A Discovery of Witches (39 page)

Matthew led me down to the lower ground floor, with its maze of store-rooms, wine cellars, kitchens, servants’ rooms, larders, and pantries. Marthe stepped out of one of the kitchens, flour covering her arms up to the elbows, and handed me a warm roll fresh from the oven. I munched on it as Matthew walked the corridors, pointing out the old purposes of every room—where the grain was stored, the venison hung, the cheese made.

“Vampires don’t eat anything,” I said, confused.

“No, but our tenants did. Marthe loves to cook.”

I promised to keep her busy. The roll was delicious, and the eggs had been perfect.

Our next stop was the gardens. Though we had descended a flight of stairs to get to the kitchens, we left the château at ground level. The gardens were straight out of the sixteenth century, with divided beds full of herbs and autumn vegetables. Rosebushes, some with a few lonely blooms remaining, filled the borders.

But the aroma that intrigued me wasn’t floral. I made a beeline for a low-slung building.

“Be careful, Diana,” he called, striding across the gravel, “Balthasar bites.”

“Which one is Balthasar?”

He rounded the stable entrance, an anxious look on his face. “The stallion using your spine as a scratching post,” Matthew replied tightly. I was standing with my back to a large, heavy-footed horse while a mastiff and a wolfhound circled my feet, sniffing me with interest.

“Oh, he won’t bite me.” The enormous Percheron maneuvered his head so he could rub his ears on my hip. “And who are these gentlemen?” I asked, ruffling the fur on the wolf hound’s neck while the mastiff tried to put my hand in his mouth.

“The hound is Fallon, and the mastiff is Hector.” Matthew snapped his fingers, and both dogs came running to his side, where they sat obediently and watched his face for further instructions. “Please step away from that horse.”

“Why? He’s fine.” Balthasar stamped the ground in agreement and pitched an ear back to look haughtily at Matthew.

“‘
If the butterfly wings its way to the sweet light that attracts it, it’s only because it doesn’t know that the fire can consume it
,’” Matthew murmured under his breath. “Balthasar is only fine until he gets bored. I’d like you to move away
before
he kicks the stall door down.”

“We’re making your master nervous, and he’s started reciting obscure bits of poetry written by mad Italian clerics. I’ll be back tomorrow with something sweet.” I turned and kissed Balthasar on the nose. He nickered, his hooves dancing with impatience.

Matthew tried to cover his surprise. “You recognized that?”

“Giordano Bruno. ‘
If the thirsty stag runs to the brook, it’s only because he isn’t aware of the cruel bow
,’” I continued. “‘
If the unicorn runs to its chaste nest, it’s only because he doesn’t see the noose prepared for him
.’”

“You know the work of the Nolan?” Matthew used the sixteenth-century mystic’s own way of referring to himself.

My eyes narrowed. Good God, had he known Bruno as well as Machiavelli ? Matthew seemed to have been attracted to every strange character who’d ever lived. “He was an early supporter of Copernicus, and I’m a historian of science. How do you know Bruno’s work?”

“I’m a great reader,” he said evasively.

“You knew him!” My tone was accusing. “Was he a daemon?”

“One who crossed the madness-genius divide rather too frequently, I’m afraid.”

“I should have known. He believed in extraterrestrial life and cursed his inquisitors on the way to the stake,” I said, shaking my head.

“Nevertheless, he understood the power of desire.”

I looked sharply at the vampire. “‘
Desire urges me on, as fear bridles me
.’ Did Bruno feature in your essay for All Souls?”

“A bit.” Matthew’s mouth flattened into a hard line. “Will you please come away from there? We can talk about philosophy another time.”

Other passages drifted through my mind. There was something else about Bruno’s work that might make Matthew think of him. He wrote about the goddess Diana.

I stepped away from the stall.

“Balthasar isn’t a pony,” Matthew warned, pulling my elbow.

“I can see that. But I could handle that horse.” Both the alchemical manuscript and the Italian philosopher vanished from my mind at the thought of such a challenge.

“You don’t ride as well?” Matthew asked in disbelief.

“I grew up in the country and have ridden since I was a child—dressage, jumping, everything.” Being on a horse was even more like flying than rowing was.

“We have other horses. Balthasar stays where he is,” he said firmly.

