Witch & Curse by Nancy Holder, Debbie Viguié Page B

head shot forward for some distance before it smacked against the earth and rolled.
    Jean jerked his right boot out of his spur and hoisted himself over the saddle, so that he was draped at a dangerous angle on the left flank of his charger. Like a wild Arabian, he leaned down, grabbed up thehead, and threw his body upright astride his saddle once more. He held it high for all to see while the dogs dove in a frenzied heap upon the headless, still twitching corpse. Blood gushed from the neck, and the horrified eyes stared at Jean for a moment. There were some who said that those who were beheaded lived for a few seconds afterward; in case that was true, Jean laughed at the dying face and said, “Your death brings me a boy child, or I curse your soul to the Devil.”
    The eyes rolled up in the head. And Fantasme took his share while the assemblage cheered their familiar . . . and the heir of their Circle.
    Laurent galloped up and cried, “Well done, my son!” He held out his hands, and Jean tossed the head into his father’s arms. Then he waved at his cheering fellows and cantered away to prepare for his wedding, leaving the others to take the rest of the peasants selected for the Hunt.
    Moonlight and firelight gleamed across the courtyard of Castle Deveraux. The great stone gargoyles that had haunted Jean’s childhood nights stared down at the assembly, fire pouring from their snouts. Torch flames whipped in the warm air, and great bonfires flared from the tunnels leading down to the dreaded dungeons,infamous throughout France as bastions of unspeakable cruelty.
Woe betide him who crosses a Deveraux
, went the saying, and it was true. The Cahors had been wise to entangle their fate with the Deveraux, now that they knew the Deveraux had achieved the creation of Black Fire. They would be loath to have it used against them.
    As was the custom of the day, Isabeau joined Jean in front of the closed chapel doors. Men and women married before church doors; thus it was no insult to the Bishop that they did not go inside the church. On this night of the Blood Moon, the two stood facing each other before banks of lilies and twining ivy. Lilies were the flower of the Cahors, and ivy, of the Deveraux. Fantasme and Pandion were present, each preening on a beautifully decorated perch. Loose them, and they would kill each other.
    Isabeau was like a fantastic she-dragon, dressed as the mighty lady she was, and would become, in ebony shot with silver thread. But she trembled like a shy virgin, and by the light of the full moon, he saw how pale she was beneath her black and silver veil.
    How long will you be my lady?
he wondered silently.
How long before our Houses feud once more, and I poison or behead you, or burn you at the stake?
    At this, she looked up at him, her eyes flinty. She didn’t blink, didn’t waver as he returned her gaze. Hereyes glowed a soft blue. The air between them thrummed with tension. He was delighted; this lady had a spine, by the God! He’d best look to his own person, or
she
would be the one to do
him
in.
    He chuckled low in his throat, then turned his attention to his father.
    As the two houses chanted in Latin and languages even more ancient, Laurent held his athame at the ready, preparing to cut open the wrists of the marrying couple. The hood of his dark crimson robe concealing his face, he towered like a dark statue before the altar. Isabeau’s mother, Catherine, also wore black and silver; they were the colors of their House.
    It was a glorious sight for those assembled, and power and passion flared and rose between the young couple as they were joined, soul to soul, until the end of days. Their wrists were cut and blood mingled together in flesh and into flesh, as Laurent and Catherine bound their children’s left arms together with cords soaked in herbals and unguents designed to ensure fertility. Both Houses were strong and boasted many young ones, but those of the