entirely the fault of honor, loyalty, and an excess of unchecked testosterone.
There was a reason wolf packs only had one alpha male.
And the vampire world had gone and created a whole goddamn bureaucracy around the authority and deference shown by and to different alpha males all at one time in quick succession.
It was absurd really to expect everything to play out without flaw. It was like they were tempting fate.
A built-in kill switch for overpowerful male vampires – themselves.
Unfortunately for Addison, humans were usually the collateral in vampire territory brawls. Unfortunately for Addison, this rang true for women in the world of men just as often, if not more.
She had been doubly screwed from the start.
She just hadn't known it yet.
Unbeknownst to Fernanda, the evening after she had witnessed what she had in the woods, Eric decided he'd had enough.
He waited until darkness fell, and his mate had drifted off to her tent. Balder had taken up a perch outside the entrance of her tent, and her father and Jacqueline had gathered not too far from there to discuss the next and most perilous leg of the journey.
They would cross the pass on the morrow, around midday. It was the narrowest point between three hotly contested territories and the reason Philippe had journeyed with them this far. Baldwin, Godfrey, and Eric could more than handle their own.
But with Eric's mate present. There was an undeniable vulnerability in a potential clash with Gerbert and his men. Philippe was a failsafe. For as critical as he had been of the situation with Fernanda, the de Clermont family was still a pack, and as unwanted as either Gonçalves was by his grandparents, they were not to be trifled with by the likes of another clan.
Domenico Michele was laughing with Matthew and a handful of Philippe's men when Eric strolled up.
Philippe's men quieted at the look on the young de Clermont's face, and Matthew's eyes flickered with confusion. He glanced between his nephew and Domenico who Eric regarded with disapproval.
Domenico fell quiet and slowly turned to regard the younger man where he stood over his shoulder.
"My lord," the venetian intoned smoothly.
The fire snapped at the center of the small group.
"A word," Eric said. It wasn't a request.
Philippe's men were silent as the grave now, and Matthew was staring hard at his friend, blank expression set firmly in place, but Eric could see the confusion. His uncle didn't know.
Domenico sighed and rose without protest.
He brushed past Eric, and Eric raised his chin, eyeing the shorter man as he led the way out of camp at Eric's behest.
As Eric turned to follow, he could feel the collective gazes of his grandfather, uncles and stepfather all wondering what on earth had transpired, and why they had not been informed.
But Eric didn't feel like calling counsel with his meddlesome elders. Domenico had threatened his mate. He had overstepped once again. And Eric tired of his behavior.
Eric didn't fight men who didn't fight back. But he still grabbed the little rat by his throat and hauled him up against a tree. Domenico gagged and then chuckled.
"You hunted my mate."
Eric's words plunged into the darkness of the woods, like a heavy stone sunk beneath the smooth surface of water.
"I hunted a rabbit—"
Eric growled and pressed the venetian back against the bark of the tree. There was a crunch and crumbled dust of wood fell down around Domenico's feet. Eric flexed his hand, and the venetian reflexively brought a hand up to wrap around Eric's wrist.
Still, he didn't fight back.
Dark brown eyes glinted up at Eric and a grin fought its way onto Domenico's face.
"You've grown into your role, de Clermont," he said, voice rough with strain.
Eric narrowed his eyes. "Leave my mate be," he said. "I won't tell you again, Michele."
Domenico's fingers dug more tightly into Eric's wrist, but Eric didn't flinch at the way the older man made his bones grind together and crack. They'd heal easily enough by morning. The give of a windpipe against Eric's palm was a humbling sensation. The venetian's eyes fluttered and then snapped open wide. The predator inside of Domenico finally gave in to the urge to fight.
Domenico snarled and shoved back, breaking Eric's hold.
Eric let him.
Stepping back, he watched Domenico cough and curse. The venetian brought a hand up to rub at his throat.
Eric waited patiently for the other man to recover from his assault.
When Domenico met his eyes again, his face was twisted with disgust.
"I've known men like you my entire life," he hissed, tunic ruffled, eyes wild with the desire for a fight.
Eric didn't bat an eye. "And I've tired of men like you for all of mine."
Probability is the number of ways an event can occur, divided by the total number of all possible outcomes. If you were to flip a coin, there would be two possible outcomes. Heads or tails. If you were to flip a coin once, your chances of coming up heads would be 50 percent. But what if that coin had been tossed up once several lifetimes ago, and what if that coin still hadn't hit the ground? What if, you were living on the chance of a flip of a coin, and that coin was still up and spinning? What happens when that coin finally hits the ground? Will there still be only two options when it finally lands?
Once, too many lifetimes ago, a little boy who would one day call himself Hugh, wandered innocently into the mouth of a cave. And when he ran from that cave, he ran from his fate. Unbeknownst to him, the coin was already up and spinning in the air, strung up high in the darkness on an invisible thread. Spinning and spinning and spinning, waiting for the right moment to fall.
Once, Domenico Michele made a pact with Philippe de Clermont. Serenity and the head of House Michele, in exchange for ships to the Holy Land and his support in building a council of creatures to bring the lawlessness of the land to heel.
Once, Eric de Clermont bought a little pocket mirror at a market in the memory of a woman he had loved and lost and thought to be gone forever. Matthew de Clermont had been there by his side. Neither had given a second thought to the swallow or the scales that were etched on the mirror's surface beyond their detail and their beauty.
Several decades prior, on the night before Eric had met Hugh de Clermont in battle and found himself reborn, Ysabeau de Clermont had watched a golden metal serpent begin to writhe before her very eyes. And she had watched in wonder, and terror, as a once immutable symbol of eternity came to life in her very hands.
Nine hundred years later, Addison St. James sat alone in a coffee shop, on a normal November day, completely unaware that in just a few minutes time, her life was about to inevitably, and irrevocably change.
There were two sides to every coin.
