Mystic Rider (7 page)

He couldn’t explain Aelynn at all, not unless they were
properly bound by vows. Taking an Other Worlder for wife was fraught with
difficulty. Most Aelynners left their Other World mates with their Other World
families rather than bring them to the island. Ian couldn’t afford that luxury.
He might never be able to return here again, and he had no intention of leaving
Chantal in this grim place.

Climbing down, he stroked the donkey’s
muzzle, soothed by its uncomplicated
affection. People might not completely understand him, but animals accepted him
without judgment. He hoped his rebellious, glorious amacara eventually would,
too.

He almost laughed when she hummed louder. He was not a man
accustomed to laughing  — or expressing any other emotion — but he was starting to
grasp this peculiar reaction of hers.

“I will learn to hum my frustration as you do,” he told her,
lifting her from the cart. “Just think how I must feel trying to understand
your strange ways.” He set her on the muddy street and strode briskly toward
the prison’s entrance.

She remained where he’d left her, tapping her toe on the
cobblestones.

Knowing he was close to the chalice, Ian was half inclined
to leave her there. She would only slow him down. But this was not peaceful
Aelynn, and he was beginning to understand mortality in this world where life
was so little valued. He refused to lose her now that he’d found her.

So he returned and frowned down on the wide-brimmed hat that
prevented him from seeing her expression. “You do not wish to go inside?” he
asked.

“I do not wish to follow at your heels like a lamb,” she
replied, frost dripping from her tongue. “Proper etiquette requires that a
gentleman offer his arm to a lady, especially in a place like this.”

Ian studied her, studied his arm; then, shrugging, he stuck
the arm not burdened with his staff straight out so she could hang on to it.

She tilted her head so even he could read her incredulity.
Humming a tune that resembled the rebellious ditty of earlier, she caught his
elbow, tugged it sharply downward, and lifted her skirt with her free hand.
“You must have been raised in a cave,” she concluded.

Thinking of his mother’s safe haven at the foot of the
volcano, Ian nodded. “I was, until I was old enough to go out alone.”

This time, he ignored the look of disbelief she cast upon him.

Located immediately next to the Palais de Justice, La
Conciergerie prison was part of the medieval palace of Philip IV. The hall’s
immense vaulted ceiling and rows of Gothic columns reflected its origin. Had
the marble floors been empty, the palatial space would have been awe inspiring.

Instead, the dregs of humanity mixed with soldiers, lawyers,
and a host of visitors — elegant and otherwise — and the stench and the noise in
the echoing chamber were overpowering.

Clinging to Monsieur d’Olympe’s arm, Chantal hurried to keep
up with his brisk stride. His robe swung around his boots like the cloak of a
general, and he behaved as if not another soul existed but himself. For the
most part, the mob aided his impression. People drifted aside ahead of them,
creating a wide path to the iron grille at the rear of the chamber that marked
the prison’s boundary.

Perhaps it was his monk’s robes that caused people to step
aside, but Chantal doubted it. She assumed that if he had
her
following like a sheep despite her resistance, he might impose
his wishes on others as well.

Praying that Pauline and her children were close by
prevented Chantal from thinking beyond that. There wouldn’t be time before dark
to traipse about Paris to look elsewhere. The city was filled with prisons.

Monsieur d’Olympe apparently intended to march right past
the desk and guards and part the grille with his bare hands. Evidently her task
was to remind him that he was not God. A cave, indeed! Perhaps his parents were
wolves.

A little shaken upon realizing that the man with whom she’d
just had carnal relations — it certainly hadn’t been lovemaking, she had no
illusion about that! — reminded her very much of a beautiful wolf stalking his
prey, she tugged his arm and refused to walk farther.

At his impatient glance, she nodded toward the uniformed man
behind the desk. “You cannot enter without his permission. Pauline will be here
under her married name of Racine.”

She wanted to search for Pauline among the prisoners
strolling about on the far side of the grille, but watching over her determined
companion took all her attention. Fierce features scowling, he twirled his
gnarled staff against the floor while he followed her gaze and took note of
their surroundings.

