Deborah Harkness - Shadow of Night

More soldiers. As we approached, they flattened themselves against the walls to make room for us to pass. Matthew’s fingers tightened a fraction on my elbow, but otherwise the men might have been wraiths for all the attention he paid them.

We entered a room with a forest of columns holding up its vaulted roof. Large fireplaces studded the walls, spreading blessed warmth. I sighed with relief and shook out my cloak, shedding water and ice in all directions. A gentle cough directed my attention to a man standing before one of the blazes. He was dressed in the red robes of a cardinal and appeared to be in his late twenties—a terribly young age for someone to have risen so high in the Catholic Church’s hierarchy.

“Ah, Chevalier de Clermont . Or are we calling you something else these days? You have long been out of France. Perhaps you have taken Walsingham’s name along with his position, now that he is gone to hell where he belongs.” The cardinal’s English was impeccable although heavily accented. “We have, on the seigneur ’s instructions, been watching for you for three days. There was no mention of a woman.”

Matthew dropped my arm so that he could step forward. He genuflected with a smooth bend of his left knee and kissed the ring on the man’s extended hand. “ Éminence . I thought you were in Rome, choosing our new pope. Imagine my delight at finding you here.” Matthew didn’t sound happy. I wondered uneasily what we’d stepped into by coming to Mont Saint-Michel and not Saint-Malo as Walter had planned.

“France needs me more than the conclave does at present. These recent murders of kings and queens do not please God.” The cardinal’s eyes sparked a warning. “Your queen will discover that soon enough, when she meets Him.”

“I am not here on English business, Cardinal Joyeuse. This is my wife, Diana” Matthew held his father’s thin silver coin between his first and middle fingers. “We are returning home.”

“So I am told. Your father sent this to ensure your safe passage.” Joyeuse tossed a gleaming object to Matthew, who caught it neatly. “Philippe de Clermont forgets himself and behaves as though he were the king of France.”

“My father has no need to rule, for he is the sharp sword that makes and unmakes kings,” Matthew said softly. He slid the heavy golden ring over the gloved knuckle of his middle finger. Set within it was a carved red stone. I was sure the pattern incised in the ring was the same as the mark on my back. “Your masters know that if it were not for my father, the Catholic cause would be lost in France. Otherwise you would not be here.”

“Perhaps it would be better for all concerned if the seigneur really were king, given the throne’s present Protestant occupant. But that is a topic for us to discuss in private,” Cardinal Joyeuse said tiredly. He gestured to a servant standing in the shadows by the door. “Take the chevalier ’s wife to her room. We must leave you, madame . Your husband has been too long among heretics. An extended period spent kneeling on a cold stone floor will remind him who he truly is.”

My face must have shown my dismay at being alone in such a place.

“Pierre will stay with you,” Matthew assured me before he bent and pressed his lips to mine. “We ride out when the tide turns.”

And that was the last glimpse I had of Matthew Clairmont, scientist. The man who strode toward the door was no longer an Oxford don but a Renaissance prince. It was in his bearing, the set of his shoulders, his aura of banked strength, and the cold look in his eyes. Hamish had been right to warn me that Matthew would not be the same man here. Under Matthew’s smooth surface, a profound metamorphosis was taking place.

Somewhere high above, the bells tolled the hours.

Scientist. Vampire. Warrior. Spy . The bells paused before the final knell.

Prince .

I wondered what more our journey would reveal about this complex man I had married.

“Let us not keep God waiting, Cardinal Joyeuse,” Matthew said sharply. Joyeuse followed behind, as if Mont Saint-Michel belonged to the de Clermont family and not the church.

Beside me, Pierre let out a gentle exhalation. “Milord est lui-même ,” he murmured with relief.

Milord is himself . But was he still mine? Matthew might be a prince, but there was no doubt who was king.

With every strike of our horses’ hooves on the frozen roads, the power and influence of Matthew’s father grew. As we drew closer to Philippe de Clermont, his son became more remote and imperious—a combination that put my teeth on edge and led to several heated arguments. Matthew always apologized for his high-handed conduct once his temper came off the boil, and, knowing the stress he was under as we approached his reunion with his father, I forgave him.

After braving the exposed sands around Mont Saint-Michel at low tide and traveling inland, de Clermont allies welcomed us into the city of Fougères and lodged us in a comfortably appointed tower on the ramparts overlooking the French countryside. Two nights later, footmen with torches met us on the road outside the city of Baugé. There was a familiar badge on their livery: Philippe’s insignia of a cross and crescent moon. I’d seen the symbol before when rooting through Matthew’s desk drawer at SeptTours.

“What is this place?” I asked after the footmen led us to a deserted château. It was surprisingly warm for an empty residence, and the delicious smell of cooked food floated through the echoing corridors.

“The house of an old friend.” Matthew pried the shoes off my frozen feet. His thumbs pressed into my frigid soles, and the blood began to return to my extremities. I groaned. Pierre put a cup of warm, spicy wine in my hands. “This was René’s favorite hunting lodge. It was so full of life when he lived here, with artists and scholars in every room. My father manages it now. With the constant wars, there hasn’t been an opportunity to give the château the attention it needs.”

While we were still at the Old Lodge, Matthew and Walter had lectured me on the ongoing struggles between French Protestants and Catholics over who would control the Crown—and the country. From our windows at Fougères, I’d seen distant plumes of smoke marking the Protestant army’s latest encampment, and ruined houses and churches dotted our route. I was shocked by the extent of the devastation.

Because of the conflict, my carefully constructed background story had to change. In England I was supposed to be a Protestant woman of French descent fleeing her native land to save her life and practice her faith. Here it was essential that I be a long-suffering English Catholic. Somehow Matthew managed to remember all the lies and half-truths required to maintain our multiple assumed identities, not to mention the historical details of every place through which we traveled.

“We’re in the province of Anjou now.” Matthew’s deep voice brought my attention back. “The people you meet will suspect you’re a Protestant spy because you speak English, no matter what story we tell them. This part of France refuses to acknowledge the king’s claim to the throne and would prefer a Catholic ruler.”

“As would Philippe,” I murmured. It was not just Cardinal Joyeuse who was benefiting from Philippe’s influence. Catholic priests with hollow cheeks and haunted eyes had stopped to speak with us along the way, sharing news and sending thanks to Matthew’s father for his assistance. None left empty-handed.

“He doesn’t care about the subtleties of Christian belief. In other parts of the country, my father supports the Protestants.”

“That’s a remarkably ecumenical view.”