Riding was an unforeseen bonus of coming to France, one that almost made Ysabeau’s cold presence bearable. Matthew led me to the other end of the stables, where six more fine animals waited. Two of them were big and black—although not as large as Balthasar—one a fairly round chestnut mare, another a bay gelding. There were two gray Andalusians as well, with large feet and curved necks. One came to the door to see what was going on in her domain.

“This is Nar Rakasa,” he said, gently rubbing her muzzle. “Her name means ‘fire dancer.’ We usually just call her Rakasa. She moves beautifully, but she’s willful. You two should get along famously.”

I refused to take the bait, though it was charmingly offered, and let Rakasa sniff at my hair and face. “What’s her sister’s name?”

“Fiddat—‘silver.’” Fiddat came forward when Matthew said her name, her dark eyes affectionate. “Fiddat is Ysabeau’s horse, and Rakasa is her sister.” Matthew pointed to the two blacks. “Those are mine. Dahr and Sayad.”

“What do their names mean?” I asked, walking to their stalls.

“Dahr is Arabic for ‘time,’ and Sayad means ‘hunter,’” Matthew explained, joining me. “Sayad loves riding across the fields chasing game and jumping hedges. Dahr is patient and steady.”

We continued the tour, Matthew pointing out features of the mountains and orienting me to the town. He showed me where the château had been modified and how restorers had used a different kind of stone because the original was no longer available. By the time we were finished, I wasn’t likely to get lost—in part due to the central keep, which was hard to misplace.

“Why am I so tired?” I yawned as we returned to the château.

“You’re hopeless,” Matthew said in exasperation. “Do you really need me to recount the events of the past thirty-six hours?”

At his urging I agreed to another nap. Leaving him in the study, I climbed the stairs and flung myself into bed, too tired to even blow out the candles.

Moments later I was dreaming of riding through a dark forest, a loose green tunic belted around my waist. There were sandals tied onto my feet, their leather fastenings crossed around my ankles and calves. Dogs bayed and hooves crashed in the underbrush behind me. A quiver of arrows nestled against my shoulder, and in one fist I held a bow. Despite the ominous sounds of my pursuers, I felt no fear.

In my dream I smiled with the knowledge I could outrun those who hunted me.

“Fly,” I commanded—and the horse did.

Chapter 19

T
he next morning my first thoughts were also of riding.

I ran a brush through my hair, rinsed my mouth out, and threw on close-fitting pair of black leggings. They were the nearest thing to riding breeches that I had with me. Running shoes would make it impossible to keep my heels down in the stirrups, so on went my loafers instead. Not exactly proper footwear, but they’d do. A long-sleeved T-shirt and a fleece pullover completed my ensemble. Dragging my hair back into a ponytail, I returned to the bedroom.

Matthew lifted his eyebrow as I rocketed into the room, his arm barring me from going any farther. He was leaning against the wide archway that led to the stairs, well groomed as always, wearing dark gray breeches and a black sweater. “Let’s ride in the afternoon.”

I’d been expecting this. Dinner with Ysabeau had been tense at best, and afterward my sleep had been punctuated with nightmares. Matthew had climbed the stairs to check on me several times.

“I’m fine. Exercise and fresh air will be the best thing in the world for me.” When I tried to get past him again, he stopped me with only a dark look.

“If you so much as sway in the saddle, I’m bringing you home. Understood?”

“Understood.”

Downstairs, I headed for the dining room, but Matthew pulled me in the other direction. “Let’s eat in the kitchens,” he said quietly. No formal breakfast with Ysabeau staring at me over
Le Monde.
That was welcome news.

We ate in what were ostensibly the housekeeper’s rooms, in front of a blazing fire at a table set for two—though I would be the only one eating Marthe’s excellent, abundant food. A huge pot of tea sat on the scarred, round wooden table, wrapped in a linen towel to keep it hot. Marthe glanced at me with concern, tutting at my dark circles and pale skin.

When my fork slowed, Matthew reached for a pyramid of boxes crowned with a black-velvet-covered helmet. “For you,” he said, putting them on the table.

