The Huntress (35 page)

Martin’s breath caught in his throat. At the sound of that dread name, he felt as though his heart stopped.

“Who?” he rasped.

“The Silver Rose. Apparently some strange stories have circulated abroad about a legendary sorceress who once threatened the life of Queen Catherine. This witch is now believed to reside in England.”

Martin felt his face drain of blood. He had to turn away from Jane to avoid revealing how badly shaken he was. He knew that tales about Meg were rampant in France among the daughters of the earth. But the thought that the legend of the Silver Rose had spread far enough to gain Walsingham’s attention filled Martin with alarm. He could scarce concentrate on the rest of what Jane was saying.

“Of course, I have often traveled through France with my brother, but to suspect me of being this powerful French witch…It seems so ridiculous I could laugh.” Jane made a half-hearted attempt to do so. “I suppose now I must fear for my ear as well as my neck.”

Jane’s last remark started Martin into swiveling around to face her. “Your pardon?”

“My ear,” she repeated, her hand going up to tug at hers. “That is how the law often punishes those convicted of practicing necromancy. They lop off your ear.”

Martin frowned. “I thought that was the punishment for theft.”

“It can be. It can also be the sentence for spying.” Jane cast him a wry look. “But more often the taking of an ear is the punishment for those accused of sorcery, like young Master Naismith.”

“Naismith?” Martin echoed hoarsely.

Jane pursed her lips. “One would have thought losing his ear would have taught the wretched boy a lesson. But I have recently come to believe that it is Sander Naismith’s deplorable influence that has kept Ned so interested in the forbidden arts.”

Martin’s mind reeled. Sander had told Martin he lost his ear for stealing. Why would the boy lie about that? Martin could think of no good reason.

He was made more uneasy as he recollected he had not been the one who had sought Sander out to teach Meg to play the lute. It had been the other way around, Sander eagerly offering his services.

Too eagerly perhaps? Was it a mere happenstance that a boy who had dabbled in the occult should have evinced such interest in tutoring Martin’s daughter? A further coincidence still that Sander had been the one to bring Martin the tidings about Jane and beg Martin to rush to her aid? Sander had never demonstrated any degree of regard for her ladyship’s welfare before.

Martin sought to quiet his fears, tell himself he was becoming alarmed over nothing. Meg was safe at home and she had Cat with her. But it chilled Martin to think that he had left that duplicitous Naismith roaming tamely about his house.

Assaulted by such thoughts, Martin scarce noted the warder’s return to inform him his time was up. Martin bid a swift farewell to Jane, urging her to keep her spirits up. He pledged to return soon, promising…He hardly knew what else he promised her.

Jane’s plight momentarily paled beside the urgent, instinctive need he felt to get home to his daughter.

M
EG DANGLED HER LEGS OFF THE STONE BENCH IN THE GARDEN
, resisting the urge to clap her hands over her ears. She could still hear poor Jem’s pathetic cries carrying from the kitchen.

She gripped her hands tightly together in her lap instead, trying not to think about that spell she had conned from the
Book of Shadows,
the one that could so easily have rendered Jem unconscious. No doubt Cat had been wise, admonishing Meg to forget about it.

The trouble was that Meg could not seem to do so. Her memory was far too good. She had learned of that particular potion when Maman had ordered Meg to study the
Book
to find a cure for Maman’s blindness.

Although she had succeeded in doing so, Meg had lied to her mother. The cure had involved using the potion to render a person unconscious and then described a delicate magic for stealing their sight and gifting it to another. The donor would end up blind, perhaps even dead if given too much of the sleeping potion. But that would never have troubled Cassandra Lascelles.

Perhaps Meg was as evil as her mother to consider using that sleeping potion, even in an attempt to do good. She ought to find the courage to destroy the
Book of Shadows,
but Meg feared it was already too late.

So much of the book was stored in her head and she was increasingly tempted to use her knowledge. If only she had been able to learn how to master the scrying ball. But she hadn’t.

Now there seemed only one way to ever learn the truth about herself and her destiny. Necromancy. She would have to attempt the spell to raise the seer Nostradamus from the dead. Just the way Maman had done.

Meg’s thoughts were disrupted as she heard someone emerge from the house. She glanced up eagerly, hoping it would be Cat, come to tell her poor Jem’s ordeal was over.

To her astonishment, it was Sander hastening toward her down the garden path. The sunlight glinted off the damp strands of his blond hair, his handsome face sporting a fresh-scrubbed look as though he had just washed up in the kitchen.

Somehow it only added to his charm. Meg’s heart lifted at the sight of him until she recalled the details of their last meeting at the theater.

Her joy at seeing him subdued, Meg ducked her head. Her lack of warmth must have conveyed itself to Sander. He halted a foot away and asked hesitantly, “Do you mind if I bear you company awhile, Mistress Margaret?”

Meg shrugged.

“It is just that the barber has arrived. He is fixing to cut out poor Jem’s tooth with a most wicked-looking knife and I confess to being a bit squeamish.”

Meg kept her gaze fixed on the buckles of her shoes. “Why are you even here? It is not the day for my lesson.”

“I came to see your papa. I had a message for him.”

“Oh.” Meg sniffed. “I suppose it was from your friend, Lord Lambert.”

“Lord Lambert is my patron, Meg. I do my best to please him. When you are poor, it is the only way to get ahead in the world.”

Sander hunkered down in front of her and reached for her hand. “But I have only one true friend and that is you.”

