The Silver Rose (13 page)

Marie Claire laughed again and realized she had not done so for days. After all the worry and tension, it felt mighty good. She beamed up at Martin.

“Oh my dear Wolf. I cannot tell you how glad I am to see you.”

“And I you, Reverend Mother. Faire Isle is not a large place, nothing like Paris. A man could practically stuff this entire island in his purse and yet I had begun to despair of ever finding you or Miri. People here have always been a little stiff with strangers, but I vow they are worse than ever. Do you know what yon shrew said to me when I but made civil inquiry?” Martin gestured in Josephine’s direction.

“She said I might as well save my breath, because no decent woman on the island would have aught to say to such a shifty-eyed varlet. Mon dieu!” He flung up his hands. “I have been accused of being many things by the ladies. A shocking flirt, a flattering rogue, too devilishly handsome for my own good. But I ask you.
Shifty-eyed?
”

His indignation might have amused Marie Claire under other circumstances, but she had sobered at the mention of Miri’s name, knowing what she had to tell Martin, dreading it.

“Wolf, about Miri—” she began.

“And just where do I find my lovely Lady of the Moon?” Martin peered eagerly past her as though expecting Miri might emerge from the cottage at any moment. “If I know anything of her, I suppose she has taken up residence in some little hut somewhere, living among the squirrels, rabbits, and bears.”

“We don’t have bears on Faire Isle, but yes, she has a cottage far out in the woods—”

“Ah, I feared as much.” He fetched a long-suffering sigh. “Well I hope to put an end to that.”

“Wolf . . .” Marie Claire tried again, but he cut her off, smiling and pressing her shoulder.

“Wait until Miri sees what I have for her. The loveliest length of blue wool that I purchased when I was recently in England. If it were up to me, I would see my lady draped in nothing but the finest silks and brocades. But I thought this is more what Miri would prefer. What think you?”

“I am sure she will like it but—”

“Oh, I will admit when it comes to cuisine, the English leave much to be desired. As for that swill they call ale . . . pah!” Martin rolled his eyes. “But those people certainly know how to weave a good wool. This fabric is so fine, so soft, a woman might even be tempted to use it for her wedding—”

“Martin!” Marie Claire spoke up more forcibly. The sharpness of her tone seemed to get through to him at last.

Looking considerably crestfallen, he said, “I can guess what you are thinking. That I have no business to be talking of weddings where Miri is concerned and you are right. I am completely unworthy of her. I am a fool to even hope—”

“No, Martin.” Marie Claire finally pressed her hand to his mouth to silence him. She gazed sadly up at him, her eyes filling with unexpected tears. “You are no fool, but what you might well be is the answer to an old woman’s prayers.”

He stared at her for a long moment, a frown creasing his brow. He caught hold of her hand, squeezing it.

“What is it, Reverend Mother? What is wrong?” he asked gently and then in a sharper tone. “Is it Miri? Has something happened to her?”

Marie Claire stole a glance down the lane, realized they still had an interested audience and it was getting larger. Tugging Martin toward the cottage she said, “I have something of a very grave nature to tell you. But I think we had better go inside.”

A
S SHE FINISHED
recounting the recent events that had shaken Faire Isle, Marie Claire inched her chair back, keeping well out of the way of the man who prowled her cottage, muttering fierce invectives. Even Necromancer crouched beneath the table as Martin paced and ranted, venting his anger, fear, and frustration.

“Damnation, how could Miri—? How could you let her—” He started to growl at Marie Claire, only to check himself. “No, I am sorry, Reverend Mother. There is only one person to blame for this situation—that God-cursed Aristide.”

Martin flung his cap down and kicked a stool out of his path. When it crashed against the table leg, Necromancer bolted, seeking cover behind a basket on the hearth.

“How dare he!” Martin fumed. “After all that bastard has done, how dare he come seeking help from Miri? He calls himself a witch-hunter, but I swear he is more of a sorcerer, bewitching my lady, luring her to follow him into danger.”

“To be entirely fair, I don’t believe Monsieur Aristide lured her anywhere. It was Miri’s own choice.”

