Chapter 14

M ight the lady be a familiar of the devil? Hugh wondered, the flame-haired woman’s convulsions transfixing him like most who had thought the day’s greatest entertainment would be that of squabbling friars.

Were she possessed, what did that say of De Chanson? If he had let the devil in as well, what hope had Gertrude of finishing what she began before sending her enemy to Caen?

“We should take her now!” Baudri said with an elbow jab.

Hugh heard blood course between his ears, but before he could draw dagger on his disrespectful lesser, the deputy’s command for order lowered the din. Then the lawman urged his horse toward those surrounding the fitful lady as if to cheer on a contest between fighting roosters. A path opened for him, but as he swung out of the saddle, someone shot past.

Hugh’s first thought as Baudri and he advanced was Herman had failed, allowing Pietro to aid the lady, but it was the friar of brown habit and bare feet.

Ignoring the deputy’s command to halt, the Carmelite set one foot on either side of the woman, whipped off his misshapen crucifix, and thrust the symbol of the Lord’s sacrifice near a face framed by red-blond hair. “In the name of He of all holiness in me, cease your evil and depart. Resist, and more you will be pained by the purging than will she who let you in!”

Determined to keep sight of what was unfolding, Hugh thrust an old woman out of the way. Ignoring the foul thing she named him, next her squawk of pain that evidenced Baudri also ill-treated her, he looked to the prone lady whose face was quartered by the crucifix’s shadow. Though her chin was up and blood pinked her teeth, her back no longer arched and the convulsions waned.

“Depart, evil one!” the Carmelite repeated.

Hugh glanced at the deputy who seemed to have decided to allow the friar to continue what looked a good work, saving him from dealing with one who more seriously disrupted this side of the market than had the holy men.

The lady groaned.

“Depart!”

Now a whimper, jerk of legs, and skittering of heels over dirt.

“I command you, demoniac—depart!”

Her head snapped to the side, causing the friar to thrust the crucifix nearer and onlookers to voice shock. Then the lady’s eyes opened on the cross and she flew her gaze over the spectators. “Nay!” she cried, swinging up a hand.

The Carmelite caught her wrist and pressed the crucifix to her brow. “Depart ye of the dark and the mire!”

She swept up her other arm, thrust the cross away, and raked nails down the man’s cheek.

Regardless of whether she was truly possessed, her reaction lent credence to the belief she required holy intercession .

“You must do it now, Hugh!” Baudri hissed.

Grudgingly, Hugh acknowledged he was right, but before he could claim the woman as a sister and tell she was a poor creature whose mind had gone wrong, the deputy yanked her up as if fearing the man of God would retaliate for the flesh beneath her nails. “Cease, Friar Drumfiddle!” he ordered as the one of peculiar name and appearance started forward.

The Carmelite slowed, then just as the Franciscan had stuck a finger in his face, jabbed the upper end of his cross toward the lady who struggled so weakly the deputy did not calm her with a blow as Hugh believed best with women resistant to correction—except Gertrude.

“If this vessel of unholiness is not purged, she shall breed greater evil,” Drumfiddle boomed.

“Ye be ignorant!” declared one whose voice told she had many years behind her and few ahead.

When Hugh caught sight of her, he was fairly certain the face drooping down around an aged neck belonged to the woman Baudri and he ejected from their path.

“Aye, ignorant!” the crone proclaimed. “’Tis no demon in her but sickness of the body.” With a limp that might not have been present before her encounter with Baudri, she advanced on the three whose audience continued to grow. “Am I not right, girl?” she asked of the one in need of the deputy’s support. “Tell them ’tis The Falling Sickness.”

The lady peered at her defender, then slowly turned her face up to the lawman.

Before she could form words, the friar cried, “’Tis The Falling Evil. And you would do well not to heed the devil’s helper!”

As others agreed, Baudri once more shoved his feet into boots too fine for him by ordering Hugh, “Do something!”

“Enough, Drumfiddle!” said the deputy. “Since ’ tis for a physician to determine what the woman suffers, I shall deliver her to one.”

As the friar protested, Baudri repeated, “Do something!”

Hugh started forward and would have exerted his rights over the lady had not the lawman’s eyes past swept him and swiftly returned. Hugh’s feet stuck. Though the pirate of him and country of his birth could not be seen in his face, the man’s suspicion was of a depth that an affected English accent would be questioned.

