Tale of the Necromancer by Kathryn Ann Kingsley

5

Gideon slippedthe needle-sharp blade between Gabriel de Lorges’ ribs. He did always hate stabbing a man in the back, but it was just simply so much more efficient when his victims did not see it coming. It made it less traumatic for them as well. Or perhaps that is simply what he told himself.

It did not matter.

One.

Two.

He held the man’s throat in the lock of his elbow as he counted the seconds, waiting for the moment when de Lorges’ heart ceased to beat. The man barely even moved. He certainly did not struggle, his mind instantly entering a state of shock. His body knew it was already too late, with the vital organ skewered through. The thin blade was otherwise nearly imperceptible. He would barely even feel it.

Three.

Four.

Gabriel de Lorges’ was captain of the king’s guard. Of course, he would be hearty and strong. But there was no stubborn resilience that could best death. Not like this, at any rate. He smirked to himself as it finally happened. On the count of five, the man died.

And in the very same instant, he resurrected him. Tethered the severed soul back to the flesh that had not even staggered or fallen to the ground. Gideon pulled the blade from the man’s back and wiped the smear of crimson from the nearly invisibly thin blade on a cloth before tucking it carefully back into its sheath.

The longer a soul experienced death—the longer the body was left to rot—the less human the subject appeared to others. But if the flame of life were arrested just at the moment it ceased to be, the illusion of it was flawless.

The captain turned around to face him. There was a flicker of momentary confusion on his face, but it quickly faded. “Yes, my master?”

Gideon smiled. “You will refer to me as Dr. Faust while in public. You will defer to me only in private instruction. All shall appear to remain as it was. Do you understand?”

The revenant bowed his head. “Yes, Master. What shall you have me do?”

Murder your son. It was tempting—so tempting—to say those words. It would be such an easy solution to his immediate problem. But it would be a rash act, and likely to fall apart at the seams.

“For now, you shall wait. Continue on as you always have. When I am in need of you, I will make it known.” Gideon turned from the revenant and walked away without another word. There was no purpose in being polite to his undead creatures.

And he was in a foul mood.

Killing Leopold would not be any guarantee of securing Marguerite’s hand in marriage, even if it would satisfy his hatred and rage. No, he would need to play his cards carefully. And the best way to do that was to ensure he held the entire deck.

That was not to say he did not have a plan. Quite the contrary.

As he approached Catherine’s quarters, he motioned to the guards who stood at the door to open it for him. “I must speak to the queen on urgent matters.”

The guards were already his revenants. They did not bat an eye as they knocked, announced that “Dr. Faust” was here to see her, and waited for the reply. When Catherine replied for him to enter after a pause, they opened the door for him.

He entered, knowing his anger was clear on his face. He did not care what she might think of it. If she learned to fear him, all the better.

The queen was sitting on an upholstered bench, a book in her lap, looking quite startled. “Dr. Faust, I did not expect you…”

“No. You did not.” He tilted his head down slightly, using the shadow of his hood to hide his features. He wished to look as terrifying as possible in the moment. “Marguerite has refused my proposition. It seems her hand is already taken by another. She has already given her vow to Leopold.”

Catherine sighed. “And I’m sure that lovesick fool of a husband of mine agreed to it?”

“The contract has already been drawn and signed by both Henri and Gabriel.” It is also now in my pocket. He had stolen the signed contract of marriage from Gabriel as he had slipped the blade into the man’s heart. It was the only formal proof that Henri had agreed to Marguerite’s wish, and it would be an important tool for him.

“I am sorry to say that there is little to be done, then. Henri keeps me out of all state affairs. He barely listens to me when I speak. His heart belongs to de Poitiers, and he has never been subtle over that. We are both out of luck.”

“Perhaps…perhaps not.” He walked to the window, turning his attention out to the winter fields below. “Did it ever occur to you that Marguerite may be the daughter of your husband’s favorite mistress?”

“Of course.” She huffed. “It is obvious. Why else dote on the girl so? Why make such a childish promise that she could marry for love, when it is clear he was denied the opportunity?” He heard Catherine slam her book shut. The loathing was painted deep in her voice. “Damn him and his infidelity. Damn that harlot. And damn the spawn of their sinful coupling.”

