Devour the Moon

She looked to her father and her voice became low. "We're so close. Let's go on."

Her father sighed, pointing to the road. "We'll go on."

The coachman nodded, tapping his hand on the carriage door in understanding, and he turned back to the pilot's seat. The carriage shook as he threw himself back atop it, and almost at once, horse hooves clopped on as they rolled away from the inn. Her father looked on wistfully, but Rochelle could only grin. It was almost over. They were so close to the end of their journey.

The sun balanced on the shoulder of the earth, and the air cooled as night seeped in to the edges of the woods. All around them the trees stood tall and perfect like black paladins, and in their dark green shadows predator and prey stepped lightly. The air was thick with the chittering and tweeting of birds, and the carriage groaned on as the horses moved with surefooted grace.

Then the sun set, and Batton hung two lanterns from his seat. An orange glow lashed out from the carriage, dimly illuminating the nearest trees of those dark woods. Above, a cold, full moon had risen, and now it lingered behind them, casting an eerie blue wake where the lantern light failed.

They passed into an open field, carriage wheels digging into a sandy road as it meandered through the high stalks of grass.

A horse neighed. "Whoa," Batton called, drawing the word out as they slowed.

Rochelle shoved herself to the window, looking to see what might have paused them. In the darkness, there was nothing, only the circle of orange lantern light that fell around the carriage.

Her father opened the door on the other side, peering out. He dropped onto the step and raised a hand back towards Rochelle to preempt any protest.

"Stay here." His voice was icy, and a dark chill filled the veins of her neck.

"What is it?" She looked again, but he waved her back.

"Rochelle, stay here."

"I want to--"

"Rochelle," he bade harshly. She slunk back to the seat, and he dropped to the soft ground. Fine sand crunched beneath him, and he walked forwards to Monsieur Batton and the horses.

She brought herself again to the window, peering out into the night, squinting until at last she saw them. Beyond the lantern light, six figures sat atop horseback, cloaked in blue darkness. Their beasts breathed hard, the silhouettes of their tails shaking and whipping.

"These roads are closed," called one man from the dark. His voice was deep, rumbling in the clearing and extinguishing the warmth of her cheeks.

"I travel to Dijon on the king's behalf," her father said. He moved nearer. "Do not embroil yourself in the king's business."

"The king's business?" the same man asked with the whisper of a laugh in his words. He swung off his horse. "Then our interests are aligned tonight. I, too, serve the king."

Rochelle opened the carriage door and hung over the carriage step. The other men were tall on horseback, dressed darkly against the black brush.

A dry breeze rolled through. The high grass swayed, and as it did, the man who had dismounted took several measured steps forwards. With each step, he jingled and his scabbard bounced at his side.

"You will stand aside, then?" her father asked, a tremor in his voice.

"But, yes, of course." The perilous man neared, and as he did Rochelle clutched the carriage door more tightly, fingers pressing into the soft wood. "We will stand aside so that you may take up your new appointment, provost marshal."

Rochelle's head tilted, her brow furrowing as she opened the door wider. The man knew who her father was?

"Preventing me from discharging my lawful duties would be a mistake." Her father fell back.

"I come not for you, provost." He pointed a gloved hand out and his finger extended towards Rochelle. "I come for her."

Rochelle dropped from the carriage to the sand. Her heart thundered, barely contained within her breast. Behind the man on the hill, two more men dismounted.

"No," her father said wanly. He stepped back towards the carriage and turned to face Rochelle, the light on his face like the flickering flames of Perdition. "I won't allow it."

"Your daughter will be safe," the man crooned. He waved his hand and, like the fingers of the night given shape, two others advanced into the light. They wore dark black coats with scarves of red, blue cloaks fluttering at their backs. One drew his sword; the other, a pistol.

Her father stepped backwards still. "Stop. Stop this!" he cried. "I have money."

"And a thing more valuable than that tonight."

From the pilot's seat, Monsieur Batton dropped to the ground. With only the driving whip in hand, the tip of it laying unpoised at his feet, he put himself in front of her and stared down the advancing men.

"Back--back, you!" Monsieur Batton called, but still they came on.

