The Silver Rose (11 page)

A muttered exclamation from Marie Claire drew Miri’s attention back to her friend.

“I’ll be hanged if I ever saw the like of this cursed thing before,” Marie Claire said, shoving back from the table. Although she had taken great care not to touch the flower, she crossed over to the ewer and basin and vigorously washed her hands.

Miri glanced down at the sparkling rose, which showed no signs of wilting. “It is so unnatural,” she agreed. “This rose had to have been cut down a long time ago and transported a great distance. Yet the petals are not in the least dried or brown. Is it really possible for anyone to grow flowers that never fade or die?”

Marie Claire toweled her hands dry. “No, I think this was no more than an ordinary white rose. It is the dusting of this poison that acts as some sort of preservative.”

“A truly strong and deadly poison if it can be absorbed through the skin.”

“Not unlike the concoctions our dear Catherine has been known to use when handing out charming gifts like poisoned gloves.”

Miri would have almost found it a relief to think Catherine de Medici was behind all this. At least she was a known enemy, but Miri was obliged to demur. “No, Simon is certain that the Dark Queen is not involved.”

Marie Claire peered over the rims of her spectacles, frowning at Miri. Miri blushed a little, realizing how intimately Simon’s name had tripped from her tongue.

“I mean Monsieur Aristide,” she amended. “Le Balafre.”

She retreated to the open window, hoping the faint breeze from the garden would help cool the telltale fire of her cheeks. She had recounted for Marie Claire the details of Simon’s visit, at least most of them. She had omitted that searing kiss he had planted upon her in parting.

Marie Claire joined her at the window. “I heard the rumors of Aristide’s brief visit to Faire Isle. You are so adept at hiding in your woods, I foolishly allowed myself to believe he had come and gone without crossing your path. It never occurred to me you would seek to confront that dangerous man on your own. I should have known better.” She sighed. “I won’t pretend I am not hurt by the way you lied to me, choosing to keep me in the dark.”

“I am sorry—” Miri began, but Marie Claire forestalled her with a wave of her hand.

“I understand you were only trying to protect me, but you were the one who most needed protecting.”

“I already told you, Simon made not the slightest move to hurt me. In fact, it was quite the other way around and we should both be grateful that he came. If he hadn’t, we would have no idea what had happened to Carole or know anything about the threat of the Silver Rose.”

“True enough,” Marie Claire conceded. “Although I am ashamed to admit, I was happier in my ignorance.” She stripped off her spectacles, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “I hoped I would never have to deal with anything like this again in my lifetime. It was bad enough those days when we had Melusine running amok. You are far too young to remember. You weren’t even born then.”

“I have heard the tales,” Miri said. “Not a great deal from Renard. My brother-in-law has always been reluctant to discuss his infamous grandmother. But the old apothecary Madame Jehan used to take a wicked delight in thrilling all the island children with accounts of Melusine’s terrible exploits, how she poisoned crops and cursed livestock. I used to have nightmares about little lambs and colts foaming at the mouth and dropping down dead in the meadows.”

Marie Claire grimaced. “Adelaide Jehan was a good old soul, but she was incorrigible when it came to spinning her wild yarns, and Melusine certainly gave her plenty of fodder. Renard’s grandmother fomented rebellion among the peasants of Brittany, aiding them with her knowledge of the dark arts. She believed she was fighting for justice, freeing the downtrodden from the oppression of their masters. All she did was lead a great many innocent people to their death and blacken the reputation of wise women everywhere.”

Marie Claire’s eyes welled with sadness. “We are already a dying breed, the daughters of the earth. There are so few of us left to study the ancient wisdom, keep it alive for the next generation. Soon the only ones left with the courage to practice the old ways will be those who distort it for evil like this Silver Rose. If Monsieur Aristide is right and this madwoman truly is attempting to raise an army of witches, may God help us all.”

Her shoulders slumped as though the full weight of her years were bearing down upon her, but she rallied, saying, “Well, the creature must be found and stopped. I can think of only one thing to do.”

“What is that, Marie?” Miri asked.