“Careful the words you speak, my queen. Calling damnation down upon your enemies is not a deed to be done lightly.” He turned to her again. “Especially when one such as I am in your presence.”

The shrewd woman narrowed her eyes, but he saw the flicker of fear in them all the same. “Speak plain, Faust.”

He chuckled. “The solution to all your problems stands here before you…my only question is whether or not you have the resolve to ask.”

“You are an alchemist, not—”

“Are you so certain?”

She wavered. “What are you proposing, Faust?”

He let the coils of his darkness edge out from him for a moment. Nothing but wisps of dark smoke that would soften the edges of his black cloak against the light from the window behind him. He let his true nature free but for an instant—just enough to sour the air. Just enough to rob the remainder of the queen’s surety and color from her features.

He grinned, a feral and cruel thing. “That the king…must die.”

* * *

July 1559

Hotel des Tournelles, France

Marguerite huggedLeopold’s arm and rested her head on his shoulder as they sat in the stands on the side of the jousting field. He had already gone the day prior, and while she had been terrified for him, it had all been for naught. He had been victorious, and both he and his opponent had left the match largely unscathed, even if his armor had a few more dents in it than before.

Life had been peaceful and happy in the preceding months. Their wedding was scheduled for August, and she was finding herself more and more excited as the days went on. They had postponed it for several months to allow Leopold’s siblings to arrive. Her father was preparing to purchase a chalet several miles north of the palace as the first part of her dowry and wedding gift to them both.

She was going to have a home. A husband.

“Ducks.”

“Hum?” Leopold looked down at her with an arched eyebrow.

“We are going to raise ducks.” She smiled. “I have decided.”

He chuckled. “As you have.” He leaned down to kiss the top of her head. “I know better than to argue with you. We shall raise ducks.”

Grinning at the notion, she shut her eyes, enjoying the sound of the birds flying overhead and the flap of the tournament banners in the breeze. It was a beautiful day. Warm, but not insufferably hot like the summers were prone to.

“What an odd day, that we are to watch our fathers face each other in a joust.” He let out a quiet hum. “I think my father plans to throw the match. I expect it is bad form to beat the king.”

“Most likely. I love my father, and while he adores his hunting and these tournaments, he is hardly a soldier like yours.”

At the blast of trumpets, announcing the combatants were to take the field, she sat up and paid attention. Her father was wearing blue, the color of his mistress Diane de Poitiers, who sat in the box close to the throne and the queen.

Marguerite may be young, but she was not a child. She understood that her father loved his mistress deeply—and likely more so than the queen herself. But marriage was not about true love. She wound her hand into Leopold’s and held it tight.

Perhaps Catherine and her father had come to an arrangement, much like she and Leopold. She could only hope that the queen understood and encouraged her father’s adoration of his mistress. But if she did not, there was little that she could do. Henri was king, and kings kept mistresses.

They applauded as Henri and Gabriel turned their horses to the line on either side of the fence and readied their lances. With another loud blast of a horn, the two heavily armored men kicked their horses into a full gallop and charged at each other.

Her father had fought in a hundred such tournaments.

He would be fine.

Gabriel moved his lance at the last minute. In one sickening moment, everything changed.

Snap.

The wooden lance shattered against Henri’s chest. Gabriel held it firm, somehow keeping hold of the broken weapon against all odds.

Marguerite stood, her terror instant and total, as the crowd gasped. The horses jogged to a stop. Several squires rushed forward to help the king. But he was slumped over, his armor keeping him upright.

A shard of wood the length of her forearm protruded from the visor of his helm.

Her father toppled from his horse.

And in that moment, her life fell apart.

* * *

Marguerite satat the bedside of her father, swallowing down her tears.

He was dying.

She was only given a moment to be with him. There were many who wished to say their farewells to the king, and when all was said and done, she was an illegitimate child. Scooping up his hand, she kissed his palm before placing it to her cheek.

I will not weep. I will not. I will be strong for him. I will weep in private.

“Daughter of my love…”

Her will cracked at the sound of his voice, and tears loose themselves against her wishes. “I am here, father. I love you. I love you, and I am so sorry.”

