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Chapter Three

Langeais

Frankia 999

Edmond Montagne pounded down the stairs beneath the Langeais chapel, following D’Artagnon, his twin close on his heels and his fury barely contained. Two women held beneath the sacristy, accused of witchcraft by Faucher. One of them, D’Artagnon’s mate. A woman who had aided their pack in recent times. A true witch. The other woman? Who knew what manner of poor soul she was, or for what reason she had been so confined, but Edmond would see her free. No one, especially a female, deserved to be at the mercy of a priest like Faucher.

Eveque Faucher. The witch hunter. His reputation had preceded his arrival in Langeais, and he had done nothing to improve Edmond’s opinion of him since.

D’Artagnon flung open the first door at the bottom of the stairs and peered in. “Take her,” he snarled, moving on to the next door.

Edmond ducked his head through the doorway, the darkness no hindrance to his enhanced senses, and skidded to a halt.

The Fates have mercy.

Covered in filth, dark curls plastered to her skull and her wrists bleeding and raw from the iron shackles that kept her bound, a woman huddled in the corner shivering. He had never seen a being—human or animal—in such a wretched condition.

Shackles and chains in a simple storeroom beneath a chapel. Fates be. It spoke to a darker purpose. Perhaps they had been of Archeveque Renaud’s design when he was still alive. When he had hunted them. A growl rumbled up in his chest. If not for the saintly Aumônier Touissant, Edmond would burn this chapel to the ground.

Another growl, this time from Aubert, as his twin stepped into the room behind him. The woman pressed herself against the wall, her human eyes searching the darkness, the reek of her fear bitter on the air. Merde. What had Faucher done to her?

He dropped to his haunches in front of her, curling his shoulders in and lowering his head, making himself as small as possible. She could not see him, but she would sense his presence, and he did not wish to be the cause of more distress.

She stiffened, but rallied, raising her chin. Even in her pitiable state, there was a beauty about her, a strength beneath her fragility. A determination to survive. It called to him and had his wolf roaring to the surface. It had him wanting to find Faucher and rip out his throat for what he had done to her. L’enfer, he needed her in his arms, where he could protect her and keep her safe.

Unable to resist his need to touch her, he cupped her chin.

“No! Don’t touch me!” She flailed, her hands going for his face, scratching his cheeks with her fingernails.

“Save your claws, chaton, for one who deserves them.” He restrained her arms, careful of her damaged wrists. “We are here to help you. Save you from this place.” He turned to his twin. “Break the chains.”

With brute force and his werewolf strength, Aubert wrenched the pins from the wall, and Edmond scooped her up. She whimpered and curled in on herself.

“Shh, shh,” he murmured against her forehead. “You are safe now.” As soon as he had her in his arms, cocooned against his chest, his wolf eased its ceaseless pacing in his mind. He was not letting her go. Not until they were free of this place. Maybe not then.

There was no time to break the cuffs on her wrists, so Aubert placed the chain links in her lap. “We need to go.”

There was an urgency in his brother’s voice, mirrored in the thumping of his own heart. It would be best if they were not here when Faucher returned. Comte Lothair had granted them a boon—a missive with his seal directing the gate guards to let them pass through armed. Would he be so benevolent if they slaughtered the eveque? For nothing short of the witch hunter’s death would satisfy his wolf were they to encounter him.

The church had influence, as much as comtes and kings might prefer it otherwise. Even Comte Lothair—rumored to fear no one—stepped carefully around the clergy. Especially those with rank and connections like Faucher. After Ulrik had relieved Archeveque Renaud of his head, having to hide the death of another priest would be more than Lothair would tolerate.

Aumônier Touissant rushed over to them as they entered the nave. “Quick, quick. Your boy Remi is waiting at the gate with a horse and cart. You must go.” He ushered them toward the door.

D’Artagnon, his mate in his arms, raced past the empty pews. Edmond shared a look with his twin. The kindly aumônier had helped them, but there was no choice for it. He had to be taken care of, lest Faucher accuse him of being complicit. Then he would suffer the same fate as this woman, and Edmond could not bear that. Touissant was all that stood between some of the less fortunate villagers of Langeais and the vagaries of peasant life.

Aubert nodded. “I am sorry about this, Aumônier.” His twin crashed his fist into Touissant’s face. The man crumpled to his knees clutching his nose, blood seeping through his fingers.

“Tell Faucher you could not stop us,” Edmond called over his shoulder as he raced for the entrance. “You tried, but we were too strong, too many. If you could not mention us by name, that would be helpful. But do not fear if you must.”

Then he was pushing through the chapel doors and hurrying down the hill, crossing the bailey, ignoring the startled looks of merchants, peasants and nobles. At the gate waited Remi—the beggar boy thief he had pressed into service—with a horse, a cart and their mounts fetched from the forest.

His brother jumped up and took the reins of the cart from Remi, the horse stamping its feet and rolling its eyes. Edmond settled himself in the back, resting his precious cargo against his chest as Aubert flicked the reins. The flighty horse startled, reared, then lurched forward, hauling them along at a reckless pace as though it could outrace its passengers. Remi trailed along behind them with their horses, trying to keep up.

Aubert struggled with the reins, with the runaway horse, steering them as best he could, away from D’Artagnon and his mate as they careened through the village square. An out-of-control horse and cart, two big warriors and a woman with chains about her wrists and covered in filth—they would be remembered. By the curious gate guards. By the villagers in the square.

The cart bounced around on the road, and the woman near fell out of his arms. Edmond clutched her tighter and cupped his hand around her head, stopping it from rolling off his shoulder. “Get the horse under control, brother.”

Aubert grunted as he wrestled with the reins, the curses and screams of villagers jumping out of their path signaling their course. Then they were through the village gate and plunging into the forest, and Aubert wrangled with the frantic horse until it slowed and finally came to a restless stop, lathered, its chest heaving.