“Then why didn’t she choose me? Christ’s blood, she ought to know by now I’d do anything for her, fight a thousand witches if she asked me to. But no! She goes off in search of
him.
” Martin dragged both hands back through his hair. “How many times will she let that villain betray her, break her heart before she is no longer willing to trust him? I thought she had finally grown past all that . . . past all thought of him.”

His emotion spent, Martin finally stopped pacing and sank down upon the stool, dangling his hands despondently between his knees. Marie Claire’s heart ached for him. In that moment, he seemed to dwindle, more resembling the boy he had been that summer he had trailed after Miri, performing any antic he could think of to get her to notice him, to coax her to smile, to laugh, to forget Simon Aristide.

Marie Claire shuffled to her feet and gently rested her hand on his shoulder. “Miri only went after Aristide because she believed there was no one else to turn to, to defeat the Silver Rose. If Miri had had any idea where you were, she would have sent for you instead.”

Martin angled a doubtful look up at her. “Would she?”

“I am sure of it,” Marie Claire said, silently begging God’s pardon for lying because she was sure of no such thing.

Martin reached up to press Marie Claire’s hand. Then he struck his thigh and rose briskly to his feet, saying. “Well, I am here now. I am sorry for raging about your cottage and bellowing like a wounded boar. The only thing that is of any importance is Miri’s safety. How long has she been gone?”

“She left three days ago.”

“Three days! Mon dieu,” Martin exclaimed in dismay. “That gives her a considerable start. She could be anywhere by now.”

“Well, I did receive word from a friend of mine, last evening. A wise woman from Saint-Malo. Miri arrived that far in safety and Hortense sent three of her servants to accompany Miri until she finds Aristide.”

“Well, thank God for that much.” Bending down to retrieve his cap, he brushed a speck of dirt from the crown. “At least that gives me someplace to start searching for my lady. With any luck, I will be able to overtake Miri before she joins up with that villain and fetch her back home.”

“I don’t believe Miri will allow you to do that. She is determined to rescue the Moreau girl and put a stop to the evil practices of the Silver Rose.”

Martin shrugged, smoothing out the feather of his cap. “Oh, I’ll take care of that.”

Marie Claire might have been tempted to laugh at the man’s nonchalant air. But for all his swagger and elegant apparel, she had noticed other things about Martin as well. His hands were not those of a courtier, but callused and tough like a man accustomed to wielding a rapier and handling the reins of a spirited stallion. The weapon strapped to his side was no showy blade, but a length of serviceable steel.

From what Miri had told her, Martin le Loup was not unacquainted with danger, having undertaken many secretive and perilous missions for the king of Navarre. But Marie Claire still felt the necessity to warn him.

“Martin, you do realize that going up against this Silver Rose will not be as simple as fighting off a troop of enemy soldiers or even a pack of ruthless bandits. This woman is a—a genuine witch.”

“I understand that.” His mouth tightened, a strange shadow seeming to pass across his features. He murmured, “But I have had to deal with a witch before. Yes, by God I have.”

“That is right. I had forgotten. You were with Captain Remy that time when he tried to wrest the king of Navarre free of the Dark Queen.”

Martin seemed to snap back from whatever dark remembrance of the past haunted him. “Er—yes, the Dark Queen.”

Marie Claire ruefully shook her head. “I am afraid I place little faith in Aristide’s opinion that the queen has had no hand in this affair. In my experience, if there is any dark mischief brewing, Catherine is bound to be involved somehow. I have been so worried—”

“Well, don’t be.” Martin strode toward her and gathered both of her hands within his own. “If she is, I will deal with that, too.”

The man’s confidence was as infectious as his smile. Despite all the fears pressing down upon her heart, Marie Claire found herself smiling back at him.

“I promise you, Reverend Mother, on my very life. I will keep Miri from harm, guard against the Dark Queen, and vanquish this Silver Rose. Then I will do something that I should have done years ago.”

“And what is that, my dear?”

Martin’s teeth flashed in a smile that was as wolfish as the glint in his eyes. “Why, I intend to kill that bastard of a witch-hunter.”