“Why are you sorry? It is a beautiful day…look at how the children are playing in the yard, my love.” He stroked his thumb against her skin. He was blinded by the wood, and Doctor Faust said he was drifting in and out of awareness.

The large shard had punched through his left eye and gone into his brain, or so the physician said. She did not trust him, but in this…the proof was plain. His voice was thin and reeked of delirium. At least he was not in pain. For that, she would thank God above.

“Leopold will take care of me. I will be safe, and loved, and cared for. All because of you. I—I will miss you, every day of my life. I love you, and I will pray to God each day that you rest in Heaven with him.”

“Marguerite, oh, it’s you…I mistook you for your mother for a moment, forgive me. My mind—my mind is—not well. But I would know her anywhere.” His sallow features cracked in a weak smile. “You have her voice.”

“My…” And then she knew. She was a fool. An abject child for not seeing it sooner. Daughter of my love. It is not a kindness. It has been literal all this time. Catherine had refused to allow Diane de Poitiers to see Henri on his deathbed, a fact that made quite a stir amongst the servants.

Her mother.

Tears streaked down her cheeks again, and she kissed her father’s hand. “I love you.”

“And I, you…”

A servant touched her arm. It was time for her to go. She stood and, leaning down, kissed her father’s cheek under the bandage. “We will see each other again. This is not goodbye.”

He smiled wearily and muttered something about butterflies. Her heart cracked in half, and she kissed him one more time before leaving the room. She made it two steps from the door before she collapsed against the wall in hysterics.

A hand fell on her shoulder, and for a moment she wondered if it might be Leopold. But her fiancé had been sent from the grounds along with his father. While it had been an accident, it was not…appropriate for them to be there.

The hand on her shoulder was strong and firm, and she looked up—into the worried face of Johann Faust.

He pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his robe and extended it to her. “I…am so very sorry for your pain.” His tone was soft and gentle. “He is in no pain, I promise you.”

Taking the square of fabric, she pressed it to her eyes. “T—” She struggled to breathe. “Thank God. Thank you, doctor.”

“Of course.”

When he took a step toward her, she caught the smell of herbs and petrichor that he carried with him. It dangled in front of her like she was a fish and he the lure. God above, what is this pull?

In the haze of her grief and agony, she finally recognized it for what it was. Desire. For all his overwhelming overtures of marriage in her direction, it seemed the attraction was not one-sided between them.

But now was not the time to consider such things. Even if his presence gave her a strange comfort. When he gently pulled her into his arms and into a consoling embrace, she shivered. There was such strength in his frame, she felt as though she could shelter from a thunderstorm beside him.

“All will be well, princess,” he whispered to her. “I promise you.”

When a servant suddenly fled the king’s room, a look of panic and anguish on his face, the alchemist went rigid. He looked down to her and stroked a tear from her cheek with his thumb. “I fear the time has come. Go, find the children. They will need your strength.”

She nodded. The children had all been gathered in a nearby hall and allowed to say goodbye to their father in pairs or more. She had been the last, as the eldest remaining child who had been at on the grounds during the tournament.

Pulling herself from his arms, she watched him for a moment, those strange silver eyes of his fixed on hers. When the servant tugged on his sleeve, he nodded and turned his attention to the job at hand. He disappeared into the room and shut the door behind him.

She knew she should go be with the others.

She knew she should.

But something else pushed her forward. She stepped back to the door, ignoring the protests of the guards, as she opened it silently.

Faust was standing beside her father’s bed, his fingers pressed to the dying man’s throat, another holding Henri’s wrist, his thumb pressed to the pulse.

Her father breathed in. Then breathed out. Then breathed in…and then breathed out.

And then nothing happened.

It seemed time held still as all parties watched and waited.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Faust pulled his hand from Henri’s throat and gently crossed her father’s arms over his chest.

Some kind of noise escaped her throat that she did not recognize. It caught the attention of the alchemist, who looked up at her in shock that quickly turned to grief.

Marguerite fled the room, blinded by tears. She did not know to where she ran. She did not know as it mattered.

Her father was dead.