“By the stinking stars!” Baudri griped.

“We are done,” Hugh ground out. Though he only half expected the knave to follow, he did so as if having also fallen beneath the deputy’s regard. Thus, they left the prize that could have sooner delivered De Chanson to Gertrude and went in search of Herman who had to have secured Pietro by now. Accursedly, they must make do with that success and capture of the lad—for now.

Regardless of how often Amaury adjusted what was to have been to accommodate what it became, still much refused to go to plan. However, for tidings received late afternoon on the day past, once more he pondered if much did go to plan—just not his.

Perhaps all that had happened since he and the lady departed Wulfenshire was of God’s doing, and he had only to fit himself into His plan to end the threat of Gert. Unfortunately, that required greater renewal of belief in the divine who had done little to show He even heard the groanings of seven torturous years that felt seventy.

Determinedly, Amaury returned to tidings that had permitted little sleep last eve. Yestermorn, while The Pleiades’ captain conducted a training exercise by sailing north amid light rain and moderate winds, a vessel slipping into a heretofore unknown cove was seen. After passing well beyond it, the captain had come about, dropped anchor, and sent a small boat ashore with several of his most experienced men.

Upon their return, they told they drew near enough the inner shore to ascertain it was not a merchant ship and could be their prey for the crew’s shouts being in deeply accented French.

No guarantee they were Gert’s men, but quite possible. Since Amaury intended to make much of what had landed in his lap, greater his hope Fira was no longer his responsibility, the confirmation of which should be had soon since Pietro had gone to relieve Donal in the event the Wulfriths did not come. Soon one or the other would appear.

Charles’ sigh as he turned from the window drew Amaury back to the present. Continuing to brace his hands on the table before a map of England’s coast altered to reflect the location of a cove that might still conceal a pirate ship, he looked up. “What troubles you, Charles?”

The man nodded toward a room beyond the office where Richarde recovered well enough he would not be abed much longer. “The same that troubles him. And like Richarde, I think you should trust Captain Girarde to do his duty so you not risk a trap.”

Though Amaury knew the vessel that sought to go unseen could be bait, he leaned toward it being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“As it is too early in our scheme to pry truth from suspicion, leave this to him and his men,” Charles pressed.

Wisdom, but Amaury believed he was more capable of depriving Gert of the ship lurking around Boston’s edges were he in command of The Pleiades .

“For as long as possible, it is better the enemy they cannot see, Master Argent.”

Before Amaury could answer, a creak sounded from the stairs beyond. He straightened and set a hand on his sword the same as Charles, though the weight behind the creak was likely of Donal or Pietro come to confirm Fira’s departure.

Regardless of who ascended, it was nearly impossible to do so quietly, the nails having been loosened to allow the wood to ride the shafts without sacrificing structural integrity.

It was Donal who rapped on the door before entering. Though his face reflected weariness, it also boded ill.

English accent intact, Amaury said, “I am thinking the lady’s family did not come for her.”

Donal halted between the two men. “As they did not show, Pietro keeps watch, Master Argent. Apologies for not informing ye sooner, but it bothered me bad the lady was not collected.”

Amaury understood, himself seeking an explanation for what had to be only the appearance of abandonment. “Unless some great tragedy befell her family, they did not receive the missive,” he concluded.

“My belief as well, Master. Thus, I was more watchful in taking the winding way to the courier’s office lest I was followed.” Though no longer of the streets, the lad continued to hold close lessons of his begrimed cradle that enabled him to survive. “I was told the messenger did not return, and though he had another delivery after Wulfen Castle, it was near enough he should have been back in Boston early last eve.”

Then something ill prevented the man from reaching the Wulfriths, whether an accident or encounter with brigands. But was it coincidence that messenger’s mission was thwarted? Or did Gert’s men have a greater presence in Boston than believed—not only rooting out Richarde and following him to Wulfenshire but Donal? If so and the lad was seen delivering Amaury’s missive to the courier, they would have sought to get their hands on that which revealed where Baron Wulfrith could retrieve his sister.

“If Gert’s sea rats are responsible,” Charles said, “they would have set a watch over the inn should you appear.”

“’Tis what I be thinkin’, Master Argent,” Donal said, “and just as they did not reveal themselves to me, neither Pietro.”

Amaury dragged a hand down his face that needed a shave, though not as much as hair whose lengthening made the silver obvious, especially at the peak where the strands were so dense they would present as a streak the same as whiskers beneath his lower lip.