Marie Claire’s smile crumpled in dismay. “Oh, no, Martin. I don’t think Miri would—”

But her protest was lost as Martin kissed her cheek and strode to fling open the door. Necromancer crept after him. Marie Claire leapt forward, barely managing to prevent the cat’s escape. She scooped him up in her arms. Necromancer had never presumed to scratch her, but she felt the light prick of his claws through the fabric of her gown.

As she struggled with the cat, she tried to call out to Martin, but he was already astride his horse. Necromancer glared up at her and for once Marie Claire was able to discern his thoughts with startling clarity.

“What have you set into motion now, you silly old woman?”

“Bless me, I don’t know,” Marie Claire murmured. Gathering Necromancer closer, she sagged against the door jamb, watching Martin le Loup vanish down the lane.

Chapter Six

T
HE QUEEN MOTHER
repressed a shudder as she descended into the bowels of the Bastille, escorted by a contingent of guards and the governor of the prison. The walls were dank and moist as though the stones themselves had been tortured until they bled. The aspect was more cheerless seen through the black webbing of her veil, the dungeon thick with a gloom the blazing torches could not dispel, the air befouled with the stench of fear and pain.

But Catherine de Medici thought she could have taught the unfortunates immured in this place something about the endurance of pain. Each step she took was a torment, muscles and joints throbbing from another bout of sciatica, her ankles and hands swollen.

She was feeling every one of her sixty-six years this morning, but she had learned a long time ago that a queen could not afford to display any infirmity. There were too many rivals for power ready to descend upon one like a pack of jackals at the first sign of weakness. Too many enemies, and she appeared to have acquired one more.

She thought of the remnants of the flower locked away in the cabinet in her bedchamber at the Louvre. The rose’s strange silvery luster had finally begun to fade, its velvety petals now ashen in hue. But the flower had already accomplished its deadly task.

Yesterday, Catherine had alighted from her carriage to attend the wedding mass of one of her courtiers at Notre Dame. The area outside the great cathedral was thronged with onlookers waiting for a glimpse of the bride and groom. A young woman had darted out of the crowd, trying to shove past the Swiss guards to offer Catherine a flower.

That in itself had been unusual enough to draw Catherine’s attention. The mood in the city these days was so tense, so black with discontent, Parisians were far more likely to hurl rotted vegetables or mud clots at her than roses. And it had been such an extraordinary-looking rose, so icy white, it had appeared silvery. There was something odd about the girl too, far too fresh-scrubbed, pretty, and clean for a Paris street vendor, her slender hands encased in gloves.

Although the young guardsman had done his duty and kept the girl back, he had been won over by the petite blonde’s pleading smile. Accepting the gift from the girl with a smart bow, the guard had broken ranks to fetch the flower to the queen. Some inexplicable instinct had prevented Catherine from touching it. She had wrapped the unusual rose in her handkerchief instead. As the flower vendor had prepared to disappear, the back of Catherine’s neck prickled, her sense of unease deepening. She had commanded the guard to go after the girl and . . . not arrest her precisely. Merely detain her for questioning regarding the horticulture of her extraordinary flower.

And a mighty good thing she had done so because that same guard now lay dying in agony. Catherine might be able to save the young man if she tried, but not without revealing she knew a great deal too much about poisons and their antidotes.

Too many already suspected her of practicing witchcraft, but no one had ever dared charge her openly. She was not about to risk exposing her unique skills merely to save the life of a young guard, foolishly entranced by a pretty face.

The queen’s escort drew to a halt outside the thick wooden door to one of the cells. As the jailer fumbled with his key, the governor turned to Catherine to make one last appeal to her. Monsieur de Varney had been appalled from the beginning by the notion of conducting a queen down into the worst passages of the fortress. A thin, nervous man, his enormous white ruff made him appear as though his head, with its peppery-gray beard, was being presented to Catherine upon a charger.

“Your Grace, I beg you to reconsider. There is no need for you to distress yourself further in this matter.”

No need to distress herself? Catherine reflected grimly. Oh, no, only the fact that there was someone lurking out there who wanted her dead and whose skill in poisons rivaled her own.