At last, the devil himself stepped into the light. From the folded black leather of his boots, to the villain-black curls that hung at his ears, to the dark-gloved hand that rested ripe with violence on his black hilt, here was a man who knew not love, nor pity, nor mercy--and all hope left her.

"Your daughter will be safe," he said again. He spoke softer than moonlight, with no warmth to his words. "Come, my dear, let's not draw this out."

The two men moved past her father.

"Back," Batton urged again. He cracked the short whip, shattering the stillness of the night.

"Come here, girl," the swordsman called, his voice rough like wet, sliding rocks. He feinted towards the coachman, and Rochelle cried out, grabbing for him.

"Come here," the swordsman called again. "Before I split his belly."

Her father argued with the devil, but she could hear nothing as the two men before her neared with shot and steel. They circled to the side, away from the carriage, but Monsieur Batton kept himself between them and her.

Her father cried out as the man hoisted him by his collar. With the back of his hand, he struck her father, and as he did, the two men before her bent forward, as if to lunge.

A tension built, straining ever tighter.

Finally, Rochelle threw her hands out. "Stop! Stop!" Her panic reverberated through the clearing. "I'll go. Please, I'll go. Don't hurt them."

The men softened. The swordsman lowered his saber, and the devil dropped her father, kicking him hard while he was on the ground. He reached down, grabbing her father by his shirt and pitched him towards the carriage, where he stumbled forwards, dust kicking up with each awkward step.

With a cry, Rochelle reached out and caught him, falling to her knees as he groaned and clutched at her arm.

"Don't go," he begged. "I will pay."

She put a hand on the side of his face, where the fine dry sand had stuck to his skin, and she cast a look back to the man who now had three more caped villains at his back. "They don't want your money."

She began to stand, but her father grabbed for a stronger hold on her. "Don't."

The devil neared, his hand out as well. Cool, winter-blue eyes stared at her, his stubble grey and green on his jaw like turbulent waters. "Your daughter will be safe, provost. You have my word."

Rochelle kissed her father on his dirtied cheek. Batton took support of him, and--perhaps for the last time--she let her father go.

Her breaths became heavy as she reached for the man's hand. The same hands that had beaten her father. She pulled back, hesitating, but he closed his long fingers around hers and doom crashed like a wave upon her.

He drew her close, and she became awash in the perfumed scent of all the sharp fruits of the Orient. One hand he put on the small of her back--the other grasped her hand--and he guided her up the hill. Her whole body felt airy. Her teeth chattered. The extents of her legs wobbled as if she were a block of melting ice, as if the whole ordeal were happening to someone else. She wanted to call back to her father not to worry, not to be afraid, but her voice had left her.

"Your daughter's protection is a favour," the man called over his shoulder. "If you wish me to extend this courtesy beyond tonight, then you will remember well who you serve."

Standing as they reached the man's buckskin horse atop the hill, her father called after them. "Who do I serve?"

The man offered his hand, but she ignored him and took hold of the horn. With grace, she leapt up and pulled herself into the saddle. She settled into position, chin tilted high. She was not afraid of him, she decided, but instead loathed him for the brigandish coward that he was.

Smiling cruelly, the man grabbed the horn between her legs and jumped into the saddle, their bodies colliding as he squeezed against her.

Rochelle's breath hitched. Under the folds of her white dress that laid like scalloped snowdrifts, he took the black reins into his hands, his hips gyrating, and he wrapped his arms around her. She sucked in a deep breath, and all-too-easily, he picked her up and tucked her into his body.

"Who do I serve?" her father asked again, more frightened than she had ever heard.

The horse stirred with a snort. The man pulled on its reins. Warm breath passed by her ear, tickling her earlobe.

"You serve the Marquis de Maule," the man said. "And if you wish to see your daughter again, you must never forget it."

A horror-stricken look was etched on her father's face, but he dared not move closer.

The horse lurched. The man's thick arms strained, but secured Rochelle in her place against him. They completed a full turn, then again faced her father. "Theo--stay with the provost. Ensure he makes it to Dijon and keeps our arrangement to himself."

"Aye, monsieur," one of the others said.

The man turned his attention back to her father. "Be good to the marquis, provost, and he shall be good to you. Onward!"

With a cry, the man kicked in his heels and the horse leapt into a gallop, thundering down the dark side of the small hill. The circle of lantern light disappeared behind them and they rode into the night, pursued by nothing.