Meg could scarce believe him. But when she risked a glance into his eyes, they were so open, so sincere, his smile so warm, she melted in spite of herself.

Scooting over on the bench, she said, “You may sit with me for a bit if you wish.”

But Sander only laughed and shook his head at her. “You astonish me, Mistress Margaret. I am surprised to see you so willing to idle here when there is such great excitement to be had.”

“What excitement?”

“The queen. She is going to honor the Lord Mayor and his council by attending a feast. There should be a grand procession through the streets at any moment. The whifflers are already clearing a path. Do you not want to finally catch a glimpse of Her Majesty? She will be on horseback. You shall not be able to miss her this time.”

“Oh!” Meg leapt up from the bench in her excitement. But she sobered as she remembered. “Papa is not here to take me. And Cat is occupied with helping Jem.”

“Poor devil. It is sure to be a gruesome business.” Sander gave an exaggerated shudder. “I should not care to be here to hear his shrieks. If you and I were to nip down to the end of the street, we should have a grand view of the procession and avoid all the unpleasantness.”

Meg fretted her lip, the temptation overwhelming. She ruefully shook her head. “I can’t. Cat would not like it. She would be vexed with both of us.”

“She’ll never know. It is only to the end of the street, Meg. We’ll be back in a trice.”

As Meg continued to hesitate, Sander fetched a deep sigh. “It will be a wonderful opportunity to see the queen. I doubt you’ll soon have another as good as this.”

Meg shifted from one foot to the other in an agony of indecision. A bloodcurdling scream from the kitchen tipped the scale. She glanced up at the handsome boy coaxing her with his smile and shyly slipped her hand into his.

C
AT STRODE OUT INTO THE GARDEN, TAKING A FORTIFYING GULP
of fresh air. Her face streamed with sweat and her apron was spattered with Jem’s blood. She stripped off the apron, still feeling half-deafened by the young man’s roars of pain.

The tooth had been rooted far deeper than expected. While Master Turner had performed the extraction, it had taken the combined efforts of Cat, Agatha, and Samuel to hold Jem down. Cat felt like she had been wrestling a bear until mercifully Jem had fainted.

As stressful as the tooth drawing had been, at least it had provided a distraction from worrying herself to death about Martin.

The extraction might have gone more smoothly if Master Naismith had made himself useful and remained to lend a hand, Cat thought caustically. But it had scarce surprised Cat when Sander had proved too fainthearted for the task and had slunk out of the kitchen to join Meg.

Mopping the sweat from her brow, Cat headed into the garden to inform Meg that Jem’s misery was over. She drew up short when she realized the stone bench was empty. There was no sign of Meg or Naismith either.

Cat tensed when she saw the garden gate ajar. But she sought to reassure herself. Meg must have wanted to return to the house, but to avoid the distressing scene in the kitchen, she had gone round to the front door.

Cat hurried through the gate, emerging into the street. The narrow thoroughfare bustled with its usual afternoon activity. Vendors crying their wares, beggars pleading for alms, goodwives haggling for bargains, a burly drayman cursing and trying to clear a path for his cart laden down with ale barrels.

Cat blinked when she caught sight of a familiar figure halfway down the street, Meg on the verge of disappearing from view, her hand linked with Sander Naismith’s.

What the devil did the girl think she was doing? Cat bit back a vexed oath. When she caught up to Meg, she would give the girl a thunderous scold. As for Naismith, the lad would regret he still had an ear after Cat was done boxing it.

Cat thrust her way through the crowd, ignoring the indignant protests and curses directed at her.

“Meg,” she called, but she could scarce make herself heard above the din of voices and the heavy clatter of the cart horse’s iron shoes.

Struggling forward, Cat collided with a tall, elegantly dressed man. Impatiently, she tried to shove past him, but the man deliberately blocked the path.

“Get the blazes out of my—” Cat’s words choked to a halt as she stared up at familiar smooth features, the curling sandy beard and hair, the genial smile that did not match those cold eyes.

“Gautier!” Cat reeled back in shock.

“You know my name, mademoiselle,” he purred. “You have the advantage of me. But not for long.”

As he reached for the hilt of his sword, Cat scrambled for her own knife. To her surprise, he only smiled and nodded.

It never occurred to her that it was a signal until it was too late. She caught a blur of movement from the corner of her eye as the cudgel whipped down, colliding with her temple.

She gasped, the street before her exploding in a blur of pain and white-hot stars. Staggering, Cat sought to remain upright even as blood streamed down her face, obscuring the vision of her right eye.

She clutched at Gautier, tried to raise her knife only to have it easily knocked from her grasp. She attempted to shout but her voice was drowned out by his.

“Help. This poor woman has been assaulted, her purse snatched. Someone look to her while I pursue the thief.”

“No, he—he is lying. He’s the one…” Cat’s voice trailed off to a whisper, as her legs buckled beneath her. She tried to hang on to Gautier, but he wrenched away. Cat tumbled to the street, clutching at air as webs of darkness danced before her eyes.

“Meg.” Cat made a frantic effort to crawl forward, regain her footing. She gained no more than a few inches. As darkness overtook her, she was dimly aware of the crowd gathering around her, the hubbub of voices growing ever fainter.

Meg and Sander were nearly at the turn onto the next street when she glanced back in time to see Cat fall.

“What?” The girl craned her neck. She tugged urgently at Sander’s hand. “Sander, I think something has happened to Cat. We’ve got to go back.”