“This creature has confessed to her part in this infamous assassination plot,” the governor continued. “It will only be a matter of time before she gives up the names of her confederates and—.”

“Open the door, de Varney,” Catherine cut him off softly. “And let me see her. Has the girl identified herself?”

“She says her name is Lucie Paillard. She claims to be the daughter of an innkeeper from a village in the Loire Valley.”

“This innkeeper’s daughter is a long way from home.”

“She may be lying. We’ll soon have the truth from her. These cellars are loathsome, plagued with vermin and disease. No place for a lady, let alone a queen. If Your Grace would just return to my quarters and—”

“The door, de Varney,” Catherine commanded.
“Now.”

The governor vented a long-suffering sigh. He gestured toward the jailer to unlock the door. It creaked open, revealing a small, narrow cell, even more fetid than the outer hall. As the jailer lit Catherine’s way inside, she pressed a scented handkerchief to her nose beneath her veil.

De Varney hovered behind Catherine. She took one look at the prisoner and understood why the governor was so nervous. Manacled to the wall, Lucie Paillard hung unconscious from her chains, no longer fresh-scrubbed, no longer clean, no longer pretty. Clad only in her shift, her white limbs were bruised and swollen from being racked, her legs burned raw from being scalded with boiling oil, the blisters on her skin beginning to fester.

“You cursed fool,” Catherine hissed at de Varney. “You’ve killed her.”

“N-no, Your Grace,” the governor made haste to exclaim. “Torquet,” he snapped at the guard. “Bring her round.”

The guard complied by dashing a bucket of brackish water in the girl’s face. When Lucie only tossed her head and moaned, he thrust a flask between her lips and forced some sort of cheap spirits down her throat.

As the girl choked and retched, Catherine stepped back in disgust, deploring these crude measures. None of this barbarity would have been necessary if her eyes were what they once had been. Catherine could have gained all the information she required from the girl with one piercing look. She had mastered the wise woman’s art of reading the eyes with a skill that few had ever equaled. But like so much of the rest of her body, her vision had begun to fail her as well.

When Lucie finally roused, her eyes fluttering open, Catherine curtly ordered the guard to stand back. As she moved closer to the prisoner, the girl’s head lolled to one side. She studied Catherine with pain-glazed eyes as the queen drew back her veil.

“Well, do you know me, Mistress Paillard?”

A spark of recognition flashed in those dull eyes. Lucie’s dry, cracked lips stretched in a semblance of a smile.

“De Medici,” she rasped. “Florentine shopkeeper’s daughter.”

Catherine heard the governor’s sharp indrawn breath, but she remained unruffled. It was an epithet that had been hurled at her ever since she had first set foot in this country, the haughty French never considering a woman descended from Italian merchant princes good enough for their young king, despite the impressive dowry she brought.

Long inured to the insult, Catherine displayed no reaction until the girl added hoarsely, “Sorceress . . . Dark Queen . . . my enemy.”

Catherine tensed. She ordered the guard and de Varney to retire from the cell. The governor made a faint effort to protest, but was silenced by a cold look from Catherine. At least her eyes still held that much power, she thought with satisfaction.

As soon as the men had retreated, Catherine cupped the girl’s chin. Forcing Lucie’s head up, Catherine probed her eyes, concentrating with all her will. But it was like trying to penetrate the surface of some murky stream. Catherine squinted until her own eyes watered and she was obliged to give up the attempt in frustration.

Forcing herself to speak to the girl in gentle accents, Catherine said, “How am I your enemy, child? I may well be your only friend. You have done a foolish thing by participating in this plot against my life. But I could be merciful if you tell me what I want to know. I alone have the power to save you—”

Catherine broke off in astonishment. Weak as she was, Lucie managed to pull free of her grasp and shake her head.

“No. You have . . . no power. Not like my mistress, my Silver Rose.”

“And who might she be?”

“The one . . . who will destroy you.” Lucie moistened her lips, barely able to whisper. Catherine had to lean closer in order to hear her.

“The revolution is coming. Silver Rose . . . will have your kingdom one day.”