********

CHAPTER 2

********

The manor bulged like a dead boar against the grace of stars, the treat of life vacant in its glassy eyes. Up they galloped past the slack stone wall and the shattered gatehouse and the path that unrolled like a dry grey tongue--up and up and up, to the ruined abbey that laid mossy and moonlit, where grotesqueries and gargoyles feasted on the carrion of its stone and all that abandoned butchery.

The beating hooves slowed, then stopped. The others dismounted, and so did he. Through the dark ride, he had held Rochelle, his wicked body pressed against hers, and she swallowed, glad to be free of his grasp. At each step, her heart had pounded as if she were being driven to the very gates of Hell, yet he had said no words, he had offered no reprieve, and only the soft warmth of his breath had fallen in her ear as they rode.

Standing beneath her, he offered his hand, but she ignored it and stepped down into the stirrup. No sooner had she planted her foot before his arm moved around her waist, and he lifted her from the horse. Flustered, she eeped, her lips pressing together as the heat rose in her cheeks, and she wafted to the ground in his arms.

A lantern jumped to life near the horses. A short circle of light spread out around them, revealing the grass at their feet to be as dry and yellow as the flame. Ahead, a wide set of short stairs led to the haunted shell of the abbey, where the arched doorway loomed. On one side, it was flanked by beautiful stained glass that rippled in reds and yellows in an elegant web of stone tracery, but on the other side there was only a jagged hole where the memory of a window lingered.

"What is this place?" she asked.

Her captor offered his hand, but when she made no effort to reach for it, he snatched her arm and shoved her towards the abbey.

"Where are we?" she asked more loudly.

He turned to the other men, who were still tending to their horses. "We'll rest till dawn. Lochlann, stow the horses and make ready."

"Yes, monsieur," one of the men said, gathering all the horses' reins into his hands as he headed from the camp.

"Killian, you'll take the first dogwatch."

Another one nodded. "Monsieur."

"Gosse."

"Yes?" said a short, bespectacled man with matted hair.

"Camp forager." Her captor took a waterskin from his belt and tossed it to Gosse, who began collecting canteens and waterskins from the others. "And Gosse--douse that lantern. No fires tonight."

The man's hand came back for Rochelle, but she jerked away.

"Where are we?" she demanded.

He looked hard at her. Even in the lantern light, his face betrayed no sense or emotion. Again he held his hand out, and she again refused. With a gentle, tired sigh, he tucked his arm under hers.

"Come now with these questions. It's been a long ride tonight. You wouldn't know this place if I told you, and besides, life is easier when you're not athwart to it."

Roughly, she freed herself from his grasp. "Don't touch me."

His face became stern. He grabbed her again, this time pulling her closer than she dared to be. "Your father will obey me so long as he assumes you are alive." His lip pulled back into a snarl, eyes tracing down her body. "But he can be made to hold his assumptions long after you are buried in the woods."

She tried to turn away, but he clutched her more tightly still.

"Do you understand?"

"What a cruel thing you are," she muttered, recoiling from the ache in his voice. Closer he leaned, until he was less than a hand's length away, and he forced her to meet his gaze, his blue eyes burning with the misery of frost.

"I may seem to you now the lowest, the cruelest a man can be," he rasped, "but I assure you, it runs deeper still." He unhanded her, and she staggered backwards. "And though I find a rustic charm in a bellicose little girl, I warn you to better guard your tongue with me." He drew up to his full height and pointed towards the abbey door.

Reluctantly, she marched up the stairs, his hand on her arm, and he opened the door for her, which shuddered on its hinges and revealed the dark hole of the abbey's innards. In the centre of the main chamber, the ceiling had collapsed in big chunks of stone, splintering pews into thin stabs of wood, and through the hole in the ceiling the moonlight poured in under the cold eyelets of white stars.

Rochelle wrapped her arms around her body, the silk of her dress cool where it freshly touched her skin.

"You will rest here." He pointed to the corner with the least debris. "I'll have blankets brought, though it is a warm night and you may not need them."

"Alexandre!" one of the others called from outside.

Her captor offered a turgid bow, bending almost to his waist before turning on his heel with disgust.

The lumbering door closed, and she huffed.

