Mystic Rider (16 page)

Ian had left his monk’s robe on the farm cart they’d taken
for this visit outside the city. A breeze indecently plastered his shirt linen
to his powerful torso. Despite the strength in his square shoulders, he was
more lean hipped and sinewy than broad. He moved with the agility and grace of
the thoroughbred that had caught his fascination.

“Does your friend know horses well?” Pauline asked, also
watching Ian’s eager step. “Pierre is not a good horseman. He needs a gentle
pony, not one of those great beasts.”

“As far as I’m aware, Ian does not know horses at all.”
Chantal watched in puzzlement as her lover leaned on the paddock fence to survey
the mares, then turned his head as if listening to a distant call. Bypassing
the docile animals, he headed for a fenced area past the stable.

Still holding Marie, Chantal bit back a squeal of fright as
she recognized Ian’s destination  — at the same moment that Papa’s stallion
caught wind of an intruder.

Muttering an oath, she handed Marie to Pauline, then lifted
her skirt to race across the grass toward the fence Ian was vaulting with the
ease of an athlete. “No, Ian! Not that one! He’s mean.” Worse than mean. Just
last year, the stud had trampled a jockey.

Ian didn’t appear to hear her.

“Ian, wait!” she cried.

He didn’t even turn around to see what she wanted, drat the
man. She had spent her life among musicians, courtiers, and gentlemen. She had
no experience with uninhibited beasts who did not believe the rules of society
applied to them.

“Ian!” she screamed as the distant stallion angrily tossed
its head and flared its nostrils.

Seemingly blind to the danger, Ian still didn’t turn around.

She had no one to call on to help. Pauline was wisely
hustling the children into the stable. They’d left Pierre in Paris. The stable
boys seldom appeared except at feeding time.

At Ian’s continued advance, the stallion reared, whinnying
his displeasure. A descendant of England’s champion Matchem, the thoroughbred
was no mere Arabian, but a powerful animal bred for strength and stamina.

“Ian, no! Stop!” The gate was too far away. She clambered on
a fence rail, tugging her skirt and petticoat to an indecent height so she
could sit on the top rail and swing her legs over.

The stallion offered another loud challenge, then broke into
a trot — straight toward Ian.

Perhaps, if she could run along the fence, she could
distract the animal —

The stallion charged into a gallop. Ian halted in the center
of the pasture — too far for Chantal to prevent disaster. She covered her mouth
to keep from screaming her horror and prayed frantically as her feet touched
the ground inside the fence. Maybe if she distracted the stallion quickly enough,
he wouldn’t have time to trample Ian into a bloody pulp.

The idiot man didn’t even see the danger when the horse was
almost on top of him. He stood still, as if
wanting
to be run over. Terrified, Chantal couldn’t bear to stay sensibly near the
fence. She ran toward him, screaming bloody murder, hoping to terrorize the
animal into changing course.

She stumbled and almost fell on her face when the stallion
pranced to a sudden halt and nudged Ian’s shoulder with his muzzle, for all the
world like a friendly puppy looking for treats.

Heart pounding so hard it left her light-headed, Chantal
watched the amazing, terrifying, beyond-annoying man scratch the stallion’s
nose and rub behind its ear as if he didn’t recognize a miracle when he saw
one. Uncaring of her fragile muslin, she sat down in the grass and bent her
forehead to her knees while she learned to breathe again.

Ian was so much a part of her that she felt as if she would
have died if he had.

She vowed to make him pay for that. She’d been perfectly
content living without the responsibility for anyone but herself….

At the sound of pounding hooves, she jerked her head up.

With only a bridle to control the temperamental animal, Ian
had gained the horse’s back and was racing across the field straight toward the
fence on the far side. And he’d said he didn’t know horses!

She couldn’t endure any more terror. Her stomach clenched,
and she squeezed her eyes shut as the stallion’s muscles bunched.
He will break his neck taking that jump.

She waited for screams of agony. Instead, she heard only the
sound of hooves racing away, and she looked up again. Horse and rider rode
merrily across the next pasture without any evidence of disaster. A man who had
never ridden a horse could not instantaneously ride like an experienced cavalry
officer. If the wretched man had lied about his knowledge of horses, what else
had he lied to her about?

