To Seduce a Sinner
He paused to gulp from the whiskey and said softly, “We were so hopeful. If the war ended soon, we could go home. That’s all we wanted: to go home to our families. To rest a bit after battle.”
Melisande tucked a sheet about the blankets. It was a bit musty from the press where it’d been stored, but it would have to do. As she worked, she thought of a younger Jasper, marching with his men through an autumn forest half a world away. He would’ve been elated after a battle won. Happy at the prospect of going home soon.
“We were marching down a narrow trail, with rugged hills on one side and a river on the other that ran along a cliff face. The men were only two abreast. Reynaud had just ridden up to me and said he thought we were too strung out; the tail of the marching column was half a mile back. We decided to inform Colonel Darby, to request that we slow the head to let the tail catch up, when they struck.”
His tone was flat, and Melisande sat back on her heels to watch him as he spoke. He still faced ƒHe hethe window, his back broad and straight. She wished she could go to him, wrap her arms about him and hold him close, but it might interrupt the flow of his words. And she sensed that, like lancing an infected wound, he needed to let the festering corruption drain away.
“You can’t think in battle,” he said, his tone almost musing. “Instinct and emotion take over. Horror at seeing Johnny Smith shot with an arrow. Rage at the Indians screaming and running at your men. Killing your men. Fear when your horse is shot from beneath you. The surge of panic when you know you must jump clear or be trapped underneath the beast, helpless to a war axe.”
He sipped at his drink while Melisande tried to understand his words. They made her heart beat faster, as if she felt the same urgent panic he had experienced so long ago.
“We fought well, I think,” Vale said. “At least others have told me so. I can’t evaluate the battle. There’s only the men around you, the little piece of soil that you defend. Lieutenant Clemmons fell and Lieutenant Knight, but it wasn’t until I saw Darby, our commander, dragged from his horse that it occurred to me that we were losing. That we would all be killed.”
He chuckled, but the sound was dry and brittle, not at all like his usual laugh. “That was when I should’ve felt fear, but oddly I didn’t. I stood in a sea of fallen bodies and swung my sword. And I killed a few of those savage warriors; yes, I did, but not enough. Not enough.”
Melisande felt tears prick her eyes at the sad weariness of his voice.
“In the end, my last man fell and they overwhelmed me. I went down with a blow to the head. Fell on top of Tommy Pace’s body, in fact.” He turned from the window and crossed to a table where the decanter of whiskey stood. He filled his glass and drank. “I don’t know why they didn’t kill me. They should’ve; they’d killed nearly everyone else. But when my wits returned to me, I was roped by the neck to Matthew Horn and Nate Growe. I looked around and saw that Reynaud was part of their booty as well. You won’t believe how relieved I was. Reynaud at least had lived.”
“What happened?” Melisande whispered.
He looked at her, and she wondered if he’d forgotten she was in the room. “They marched us through the woods for days. Days and days with little water and no food, and some of us were wounded. Matthew Horn had taken a ball to the fleshy part of his upper arm during the battle. When John Cooper could no longer walk because of his wounds, they led him into the woods and killed him. After that, whenever Matthew stumbled, I leaned my shoulder into his back, urging him on. I couldn’t afford to lose another soldier. Couldn’t afford to lose another man.”
She gasped at the horror. “Were you wounded?”
“No.” He wore a horrible half-smile on his face. “Save for that bump on the head, I was perfectly fine. We marched until we reached an Indian village in French-held territory.”
He drank more of his whiskey, nearly emptying the glass, and closed his eyes.
“They have a thing called a gauntlet, a pretty way to welcome captives of war to the camp. The Indians line up, men and women, in two long lines. They run the prisoners, one by one, between the lines. As the prisoners run, the Indians hit them with heavy sticks and kick them too. If the man falls, he is sometimes beaten to death. But none of us fell.”
“Thank God,” she breathed.
“We did at the time. Now I’m not so sure.”
He shrugged and drank more whiskey. He sat slumped into a chair, his words slurring a bit now.
“Jasper?” Perhaps it would be best to go no further. Melisande was afraid of what would come next. He’d already endured so much, and it was late and he was tired. “Jasper?”
But he didn’t seem to hear her. He stared into his whiskey glass, as if bemused. “And then came their real fun. They took away Reynaud, and they tied Munroe and Horn to stakes. They took burning sticks and they . . . they . . .”
He was breathing hard. He closed his eyes and swallowed, and still he couldn’t seem to get the words out.
“Don’t, oh, don’t,” Melisande whispered. “You don’t have to tell me, you don’t.”
He looked at her, puzzled and sad and tragic. “They tortured them. Burned them. The sticks were red-hot, and the women wielded them—the women! And then Munroe’s eye. God! That was the worst. I screamed at them to stop, and they spit at me and cut off the men’s fingers. I knew then to be silent, no matter what they did, because crying out, showing any emotion, only made it worse. And I tried, Melisande, I tried, but the screams and the blood . . .”
