The Interrogation

Reid

I woke long before my wife. Stiff. Sore. Aching from a fitful night on the floor. Though I’d argued with myself—reasoned vehemently that she’d chosen to suffer in the tub—I hadn’t been able to climb into bed. Not when she was injured. Not when she might wake in the night and change her mind.

No. I’d offered her the bed. The bed was hers.

I regretted my chivalry the moment I stepped into the training yard. Word of my new circumstance had obviously swept through the Tower. Man after man rose to meet me, each with a determined glint in his eye. Each waiting impatiently for his turn. Each attacking with uncharacteristic belligerence.

“Long night, huh, Captain?” my first partner sneered after clipping my shoulder.

The next managed to hit my ribs. He glared. “It isn’t right. A criminal sleeping three rooms from me.”

Jean Luc grinned. “I don’t think they were doing much sleeping.”

“She could cut our throats.”

“She consorts with witches.”

“It isn’t right.”

“It isn’t fair.”

“I heard she’s a whore.”

I bashed the handle of my sword into the last one’s head, and he sprawled to the ground. Extending my arms, I turned in a slow circle. Challenging anyone who dared confront me. Blood ran from a cut on my forehead. “Does anyone else have a problem with my new circumstance?”

Jean Luc howled with laughter. He in particular seemed to enjoy my trial, judgment, and execution—until he entered the ring. “Give me your best, old man.”

I was older than him by three months.

But even battered, even exhausted, even old, I would die before yielding to Jean Luc.

The fight lasted only a few minutes. Though he was quick and nimble, I was stronger. After a good hit, he too crumpled, clutching his ribs. I rubbed the blood from my freshly split lip before helping him up.

“We’ll need to interrupt your conjugal bliss to interrogate her about Tremblay’s, you know. Like it or not, the men are right.” He touched a knot under his eye gingerly. “She does consort with witches. The Archbishop thinks she might be able to lead us to them.”

I almost rolled my eyes. The Archbishop had already confided his hopes to me, but I didn’t tell Jean Luc that. He enjoyed feeling superior. “I know.”

Wooden swords still clacked, and bodies thudded together as our brothers continued around us. No others approached, but they shot me covert looks between rounds. Men who had once respected me. Men who had once laughed, joked, and called me friend. In only a few hours, I’d become the object of my wife’s rejection and my brethren’s scorn. Both stung more than I cared to admit.

Breakfast had been worse. My brethren hadn’t allowed me to eat a bite. Half had been too eager to hear about my wedding night, and the others had studiously ignored me.

What was it like?

Did you enjoy it?

Don’t tell the Archbishop, but . . . I tried it once. Her name was Babette.

Of course I hadn’t actually wanted to consummate. With her. And my brothers—they would come around. Once they realized I wasn’t going anywhere. Which I wasn’t.

Crossing the yard, I threw my sword on the rack. The men parted for me in waves. Their whispers bit and snapped at my back. To my irritation, Jean Luc had no such scruples. He followed me like a plague of locusts.

“I must confess I’m anxious to see her again.” He ensured his sword landed on top of mine. “After that performance on the beach, I think our brothers are in for a real treat.”

I would’ve preferred the locusts.

“She isn’t that,” I disagreed in an undertone.

Jean Luc continued as if he hadn’t heard me. “It’s been a long time since a woman was in the Tower. Who was the last—Captain Barre’s wife? She wasn’t anything to look at. Yours is much nicer—”

“I’ll thank you not to speak of my wife.” The whispers peaked behind us as we neared the Tower. Uninhibited laughter rang across the yard as we stepped inside. I gritted my teeth and pretended I couldn’t hear them. “What she is or isn’t is no concern of yours.”

His eyebrows shot up. “What’s this? Is that possessiveness I detect? Surely you haven’t forgotten the love of your life so easily?”

Célie. Her name cut through me like a serrated knife. Last night, I’d written her a final letter. She deserved to hear what had happened from me. And now, we were . . . done. Truly done this time. I tried and failed to swallow the lump in my throat.

Please, please, forget me.

I could never forget you.

You must.

The letter had left with the post at first light.

“Have you told her yet?” Jean Luc kept hard on my heels, just tall enough to match my stride. “Did you go to her last night? One last rendezvous with your lady?”

I didn’t answer.

“She won’t be pleased, will she? I mean, you chose not to marry her—”

“Lay off, Jean Luc.”

“—yet now you’ve married a filthy street rat who tricked you into a compromising position. Or did she?” His eyes flared, and he caught my arm. I tensed, longing to break his grip. Or his nose. “One can’t help but wonder . . . why did the Archbishop force you to marry a criminal if you’re innocent?”

I jerked my arm away. Fought to control the anger threatening to explode. “I am innocent.”

He touched the knot at his eye again, lip curling into a grin. “Of course.”

“There you are!” The Archbishop’s curt voice preceded him into the foyer. As one, we lifted our fists to our hearts and bowed. When we rose, the Archbishop’s gaze fell on me. “Jean Luc has informed me you’ll be interrogating your wife today about the witch at Tremblay’s.”

I nodded stiffly.

“You will, of course, communicate any developments to me directly.” He clasped my shoulder with an easy camaraderie that probably drove Jean Luc mad. “We must keep a keen eye on her, Captain Diggory, lest she destroy herself—and you in the process. I would attend the interrogation myself, but . . .”

Though his voice trailed off, his meaning rang clear. But I can’t stand her. I empathized.

“Yes, sir.”

“Go and fetch her, then. I shall be in my study, preparing for evening Mass.”

She wasn’t in our room.

Or the washroom.

Or the Tower.

Or the entire cathedral.

I was going to strangle her.

I’d told her to stay. I’d presented the reasons—the perfectly rational, easily understandable reasons—and still she’d disobeyed. Still she’d left. And now who knew what foolish antics she was up to—foolish antics that would reflect back on me. A husband who couldn’t control his own wife.

Furious, I sat at my desk and waited. Mentally recited every verse I could on patience.

“Be still before the Lord, and wait patiently for him; do not fret over those who prosper in their way, over those who carry out evil devices.”

Of course she’d left. Why wouldn’t she? She was a criminal. An oath meant nothing to her. My reputation meant nothing to her. I sat forward in my chair. Pressed my palms against my eyes to relieve the building pressure in my head.