She hummed in growing fury, stood, and shook out her skirts.
So much for trusting her instincts. She could have been making love to an assassin,
for all she knew.

* * *

Meshing his mind with the magnificent animal’s, Ian
stretched out and let his muscles move in tandem with his mount’s. The wind
tore through his hair, and he was riding the universe in a manner that exceeded
even that of his exercises with his staff under the night sky.

Why had no one ever told him of this astounding animal? Had
Sky Riders in ancient times been denied this powerful instrument of knowledge?
To what purpose?

The forward rush of motion focused all the fragments of his
thoughts, impressions, and instincts into a steady stream of visions clearer
than any he’d ever known. The images hit him one after another with the power
of terror and fury.

Despite his joy in his newfound skill, Ian suffered
gut-wrenching horror as his mind’s eye collected pictures of human heads
rolling into a basket, beautiful women reduced to rags and shame and dragged in
carts through jeering mobs, cities burning, armies marching —

And Murdoch there, in the center of it all.

Gagging on his nausea, Ian shut down his senses before the
psychic violence destroyed him. Closing his eyes and taking deep breaths, he
rubbed the stallion’s proud neck, whispered in his ear, and slowed him to a
cooling trot. Still linked muscle to muscle with the horse’s motion, he let his
head clear slowly, gradually coming back from the heavens and taking in his
surroundings.

Somewhere in their mad race, they’d jumped the fence and
left the stable far behind.

Chantal! She’d been terrified. Enrapt in fascination with
the stallion’s mind, Ian had ignored her foolish fears, just as she would
ignore him if he tried to tell her of his vision — and his terror that she would
one day be one of the women in a cart, rolling to her doom. The sky was red
with blood that would soon rain down on all of France.

Stomach roiling, he asked his mount to turn home, promising
rich feed and much gratitude in return. The animal shook its mighty head,
enjoying the wind in its mane, but obediently he broke into a canter in the
direction from which they’d come.

Ian mentally reexamined his fleeting visions. The horse’s
steady pace eased the task, but not the pain, of revisiting the violence.

By the time the stable came into view, Ian knew that
Murdoch, the king, and the chalice were all intertwined. He was on the right
course. He just hadn’t planned far enough ahead. He needed to save the king and
the chalice from treachery, then capture Murdoch and return to Aelynn before
true revolution erupted.

He needed Chantal to go with him, sooner and not later.

He was prepared to die in his effort to stop Murdoch, if
Murdoch’s ambition was to control France with the aid of the chalice. He could
not allow an Aelynner to wreak any part of the violence he’d just Seen. But he
refused to leave Chantal alone and helpless in the terror to come. Which meant
he needed to change his plans and transport her and the chalice safely from
Paris
before
he went after Murdoch.

She wouldn’t want to go. That knowledge gnawed at his
innards.

The party of women and children sat in the cart, eating the
picnic lunch they’d brought with them. Ian would think it a cheerful domestic
scene if he did not recognize his amacara’s rigid posture. Even from this
distance, he could tell she was frightened and furious.

He’d known that taking a mate at a dangerous time like this
was a risk, but not taking her would have been equally risky and decidedly less
pleasant. At least, knowing she was angry with him, he wasn’t riding around in
a state of unrequited arousal. When she thought about their lovemaking, he knew
it, and his body responded accordingly.

The amacara ties were already binding them, despite their
unorthodox vows. He did not dare explain to Chantal that if she thought lustful
thoughts, he would respond in kind. And vice versa. She had too much control
over him as it was, and he needed to act on his own for now.

He supposed he ought to be grateful that she had yet to
conceive his child, but the failure nagged at him. If only he’d been able to
find that blasted mark, he could be convinced that she had a talent of great
worth to Aelynn, and he might understand the motive of the gods. But the
candles had guttered out before they’d left the bath, and he’d been too
besotted to examine her when she’d tugged her sheets tightly to her chin and
fallen fast asleep. He’d have to be a brute to wake her by lighting lamps.
Besides, his decision was already made. The mark wouldn’t change it. Perhaps
the gods meant for them to conceive on Aelynn, where Olympian spirits waited.
Taking Chantal to Aelynn complicated his life beyond measure, but he needed to
do it.

