Devour the Moon

She lowered her foot, placing it on the pebbly shore. Rocks rolled beneath her feet, but still the man whistled at the river's edge.

On the bank, one of the horses looked up at her.

Just beyond the lantern light, Rochelle froze. Her heart drummed, dull and heavy in her chest, and she looked for mercy in the horse's eyes. For understanding.

Its tail flicked frustratedly, and it let go of a tired grunt before it returned to drinking.

In the man's hands, a canteen bubbled in the dark water, and she steeled herself.

She stepped out from the trees. Pebbles scraped on the shore at her feet.

The man's whistling stopped. He turned. He looked down the shore one way. He looked down the shore the other way.

Her hands trembled, but, only steps from him, he still had not seen her. She positioned her foot closer--so close now that she could smell the stink of his body.

She bent, gathering her skirt, then she leapt forward, charging him with a meek cry. He tried to stand, but he had barely risen from his crouch when they collided.

He tumbled back into the river, grunting as he hit the water and his hands splashed wildly.

Her breaths became panicked. She stopped, watching him as he fumbled in the water. Her mind couldn't understand what she'd done, and then all at once her sense caught up to her. She scampered towards the tree that overhung the river, where the reins of the nearest horse hung lazily.

Next to the pile of waterskins and canteens, she saw the man's sheathed sword and belt, and she grabbed it, jamming it into the saddlebag, her roughness jostling the creaking lantern that hung there.

More loud cries came from the abbey.

She flung herself into the saddle. The horse let out a dissatisfied snort, but she kicked her heels in with a cry, and it reacted at once, jumping from the shore.

In the moonlit grass, men swarmed like peeking rodents, and with a hard pull on the reins, she turned the horse parallel to the river and away from them.

From across the field, one of their voices boomed like summer thunder. "Don't make me chase you, girl!"

On foot they were too slow to keep up with her, and she galloped out around them in a wide circle, then dashed past the far side of the ruined manor, back to the dry grey road. The whole time they howled behind her, her skin prickling with every shout until their voices faded quieter than crickets. She was laughing as she looked over her shoulder to see if they followed, and crying when she realized they weren't.

Hard she rode the horse, and she headed back the way they'd come. If she could only reach her father and Monsieur Batton, then together they might be able to make it to the safety of Dijon under the cover of night.

The road bent and turned in ways she didn't remember, and she rode through abyssal woods with no sense of time or place. Stars twinkled above and the moon shone down on those trees that watched her now with disapproving stares, the lantern light her shameful shroud. How could she have risked the woods at night? How could she have risked her father's life by forcing them to ride on to Dijon? How could she have been so reckless?

The questions swirled in her mind, and again and again the hard face of her captor--of Alexandre--filled her thoughts. She shuddered to think what he might do if he caught her now, and her cheeks only burned angrier as she thought again of him striking her father.

In all her life, she had never met someone like him. Someone so uncivilized. To rob them was a form of cowardice on its own, but to kidnap her? To force her father to serve a man who must, by his very actions, live contrary to basic goodness? That was something worse.

She gripped the reins even tighter as she rode.

Yet the more she thought of how much she hated him, the more she remembered their ride in the dark. The taste of his perfumes in her throat. The soft breath in her ear. His arms pressed against her, controlling her every movement as gracefully as he steered his horse. He was the most evil man she had ever known, but a tingle spread over her shoulders at the thought of him once more sharing a saddle with her--and that made her hate him even more.

The minutes stretched out like winters, on and on until there was not even hope left for subsistence. Her horse's hoof falls slowed, but no charge of horses came behind her in the dark.

Her anger had cooled, and the horse had long since slowed to a walk. A cake of dust matted her skirt, and the sleeve on her left arm had torn just below the shoulder. That her father had spent more money on it than had been to his comfort made her feel only worse.

The road turned to follow the path of a wide river that caught the moonlight like glass, and as it did, she patted the horse on the neck.

"What's your name?" she said. "I bet they call you something stupid, like Caesar or Mercury."

She stroked the horse's mane, and he grunted.

When she had been young, her brothers and her father had always named their horses in a way she thought ridiculous. Tomas, her eldest brother, chose names that were strong like him. When her father had given him his own horse, he had called it Mars.