The helmet was self-explanatory. It was shaped like a high-crowned baseball hat, with a fold of black grosgrain ribbon at the nape. Despite its velvet covering and ribbon, the helmet was sturdy and made expressly to keep soft human skulls from cracking if they met with the ground. I hated them, but it was a wise precaution.

“Thank you,” I said. “What’s in the boxes?”

“Open them and see.”

The first box held a pair of black breeches with suede patches inside the knees to grip the saddle. They would be far more pleasant to ride in than my thin, slippery leggings and looked like they would fit, too. Matthew must have been making more phone calls and relaying approximate measurements while I napped. I smiled at him in gratitude.

The box also held a black padded vest with a long tail and stiff metal supports sewn into the seams. It looked and would no doubt feel like a turtle’s shell—uncomfortable and unwieldy.

“This isn’t necessary.” I held it up, frowning.

“It is if you’re going riding.” His voice didn’t show the slightest hint of emotion. “You tell me you’re experienced. If so, you won’t have a problem adjusting to its weight.”

My color rose and my fingertips gave a warning tingle. Matthew watched me with interest, and Marthe came to the door and gave a sniff. I breathed in and out until the tingling stopped.

“You wear a seat belt in my car,” Matthew said evenly. “You’ll wear a vest on my horse.”

We stared at each other in a standoff of wills. The thought of the fresh air defeated me, and Marthe’s eyes glittered with amusement. No doubt our negotiations were as much fun to watch as were the volleys between Matthew and Ysabeau.

I pulled the final box toward me in silent concession. It was long and heavy, and there was a sharp tang of leather when the lid lifted.

Boots. Knee-length, black boots. I’d never shown horses and had limited resources, so I had never owned a proper pair of riding boots. These were beautiful, with their curved calves and supple leather. My fingers touched their shining surfaces.

“Thank you,” I breathed, delighted with his surprise.

“I’m pretty sure they’ll fit,” Matthew said, his eyes soft.

“Come, girl,” Marthe said cheerfully from the door. “You change.”

She barely got me into the laundry room before I’d kicked off my loafers and peeled the leggings from my body. She took the worn Lycra and cotton from me while I wriggled into the breeches.

“There was a time when women didn’t ride like men,” Marthe said, looking at the muscles in my legs and shaking her head.

Matthew was on his phone when I returned, sending out instructions to all the other people in his world who required his management. He looked up with approval.

“Those will be more comfortable.” He stood and picked up the boots. “There’s no jack in here. You’ll have to wear your other shoes to the stables.”

“No, I want to put them on now,” I said, fingers outstretched.

“Sit down, then.” He shook his head at my impatience. “You’ll never get them on the first time without help.” Matthew picked up my chair with me in it and turned it so he had more room to maneuver. He held out the right boot, and I stuck my foot in as far as the ankle. He was right. No amount of tugging was going to get my foot around the stiff bend. He stood over my foot, grasping the heel and toe of the boot and wriggling it gently as I pulled the leather in the other direction. After several minutes of struggle, my foot worked its way into the shank. Matthew gave the sole a final, firm push, and the boot snuggled against my bones.

Once both boots were on, I held my legs out to admire. Matthew tugged and patted, sliding his cold fingers around the top rim to make sure my blood could circulate. I stood, my legs feeling unusually long, took a few stiff-ankled steps, and did a little twirl.

“Thank you.” I threw my arms around his neck, the toes of my boots grazing the floor. “I love them.”

Matthew carried my vest and hat to the stables, much as he had carried my computer and yoga mat in Oxford. The stable doors were flung open, and there were sounds of activity.

“Georges?” Matthew called. A small, wiry man of indeterminate age—though not a vampire—came around the corner, carrying a bridle and a curry comb. When we passed Balthasar’s stall, the stallion stomped angrily and tossed his head.
You promised,
he seemed to say. Inside my pocket was a tiny apple that I’d wheedled from Marthe.

“Here you go, baby,” I said, holding it out on a flat palm. Matthew watched warily as Balthasar extended his neck and reached with delicate lips to pick the fruit from my hand. Once it was in his mouth, he looked at his owner triumphantly.

“Yes, I see that you are behaving like a prince,” Matthew said drily, “but that doesn’t mean you won’t behave like a devil at the first opportunity.” Balthasar’s hooves struck the ground in annoyance.