“I should have brought Kiernan,” he said in disgust. “I
cannot sense anything in this confusion.”

That made about as much sense as anything else he’d said so
far. Taking a calming breath, Chantal tugged him into the line in front of the
desk. She might think rebellious thoughts, but she disliked actual conflict.

“I am not accustomed to waiting,” he practically growled at
her.

“We can’t go through without a pass,” she explained tightly.

“We could be here all night.” He started to twirl his staff,
realized what he was doing, and pounded it impatiently on the floor. “The
chalice is more important than their petty concerns.”

“Maybe so, but — ” Chantal gaped as the slovenly couple in
front of her looked around nervously and abruptly walked off.

She glanced at her companion to see if he might have threatened
them in some way, but he was glaring at the next person in line — a
black-coated, bewigged lawyer. The man suddenly checked his watch and
apparently realized he needed to be somewhere else.

“That’s better,” the monk muttered, studying the weeping
young woman now blocking their progress. He twirled his staff, studied the
vaulted ceiling for a minute, then shook his head. “I detest this place.”

Abandoning Chantal, he left the line and stalked toward the
desk. The burly soldier ignored his approach until her audacious companion removed
a coin from a pouch in his robe, set it on the desk, and leaned over to whisper
something in the man’s ear.

Coins of any denomination were extremely scarce. He’d have a
mob attacking him for his purse if he were not careful.

Chantal held her breath as other soldiers inched closer. She
shivered, uneasy at being left alone in this crowd. She had foolishly felt safe
at Monsieur d’Olympe’s side. She ought to know better than to equate size with
intellect. The idiot man could get himself thrown behind bars and never be seen
again.

She surveyed the throng, praying she might glimpse sturdy
old Girard, but a shift in the line ahead caused her to swing back to see what
was happening.

A guard was opening the gate, gesturing for her escort to
enter. Swearing under her breath, Chantal caught up her skirts and hurried to
join him. To her surprise, all the others in line surged forward as well.

Monsieur d’Olympe —
Ian,
since he scarcely seemed a gentleman — patiently waited for her before entering.
But there was nothing patient about his grip on her arm as he pushed her past
the rush of shouting, hugging couples and acquaintances abruptly meeting in the
broad corridor.

“The guards have no compassion,” he growled. “They think
only of their bellies, like starving dogs in a manger.”

“They have spent many years starving like dogs,” she said
tersely. “We had no grain, no bread, no coal with which to warm ourselves,
while the nobility danced to Austrian musicians and competed to see who could
wear the most extravagant imported laces and silks. If people are reduced to
surviving like animals, they will behave like animals.”

He wore his cowl over his head, so she could not see his
reaction to her lecture. She had acquired her zeal for equality at her father’s
knee. She had no more respect for the monk’s church than she did for the court.
The church had hoarded its wealth while the aristocracy had squandered theirs.
Fools all. Neither extreme aided the masses.

“How did you persuade them to let us all in at once?” she
asked.

While the guard led them to Pauline’s chamber, Ian
responded, “The guards were bored. It was the end of their shift. The gates
would close shortly. I offered them the opportunity to have a good time this
evening.”

He was a foreigner. How had he known the gates would close
when she did not?

“In here.” The soldier indicated one of the first-floor
chambers, and Chantal sighed in relief. At least the children weren’t being
housed in the dungeons.

Choosing not to question this miraculous gift, she merely
glanced at the monk’s enigmatic features beneath the cowl, then brushed past
him to enter Pauline’s cell.

The chamber was narrow and filthy, and Chantal suppressed
her rage that her beautiful godchildren and her frail sister-in-law were
confined in such squalor. She had to get them out of here, at once. Somehow.
She would worry about Pierre later.

Pauline cried out in surprise at her entrance, and the
children raced to cling to her petticoats. Weeping at the sight of Pauline’s
gamin features stained with dirt and tears, Chantal hugged her. Wordlessly, she
took comfort in her best friend’s strong return of affection and sob of relief,
then crouched down to wrap the children in her embrace. She kissed them and
hummed beneath her breath to ease their fears and her own.