She had only ever ridden him once, and when she had, Mars had taken only a handful of steps, then snorted and laid down. Her father had been cross, insisting how dangerous it was, that she could have been hurt, but she'd found it funny. That was who that horse was--stubborn and defiant to the bitter end--but he was not particularly big or strong.

Her brother Edouard was more like her father. They both had a love of naming their horses for their look. In her lifetime, her father had ridden a Tonnerre, and Edouard had named his all-white mount simply Blanco.

But the way they named their horses paid no regard to their nature. Her father's Tonnerre had been as big and dark and fearsome as any storm, but that was not what he was at his heart. In Strasbourg, each time she had gone into the stables, Tonnerre would come to his gate and wait to see her, and in those moments he was the gentlest thing on God's green earth. Her fondest memories in that small stable were feeding him crab apples and seeing the happiness swell inside of him. Even as his eyes had blued and his coat discoloured with age, he had remained eternally gentle and sweet. No, Tonnerre did not fit so well at all. He was more like the smell after the storm than the storm itself.

Birds tweeted. She snaked off the path and steered the horse to a small clearing at the river's edge. There, she dismounted and took the reins in her hands, again patting the horse on his neck.

The dull rush of the water drowned out the sounds of the surrounding wood, and as she took a deep breath, she felt at peace as a hint of dawn crept towards her.

Dry grass crinkled beneath her feet. She stepped down onto the exposed rib of riverbed and brought the horse down to the water with her. The river was quite wide, but it had contracted in the drought enough to stand on the soft dark sand beside it.

"What about... Joli?" Rochelle asked as the horse dipped his neck down to drink. The lantern light reflected in the horse's eye. On the far side, the trees packed together as if to keep the lightening sky and unseen sun at bay.

"You are pretty, but more than that, I think."

The horse nickered.

"Yes, I thought so." She bent down next to the river, its brown belly turned up to her. She cupped her hand, mud churning in a cloud as she swiped her hand through the water, and she took a long drink.

The weight of the night hung over her. Drowsiness stole into her muscles. Her eyelids were heavy, and she yawned as she became more aware of her own exhaustion.

She stepped back from the edge of the water. She was lucky to have escaped. Things could have gone so much worse for her. Truly, she was blessed to be out of their grasp.

"Ah, yes. I have it." She patted the horse again. "Benoît."

The horse sighed. His nostrils flared. His head nodded, and he made a vociferous, dramatic denouncement of her decision with his flicking tail.

"You don't like it?" She clucked her tongue. "Well, I must call you something."

She stroked his mane, letting him drink, then she led him back up to the dry grass.

"You know, Benoît, it could be much worse. You could--"

A sharp whistle cut through the clearing.

Rochelle froze. A panic pressed on her neck. Benoît raised his head up, ears searching for the noise. She searched the woods around her for some sign of the whistler, but there were only stumps and trees.

Another whistle cut through them, and Benoît dutifully began to trudge away. She grabbed his reins and held him there behind her in the clearing. From the saddlebag, she grabbed the sword and dropped into a crouch. In the middle of the clearing, in her dirty dress, she held the sword at her side in its scabbard with Benoît behind her.

But still there were only green shadows around her, and the woods betrayed not even the fluttering of a bird.

"Do you know the penalty for horse theft in these lands?" a voice asked with familiar dark timbre.

Her throat fluttered. She drew the blade, casting the scabbard to the ground. The sword gleamed in the rising light, and she swallowed her fear as she best she could. "Is it worse than kidnapping?"

Alexandre's dark figure emerged. He approached like a predator, easy and sure of the kill. His dark blue cloak drooped on his back, and it looked as tired as him.

Her sword tip rested in the dry, grey dirt. "Stay back," she warned, trembling as he disobeyed and stepped nearer. She brought the sword up, pointing it towards him.

The blade wobbled in the air, and seeing it, he paused. His blue eyes jolted back and forth between it and her, searching for meaning in her actions.

In one motion, his hand crossed his body, and he drew his own sword with ease.

She cried out, but then steadied herself.

"I won't warn you again," he said, and when she hesitated, he took a deep breath. "I could have stopped you at any point these last few hours, but I didn't want a chase then, and I don't want a fight now."

"Then go away!" She jerked the sword in front of her.