The Knights Templar were a revered organization of holy warriors known and respected by the world of men.
The Knights of Lazarus were an open secret. Creatures knew of their ilk; some humans suspected a thing or two. But they were the whisper in the darkness, a shadow among the lightness in every church, kingdom and home. And no less of a terror to their enemies at home or abroad than their Templar counterparts were.
There would be no way of knowing, not until much later, and after several unfortunate events had occurred, that one day the Knights of Lazarus would emerge into the public sphere. Black cloaked, and humbly burdened. Lepers who tended those with leprosy. Never to be looked upon but silently, and restlessly doing their holy duty. And, of course, bankrolling the better half of the western world to ensure that the humans looked dutifully the other way.
But that's a story for another day.
Hugh de Clermont sat in his father's seat at the high table in the Great Hall, watching as the household took their cue to sit and break their fast.
Beside him was Ysabeau, dutiful and quiet and still penitent for her sins and the actions she had taken which had led to Fernanda's leaving. Freyja was considerably less penitent, but she was present too.
The three of them presented a united front. Formidable in their own way. Three fair heads glinting in the sunlight that filtered in through the high, stained-glass windows that framed the room from above.
Jean Luc stood patiently over Hugh's shoulder as the de Clermont heir pretended to eat for the sake of the humans in his house, while Ysabeau twirled a knife around on the table, the tip of her blade imbedded in the surface of the wood. Freyja sipped a goblet of blood.
The doors to the great hall groaned open as the footmen allowed for another to make their entrance. Hugh looked up, curious to see who entered, and offered a slight smile at the sight of little Evie, Baldwin's lover, and a longtime friend.
She strode, carefully composed, down the center of the hall, making her way to her place at the end of the long table closest to Baldwin's traditional seat. She took her place primly at the lower table and made a show of eating a rare cut of cold venison, before giving up on the charade and gesturing to a cupbearer for a goblet of blood.
She caught Hugh's eye and gave a gentle nod, returning to her meal without further acknowledgement.
Before the doors could close again, another figure strode through them. Jean Luc stood straighter at the sight of the messenger, and Hugh waved a hand for his man to descend the steps of the platform and meet him.
Jean Luc didn't need to be told twice. He accepted the missive on Hugh's behalf, tipped the messenger and sent him off to rest, before unraveling the message and climbing the steps with measured patience, knowing the curious eyes of the household tracked his every move.
When he reached Hugh again, he bent down to whisper in his ear, passing the missive off to him deftly.
"The first of the royal bannermen have been spotted, entering de Clermont territory."
Hugh schooled his features and nodded his thanks to his retainer. He glanced down at the missive, confirming the other man's words.
"Very well," he said and stood calmly from his seat. Ysabeau and Freyja immediately stood to follow him, knowing well how these things go.
The household hurried to stand but Hugh held up his hands to stop them. "Sit, please," he said, warm voice washing over the crowd. "Eat and go about your duties as usual. All is well."
On Ysabeau's command, Marthe had gathered the household staff and sent them scurrying off to dust, fluff, sweep, shine and straighten every inch of Sept-Tours. The hounds were being brushed and trimmed and triple checked for vermin. The falconer was prepping the birds for hunting should the king wish to partake in sport so early in the season. Flowers were being arranged and rearranged. Tapestries beaten and repaired.
Freyja was breathing down the cook's neck in the kitchens and critically combing over every ounce of their food stores, muttering scornfully about Fernanda's novice keeping of the kitchens and rationing of food.
Hugh didn't bother to correct her, knowing that heavy criticism and disdain were his sister's favorite ways of letting off steam. And thoroughly enjoying the way Philippe's second daughter humbled the chef so admirably after his difficulties with Fernanda during her time managing the food stores.
Hugh offered over a bit of gold to the silver smith for his efforts in some last-minute repairs and turned to speak with the tanner about the budget for new upholstery in the royal chambers, when he caught sight of Sir Joao – one of Fernanda's abandoned suitors – whispering in a far alcove with the Castilian spy.
Hugh narrowed his eyes and shot a look at Jean Luc. His manservant offered a stiff nod and backed away, melting into the crowd, and drifting closer to the men in question to hear what they discussed without being detected.
A young woman passed with naturally red lips and mischievous eyes. She had thick eyebrows, prominent cheekbones, and a heart shaped face. She caught his look and dipped into a curtsy, her whole aura glimmering with mirth.
God, but she was like her father. Hugh sighed.
"Lady Michele," he said politely.
Orelia Michele was Domenico Michele's fourth child and only daughter. And while her brothers were often the subjects of broad-brush military and diplomatic affairs, there was no mistaking Orelia's sharp mind and keen wit. She was her father's daughter through and through, and there was no mistaking her presence here at Sept-Tours despite her father's absence. She had not been invited to travel with Fernanda's party to Mont San Michel. And for good reason. Her presence was best left contained to Sept-Tours, until they could send her back to Venice where she belonged.
Ysabeau across the room had not paused in her command of her servants as she prepared for the arrival of King Louis, but Hugh watched her zero in on Lady Michele with a kind of singular focus typically reserved for the hunt, or a particularly elusive enemy.
Hugh offered Orelia a soft smile and pressed his hand to his chest, giving her a polite bow.
"I hope Sept-Tours has treated you well in the absence of Signore Michele," he said amiably.
Orelia smirked and turned as though she wanted to glance over her shoulder at Ysabeau but refrained.
"Your family has been most gracious to my father and me this winter," she said. "There are no words to express how grateful I am for the close friendship of our houses."
Hugh quirked his lips and nodded his head. "As am I," he said, and a messenger appeared at his elbow with a slight bow for him and Lady Michele.
Orelia took that as her cue and made her excuses to leave. Hugh held out his hand for the missive, and turned an ear to the messenger, as he caught Ysabeau's eye.
