Chapter Twenty-Seven - Why Does No One Ever Want to Hear About Bird Harems?

From the second I mounted my horse and joined the hunt, I knew I was in for a deplorable afternoon. It was the hottest day of the summer thus far, and the sun hung heavy over my head, baking me like an eel pie in the oven. Which would have been uncomfortable enough in my normal clothes, but the hunt was a dreadfully formal affair, and I'd been forced to sport the proper attire.

Now, I wore a dense navy frock coat with massive embroidered sleeves, a scarlet waistcoat, leather boots that came up past my knee, a tricorn hat, and a powdered wig. Where I didn't sweat, I itched. Where I didn't itch, my body knocked against the horse's backside and the rapier strapped to my waist. I'd have bruises in questionable places for weeks.

To make matters worse, not only was the outfit suffocating, it was also used as a symbol to mark me as a member of the king's royal hunting party. Which meant everyone else in the hunting party sneered at me as if they'd cheerfully have my skin stripped off and turned into a decorative rug. I knew the plan was to make it obvious I was in the king's favor and thus would be allowed to sneak around under less suspicion, but I felt rather like a rack of lamb, set in front of a pack of rabid dogs.

The animosity was to be expected, seeing as most everyone in the hunting party had worked for years to secure a coveted invitation to join the king. But what the king said went, and no one was permitted to make a comment about my presence. Even so, I had a bone deep longing for a familiar face—Étienne or Father or even Henri. Anyone would be a welcome reprieve from all these plucked and powdered old men with their swords and hunting horns and judgmental glares.

"Olivier d'Aumont, I wasn't aware you received an invitation for today's hunt."

I looked over and nearly choked on my own surprise. Cardinal de Fleury rode atop a smooth black horse, the fine sheen of sweat on his near translucent skin shining in the sunlight. I blinked once, convinced my mind was playing tricks on me. But when I opened my eyes again, the cardinal was still there, and he was still staring at me like I was dog shit smeared across the bottom of someone's shoe.

"Yes, hello," I said. "That's me."

"This is your first hunt?"

I blinked again, equal parts confused and mortified. I did wish to speak with him, so I could gather more information about the comte's sinister plans, but not like this—when I was caught off guard and had sweat streaming down my face and probably smelled like the inside of someone's armpit.

"It is," I said tentatively.

"Odd how, a few days ago, you had never spoken to the king, and now you're being invited to his personal hunts."

"Oh." I swallowed. The king and I had thought of an excuse for the invite earlier today, but upon joining his crowd of favored courtiers, it flew out of my mind quicker than a startled cockroach. "We share a liking for birds."

"You were invited to the hunt because you share a liking for birds?"

"Indeed. The hunt. . . erm. . . hunts birds, so. . ." I was truly grasping at nothing here, but I couldn't find it in me to stop. "Did you know male pheasants have harems?"

The cardinal frowned.

"The boy pheasants have harems of girl pheasants," I continued. "As many as eight sometimes."

"Hm," Fleury said. "I still find it strange that you're joining a casual hunt when Étienne d'Aumont is scheduled to be hanged in three days."

Hanged in three days.

The words flung themselves at me, each one hitting harder than the last. I'd forced myself to forget about my brother's death sentence the best I could over the past few days, but with Fleury standing next to me and saying the words out loud, panic returned in a single, resounding crash.

Just last night, Étienne and I had talked near the fire. Just last night, he had leaned over to ruffle my hair. And in three days, he could be gone?

Sweat gathered at the nape of my neck, though this time it had nothing to do with the heat. My heart pounded against my eardrums, my blood rushing through my veins. My lungs felt heavy with sand.

"I need to know more about Comte de Coligny!" I yelled. "I believe he's creating an army of mind-altered men using clocks, and I need to know why."

I expected Fleury's mouth to fall open in shock or his wrinkled hand to fly up and cover his heart. But he merely lifted a gray eyebrow and said, "Hm."

"Do you not believe me?"

Before I could say anything else, a cacophony of horns blared out across the Grand Park, echoing through the leaf-choked trees and rolling hills. A fox had been spotted, and the hunt had begun.

My horse charged forward, thundering over the ground so quickly, my body shot into the air before I landed back on the steed. Ahead of us, the king and other members of the hunt galloped along, hordes of barking hounds appearing and disappearing like apparitions between the tall grasses.

And among the wind rushing past my ears, Fleury called out, "These are serious accusations you're making, Monsieur d'Aumont."

I looked over to where the cardinal was galloping alongside me. "What?"

"The comte may have lost favor over the years, but he is still your better, and you cannot accuse high members of the peerage of such acts."

I gripped the reins harder, the leather cutting into the soft skin on my palms, and opened my mouth to shout, "It isn't an accusation, it's true. Now answer me, you great mass of moldering jelly!"