“Do you think Fira Wulfrith is in danger?” Charles asked.

Possible since those come for Amaury upon Wulfen had seen her, and even were they denied a good look, her uncommon hair would have been noted. Thus, she could be used to capture Amaury.

Resenting the need to ensure her well-being before fitting the remaining pieces of the plan to remove one of Gert’s ships from her service, he said, “For agreeing to remain in her room, she should be well, but as I will not…chance her safety, she must be removed from the inn.”

“I will alert Pietro,” Donal said, turning away.

“Nay, all must appear unchanged,” Amaury said. “After we have taken her out through the rear entrance, you will alert Pietro in such a way the predator becomes the prey.”

At the lad’s nod, Amaury donned his cap and swept his mantle off the chair.

“I would accompany you,” Charles said.

Though Amaury knew mostly the man accepted his altered life, from time to time he needed to scratch the itch of restlessness. Unfortunately, that relief must wait. “I thank you, Charles, but I need you to keep the appointment I made with the wine merchant who requires further assurance we are capable of transporting his casks to Edinburgh.” Expecting further argument against escalating the plan, he said firmly, “I will be well armed with a handful of crew experienced in pirate encounters.”

“And me, Master Argent?” Donal asked with much hope.

Amaury hesitated, said, “Providing sleep can wait, I would use you.”

The lad stood taller. “I am wide awake.”

Letting his lie be, Amaury looked to Charles who said, “I will make the merchant see sense, Master Argent.” As was imperative to gain a foothold in that area of Scotland believed to harbor pirates who hated the English perhaps more than the Scots hated them.

“I leave it to you,” Amaury said and at the door paused. “Now that I am in Boston to stay, I myself shall do that for which I am best suited. Thus, it begins when I return.”

With that and Donal on his heels, he departed for the dock to choose which of his seafarers would aid in removing Fira from the inn. Once she was relocated, another missive could be sent to Baron Wulfrith.

St. John’s Hospital

Her tongue no longer bled, but it was swollen. She had not meant to sleep, but she had despite needing to extricate herself from the mess she would not have made had she remained at the inn—and Amaury kept his word to keep a watch on it.

Having awakened inside unfamiliar walls, she did not know where the deputy brought one some believed partnered with the devil though the old woman at market told the truth of this affliction.

Almighty, will You aid me? Fira silently appealed. I am in much danger as I refused to believe possible. Worse, my menfolk could face greater danger in setting my mess aright.

“We are here,” the lawman said at her ear. “The holy men of medicine will do well by you.”

She wanted to believe it. However, it was a man of God who thrust into her face what resembled no crucifix she had seen, commanded the demon to flee, and threatened the evil one would be more pained by the purging than would its host.

“Purging,” she whispered and shuddered. Though grateful to be delivered from the fanatical friar, lest the holy men of this place were no better, once more she went to God. Pray, let these monks be learned and aid me in getting home.

“Who have you brought us, Deputy?” asked one of soft words.

As Fira turned her face his direction, she saw a courtyard bounded one side by a great stone building and three sides by walls. Wondering if this was the hospital outside Boston, she looked to the tonsured man of two score years who halted so near the horse she was tempted to pull her spectacles from her bodice to see him clearly.

“This woman took ill at market,” the lawman said.

The monk considered her. “She but looks weary, and St. John’s is not for those beset with minor ills.”

“I assure you what happened was no minor thing,” the deputy said. “A violent fit put her on the ground.”

Fira caught her breath. Amaury had said it looked a struggle, but had there been violence about it he did not witness for arriving near its end? Violence like that glimpsed when the little girl she had been was swept up and carried away from her mother? Might her affliction be as grave as that suffered by the Baron of Wulfen’s second wife?

Once more the monk studied Fira, then asked, “Have you The Falling Sickness?”

She hesitated since some who named it that persisted in believing it evidenced demonic possession even if they did not rename it The Falling Evil as the friar had done.

Before she could decide on a response, the deputy said, “That is not what Friar Drumfiddle called it.”

Movement of the monk’s mouth was fleeting, but Fira was certain it was a sneer, and more so when he said, “I am grateful I know no other representative of God so given to happening on evil as Drumfiddle.”

“I agree,” the deputy said, “and to that I add—no other as given to stirring up brethren with his interpretation of doctrine.”