He slid off the stallion and walked it around the paddock,
delaying the moment when he must face Chantal’s ire. When a stable boy finally
arrived, Ian handed over a coin, and translating the images in the animal’s
mind, he asked for the best oats and some carrots.

Then, unable to dally longer, he approached the cart.

“Did you have a pleasant gallop, monsieur?” Chantal called
sweetly. “I had no idea you were such an accomplished rider. Do you practice on
racing dragons in your country since you don’t have horses?”

Ian uttered impolite oaths under his breath as he rested his
boot on the cart step and reached for the hunk of bread the little boy offered.
He had no way of telling her about Aelynn or his mental skills until she wore
his ring. “I have never before encountered such an intelligent animal,” he said
truthfully, avoiding a direct answer.

“Or a better-behaved one. Tell me, do all creatures do as
you ask?”

He didn’t have to read her mind to know that dart had two
prongs. Even the old mule stirred restively at her pointed barb.

“Some creatures are more contrary than others. Usually the
more intelligent ones,” he admitted, tearing off a hunk of bread with his
teeth.

At home, he was a peacemaker. Here, he was a roil of
turbulent emotions he had little experience handling.

“Intelligent creatures with minds of their own,” she agreed,
maintaining her sweet accents so as not to disturb the children, although
Pauline looked at her oddly and the mule shook his head. “It must be difficult
dealing with contrary minds that disagree with your omniscience.”

Ian wondered what would happen if she learned how her voice
affected others and deliberately directed her ire in his direction. He expected
it would be painful.

“If I knew all,” he replied, “I wouldn’t be here trying to
find the best solution to our mutual problems. I’m always open to suggestion.”
Well, perhaps not always. He’d ignored her fears of the horse. And he had no
intention of leaving her in Paris. So perhaps she had some right to complain.
Eventually, she’d understand that he knew best.

“Then I suggest, in your omniscience, that you choose a
steady mare for Pierre so he can leave. Papa is obtaining his passport as we
speak.”

After the visions he’d seen today, he’d changed his mind
about the plans they had made last night. They needed to be modified.

“I don’t think the documents will be sufficient to see him
safely from the country,” Ian declared, reaching for the cheese and a cup of
wine that Pauline handed him. He was always starving after he’d had a vision.
“I have been listening, and security between here and the north has tightened. The
soldiers fear invasion and are wary of spies.”

“You mean, they are afraid the king will escape,” Pauline
said with bitterness.

“That, too.” It took more time to plot his actions than to
process his visions. He had to think quickly on how best to accomplish
everything at once. “A lone man on a rich horse that he rides badly would
arouse suspicion. A cart or carriage carrying women and children going to a
wedding would pass more freely.”

Chantal glared as if she saw inside his head.

Fortunately for all concerned, she could not.

“You want us to go with Pierre?” Pauline asked in dismay.

“For your king and country, I think that wisest,” he agreed
without inflection, hoping Pauline understood.

She did, and her expression grew thoughtful. Von Fersen had
set the escape for tomorrow night, with the light of the full moon to guide
them. It would be a matter of coordinating the escape of Pauline and the
children instead of just Pierre  — and without their being aware of the king’s
escape, persuading Chantal and her father to accompany them. Even without his
premonitions, Ian could see that Alain Orateur would be murdered within months
if he stayed, and that Chantal would never leave without him.

That, he could not allow.

“
Non, non!
This
is inexcusable,” Pierre protested, pacing the music room, where they had
gathered that evening. “I cannot endanger my sister and the little ones with this
reckless plan.”

Chantal thoroughly approved of her brother-in-law’s wisdom
in this matter, even if she questioned his wisdom in his choice of loyalty to
the church instead of king and country. He, at least, saw the fallacy of
involving the innocent in his escape.