There was a silent order in the look he gave her that he did not need to give. An order she did not need to follow. Ysabeau was already three steps ahead of him. And Hugh watched as one of her little village girls skipped off through the crowd singing a popular song about a hanging tree in the forest, as she hurried to spy on another guest who sought to learn de Clermont secrets from the inside.
"News for Milord Godfrey," the messenger murmured, producing the missive for Hugh in the absence of Godfrey himself.
Hugh looked at the messenger and raised an eyebrow, turning the little missive over in his hands but not breaking the seal.
"Rest and eat," he said to the human man. "I'll find another to take this the rest of the way."
The man nodded and bowed. "Thank you, milord."
When the man had gone, Jean Luc reappeared and muttered the secrets of Sir Joao and the Castilian spy into his ear.
Hugh licked the back of his teeth and nodded, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the matters of knights and kings before handing off the missive meant for Godfrey.
"Find a man to take this to my brother," he said.
Jean Luc nodded.
"And then find out where that messenger has been," Hugh commanded. "I want to know where Godfrey's been sticking his nose when I'm not looking."
Ysabeau found Hugh in Philippe's study. He sat in her husband's seat behind the desk as though he were born to it. Then again, Ysabeau supposed, he was born to it.
Hugh only glanced up for a second before returning to the letter in hand.
"Louis sends his regards," he said.
Ysabeau brought her hand up to her throat, feeling suddenly weepy at the mention of her eldest son.
"He sends good news, I hope," she said softly.
Hugh sighed and tucked the letter into a pocket before giving Ysabeau his full attention.
"It is done," Hugh replied.
Ysabeau sucked in a slow breath and let it all out, allowing herself to sink tiredly into a chair.
Hugh watched her neutrally. She closed her eyes for a long moment and felt a brief flutter of relief that she had done at least one thing right in her life. Louis really was the best of them in so many ways.
"Then I am glad," she said, almost as though it were a confession.
Hugh did not reply. She opened her eyes and looked at him.
Finally, he spoke. "Fernando was right when he told you the girl has been through enough."
Ysabeau let out a shaky laugh and leaned forward in her seat, to level the man with a jaded look.
"And I was right when I told him that we all have," she replied.
Hugh pursed his lips and brought his knuckles up to his temples.
"Ysabeau..." he said tiredly.
"Hugh," she snapped and drew herself up taller in her chair. "You may be older than I but let us not forget that I have seen the world through a mother's eyes."
Hugh arched an eyebrow, but Ysabeau wasn't having it.
"You can feign impatience all you wish, child," Ysabeau gritted out, no less immaculate in her ire, than she was at peace. "But I know what it is to be on Philippe's arm. I know what it is to walk into a room and have every eye turn to you, dissect you, tear you apart and put you back together again in shattered, jagged little pieces, and never able to recreate the full picture."
Hugh nodded. "It is much the same for—"
"It is not the same for you," Ysabeau shook her head and offered him a brittle smile. "It is not the same for you. It will not be the same for your son. But it will be for that girl—"
"And you imagine you've done her favors," Hugh snapped derisively. "By becoming one of the vicious many who will tear into her for their own pleasure?"
"No," Ysabeau scoffed and sat back in her seat, sagging once again into the exhaustion of familial conflict. "No. I was bored, and she... is an inconvenience to this family, and a risk to my grandchild. I care little for her, and I do not pretend to."
Hugh stared at Ysabeau, waiting for her to continue, but she only fell silent and looked at him with a level of truthfulness in her eyes it was almost comical.
"Christ, Ysabeau, do you hear yourself?"
Hugh let his head fall into his hands. Tired, he released a humorless laugh.
Before she could respond, they were interrupted by a knock at the door.
"Enter," Hugh called without lifting his head.
Jean Luc opened the door.
"A missive for Lord Eric," Jean Luc said, holding up yet another letter. "From Lady Aaliyah of Mecca and Medina."
Hugh accepted and pocketed the missive. "My thanks," he said. "Shall my son send his response to Mecca or Medina."
"Neither," Jean Luc said. "In her grandfather's absence, the young Aaliyah is presiding over her family's land along the Euphrates."
Hugh nodded. "Very well. Head down to the kitchens. Ensure that the messenger eats his fill, and that Marthe finds him suitable accommodation."
The retainer bowed and left him.
Another knock sounded, not long after Jean Luc left. Ysabeau sighed and stood from her seat, watching the footmen open the door for yet another caller.
"I'll leave you to your business, then," she said.
Hugh nodded and waved the man in – the priest that Philippe had been keeping here as a political hostage.
The man stuttered and bowed for Ysabeau. She didn't offer him a second glance as she passed and left him. The footmen closed the door in her wake.
The knights of Lazarus were an open secret.
And Addison within them was not something they openly discussed.
There were those who knew, and those who did not.
Whether anyone liked it or not, she was the Ninth Knight of the Way of St. James.
And Philippe expected her to be trained. To be loyal to the cause. To tow the line in exchange for the order's loyalty and protection – in exchange for his protection.
But no one could know about her at the same time. Her membership in the order was, technically speaking, blasphemy.
And not all the men present knew in explicit detail who and what she was.
The problem was, Addison herself had not been told who had been informed or how much they had been informed. Aside from her father and Philippe, Godfrey, Baldwin, and Eric, who had all been in the room the day Philippe discovered their treachery and doled out punishment, all Addison had been told was that she was expected to pull her weight, and not to talk about it.
Most days, opening her mouth to say anything felt like an entirely dangerous act. She was constantly stumbling into situations she couldn't back herself out of. Spilling information she thought to be commonplace, only to realize she'd been told something others had not been privy to.
It was a minefield built around silence that was bound, inevitably, to combust. One misstep and the whole operation would go up in flames.
So it's safe to say, that morning while the men packed up and Jacqueline fashioned Addison's hair into a fresh braid, the last thing she had expected was for her father to toss her a training blade.