“We should leave now,” the monk intoned quietly.

Chantal stared up at him in disbelief. “Leave? We have only
just arrived.”

“My supply of funds is not endless. I must still buy back
the chalice and may not be able to pay our way in here again. Gather the
children and hurry to the cart while you can.”

Chantal almost bit through her tongue to keep from
questioning this astounding order. Did he think they could invisibly walk past
the guards at the gate? Had he bribed the guards not to see them? What manner
of insanity inspired him?

Leaning down to lift her youngest, Pauline whispered, “Who
the devil is he?”

“King Arthur?” Chantal suggested, taking the hand of
five-year-old Anton. “But I am learning not to ask questions. Amazing things
happen in his company.” Given the embarrassing details, she could scarcely
explain how amazing.

Without arguing, she hurried Anton past Ian’s motionless
form into the crowded corridor filled with prisoners and their visitors. All
were allowed to roam freely — until they reached the grille in the vaulted hall.

“We cannot go past the gates without a pass,” she warned.
“How can we reach the cart?”

“Ask nicely,” he replied without inflection. “Or hum,” he
added after a moment’s thought. “I enjoy the sound.”

He confused her too much for her to know if he was being
facetious. She had seen Ian move a line of people out of his way and fling open
gates that were barred to most. That there had been no trial, no judge, and
presumably no bail did not seem to deter him now.

Singing lightly to amuse the toddlers, she swung Anton’s
hand and hurried after Pauline, who was already halfway down the corridor,
racing as if the hounds of hell were on her heels.

Chantal’s heart was lodged too firmly in her throat to
pound. That their party hurried toward the great room was not unusual enough
for any to take notice. Passing the locked gate at the end, on the other hand —

Didn’t stop Monsieur d’Olympe. Using his staff as a walking
stick, he strode firmly toward the gate, nodded at the guard, and waited for
the gate to swing open as if he were king and the soldier a mere footman meant
to obey his orders. Given that during this turbulent time the king was a
prisoner in his own palace, that was not a good comparison.

The gate opened. The guard waved them on without asking for
visiting passes.

Uncaring how this came about, Chantal shooed her small flock
ahead of her, making certain they were safely past the grille before rushing
out to join them.

The gate slammed, leaving Ian behind.

Gasping, Chantal sent him an anxious look, but he was
already turning away, intent upon his own business. Humming a trifle
frantically now, she held tight to her nephew’s small hand and, shoulder to
shoulder with Pauline, hastened through the medieval great hall until they
reached the humid air of the darkening street.

A motley band of neighborhood militia stamped past — aging
muskets and rusty sabers held over their shoulders, a drum and pipe playing
marching music — leading a parade of idlers through the evening dusk. The
military sights and sounds were increasingly familiar, and Chantal shivered as
if she’d seen a portent of things to come.

“What just happened in there?” Pauline murmured, hugging her
youngest and observing the normal street scene in confusion.

“We may have met a whirlwind,” Chantal replied. “Did Girard
find you?”

“He did. He said he was working on our release, but he could
not say how long it would take.” Pauline set Marie on her feet. “I did not
expect it to come so precipitously. I owe you everything for this.”

“You owe me nothing.” Chantal dismissed the sentiment while
watching the street in hopes of seeing a tall figure in robes striding after
them. “Did Girard have my bell with him?”

“Bell? No, he carried nothing.” Pauline threw her a worried
glance. “Your friend did not trade himself for us, did he?”

Chantal shook her head. “As noble as I grant his actions
are, I think they were in his own interest as much as ours. I just worry that
he does not fully grasp our customs here. He claims to be Swiss and raised in a
cave.”

Pauline laughed shortly. “All Parisians behave as if they
were raised in caves these days. I fear what the wolves will do to Pierre.”

“Your brother brought this on himself. We have not gone to
the Palais yet to ask where he’s been taken. My father can find him tomorrow
and see what must be done. I wish Girard would come out. I need to take you
home, but I hate to leave Monsieur d’Olympe.”