Her thoughts turned to escape, but she quieted them. Her father must have been terrified to not know where she was, or if she was safe. She hoped his health was good after this... this... this Alexandre had struck him so savagely.

She hugged herself and looked around the abbey. In the dark, her eyes could pick out scant details. The shape of hard rock here. The tendrils of green hanging from a column there. As she searched in vain, though, her thoughts circled back to escape.

The woods were no place for her. Not at night. Not when she knew not where she was. In the chaos of Strasbourg, she knew her directions well enough, but in unfamiliar woods there was no way to know which colonnade of trees might lead home, and which might lead to wolves and misfortune.

But if she could get to a horse--if she could take any direction on the road--she was certain to find rescue. They might have the advantage of knowing the land better than her, and would know all shortcuts through it, but her instinct told her it would be foolish not to try. Her sense, though, told her to wait--to not aggravate her captors when she knew least their capability for violence, and not when the man's threat still hung around her neck in the dark.

The door groaned. Another of the men came with a stack of blankets tucked under his arm. He was tall with hair that might have been dark, and she could see on his face he had sharp, gaunt features, like a man starved.

He motioned towards her with the blankets. "These will--"

"I need water."

The man's expression was unreadable, but he nodded and the blankets dropped at her feet. "Gosse will be back with water shortly."

"And I should like to..." She cleared her throat. "Attend the privy, too."

His hand went to his tall forehead, then he rubbed at his temples. "Come with me."

He pointed to the door, and Rochelle darted out of the abbey ahead of him. He followed behind, directing her towards the woods with only grunts.

In front of the abbey, sleeping rolls had been unfurled. The lantern light was doused. In the dark, Alexandre faced away from her, speaking to another man. She was glad not to see his face, that she should see as little of him as possible.

The trees of the forest swallowed up the moonlight. A few steps short of the woods, her guardian stopped behind her and told her to do the same. At their feet, branches littered the ground and the dry grass mingled with spotty patches of grey dirt where the canopy overhung the field.

She turned over her shoulder. "I should ask you to turn around, please."

He obeyed, his boots crunching on the dry grass as he turned. She took a heavy step forward, then glanced back. His back was still to her, and her heart pounded in her ears. She bent at the knees, snatching the largest branch she could lift from the ground, and, with all her might, she turned and swung it at the man's head.

With a harsh cracking sound, the branch met his ear. Part of the stick broke, and the man crumpled to his knees.

She cast aside the branch and took off running, lifting the hem of her skirt and stepping as lightly as she could until the abbey was between her and the other men.

Her breath turned ragged as she picked up speed, but she kept running as quickly as she could in the direction the horses had gone. In the long field behind the ruined manor and abbey, the grass wavered in height, its long blades tickling her bare legs as she ran. With every other step, she fought more with her skirt, pulling it higher and higher each time it threatened to trip her.

Moony silver waters winked ahead, and she saw the black silhouettes of horses as they drank and grazed near a wide river. Slowing, she slunk low and crept along the water's edge.

Three horses grazed in the grass on the bank's upper lip. On the pebbled shore below, two other horses stood in the light of a lantern under a thin tree that leaned out over the river. The horses' necks bent and raised as they drank, and between them, a man also hunkered at the water's edge. He had on a blue shirt and short-legged pants that revealed the trunks of his hairy legs that stuck out of black boots.

He whistled to himself, dipping a waterskin into the river, then he turned back to the shore where the other waterskins were amassed in a pile. He had glasses on, his upper lip cleft with a triangular space.

Quietly, she watched and listened. She could not remember which one of them had taken the horses. He was turned from her, raising and lowering at the water's edge like some human-shaped waterwheel. He stepped back and moved to one of the horses, fiddling with its saddle bag where the lantern hung. The horse let out a little grunt of disapproval. The man patted it kindly, then turned back to the water.

Far behind her, someone cried out. A voice answered indistinctly. The man crouched again at the river, his back to her.

She could surrender still. She could turn herself over--ask forgiveness. But that was no real choice. They had beaten her father, and he, that devil of a man, had threatened her own life, too. If she went back, what better chance did she have than if she ran? As the man had said, there was nothing to stop them from burying her in the woods. And now that she had run? Their anger could be limitless.