"Eyes up, Fernanda," Fernando called out, tapping her makeshift blade in warning.
Fernanda stared at his feet a moment longer before snapping her gaze up to meet her father's, looking him in the eye. Nose wrinkled in consternation and focus.
Eric had spotted Sir John at the far end of the camp. He had already packed up his bedroll and prepared his horse. Now, they waited on word from Philippe's men that the pass was clear, and they could begin their precarious crossing.
He made his way over to the man and stopped by his side, watching Fernando teach his daughter how to fight.
"It is highly irregular, is it not?" Sir John asked, a wrinkle in his brow, and a frown firmly fixed in place.
He was perhaps not someone who should bear witness to Fernanda's compulsory training. He was not aware of the Knights of Lazarus, nor the family's involvement in the organization, he only knew of the Templars, and perhaps had suspicions about Eric's unnaturally long life.
Eric let his eyes drift from his frustrated mate to the man beside him. Sir John had gotten old. Perhaps not as old as some of his age. He had all but one of his teeth, and he was lucky that the one that was missing came from the back. His hair had not yet gone grey completely, and he had few wrinkles around his mouth or eyes. But he was not the young man that Eric had fought beside all those years ago.
He sighed and uncrossed his arms, letting them drop down by his sides.
"Perhaps," Eric shrugged. "But this is the way of things."
"Is she not better suited to more feminine pursuits?" Sir John shook his head.
He had questions, but he would not – could not – demand answers. Even in the dark, he understood his place and the power of Philippe de Clermont. Some men questioned authority openly, others did so only in their minds. Sir John was of the latter variety in this case, no matter his honor, or power, or good reputation in other parts of the world.
Eric snorted and eyed his mate. "Aye," he chuckled. "I believe she is, and yet, she is not so bad with a blade is she not?"
Fernanda tripped on her skirts and nearly faceplanted, her wooden blade flailing out and striking a nearby tree, though Eric was impressed to see that she didn't drop it. Fernando caught her before she could fall. God knows she didn't need to suffer another head injury so soon after hitting it on the bench seat in the carriage.
Sir John hummed but didn't offer any comment. Fernanda righted herself with her father's help and held up her blade again as though ready for another round. Fernando gave her a piece of advice almost too quiet to hear and Fernanda nodded, adjusting her grip on her blade.
"I've noticed the pair of you," Sir John continued, not looking away from the display. Eric glanced at him briefly before returning his attention to the sparring session as well.
"Have you?" he asked, unbothered.
"Why did you not tell me, old friend?" Sir John asked.
Eric frowned. "You did not ask."
Sir John scoffed. "I did not know to ask," he said. "I was invited here to court the girl. How was I to imagine she already had a suitor?"
Eric shrugged. He could feel Sir John's gaze burning holes in the side of his face. He turned to meet his eyes.
"She is not restricted to just one suitor," he said as he had said many times before.
"The pair of you have entered a courtship, have you not?" Sir John asked, his voice dry.
Eric rolled his eyes and shot his old comrade a look. "Aye," he said.
"And yet, you've let me come here to court her, unchallenged? Without so much as a word? If I had known, I never would have—"
Eric bit back a sigh and narrowed his eyes. A gasp from Fernanda had his attention snapping back to her, and he jolted forward as she lost her balance, and this time went careening toward the ground.
Seeing that she wouldn't hit her head, Fernando let her fall to teach her a lesson.
Eric stopped himself from going to her and cleared his throat. He spoke to Sir John, even as he watched his mate pluck herself back up out of the dirt.
"I wanted her to feel free to find a man of her choosing."
Sir John scoffed and shook his head, a grin broke out on his face, and he looked between the young de Clermont and the pretty little thing with dark hair and an irritated look in her eyes.
"I'm afraid she already has, de Clermont," Sir John chuckled.
Fernanda didn't bother to dust off her skirts before she held up her weapon and nodded for Fernando to go ahead. Eric's attention had entirely shifted to the girl across the camp, his mind no longer with Sir John or their previous conversation.
"She already has," Sir John murmured again, crossing his arms over his chest as he went back to observing Lady Fernanda and her father. A feeling of loss tugged at his chest, as he thought of his home in Joinville which was plentiful and well crafted, and his children who would have found the girl he'd come here to meet, rather odd.
But he had imagined her there all the same. Sir John had developed a fondness for the young lady Gonçalves, and he thought that, perhaps, if Eric de Clermont had not been in the equation, he could have made her happy one day.
They departed much as they had the mornings before. For all the world, it was just another day on another road, traveling from one place to another at the end of the winter season. But for the matter of Fernanda Gonçalves, a girl out of time, out of place, and out of all options but to go to Mont San Michel or become the pawn in an old French King's games. And if there was any place you didn't want to be in the Middle Ages, it was caught between a King who was being denied his crusade, and the Invisible Hand who was withholding his funding.
This matter was never about Fernanda not having been presented at court, but King Louis would use that insult as all the ammunition he needed to get his way. Fernanda had come a long way since her father had cloistered her away along the Way of St. James.
Fernando wondered idly if the child would always find herself caught on precarious mountain passes at the wrong time of the year. Whether it was in the Kingdom of Navarre or as she fled the Auvergne.
It was no longer snowing. Not this late in the season and the skies showed no chance of a storm. But the mist was thick, and up this high, the world was a vast expanse of cold white canvas. The pass was not long, but for the little human who rode her horse behind him, he imagined there was no end in sight.
Fernando had traveled this pass before.
It was many lifetimes ago now, and he had been so different a man.
Back then, he had been young and angry. And Sept-Tours was a place he had never asked to go, and always wanted to leave.