“Oh, my dear, oh, my dear.” Melisande had moved to him. She bent and held him in her arms, his face against her breast. And she couldn’t hold back her tears now. She sobbed for him.
“The second day, they brought us to the other side of the camp,” Vale whispered against her breast. “They were burning Reynaud there. He was crucified and on fire. I think he was dead already, because he didn’t move, and I thanked God again. I thanked God that my dearest friend was dead and could no longer feel the pain.”
“Shh,” Melisande whispered. “Shh.”
“But you were saved in the end, weren’t you?” she asked desperately. He had to leave these dreadful images and go on to the hopeful part. He’d survived. He had lived.
“You were in despair and wounded.” Melisande tried to comfort him. “It’s understandable.”
He pulled violently out of her arms. “No! No, I was perfectly well, entirely intact.”
She staredƒ="3ent. “But the torture . . . ?”
He ripped open his shirt and revealed his broad chest. “You’ve seen me, my sweet wife. Is there a scar on any part of my body?”
Her eyes dropped, puzzled, to his unmarked chest. “No—”
“Because they didn’t touch me. In all those days of torturing the others, they never laid a hand on me.”
Dear God. Melisande stared at his chest. For a man like Vale, being the one left unscarred would be worse than bearing the wounds.
She took a deep breath and asked the question he so obviously expected. “But why?”
“Because I was the witness, the most senior officer after they’d killed Reynaud, the only other captain. They made me watch, and if I so much as flinched at what they did, they cut deeper, dug the burning brand in harder.”
He looked at her and smiled awfully, the demons shining from his eyes. “Don’t you see? They tortured the others while I sat and watched.”
Chapter Sixteen
Princess Surcease ate her soup, and what should be at the bottom of the bowl but the silver ring? Well, the king roared for the head cook, and the poor man was again dragged before the court. But no matter how they questioned him, he swore up, down, and sideways that he did not know how the ring had come to be in the princess’s soup. In the end, the king had to send him back to the kitchens again. All the people of the court leaned their heads close and wondered who had won the silver ring.
But Princess Surcease was silent. She merely stared thoughtfully at her fool. . . .
—from LAUGHING JACK
But after last night’s harrowing confession, he needed more rest. Melisande carefully slipped from the covers and got up. She found a simple bodice and skirt to put on, wrapped a cloak about herself, and left the room quietly with Mouse. They pattered down the stairs and made their way through the dark hallways to the kitchens.
Melisande paused. The kitchen had a vast, wide-arched ceiling, plastered and painted with flaking whitewash. It looked terribly old. In the corner, she saw that two pallets had been laid out. Suchlike was fast asleep on one, and Mr. Pynch raised his head from the other. Melisande nodded silently at the valet before slipping out the kitchen door.
Outside, Mouse ran delightedl†ntly in circles before stopping to do his business. There was a long, sloping lawn here, uncut and wild, and farther on, terraced gardens that must once have been magnificent. Melisande began strolling in that direction. It was a lovely day, the bright morning sun just beginning to blow off the low mist from green hills. Melisande stopped and looked back at the castle. In the daylight, it wasn’t so frightening. Of weathered pale pink stone, it rose up to crumbling stepped gables, and chimneys stuck out here and there. Round turreted towers projected from all four corners, making the whole look solid and ancient. She couldn’t help but think the castle must be cold in winter.
“She’s half a millennium old,” a deep rasping voice came from behind her.
Melisande looked around just as Mouse raced up and began barking.
Sir Alistair stood with a dog so tall its head was above his waist. The animal’s fur was a shaggy gray. Mouse stood in front of it and barked frantically. The big dog didn’t move. It simply looked down its long nose at Mouse as if wondering what manner of dog this little yapping thing was.
Sir Alistair frowned at the terrier a moment. This morning, his hair was brushed and clubbed back, and he’d covered his damaged eye with a black eye patch.
“Whisht, laddie,” he drawled in a broad Scots brogue, “dinna fasht yourself.”
He hunkered down and held out his fist to Mouse, who trotted over and sniffed. Melisande saw with a little tremor of horror that Sir Alistair’s right hand was missing the forefinger and little finger.
“He’s a brave wee lad,” Sir Alistair said. “What do you call him?”
“Mouse.”
He nodded and stood, looking away, down the sloping lawn. His big dog sighed and lay down by his feet. “I didn’t mean to frighten you last night, ma’am.”
She looked at him. From this side, with his scars nearly concealed, he could’ve been handsome. His nose was straight and arrogant, his chin firm and not a little stubborn. “You didn’t. I was merely startled at your sudden appearance.”