The Huntress (20 page)

Catherine smiled, entertaining a blissful picture of the duke being pierced by a hundred arrows fired by a troop of enraged English yeomen. There was the chance that he might succeed in putting Mary on the English throne and thus increase his own power and influence, but Catherine doubted it. She was confident that Elizabeth Tudor would never allow that to happen. Like Catherine herself, the Tudor woman was a survivor, tough, wily, and clever.

Wiping the smile from her face, Catherine continued, “In the meantime, I can assure you that Monsieur Morgan is lodged most comfortably in the Bastille and can receive what visitors he pleases. His confinement appears to have in no way curtailed his intrigues on your cousin’s behalf.”

The duke frowned, not pleased by her response to his demand, but he did not press her further. He had not yet grown powerful enough to entirely bend Catherine and the king of France to his will.

But as the duke made his bow and strode arrogantly from the chamber, Catherine feared that it was only a matter of time.

She heard a few more petitions, but scarce paid heed to what was being said. She’d once had remarkable powers of concentration, but exhaustion seemed to claim her far too easily these days. When she was informed that the English ambassador had arrived, pleading for an audience, Catherine refused, knowing what Sir Edward Stafford wanted. Not satisfied with Thomas Morgan’s arrest, the ambassador was insisting that the Scottish queen’s agent be turned over to the English government for trial.

Catherine was heartily sick of the entire situation. She wished she could have dispatched the entire lot of them, the troublesome Morgan, the importunate ambassador, and the arrogant de Guise.

Especially the duke. When she had been younger, at the height of her power, she would have known how to deal with such an insolent man after her own subtle fashion. A suitable accident arranged, a little morsel of something deadly slipped into his cup. Had the duke truly grown so powerful she did not dare lift a hand against him or had she merely declined into a weak, elderly woman afraid to act?

How old age makes cowards of us all, she thought with a sigh. Refusing to hear any more petitions, Catherine left the audience chamber, her ladies trailing in her wake.

Her footsteps lagged as she wound her way through the corridors of the Louvre, longing for the peace of her apartments, a comforting tisane to ease some of the pain in her joints.

She encountered the king emerging from his own chamber, as usual surrounded by an entourage of his painted sycophants. She thought sourly that Henry was looking remarkably fit for a man who had declared himself far too weak to deal with any matters of state or petitions.

Once Catherine had desired to have the reins of government entirely in her own hands, but Henry’s increasing avoidance of his duties as king was becoming a source of concern and aggravation.

Henry looked little better pleased to see her than she was to see him. He strode toward her, his long black hair flowing back from his sallow complexion. He was attired in a saffron-colored doublet sharply nipped in at the waist, his ballooning trunk hose making his legs appear far too thin, almost effeminate. A painful contrast to the bold, vigorous duke who had so recently swaggered out of the audience chamber.

Although he was younger than de Guise, Henry’s face was so carved by lines of dissipation, he appeared the far older of the two.

Catherine forced her knees into a stiff painful curtsy as Henry dutifully saluted her cheek.

“I’m glad to see you looking so well, my son,” she replied, making no effort to hide her sneer.

“Well enough for a man with death hovering over his shoulder,” he replied peevishly.

Catherine suppressed a wearied sigh. “What ails Your Grace now?”

“What ails me?
What ails me?
” His voice rose a little with each syllable. “Have you not troubled to look outside this morning?”

Not giving her a chance to reply, Henry gripped her arm and all but dragged her over to the nearest window. Catherine gritted her teeth as her bones protested in pain.

“Look out there,” he insisted.

Catherine’s heart skipped a beat in spite of herself. Conditions in France had grown so bad these past few years, a succession of droughts and poor harvests spreading famine and desperation. Many had been driven from their homes and taken to begging upon the roads.

She half dreaded to find a discontented mob converging upon the palace. But all she saw was the expansive lawn sloping down to the peaceful waters of the Seine, the lovely gardens and fountains that she had designed herself.

Shrugging free of her son’s grip, she said, “I see nothing beyond the fact that the roses require pruning.”

“Not there,” Henry snapped, seizing her chin, forcing her to gaze upward. “
There.
In the sky.”

Catherine squinted until her eyes watered, but she could make out little beyond the faint streak set against the pale blue sky. But she well knew what was agitating her son, the same object that had been sending all other weak-minded fools across France into a panic. That damnable comet.

She fought to curb her impatience. “I have told you before, Henry, it is nothing, only a comet.”

“But it is getting closer, Maman.”

“No, it is heading toward the sun and will soon disappear entirely.”

“What will that matter? It has already delivered its terrible curse. You know what the comet means as well as I do. Some great man is going to die.”

And what has that got to do with you, my son?
Catherine thought, but she patted his arm. “Surely Your Grace is too clever to be troubled by such nonsense.”

“Nonsense? It is a matter of historical fact that a comet appeared to herald the death of Julius Caesar.”

“You are hardly a Caesar, Henry,” she said dryly, but in his agitation, he ignored her, drumming his fingers against the windowpane. His slender hand was so weighted down by costly rings Catherine often marveled that he was able to lift it.

“And what of the Emperor Nero? From what I have been reading, he most certainly understood the dangerous significance of comets.”

“Ah, yes, Nero. What a fine example of reason and sagacity he was.”

Her sarcasm was clearly lost on her son because he jerked his head in agreement.

“The emperor was wise enough to consult his astrologers about how to avert the disaster from himself. Do you know what they advised him to do?” Henry leaned closer, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Kill some of the nobles of his court as a sacrificial offering.”

“What a fine idea. Why don’t you begin with some of those friends of yours who are bleeding the treasury dry?”

Henry glowered at her. “I was thinking more of the duc de Guise.”