Hugh had not been his mate then, but someone who had hooked him up by his heartstrings and dragged him all the way to the Auvergne, under the guise of friendship that they both had known to be a lie. Only Philippe had seemed to buy the charade, but Fernando had suspected even then that the de Clermont knew what lied between Hugh and Fernando was far more than a passing dalliance. It would not be a one and done affair, no matter their assertions to the contrary.
Hugh had not been the first man Fernando loved, though now Fernando could say easily that Hugh was the only one who mattered. And Fernando knew Hugh's past was checkered with men who had loved him and lost him and desired far more from the young de Clermont prince than that prince had ever been prepared to offer them.
The road was still barren this time of year, despite the coming spring. So high in the mountains, they were coming up on their final descent into the valleys of central France and beyond to the tempestuous shores of the coast, where the seas were rough and frigid, and quicksand consumed your boots, your horse's hooves, and your carriage and never let you go.
Mont San Michel was the safest destination for Fernanda to be while this matter with the king was settled in the south, presided over by Hugh and Philippe.
But back then—
Fernando urged his horse to follow the path Philippe and his sons cut off the main road and down another narrower way. He glanced back to make sure his daughter followed.
Back then he had gone in the opposite direction. And Hugh...
Hugh was still lying in bed, sound asleep, not yet aware that the man he'd taken to his bed had up and left him in the night. Fernando had chosen the route to Bourges, which back then had been called by a different name and belonged to a different kingdom.
Philippe had not been sorry to see him go.
And Fernando, even now, felt his heart lurch at the thought of Hugh – who had trusted him enough to fall asleep by his side – waking up only to find him gone.
With an old familiar anxiety creeping up on her, Addison turned away from the stark landscape to focus her attention instead on her mate.
"Do you remember the boar?' Addison asked, turning suddenly in the saddle to look at Gallowglass.
Eric rode beside her and had been lost in thought before she interrupted him. His eyes snapped into focus, and he wracked his brain, confused.
"The boar?" he asked.
She nodded, "You know, from the village at the edge of the woods?"
Eric stared at her blankly for a moment before his eyes lit up with delayed realization. He nodded slowly. "The village near Castle Sween?"
"Yes," Addison laughed. "Where else?"
"I..." Eric didn't know where else. It had been so long since Castle Sween, and his human life faded a little more every year that he lived beyond it. "I couldn't say."
She didn't seem to mind that he had forgotten something from their shared history. If anything, Fernanda seemed to be happy to have remembered the little detail at all.
Eric smiled.
"Remind me, mo chridhe."
"It was the second time we met," she snickered. "It just seems so ridiculous now."
Eric furrowed his brow, feeling an uncomfortable tug in his chest where the tether lay. The second time they had met...
He wracked his brain and felt the loss of the memory as though someone had hammered a hole into his head. He remembered their handfasting. And the days in the corridor well enough, when he would wake in a hurry to stand guard while she cleaned. He recalled the taste of her lips when they kissed for the first time, and the flint of nerves and desire in her eyes when she had appeared in his doorway while he was bathing, his bar of soap clenched tightly in her frozen hands.
He remembered the first day he'd ever seen her, the morning he stumbled upon her lying face down in the dirt, and the anxious way she'd scrambled away from him as though she were afraid he'd touch her and she'd get hurt.
But the second time...?
"Beatie and I were in the woods. Do you remember Beatie—"
Eric felt an odd sensation overcome him, at the thought of the little spitfire child and his old brother in arms. Bróccin had been a loud, fierce, formidable friend, and one he had not thought about in far too long.
Fernanda's easy reminder – her casual recollection of someone who had lived so long ago struck him and he stared back at her, entirely riveted by the ease with which she spoke such old names. She rattled on, oblivious to the sudden change in him. And Eric was content to let her, feeling himself lean into the oddly gripping and sharp sting of memory.
"I think we were foraging," Fernanda frowned and shook her head. "I think. It was a big deal for me then, but now it's all become a bit... faded."
She waved her hand as though it no longer mattered, and Eric supposed it no longer did. Her voice was husky from travel, animated and lilting.
"I'd never been in the woods before, not like that, and never really on my own, when all of a sudden there was this sound—" Fernanda pulled a face, sparing him a glance as though she expected him to know the sound and share her horror.
Eric couldn't fight the grin that spread on his face, and he breathed out a soft laugh, at the look that she gave him. This was the boar, he imagined, judging from how the trajectory of the story had gone so far.
It was odd, how his chest flipped with pleasure at her story and the levity that had overcome her for this short time, and also how taut his stomach had become at the thought of losing his memories of her.
How could he not recall the second time he'd ever seen her?
Fernanda had caught the attention of a few others. Balder looked bored as ever, but Eric knew the man was a hopeless gossip and listening intently. He'd have plenty to tell Guillaume when the other man returned. Jacqueline had her head pressed out the window of the carriage, and she listened with a passive interest as she watched the austere landscape pass them by.
Fernando up ahead had turned his ear toward the animated sounds of his daughter's voice and the story she told. Others were talking amongst themselves at comfortable volumes, so she was not heard by all who traveled with them. Many of the men cared little for the stories of little human girls.
"—And the next thing I knew, she was standing on my head climbing up into the tree and there was this horrible squealing—"
It hit Eric in the gut and his breath caught, throat tight. The little human girl running from the tree line. Her shouts from far away for help.
When the betwixt child broke the tree line, calling for help and running as fast as her little legs could carry her, Sorley and the men he was with had broken into a run.
She stopped at the sight of them, buzzing with panic and reversing course, waving them along back toward the tree line as she led them to the source of her distress.
"Hurry," she cried out. "Hurry please there's a boar. Beatie and Malvina —please — there's a boar." She was frantic and scrambling back toward the trees. Bróccin stuttered to a stop and stared at the girl.
Bróccin had been there, and the blacksmith. Eric blinked back the memories. He, himself, had followed them. All three, uncertain of the carnage that they would find when they arrived.