But Marie Claire seemed to be talking to herself as much as Miri. When she strode purposefully toward her cupboard, Miri trailed after her. There amongst the old woman’s crockery and books reposed a small wooden chest. As Marie Claire lifted it down, her wolf birds set up an excited squawking, fluttering about their cage as though they had anticipated what the old woman was about to do.

Marie Claire flung open the lid, revealing a store of writing materials, quills, ink, and parchment. As she reached for one of the quills, she said, “We need to send word to the Lady of Faire Isle immediately, apprise Ariane of these events.”

“No,” Miri cried.

“I don’t like it any better than you do, my dear, but—”

“No, Marie,” Miri said even more forcefully. “You know as well as I that Ariane and Renard would rush back to France, putting both their lives in danger.”

“Ah!” Marie Claire arched one fine brow. “So despite the fact that you risked meeting with Monsieur Aristide alone, you don’t trust this witch-hunter of yours.”

Miri colored hotly. “He is not my witch-hunter. And . . . and no, I don’t entirely trust Simon, at least not where Renard is concerned. But remember, my sister and her husband have other enemies, the Dark Queen and the king of France.”

Marie Claire stroked the feathered tip of the quill through her fingers, her brow knit in a deep frown. “Then what about Gabrielle? She is alarmingly adept at intrigue, and she managed to hold her own in the court of the Dark Queen for over two years—”

But once more Miri shook her head. “Gabrielle has a husband and three little daughters to protect. Although their farm near Pau has remained safe thus far, they have always run the risk of being invaded by the Catholic League’s army. Navarre has taken the brunt of these endless civil wars plaguing France. Gabrielle already has more than enough to contend with.”

“But someone has got to deal with this Silver Rose,” Marie Claire protested. “And unfortunately I have neither the power nor the vigor of youth that I once did. So who in heaven’s name would you recommend we turn to?”

Miri plucked the quill from Marie Claire’s grasp and returned it to the chest. “I am afraid there is only me,” she said quietly.

“You?”
Marie Claire’s startled exclamation and doubtful look were hardly flattering, but no worse than the doubts Miri entertained about herself.

She smiled sadly. “I realize I am only a pale reflection of my sisters.”

“I—I have never thought that,” Marie Claire faltered. “But—but—”

“I am the last wise woman you would ever send to confront an evil sorceress,” Miri finished wryly. “The foolish dreamer, always hiding in her woods. Maman worried that I dwelt too much amongst my animals and the realms of my imagination, never facing up to the hardship and problems afflicting the rest of the world. She was right.”

She bit down on her lip to still its quiver. “Maman would—would have expected better of me. I have not the wisdom of the Lady of Faire Isle, or anything like Gabrielle’s fiery courage. But I am also a daughter of Evangeline Cheney. It is time that I remembered that and behaved in a way that would make her proud of me.”

Marie Claire cupped Miri’s face between her hands. “Oh, my dear, your mother would have been very proud of you. You are every bit as wise and brave as your older sisters. But I knew Evangeline well. Your mother was my closest friend, and I can tell you with dead certainty she would never have expected you to charge off to face some demented sorceress alone.”

“I wouldn’t be alone.” Miri took a deep breath before confessing, “I intend to find Simon Aristide, seek his help.”

Marie Claire’s hands fell away from Miri, her jaw dropping open in dismay. “Have you completely lost your wits, Miribelle Cheney? To even think of venturing anywhere near that dangerous man—”

“You said only the other day that you didn’t think Simon would ever hurt me.”

“Not intentionally, no. While I concede Aristide has some good in him, he also has more shadows lurking in his heart than a graveyard at midnight.”

“That might be true, and yet, Simon seems so different from the man who raided our island that summer.”

When Marie Claire pursed her lips skeptically, Miri went on. “He is no longer as arrogant and inflexible as he used to be. You didn’t see him on the night he turned up on my doorstep out of the storm, so wearied and defeated. It is rather ironic, isn’t it?”

She gave a mirthless laugh. “When I finally succeeded in steeling myself against him, Simon was telling the truth and really did need help. And I just sent him away, possibly to—to die.”

“That man’s fate is not your responsibility,” Marie Claire said sternly. “After all he has done, you owe him nothing.”