Was the one accused of merely appearing a man of God truly a Free Spirit? Fira wondered. Though she was hardly versed in what others said was a dangerous sect, she knew its members were considered heretics just as the Franciscan had called Drumfiddle. And was that the man’s real name?

“No good ever comes of him stopping to preach in Boston,” the monk said, and though it appeared he would say more, as if recalling their audience, his jaw firmed. “Hand her down, and I will see a place made for her in the women’s infirmary.”

This man of God appeared harmless, and yet much could go wrong between feeling safe and being given proof of deception. For no ill done her between the market and this place—and that Alice would discover her absence—Fira gripped the lawman’s tunic and peered into a face more blurred than the monk’s. “Pray, return me to my lodgings so I may send word to my family. ”

His brow furrowed. “Having set aside my duties to deliver you here and needing to return, you shall stay.”

“But—”

He freed his tunic, turned her, and began lowering her to the ground. Though she longed to struggle back into the arms of one who seemed a man of integrity, good sense warned it could give weight to Drumfiddle’s diagnosis.

The hands the monk fit to her waist were impersonal, and when he set her down and said, “Can you walk on your own?” his tone of expectation seemed that of one who disliked prolonged contact with women.

Though uncertain of her footing, she said, “I can.”

He released her, and when she remained upright, addressed the deputy, “She shall receive the care she requires.”

“Since I am recovered, I require none,” she said.

As if she had not spoken, he raised a hand in farewell, and when the lawman reined around, met her gaze. “I pray it is so lest one in greater need requires your bed.”

Fira would have protested further, but her head lightened again. The Gloaming having taken its toll, she required rest. “My stay will be short,” she said, and when he gestured her to follow, meant to comply, but her knees softened.

Though she remained upright, her arm had to be braced all the way to the infirmary, and it was not until she lowered to one of many beds lining the walls—over half occupied by women—she saw the one who aided her was not the monk into whose care she was given.

This was a novice. Though his hair was quite short, it was not tonsured, and despite a stern face, he could not be more than a score of years. But what most differentiated him from the monk was how he regarded her—eyes narrowed with what looked suspicion, lips pressed as if to keep from speaking unacceptable things .

There had been others moving about the courtyard whose presence she noted. Likely, this novice whose aid the monk enlisted had been near enough to hear of her affliction. And believed the same as Drumfiddle that she had a demon eager to infect others.

“That is all, Edgar,” said the monk where he halted at the foot of the bed. “Return to your duties.”

The novice hastened from the infirmary.

“He fears my ailment the same as Friar Drumfiddle,” she said when the door closed behind him.

“Worry not. Though Edgar is slow to grow into his years and faith for being raised by a mother of silly superstitions, he progresses. Now what am I to call you?”

“Lady Fira Wulfrith.”

His eyebrows rose. “Of the Barony of Wulfen?”

A reasonable question since over the centuries Wulfriths had scattered across England and other countries. “Aye, Baron Wulfrith is my brother.”

He looked nearer as if searching for the lady beyond what was heard in her voice, then said, “Is he in Boston?”

“As word was sent to collect me, he shall be soon.”

“Collect you from where?”

She told him of the inn, and when she ignored his expression of curiosity over how she came to be there, he said, “While the physician examines you, I have things that need doing, but later I will send word to this Alice to direct your brother here.”

Though relieved at the ease with which her disappearance would be resolved, it was short-lived for having no way to conceal from her family what landed her in this place. And yet it would be selfish not to accept it was for the best though her movements would be restricted further. After all, it was not only she who must be protected but those who, determined to keep her safe, put themselves in harm’s way .

“I thank you,” she said.

His mouth moved, but she heard no words. As he blurred further, she feared The Fading came on the heels of The Gloaming. Now a great still inside her…

“Lady Fira!”

She blinked and, seeing the monk start around the bed, raised a staying hand. “I am tired, that is all.”

He hesitated, said, “Do you gain your rest, nearer you shall be to returning home.”

Putting much distance between Amaury and me, she thought and, after removing her mantle, drew the covers over her. Watching the man of God depart, she saw him acknowledge other patients as he moved down the aisle between the beds. As he neared the door, a monk entered with a bag over his shoulder and air of authority that told his profession was that of medicine.

Fatigue so heavily weighting her lids they would not rise when an exchange between the two included speaking her name, Fira allowed herself to be carried distant.