“Indeed,” Catherine replied dryly. “And how does she propose to do that? Conquer France by barraging my armies with poisoned flowers?”

“She has more than . . . the roses. She has the—the
Book.
”

“Book? What book?” Catherine asked sharply.

Lucie’s breathing grew labored, her eyes filming over. Catherine gave her a brisk shake.

“What book?” she demanded more fiercely.

Lucie’s mouth worked silently. Before her head slumped forward, she managed to whisper.

“Book . . . of Shadows.”

C
ATHERINE SLUMPED
against the squabs of her carriage, seeking a more comfortable position for her aching joints as she was jostled back to the Louvre. Despite the stifling heat of the day, she had drawn the curtains across the windows, the glint of the sun unbearable, aggravating the stabbing pain behind her eyes. Another one of her cursed headaches brought on by more vexation.

And the Lord knows she already had enough of it. As her carriage lumbered through the streets, Catherine was keenly aware that the thin walls of the coach and an escort of Swiss guards were all that separated her from the malcontented populace. Like much of the rest of the country, Paris teemed with misery and unrest.

It had been an ill-fated spring, floods followed by drought that ruined crops and decimated cattle. Food was scarce, prices were high, bellies were empty, and tempers were short. The civil war between Huguenots and Catholics that had plagued the country for the past two decades continued unabated, a constant drain upon the royal coffers.

Of course, she was blamed for it all, Catherine reflected bitterly, massaging the bridge of her nose. What had the latest round of scurrilous pamphlets being circulated around Paris called her?
“A serpent born of tainted parents in the charnel house of Italy . . . the most infamous she-devil ever to hold royal power.”

The fools didn’t seem to realize that whatever stability France had known these past years was entirely owing to her efforts. Certainly not to her son, his most royal majesty, Henry III, by grace of God, king of France.

When Henry wasn’t amusing himself in wild revels with other painted fops, he indulged in fits of religious zeal that involved lengthy retreats and flagellation. While he wasted time, prostrate on his knees before some marble statue, his kingdom was on the verge of disaster, his crown threatened by the rising power of his nobles, especially one in particular, the duc de Guise.

The duke had but to appear within the gates of the city for these wretched Parisians to rush after his horse crying,
“À Guise, à Guise.”
Like he was the second coming of the Christ, their great Catholic hero, Catherine thought scornfully. Handsome, bold, and arrogant, the duke used piety as a thin mask for his ambitions, which reached as far as the throne itself.

As if all of that were not enough to plague her, she had this new threat to worry about, this—this Silver Rose, whoever the devil she was. But Catherine would learn nothing more from young Mistress Paillard.

The girl was dead, thanks to de Varney and his oafish warders. The governor had sweated and babbled excuses. Lucie Paillard must not have been as strong as she looked. Perhaps the girl had a weak heart or—or—

Catherine had silenced de Varney with a cold look. The plain truth was de Varney and his minions lacked finesse in the arts of torture. And now the Paillard girl had slipped into the dark arms of death, taking the rest of her secrets with her.

No wonder Catherine’s head felt ready to split in twain. She had not even had the strength to properly rebuke de Varney for being so inept. Hobbling up from the dungeons, her one thought had been to escape before the governor or any of his minions realized how shaken she was. That there were words that could strike fear even into the heart of a Dark Queen.

“My Silver Rose will destroy you. She has the
Book of Shadows.
”

Could that wretched girl have possibly known what she was talking about or was it merely the ravings of someone tortured to the brink of madness? The
Book of Shadows
was the stuff of legends among daughters of the earth. Rumored to be a compendium of ancient knowledge long lost to the world, it contained magic of the most dangerous and wondrous kind. Descriptions of how to fashion weaponry that could decimate populations or destroy entire cities, potions and methods to keep one young, preserve life until one became all but immortal.

Many called the book a fable, but Catherine knew better. She had come so close to obtaining it once, or so she had believed. She closed her eyes, her mind drifting back to that summer night ten years ago when she had awaited the return of her spy from the Charters Inn, where the witch-hunter Le Balafre and his men were quartered in Paris.