"And I was like paralyzed," Fernanda laughed breathily, shaking her head, eyes glimmering with mirth up at him from where she sat astride her horse. "And you all—"
She shrugged and bit down her grin. "You all thought I was absolutely mad. What was my nickname anyway? I know they added something on to Malvina, but I haven't heard the word since—"
Eric shook his head, blinking at her.
"How'd they say it?" he asked roughly.
He saw Philippe glance back in his direction, face etched with uncharacteristic concern.
Fernanda spoke the word almost perfectly and Eric flinched, eyes turning harshly back to her. He'd forgotten about that. He sneered, and Godfrey ahead of them choked on hearing the insult leave Fernanda's lips. Fernando straightened in his saddle and turned to regard his daughter, face a mix of sadness and alarm.
Sorley surveyed the underbrush grimly for any more signs of trouble. There was a panicked keening sound coming from the maiden at the bottom of the hill though the boar was dead, and the danger passed.
He hefted his axe. Felt its weight, perfectly balanced, in his fighting hand. He supposed he couldn't blame her for her fear. It was a fair response. Bróccin had instructed young Beatie to jump from the branch she clung to, and Sorley tilted his head in wonder at the height of it. There was no way the girl had climbed that way on her own. He watched as his brother knight muttered and scolded and coddled his oldest — and admittedly favorite — daughter, dragging her up the hill toward the group of them. His voice got louder and sterner as they climbed closer to safety. The girl was crying and apologizing and venting her fears and her gratitude for having survived the horrible event.
"How did she get up the tree?" Sorley asked the maiden who was still whispering praise to her betwixt charge.
"Malvina," she said earnestly. "Malvina, the simpleton, she lifted her into the tree before she ran."
Malvina, the simpleton. He didn't know the name, but he could only assume it was the other maiden, the one who was keening in the mud. She'd saved Beatie's life when another, lesser, maiden would have simply run for her own regardless of her companion's safety.
"It's nothing," Eric bit out and shook his head. "The word matters little—"
Fernanda narrowed her eyes, pursing her lips. She reached over to nudge his leg; Eric caught her hand and returned it to her reins.
"Mo chridhe—" he warned gently, eyeing her grip on the reins critically.
Fernanda rolled her eyes. "I know it was an insult, Gallowglass," she said simply. "I won't be offended. I just want to know what it was. Trust me, it can't be worse than half the things I imagined they were saying."
Eric frowned, clenching his jaw, and accidentally catching Fernando's eye. The other man nodded his head, a silent command for Eric not to lie.
"Simpleton," Eric ground out. "Malvina, the simpleton. That is what they called you."
His chest pulled with discomfort and grief for how wrong and callous the moniker had been, and he opened his mouth to offer his mate some words of comfort but was cut off by a snort and husky laughter. The cold and fatigue from the road were getting to her throat and chest, Eric could tell, but Fernanda's cheeks were rosy and her eyes alight with humor at his words.
"Malvina, the simpleton," Fernanda cackled, she leaned over a bit, out of breath and trying to stay on her horse.
Someone else snorted too and Eric whirled around to stare in shock at Balder. The surly old Viking was fighting a grin and snickering quietly to himself at his charge's amusement. Even Fernando had begun to grin.
Eric rolled his eyes and sighed, before letting himself smile at his mate. "It was never true," he said, still feeling obstinate on her behalf.
Fernanda wrinkled her nose and shot him a lighthearted if incredulous look. "It was a little true—"
Eric frowned and began to protest but Fernanda cut him off. "I didn't know how to do anything, Gallowglass. I couldn't sew. I didn't know how to draw water from the well. I couldn't keep any food down, or speak the language or—or—"
She sucked in a breath and puffed out her cheeks, staring at him with wide eyes and eyebrows drawn together.
"—Or anything really. I was a bit... simple... then."
Eric pulled a face and looked away from her. "You were too smart for them. You were good and quick on your feet, and entirely underestimated in every single way—"
Fernanda was quiet. Eric cautioned a glance at her, expecting more unnecessary insults for the woman she had once been, but instead he was startled to find her eyes on him. Beautiful eyes of melted bronze, and a soft smile. One traitorous dimple had fought its way onto her cheek.
Eric's heart caught in his throat, and for a moment he thought it would never beat again.
Fernanda held his gaze a moment longer before she wrinkled her nose and faced the road ahead.
"It's probably a good thing you don't remember," she said casually, biting the inside of her cheek and shaking her head. "I was covered in mud and completely out of it, the second time we met."
It was Eric's turn to chuckle. He brought a hand up to the back of his neck. He hated that he'd forgotten even a second, and now that she'd reminded him... he didn't want her to think he'd continue to forget.
"I remember, mo chridhe," he said.
Startled, Fernanda lost her grin and whirled around to face him once again.
"You... you do?" she asked, genuinely shocked.
Eric smiled. "You've a gift for storytelling."
Fernanda narrowed her eyes. "It's been so long though—"
Eric frowned and shook his head. "Eternity wouldn't be long enough to forget."
That was when Sorley noticed Malvina.
And he was struck into momentary stillness at the sight of her familiar eyes. Wide and unblinking from fear, but two dark unmistakable pools of melted bronze. Sorley knew Malvina, the simpleton. And his heart gave an unnatural thud, like he'd been kicked in the chest by a horse.
He was surprised to see this girl again. He'd kept his eyes peeled for weeks. For what felt like the longest time, every pass through the village had resulted in him scouring the faces of the maidens there. Desperate to see the bonny lass again. But she was as evasive as any mystery he'd come to realize. For weeks, he'd wondered about her, and now here she was. He had to suppress a surprised laugh. Despite the direness of the situation, he couldn't help but feel as though there was a lightness in his chest. This odd lass—
She was once again covered in a thick layer of mud, all along her face and down her front, and he could understand why the town thought she was simple. She seemed to have an affinity for laying herself flat in the dirt. But her eyes... they were fixed on him as she stumbled her way up the hill, following the footpath the blacksmith had laid, and he knew from looking into them that she was keen. She was sharp as a whip, this one. He'd bet his horse on it.