He gained a long step towards her. "Lower it."

She swung wildly, but he was unstirred by her flailing, and the blow fell well short.

He footed a nearer bit of dirt, growing before her as grim as the dawn. "You are like a stone in the boot, aren't you? A little agony too small to even be a nuisance."

"Stay away!" She slashed again.

"Don't make me win you, little stone." He twirled his blade, sidestepping her at an off angle. The hard features of his face ruffled with stern disapproval. In the night, the dark stubble of his chin had filled out even more and now his eyes had dark circles around them. The longer she looked upon him, the more deranged he seemed, like some demon come to torment her now and forever.

"If I win you," he said, "then I will have you. Here. On this ground."

She yelped and lost a step. "Go away! Please!" Her hands shook, but still he stared her down.

"So be it. If you must learn, then let your rough schooling begin."

He stepped forward, and again she swung.

He raised his sword, meeting her blow with his own. Vibrations moved through her arm and shocked her senses. She groaned, trying to pull the sword back, but the blade resisted, fixed to his own sword.

He yanked hard, and the sword flew out of her hands. It dropped to the brittle grass near his feet, and she gasped.

"The blades bind when they meet on an edge." He tucked his foot under the sword, then kicked it back towards her with an amused smile. "Consider that your first lesson."

She stood frozen, unsure what to do. His muscles bulged even under his coat, and his body was well-honed. In all likelihood, he had been fancifully twirling swords for his whole life. What could she do against a man like that?

"Come, at least pretend you're not so eager to be won."

Resentfully, she bent down and retrieved the sword. She couldn't outrun him in her dress. She looked back to Benoît. By the time she had mounted him, he would have already been on her. The only thing she could do was fight.

He lowered his sword and turned his back to her. "Here. Have at me, little stone. I'll even--"

Before he could even finish his taunt, she swung with a cry. He sidestepped the blow with ease, then struck the top of the sword, throwing her off balance. The cloak fluttered at his back as if reinvigorated, and he laughed, pointing at her with his gloved finger.

"You don't fight fair. I like that in a woman."

She shouted, lashing out at him again. Lazily, he raised the sword over his head and blocked her blow.

"What is it you think you're doing, girl?" He laughed and stepped in a wide arc around her. She matched his steps, and they circled one another until he came to stand in front of Benoît. He reached behind him, patting the horse on his neck.

"Silly girl," he told her. "Throw it down."

She scrunched up her face. She would not give in to him. An overeagerness surged within her.

Again, she raised her blade, but he only laughed.

She took a few awkward steps towards him and brought the blade down over his head. He blocked with no less difficulty, but then she pulled back and struck again at his right side. His blade knocked hers off its target, and it struck the lantern attached to Benoît's saddlebag.

The lantern clanked and fell, and all at once, a fire erupted in the dry grass.

Rochelle gasped. Even before she understood what was happening, orange flames spread out around them, snaking their way into the dry kindling that had gone weeks without rain.

Horror overcame her. She dropped the sword. It thudded to the ground, and her mouth opened. She tried to cry for help, but no words came. The terrible memory of a burning stable filled her mind. The smell of fire. The smell of death.

She began to shake.

Hands wrapped around her. He lifted her into his arms as if she weighed nothing. Sheltering her, he thundered forwards, through the flames. She coughed, choking from the smoke, but he held her and did not break stride as he rushed into the river. Water kicked up around them, and he slogged deeper in.

On the shore, the flames spread out like a wave, consuming everything in their path. Benoît screeched somewhere behind them and galloped off into the woods.

The cool wetness of the water cupped her back through her dress, her hand clenching at his dark coat as he moved behind her to support her.

Her eyes went to the shore, and shivering, she could not look away.

"Holy God," he muttered. The flames burned on, chewing through the wooded clearing as branches cracked and crashed and the flames roared on. Smoke shrouded the sky, and Alexandre laid back in the water, sliding under her. His arms wrapped her up, and he helped her float.

"Lay on me. I will keep you safe."

The fire ripped up the side of a tall tree. Black, pungent smoke stacked high into the sky, up to where a ghostly moon lurked.

"I have you." His voice was a reassuring growl. "Float now, and I will do the rest."