And that was the exact moment the king held up his hand to signal we were all to come to a stop. Horses reared up, clumps of dirt and grass shooting into the air like rainclouds, and everything fell silent. Everything, that is, but my scream of you great mass of moldering jelly.

One by one, the members of the royal hunt all turned to look at me. Including the king. Including godforsaken Comte de Coligny.

"Good afternoon, messieurs," I said. "Is anyone else itchy?"

"Olivier d'Aumont," Comte de Coligny said, eyes flashing with anger. Though he wore the same frock coat as the rest of the hunt, the embroidery was more elaborate, the buttons shining with rubies instead of plain gold. "I wasn't aware you were joining us today."

The king looked horrified. I felt horrified.

"I would continue the hunt," the king said. I could tell he was trying his hardest not to look at me.

I had never wished so greatly to become a forest hermit.

"Of course, Your Majesty," Comte de Coligny said.

The comte nudged his horse in the side to get it moving again, and the hounds continued their pursuit of the fox. Which, thanks to my outburst, had escaped. I followed the party, head bowed. We stilled our horses a few minutes later, waiting in silence as the hounds sniffed out the fox's trail. I remained on the outskirts of the party, but kept my attention focused on the comte.

I had been ready for him to come after me with accusations about being responsible for his son's disappearance, but he didn't. Why wasn't he spitting mad about Mathieu? Why hadn't he sent a search party after him? Why was he hunting alongside the king, looking haughty and self-important as ever?

I got my answer moments later when the king—bless his quick thinking—asked, "Where is your son, Monsieur le Comte? He's not one to miss a hunt."

I inclined my ear to better hear the conversation while feigning fascination with a pair of hounds sniffing the ground around my horse's legs.

"He wished to spend the weekend at our country estate," the comte responded. "Said he required fresh air."

I snapped my head up, searching for any sign the comte was lying. But his stance held no tension, nor did his expression. Either he truly believed Mathieu was at their country estate, or he thought Mathieu was kidnapped and had already concocted a plan for revenge. I hoped to God that was not the case.

A man to the left of the comte exchanged a look with his companion, and they both snickered. "Are you certain all he required was fresh air?" one of them said.

The comte bristled. "I'm quite sure I don't know what you mean."

"Nothing at all, Monsieur le Comte." The man bowed and turned away, whispering to his friend just loud enough to be overheard, "Perhaps his son wished to finally be free of his mad ravings about clocks and his dead brother."

The two laughed under their breath and retreated to the back of the hunting party. The comte remained where he was, tightening his grip on the horse's reins.

The hounds a bit farther up crowded around a shallow stream and began yowling. They then sprang forward, once more on the scent of their prey. The horns blared, and we were off, splashing through the stream and charging down a narrow path cut in the trees. Above us, the sun shone through the emerald green leaves, creating a dappled mosaic of sunlight across the ground.

The king broke off to dart down a smaller path, and the rest of the hunting party lingered behind—save for the comte and Cardinal de Fleury, who waited a few seconds before following the king. My breath hitched in my throat. I didn't know what was happening, but I did know I couldn't let the comte get the king alone.

Decorum stated the highest members of the peerage were to be the one to make the kill, and no one else was allowed to pursue the fox without expressed permission. But I was a d'Aumont, dammit, and the d'Aumonts didn't give a fig for decorum. So, I stayed back, waiting until there was a good distance between myself and the hunting party, and then dashed through the woods after the comte.

The path I chose wasn't a path at all, but a barely cleared trail, flanked on either side by pointy rocks and looping tree roots bursting free from the dirt. I urged my horse to run faster until I spotted the king's brocaded coat through a clearing in the trees.

I opened my mouth to call out to him, but then the comte came into view through a smaller path in the forest, followed closely by Cardinal de Fleury.

I froze. I wanted to come out from behind the copse of trees, make myself known, and tell them both to stay away from the king. But I couldn't move. I wasn't certain if my reaction was a result of curiosity or fear, but either way, I remained hidden as the comte approached the king.

"Ah, Monsieur le Comte. Cardinal de Fleury," the king said. "The fox is almost within our grasp."

"Splendid," the comte responded. His smile was tight. "Sire, I did believe you promised not to say anything. I warned you what would happen otherwise."

The king's head flew up. "I beg your pardon?"

I flicked my eyes to Fleury, wondering if he would have anything to say about this exchange. But he sat rigid on his horse, gaze locked on the king. Something was off about the look in his eyes—something that made them appear dazed and unfocused. It struck me as familiar in a way I couldn't quite place.

However, as I nudged my horse forward to investigate further, realization set in. Mathieu's eyes looked the same—and they had changed right after he fell under the influence of the clock.

I whipped my head to the side in time to see the comte snap his fingers. And a second later, Fleury ripped a dagger from inside his coat and lunged for the king.