Fernando didn't know quite what to think about the story Fernanda had elected to share with her mate while they rode. She had been overcome by an uncharacteristic lightness of being that had heartened Fernando and dismayed him all at once.
Her story came with questions.
Ones Fernando could imagine the answers to, and ones he didn't want others to think too deeply about if they could help it.
Malvina, the simpleton.
Fernando sighed at the thought. Baldwin shot him a glance from where he rode a few paces ahead, behind his father.
Fernando frowned and Hugh's brother shot a look over at Fernanda and Eric, offering the Gonçalves an uncharacteristically sympathetic look before avoiding his eyes, and facing forward again.
And then there was the boar—
Even if it had been over a century ago, and she had come out alive, Fernando had to admit that the idea of his child at the mercy of a predator had sent a wave of panic rolling over him that he had not been prepared for on this morning's ride.
They had enough to worry about without being haunted by the ghosts of his daughter's mysterious past.
A bark of laughter and a barbed comment from up ahead had Fernando's shoulders tightening with tension.
Matthew, Pierre, and Domenico Michele rode back into view. Domenico and Pierre guided their horses past the head of the party with swift nods of acknowledgement before taking their places at the back, while Matthew pulled up beside his father and Baldwin at the front to share the news of the roads ahead.
Clear for the moment, but signs of activity to the southwest that would be minor causes for concern if they didn't take care.
Fernando felt that dismay tug a little more resolutely on his chest. He licked his teeth and listened to the bawdy conversation Domenico had struck with a few of the other knights who were in a good humor at the back.
Behind Fernando, Eric had expertly guided the conversation into safer waters now that Domenico had returned. At least that was one less person who would be asking uncomfortable questions about Fernanda. The others would be far easier to contain if they had their minds set on digging too deeply into the mystery of the young Gonçalves girl and her odd circumstances.
Matthew had been in the room the day Philippe had dealt Domenico the final blow. Eleanor was recently dead, and Matthew, half mad with grief, had escaped to Venice after Baldwin cast him from the Holy Land and sent him home.
He had braved this pass then freely, when he realized he couldn't go back to the Auvergne. He had skirted his father's territory, shame pressing his head down as he rode, in a sodden black cloak on a tired black stallion. He hadn't been able to bear it. The thought of riding back through the village where he had built a church and died for his sins. With Eleanor's blood on his hands, he could not face the memories of Bianca and Lucas. He could not relive the memory of his rebirth and the knowledge that God had rejected him.
He'd gone up through the heart of the land, toward Mont San Michel, and on to England. And then, when England failed to assuage the darkness inside, he'd caught a boat and then another, until he'd found himself once again in the Mediterranean.
Venice was warm and full of drink and beautiful women that he could feed from and hate freely, for they were not Eleanor, and he was not meant for such creatures as she. Frail things like her, with their delicate bones, and unmarred skin, fluttered to him like moths to a flame. And like a flame he would inevitably burn them.
Philippe had not come searching for him then. He'd come to Venice on business. Unfinished business he had with Domenico Michele, the current eternal Doge, and one who would not be for long if the de Clermont had his say.
Matthew had been in the room, as he often was for conversations such as these, but he had been a shadow. The darkness in the corner that presided over all the unpleasantries.
"A sanctuary," Philippe said. "For creatures. A kingdom for them to exist, free of fear of persecution or—"
"We had that!" Domenico hissed and struck the lion paperweight that sat on the table, watching with little satisfaction as it flew off the desk and shattered on the floor. "In Venice! That was mine, de Clermont-"
Philippe narrowed his eyes but didn't bother to rise from his chair as Domenico threw his tantrum. And Domenico hated. He hated so much he could barely see.
"Venice was not a safe haven for creatures," Philippe said tiredly. "You and I well know it was a republic of fear, carefully curated by Maso to take and keep taking from all who existed on those shores—"
"I am not Maso Michele—" Domenico hissed.
Philippe offered him that same old grandfatherly smile. But Domenico no longer took comfort in the image. This was not some sweet old man who'd come to set things right and leave him be. Philippe de Clermont was a snake. A leech. He took and took and kept taking all the while expecting you to thank him for his efforts. Expecting you to thank him for feeding you with one hand and sticking a knife between your ribs with the other.
"And yet," Philippe said. "You took his name."
Domenico stopped short at that, unable to form the words, unable to respond. He bit down hard on his tongue until he bled. He swallowed it down and sucked the wound.
"Venice is mine, and she always will be. My territory is uncontested, you do not have a say in what happens on these waters."
Philippe chuckled. "Oh, but I do," he said simply. "You know what you agreed to when I helped you all those years ago."
"Ships," Domenico hissed. "I agreed to help you with ships if the Pope granted you your crusade."
"That's not all you promised," Philippe said. He didn't even bat an eye. Domenico's jaw ticked.
He didn't rise to the bait. He would not let Philippe de Clermont get the better of him again.
"I will not support your covenant. Venice is mine. The Republic is strong. We will not be driven into the shadows. I am the Doge, and my sons will be long after me—"
"Some Republic you've got there Michele," Philippe chuckled. "What would the people say if they knew?"
"They will be dead long before they realize," Domenico scoffed. "As they have been for centuries—"
"You underestimate the humans," Philipe said, standing slowly so he could look down on Domenico with an expression akin to pity. "You're young, Signore Michele. One day you will learn that the weakest among us are often our downfall."
You never expect bad things to happen in broad daylight.
Addison was beginning to doze in the saddle when Eric leaned over and shook her awake.
"Eyes open, or you're in the carriage, mo chridhe," he said seriously.
But even as he spoke his eyes were on the men ahead of them.
