People drifted aside ahead of them,
creating a wide path to the iron grille at the rear of the chamber that marked
the prison’s boundary.
Perhaps it was his monk’s robes that caused people to step
aside, but Chantal doubted it. She assumed that if he had her following like a sheep despite her resistance, he might impose
his wishes on others as well.
Praying that Pauline and her children were close by
prevented Chantal from thinking beyond that. There wouldn’t be time before dark
to traipse about Paris to look elsewhere. The city was filled with prisons.
Monsieur d’Olympe apparently intended to march right past
the desk and guards and part the grille with his bare hands. Evidently her task
was to remind him that he was not God. A cave, indeed! Perhaps his parents were
wolves.
A little shaken upon realizing that the man with whom she’d
just had carnal relations — it certainly hadn’t been lovemaking, she had no
illusion about that! — reminded her very much of a beautiful wolf stalking his
prey, she tugged his arm and refused to walk farther.
At his impatient glance, she nodded toward the uniformed man
behind the desk. “You cannot enter without his permission. Pauline will be here
under her married name of Racine.”
She wanted to search for Pauline among the prisoners
strolling about on the far side of the grille, but watching over her determined
companion took all her attention. Fierce features scowling, he twirled his
gnarled staff against the floor while he followed her gaze and took note of
their surroundings.
“I should have brought Kiernan,” he said in disgust. “I
cannot sense anything in this confusion.”
That made about as much sense as anything else he’d said so
far. Taking a calming breath, Chantal tugged him into the line in front of the
desk. She might think rebellious thoughts, but she disliked actual conflict.
“I am not accustomed to waiting,” he practically growled at
her.
“We can’t go through without a pass,” she explained tightly.
“We could be here all night.” He started to twirl his staff,
realized what he was doing, and pounded it impatiently on the floor. “The
chalice is more important than their petty concerns.”
“Maybe so, but — ” Chantal gaped as the slovenly couple in
front of her looked around nervously and abruptly walked off.
She glanced at her companion to see if he might have threatened
them in some way, but he was glaring at the next person in line — a
black-coated, bewigged lawyer. The man suddenly checked his watch and
apparently realized he needed to be somewhere else.
“That’s better,” the monk muttered, studying the weeping
young woman now blocking their progress. He twirled his staff, studied the
vaulted ceiling for a minute, then shook his head. “I detest this place.”
Abandoning Chantal, he left the line and stalked toward the
desk. The burly soldier ignored his approach until her audacious companion removed
a coin from a pouch in his robe, set it on the desk, and leaned over to whisper
something in the man’s ear.
Coins of any denomination were extremely scarce. He’d have a
mob attacking him for his purse if he were not careful.
Chantal held her breath as other soldiers inched closer. She
shivered, uneasy at being left alone in this crowd. She had foolishly felt safe
at Monsieur d’Olympe’s side. She ought to know better than to equate size with
intellect. The idiot man could get himself thrown behind bars and never be seen
again.
She surveyed the throng, praying she might glimpse sturdy
old Girard, but a shift in the line ahead caused her to swing back to see what
was happening.
A guard was opening the gate, gesturing for her escort to
enter. Swearing under her breath, Chantal caught up her skirts and hurried to
join him. To her surprise, all the others in line surged forward as well.
Monsieur d’Olympe — Ian, since he scarcely seemed a gentleman — patiently waited for her before entering.
But
creating a wide path to the iron grille at the rear of the chamber that marked
the prison’s boundary.
Perhaps it was his monk’s robes that caused people to step
aside, but Chantal doubted it. She assumed that if he had her following like a sheep despite her resistance, he might impose
his wishes on others as well.
Praying that Pauline and her children were close by
prevented Chantal from thinking beyond that. There wouldn’t be time before dark
to traipse about Paris to look elsewhere. The city was filled with prisons.
Monsieur d’Olympe apparently intended to march right past
the desk and guards and part the grille with his bare hands. Evidently her task
was to remind him that he was not God. A cave, indeed! Perhaps his parents were
wolves.
A little shaken upon realizing that the man with whom she’d
just had carnal relations — it certainly hadn’t been lovemaking, she had no
illusion about that! — reminded her very much of a beautiful wolf stalking his
prey, she tugged his arm and refused to walk farther.
At his impatient glance, she nodded toward the uniformed man
behind the desk. “You cannot enter without his permission. Pauline will be here
under her married name of Racine.”
She wanted to search for Pauline among the prisoners
strolling about on the far side of the grille, but watching over her determined
companion took all her attention. Fierce features scowling, he twirled his
gnarled staff against the floor while he followed her gaze and took note of
their surroundings.
“I should have brought Kiernan,” he said in disgust. “I
cannot sense anything in this confusion.”
That made about as much sense as anything else he’d said so
far. Taking a calming breath, Chantal tugged him into the line in front of the
desk. She might think rebellious thoughts, but she disliked actual conflict.
“I am not accustomed to waiting,” he practically growled at
her.
“We can’t go through without a pass,” she explained tightly.
“We could be here all night.” He started to twirl his staff,
realized what he was doing, and pounded it impatiently on the floor. “The
chalice is more important than their petty concerns.”
“Maybe so, but — ” Chantal gaped as the slovenly couple in
front of her looked around nervously and abruptly walked off.
She glanced at her companion to see if he might have threatened
them in some way, but he was glaring at the next person in line — a
black-coated, bewigged lawyer. The man suddenly checked his watch and
apparently realized he needed to be somewhere else.
“That’s better,” the monk muttered, studying the weeping
young woman now blocking their progress. He twirled his staff, studied the
vaulted ceiling for a minute, then shook his head. “I detest this place.”
Abandoning Chantal, he left the line and stalked toward the
desk. The burly soldier ignored his approach until her audacious companion removed
a coin from a pouch in his robe, set it on the desk, and leaned over to whisper
something in the man’s ear.
Coins of any denomination were extremely scarce. He’d have a
mob attacking him for his purse if he were not careful.
Chantal held her breath as other soldiers inched closer. She
shivered, uneasy at being left alone in this crowd. She had foolishly felt safe
at Monsieur d’Olympe’s side. She ought to know better than to equate size with
intellect. The idiot man could get himself thrown behind bars and never be seen
again.
She surveyed the throng, praying she might glimpse sturdy
old Girard, but a shift in the line ahead caused her to swing back to see what
was happening.
A guard was opening the gate, gesturing for her escort to
enter. Swearing under her breath, Chantal caught up her skirts and hurried to
join him. To her surprise, all the others in line surged forward as well.
Monsieur d’Olympe — Ian, since he scarcely seemed a gentleman — patiently waited for her before entering.
But
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