“I know that, but Simon may well be our only hope for defeating this Silver Rose and rescuing Carole from her clutches.”

“What on earth makes you think the girl wants to be rescued?”

“I don’t believe Carole truly wanted to harm her child. The babe was wrapped in her favorite shawl, her most treasured possession, and she left him where I would be certain to find him. I never perceived any evil in the girl, only deep hurt and confusion. However she became involved with this coven, I don’t think she understood what she was getting into until it was too late.”

“You may well be right. Yet however sorry I might feel for Carole, I don’t see why you should put yourself at risk to save her.”

“Because I should have tried harder to reach out to that girl when I had the chance.”

“And so should I and every other woman on this island,” Marie Claire replied impatiently. “But even you must admit Carole was not the easiest girl to befriend.”

“No, she wasn’t.” Miri smiled ruefully as she recalled the girl’s bristling defiance, more thorny than the roses that blossomed on the bushes outside Marie Claire’s window. But just like those fragrant blossoms, Carole’s thorns were a poor shield for her vulnerability.

Miri’s smile faded. “If Carole had been a wounded fox or badger and snapped at me, I would never have backed off. But I let her drive me away, back to my little cottage, and forgot all about her. I have to find a way to save her and I am going to need Simon’s help.”

“But for a respectable daughter of the earth to get into bed with a witch-hunter. It simply isn’t done, my dear child.”

“Great heavens, Marie! I—I am only talking about a temporary alliance. I never thought of anything like—”
Bedding with Simon . . .
Miri’s cheeks heated at the images that flashed through her mind.

“I was only speaking metaphorically. However, if it comes to that—”

“It won’t. I assure you any warmer feelings I had for Simon died a long time ago.”

When Marie Claire cast her a sharp look, Miri busied herself with carefully folding the linen cloth back over the poisonous rose. “My sisters are in exile. The council of wise women has long been disbanded. What other choice do I have besides to make use of Monsieur Aristide?”

“Just take care he doesn’t end up using you, my girl,” Marie Claire warned grimly. “And what about your Martin le Loup? What would he think of you roving about the countryside, pursuing this dangerous quest, putting yourself at risk? By what you have told me, the man is completely devoted to you, intrepid, resourceful, and skilled at intrigue to boot. Why not send for him?”

“Because there is no time, Marie, and I would not have the least idea how to reach Martin anyway. He—he is likely off on some reckless adventure of his own, another mission for the king of Navarre.”

Miri’s hand strayed to the locket hidden beneath her gown and she experienced a stab of guilt. Truth be told, she had scarce given Martin a single thought since this morning, when she had resolved to leave Faire Isle and marry him. But this morning seemed a lifetime ago and Martin felt very far away. Miri was ashamed of feeling glad of that fact.

Martin could be a trifle . . . volatile and impulsive. As passionately as he adored Miri, he had always loathed Simon with an equal measure of jealous detestation. The last thing Miri needed or wanted would be to have the two men crossing swords.

“Martin would hate what I am about to do,” Miri admitted reluctantly. “Sometimes I think if the man had his way, he would keep me in a velvet-lined room, safe and protected while he fought all my battles for me. I hope that in time I can teach Martin what Renard has become wise enough to understand about Ariane. That a wise woman cannot always remain tamely by her own hearthside, no matter how much she might wish to do so.”

And God help her, Miri did very much wish it. She drifted back to the window lest Marie Claire see, despite all her bold words, how far from calm and resolved Miri felt. She stared wistfully out at the garden, drinking in the bold mix of colors and textures, cabbages and marigolds, wild fennel, lavender and asters. But most of all the lush red roses, beautiful even in their imperfections of fallen petals and overladen stems. So different from that sterile rose enfolded in the linen cloth.

Beyond the garden was the dusty lane, leading back to the deep comforting shadows of her woods. Or on down to the harbor, the rocky causeway that stretched to the mainland and the uncertain future beyond.

Miri sighed, wondering who she was attempting to fool, Marie Claire or herself. The mere prospect of flinging harsh words at someone was enough to tie her stomach in knots. How did she ever imagine she would be able to destroy some unknown sorceress? And it could very well come to that. Unless the Silver Rose destroyed her first.