The scouts had returned, and even Addison could hear them speaking with Philippe.
The pass was windy. A long funnel, a barely their road, and a thick, impenetrable mist that made Addison blink rapidly whenever her eyes were open. The stark white of the skyline was too bright for her to see, and she had begun to keep her eyes closed just to keep from squinting.
The King's men had been spotted to the east of here. They were close but the scouts seemed confident their party would pass them without contact. It was the territory of Aurillac that was setting everybody's teeth on edge. To the vampires among them the border line was close, and clear. But all Addison could see was a stark, unforgiving landscape, and the barren trunks of tall, hibernating trees.
Addison had no doubt that her lack of finesse in the saddle had slowed them down drastically on this leg of their journey, and she had been surprised that they respected her wishes to remain on horseback rather than forcing her into the nauseating death trap of a carriage that rattled on a few paces behind her.
If it hadn't been for her last bout of illness, and subsequent head injury, she had no doubt that is exactly where she would have been as they made the grueling trek through the bottleneck of three hotly contested territories.
They had decided on a narrow pocket in the pass through which they could travel and veered off the king's road.
Addison had a feeling that even on the road Philippe was in constant contact with people at Mont San Michel and with Hugh back at Sept Tours. The scouts who came and went were not always the same, and sometimes she would look up and see black cloaked figures dotted along the landscape ahead of them and behind.
At first, she had seen these figures and feared the worst. That they would be intercepted by the king's men on the road. That she would be dragged before some achy old stinky monarch and have to explain herself to yet another powerful man with absolutely no preparation for it.
But Addison had quickly realized that there was no one in this world that she could spot before Philippe de Clermont, or her father for that matter. If she saw these figures, then they had too. And if they saw these figures, and did nothing, then she could only ascertain that they were Philippe's men, and not a threat.
Vampire politics were entirely convoluted and impossible to comprehend. And they only got worse when you mixed them with the world of men.
Addison was all too aware that she was a point of contention for most of the people in her party. Baldwin had told her once, what feels like a lifetime ago, that she was a matter of diplomacy and politics. That she was more than a person. She was also a matter of finance and war. Even if she never got a seat at the table, she was a topic that was up for discussion at that table every single day.
She hadn't wanted to understand him then. It's not like anyone had asked her if she wanted to be a pawn in their centuries' long machinations.
She was just a girl who got kidnapped by time. She was out of place and out of options, caught up in the tides of history, trying somehow to survive the Middle Ages.
She didn't want to be the topic around whom they asserted their authority.
She wanted no part in their eternal pissing match.
But they were on a narrow pass, on a snowy plane. Caught between freedom, an unhappy king, and a rival vampire who lived just a stone's throw away.
Addison's body knew – before her mind did – that something had gone wrong. When suddenly Domenico Michele, of all people, was crowding forward to guard your right side, you could say, without a doubt, that something was no longer going right.
The men had grown tense and seemed to move wordlessly into some sort of formation. Addison drew her eyebrows together. She watched them arrange themselves without a single word uttered, while their backs became straighter, their shoulders tauter. Their hands drifted down to the blades at their sides. Somewhere at the back, she heard the twang of a bowstring. The knock of an arrow. The pull of a string. But whoever had drawn, had not yet released.
Addison sucked in a breath and opened her mouth, trying to voice a question she couldn't quite figure out how to form, and then she froze that way.
Philippe held up a fist and Addison felt it as though he'd clamped it around her throat.
He made a sharp gesture.
A contingent of knights peeled away from their group. The dull thud of their horses' hooves rolled like an earthquake over the land.
Addison's heart plummeted down into her gut. She made a noise of protest. Fernando left with them.
She watched her father cut a path through the snow. He disappeared into the trees. He left her without looking back. He didn't even hesitate.
The wind whipped around them, icy mist sweeping across the landscape and stinging her eyes. It swept away the trail he'd left in his wake. And all that was left was the ghost of him. A wraithlike memory that had been consumed by the mountain. All evidence of his presence had begun to fade.
The remaining knights closed ranks. Metal was drawn, and horses pushed in on all sides. Penelope squealed in protest as Addison, in her panic, tugged on the reins. Addison whipped her head around, trying to get her bearings.
"What's happening?" she asked. No one answered.
She whirled the other way. All the men had blurred together. Though she'd traveled far with them, she couldn't seem to glimpse a single friendly face.
She wanted Fernando. And Domenico was pushing in on her right side, eyeing her with a stern expression. For all his antagonism, he was suddenly concerned with her well-being. There were hard lines etched across his face.
Where was Eric?
Where was—
She couldn't breathe and the horses pushed in closer as Philippe barked out a command.
Someone bumped her from the back, and Addison couldn't turn to see if it was Balder without losing her seating. She was jostled again in the crush and Addison pitched forward in her saddle, feeling herself begin to slide sideways. She clung to Penelope's neck.
The stressed mare spooked at the sudden movement of her rider. She stamped. Agitated by the crush of men and horses. The distress of her mistress combined with the chaos.
Penelope tried to bolt.
If she could not go through the crowd, she would go up and over, or throw her rider off if she had too. Penelope was done. And Addison was too.
The unfamiliar man to her left pulled back as a large black Percheron pushed through. Familiar blue eyes flashed down at her from above.
"Gallowglass," she choked out.
Eric's jaw ticked as he maneuvered Ulysses to block Penelope's escape. His face and body were tight with control as he reached over to hold tight to Penelope's reins, giving Addison a once over. Making sure she was okay.
Addison blinked up at him, wide eyed. His face was a fierce mask, as he kept tight control over his own steed and corralled hers. And when he spoke, his voice was nearly unfamiliar too. Deep and unyielding. There was none of the usual softness in him. This was the man he kept carefully hidden when everyone else was looking.
"Sit upright," he gritted out. "And stay with me."