********

CHAPTER 3

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The fever of fire consumed everything. A heavy branch snapped, crashing to the forest floor as they floated languidly from it. Rochelle laid in his arms, his hands across her chest, her head against him.

Even after the fire was a distant thing, the smoke still filled her nostrils like a too-strong perfume.

She coughed, tilting her head to the side.

"Just breathe," he said. "We'll give it some distance before we make for the shore."

The fear began to subside, and a new panic rose up to take its place. She grabbed more tightly to the hands that were around her.

"Oh--oh, I can't swim!" Her arms flailed, legs kicking in the water.

"You're well," he cooed. "You're safe. Just float."

And the more he talked, rumbling in her ear, the more she believed him. Her arms quieted. Her legs settled. They turned at a bend in the river and the fire disappeared, though the black smoke still rose into the canopy behind them.

As they floated on, she looked up into his eyes. Deep blue stared back at her as if it were the sky itself questioning her. The hate, the anger he'd shown the night before, had disappeared. In its place, there was only an implacable sadness that reminded her of her mother's eyes. She had not been a melancholy woman, her mother, but there had always been something sad about the way she'd looked.

Or maybe it was only the despair of all those missed years that so darkly tinged that memory. These days, when Rochelle thought of her mother, she thought of her most often as disapproving. Unmarried, with no prospects for the future, how could her mother feel anything but sadness for her daughter's life? Her mother's happy, loving smile, and the gentle caress of her hand in Rochelle's hair were like toys--things she'd put away when she'd become a woman. Those merry memories had become replaced by the figment of a much sterner woman whom, she realized, she had never known.

Tears welled in her eyes. Why did she not remember her mother as she was? They had taken many walks along the Rhine and sleigh rides in the winter. Why did she not remember sitting with her mother and hearing her speak softly of wheat fields? Why is it that the sweetest memories of love still rot on the vine?

Alexandre guided them out of the deepest part of the river, at last standing in the shallows at the shore.

He offered his hand. She took it, and he pulled her to her feet. The water was to her thighs and the skirt of her dress bloomed out around her as the water sluiced off her dress in a dozen silk canals. Her updo hung dripping in a ghastly, sagging ball at the back of her head, and she had no choice but to let it down.

Past her, he waded closer to the shore, where he took off his cloak and threw it on the bank. He turned back to her. "Are you hurt?"

She shook her head. Her fingers went to her hair, playing with it, squeezing the strands as the water rushed off her. "Do you know where we are?"

"There's a village not far. A few leagues, perhaps." His voice had lost all of its bravado. He undid his coat. Groaning, he slipped his arms out of it and threw it next to his cloak on the bank. On the outside of his arm, his shirt had singed, his skin turning into a rug of red.

"You're hurt!" She pulled back a loose strand of hair and moved closer, grimacing at the burn.

He shrugged her off with a scowl.

And then, as if the spell had been broken, her face flattened. Only moments earlier, he had threatened her. He deserved a burn, and much worse than that.

He turned his arm over, examining it and sucking air through his teeth. Then he lowered his arm and picked up his cloak, wringing it out with his hands.

"We will make for the village. From there, it is not far to the marquis's manor."

He stopped wringing for a moment and brought a finger and thumb to his mouth. He whistled.

Rochelle looked around. "I don't see Benoît."

"Who?" He looked around more carefully. "The horse?"

"I thought Benoît would sound better than whatever insipid name you gave him." She took off her shoes. Water drained from them like a waterfall. Though hidden beneath her white stockings, her feet felt pruny as she squeezed them, and she wiggled her toes in relief now that they were free.

He threw the wrung cloak to the bank and rolled the sleeves of his wet, white dress shirt to his elbows. The muscles in his forearms bulged, and all those beneath the shirt were pronounced, the shirt sucking against him.

"That is Gosse's horse, Argent."

She mumbled to herself. "A lazy name."

He smiled at her with an unexpected levity. It was such a gentle smile, the corner of his mouth creasing in such delight that it caught her so unaware he should possess any such charm. Here was this handsome, gentle, cruel, hobgoblin of a man--what was she to make of that? Oh, how he must have thought himself so righteous, so God-blessed, the way he moved without regard, when in truth he was no more than a low robber, and only the lackey of a man who wanted dominion over her father.