Catherine froze, peering up at her son in dismay. Even with her dim eyesight, she could not miss the dangerous glitter that had sprung to Henry’s eyes. Despite his lethargy, at times Henry could bestir himself to take action, but it was usually of the most rash and disastrous sort. And he loathed the duc de Guise to the point of madness.

With a nervous glance at her ladies-in-waiting and her son’s friends, Catherine clutched at Henry’s hand and drew him farther out of earshot. She spoke to him in a low urgent voice.

“We’ve discussed this before. We will deal with de Guise at a more favorable time, but not now. He is far too powerful at the moment. If anything were to happen to the duke and it could be attributed to us, all of Paris and most of the Catholics in France would rise up in revolt against us. We would be lost. It would be the end of everything.”

Henry’s face twisted into an expression that frightened her, one she had seen too often of late. For a moment he appeared beyond all reach of reason, on the brink of madness.

“It is too late already. I have known that for some time. Our end is written in the sky, Maman. In another year, you and I will both be dust and long forgotten.”

For a man speaking madness, his expression was chillingly sane.

C
ATHERINE HUDDLED ALONE BENEATH A SHAWL, HER CHAIR
drawn up close to the large stone hearth in her private apartments. Even the blazing fire was not enough to drive the cold from her bones. Yet another consequence of her advancing years, she thought dourly. There were times when she could not seem to get warm, an unpleasant presage perhaps, to that other vast cold that awaited her, the chill of the grave.

In another year, you and I will both be dust and long forgotten.

Catherine shivered at the memory of her son’s prediction. She could have dismissed it as the ranting of a madman if it had not struck to the heart of her most secret dread. Dying, ceasing to exist. She feared the notion of a great nothingness far more than she did being called to account for her sins before some mighty Creator.

Daughters of the earth considered death a natural process, a fitting end to the cycle of life, being restored to the bosom of Mother Earth, becoming one with the rich soil. But Catherine found nothing comforting about the prospect of maggots stripping away her flesh until all that remained was a pile of moldering bones.

She cringed, shrinking down in her chair. In a fit of self-disgust, she forced herself to straighten. No, she was not ready to become worm food yet, her son’s insane predictions be damned.

At least she had managed to placate Henry for the moment, turn him aside from taking any rash action against the duc de Guise. But she would have to watch her son more closely, perhaps slip some sort of powder into his food that would guarantee he remained in a state of lethargic calm. Surely she retained enough skill in brewing up potions to accomplish that.

Kneading her aching shoulder, Catherine sighed. As if Henry’s erratic behavior and the duc de Guise’s ambitions were not enough to plague her, another problem had returned to haunt her, one that she believed she had seen the end of when that Lascelles witch had drowned in the Seine.

But the legend of the Silver Rose lived on and apparently so did the sorceress herself. Not the Lascelles woman, but a mere child…

Catherine stirred as her ladies moved about the chamber lighting candles. Lost in her dark musings, she had scarce noticed the day fading into evening. When one of her ladies tiptoed closer to announce that Captain Gautier had arrived, seeking an audience, some of Catherine’s flagging energy returned.

Flinging off her shawl, she struggled painfully to her feet, determined that even before someone as insignificant as her own mercenary, she would appear as a queen.

As the captain entered, Catherine dismissed her attendants. The business that brought Gautier to her was of far too private and secret a nature for any ears but her own. As the door closed behind her ladies, Gautier dropped to one knee before Catherine.

The candlelight played over his sandy-colored beard and curly hair of such thick silken texture many a woman would have envied him. He possessed a genial and smiling countenance, a valuable asset in a cold-hearted assassin.

Carrying Catherine’s hand smoothly to his lips, he murmured, “How radiant Your Grace appears this evening. May I be bold enough to say—”

“No, you may not.” Catherine snatched her hand away. “I have had my fill of overbold men and pretense for one day. Just make your report and be brief about it.”

Undaunted by her rebuke, Gautier swaggered to his feet. “Very well. It is done, Your Grace. The last of the witches that we captured in the raid have been executed.”

“And the warder of the Bastille was discreet about it?” she asked anxiously. Bad enough that all these wild stories were circulating abroad about a sorceress destined to destroy the Dark Queen. Catherine did not need the execution of these witches lending any more credence to the legend of the Silver Rose.

“We were as discreet as it is possible to be when hanging nearly half a dozen women. One of them attempted to cry out ‘Long live the Silver Rose.’” Gautier’s teeth flashed in a broad smile. “But she was swiftly silenced when the rope snapped her neck. In any case, there was none but myself and the warder present to hear.”

“Good.” Standing still for too long was difficult for Catherine. She paced off a few steps in a vain attempt to stretch some of the stiffness from her joints. “So not one of those women was inclined to accept the reprieve that I offered in exchange for more information about the Silver Rose?”

“Alas, no. For some reason, they placed little faith in Your Grace’s promises of
mercy.
” The man had the insolence to smirk. “Nor was any form of torture able to loosen their tongues. We tried everything, the rack, the boot, thumbscrews. We learned little beyond what I told Your Grace before. The Silver Rose is actually the daughter of Cassandra Lascelles, a girl who goes by the name of Megaera, and these women worship her to the brink of insanity.”

Catherine shook her head, still barely able to credit that her dread nemesis was nothing more than a girl. She had actually had the child within her grasp that summer the Lascelles witch had attacked Catherine on the grounds of her own palace.

If Catherine had not been so distracted, so obsessed by the tantalizing prospect of obtaining the
Book of Shadows
from Cassandra Lascelles, would she have taken more heed of Megaera? If Catherine’s powers of perception had been as sharp as in her youth, would she have noticed something strange and remarkable about the child?