The Silver Rose (22 page)

Miri hesitated, awkward and unnoticed in the doorway. She wanted to help, but feared any clumsy interference on her part would only make the situation worse. Before she could decide, Monsieur Paillard roused himself. He bellowed for the maidservant, who crept timidly from the kitchen. Hauling his wife away from Simon, he thrust her in the direction of the girl, bidding her look after her mistress. As the maid helped the weeping woman into the kitchen, a terrible silence descended.

“Monsieur Paillard,” Simon began hoarsely. “I am sorry. I wish I could have—”

But the innkeeper waved Simon off with a dispirited gesture. “You have now done all you can, Master Witch-Hunter. Just—just go, I pray you. And never return.”

As Monsieur Paillard vanished into the kitchen, Simon stood with his head bowed. Miri felt strangely like an intruder, an outsider to these tragic events in which she had played no part.

She approached Simon tentatively. He looked up as the floorboard creaked beneath her boots, his expression so bleak, Miri ached for him. The imprint of Madame Paillard’s hand had faded, but Miri knew somehow that Simon was going to feel the impact of that blow for a long time to come.

Miri gently touched his cheek where the woman had struck him. “Simon—”

But he caught her hand, putting it away from him, something closing down in his gaze, shutting her out.

“Come. Let’s just gather up our things and get on the road,” he said. “It’s going to be another damnably hot day.”

M
IRI GUIDED HER HORSE
down the rough track that snaked along the river, the morning sun shimmering across the sluggish waters. Since Miri believed that the three women they pursued had taken to traveling by boat, Simon had deemed it best they begin their inquiries along the Cher.

The waterway showed signs of activity, a pair of grizzled old men fishing off the opposite bank, a raft laden with some merchant’s goods being poled upriver. It appeared to be tough going owing to the low level of the river, the men aboard cursing when they became mired on a sandbank. The Cher, like everywhere else in the valley, was experiencing the effects of the drought. Adjusting the brim of her hat, Miri could see where the waterline had fallen along the muddy banks, revealing pale white roots and tangled reeds that were usually submerged.

It was as though the river had been wounded by the sun, all its most tender secret places left mercilessly exposed. Not unlike the man who rode at Miri’s side. Simon had said little since leaving the Brass Horse Inn, his expression forbidding any discussion of that unpleasant scene back in the taproom.

Miri could well guess the dark thoughts that consumed him and at last she could keep silent no longer. Nudging Samson closer to Elle, she said, “Simon, Madame Paillard was distraught with grief. Otherwise I am sure she would never have blamed you—”

“Why not?” Simon interrupted harshly. “I
am
to blame. I am supposed to protect families like the Paillards from sorcery. It’s the only good reason I have ever had for being a witch-hunter.”

“But you have been trying your best to stop the Silver Rose. You are only one man and you have been acting entirely alone. You can’t possibly believe that you are responsible for protecting all of France from evil.”

But Miri was dismayed to realize that he did. His mouth was compressed in a bitter line of self-blame, his face tormented with regrets. Simon cast a haunted glance over his shoulder as though even now he wished he could return to the Brass Horse Inn and somehow make things right for the Paillards, turn back time itself.

“Christ, I should have never told Colette Paillard anything, no matter what I promised,” he muttered. “I softened the account of Lucie’s death as best I could, but her mother would have been better off not knowing what happened to the girl.”

“No, she wouldn’t,” Miri said sadly. “My father was missing for years. You cannot imagine the pain of having someone you love just vanish that way, the torment, the uncertainty. I didn’t learn of his death until last autumn. It grieved me deeply that he was never coming home, but it was also a relief to finally know the truth.”

“I am sorry about your father, Miri. Very likely you are right. It is better to know and yet the grave is a damned cold and final place. I realized that the day I had to bury my father, my mother, and my younger sister.”

He sounded flinty and hard. If she had not become so accustomed to the cadence of his voice, Miri would never have caught the thread of grief beneath it. She remembered a long time ago Simon telling her about his family, who had perished during a plague along with the rest of his village, a plague that he believed had been caused by a witch.

She reached out to touch Simon’s arm. “You seem so self-contained, so independent, sometimes I forget you ever had a home, a family. You have never told me much about them.”

“That is because I have done my best to forget.”

“It can hurt to remember, but memories can also be a great comfort, sometimes all that one has left.” She added gently, “If we allow ourselves to forget the people we loved, they truly are lost to us.”

Simon shrugged off her touch. “Miri, I realize that you are only trying to be kind,” he said curtly. “But there are some aspects of my life I’d prefer that you left alone. Let’s just get on with this search, shall we?”

He spurred Elle onward into a faster pace, obliging Miri to do the same to keep up with him. She didn’t look hurt by his rejection of her comfort, merely sad. He knew he’d acted like a surly brute ever since they’d left the inn, but she kept probing places inside him that were too raw, even for her gentle touch.

Lack of sleep and a heavy dose of guilt weren’t doing much for his disposition either, guilt over far more than the way that he had failed the Paillards. As Miri cantered alongside him, Simon avoided looking at her, but that didn’t stop his conscience from hammering away at him.

He had meant to be completely honest about his meeting with the Dark Queen, but he had ended up suppressing one significant fact, all mention of the document Catherine had given him, authorizing him to take any measure necessary to hunt down and destroy the Silver Rose’s coven.

He didn’t know why he had failed to show Miri the decree. Perhaps because she had already been shaken by his meeting with the queen, wary of Catherine’s involvement. He was afraid Miri might demand he tear up the document and Simon knew he’d never be able to do that. Not when such a royal authorization might prove useful.

Is that what you are really afraid of?
A voice inside him jeered.
That she’d want the document destroyed? Or is it more that you fear how she’d react if she knew you had it, meant to use it? That she’d shrink from you, her eyes once more full of mistrust and doubt.

Lord, what a blasted fool he was, Simon thought in self-disgust. He’d warned Miri himself of the dangers of believing in him and yet he liked that soft, confiding way she often looked at him. More than liked it. He had begun to need that look from her and that scared all hell out of him. He had to find some way to conclude her role in this dangerous venture, send her back to Faire Isle and out of his life. Before she chipped away any further at the armor in which he had encased his heart all these years. And before he did something to hurt her again . . .

As the morning wore on, he paused to question anyone they came across who lived by or traveled upon the river, barge workers, merchants, fisher folk, and ferrymen. But it was difficult, gleaning any information. Simon had long ago discovered that men could be as wary as women when it came to being questioned by a witch-hunter.

Even those who might have been inclined to help shrugged their shoulders in regret. Times were hard. There were so many desperate people abroad these days, looking for work, begging for bread. Who could be expected to notice or remember three more such vagabonds, no matter how earnestly Miri tried to provide a description of the Moreau girl?

By midday they were both hot and discouraged as they cantered into the village of Longpre. Here, Miri insisted that she would do the questioning. She hesitated before admitting that she knew someone who might prove helpful, a chandler’s wife. But like Miri’s friend from Saint-Malo, this woman was very leery of witch-hunters, so it would be best if Miri went to consult her alone.

Simon had no difficulty interpreting the meaning of this. The chandler’s wife was one of those Miri called wise women, versed in arts and practices Simon had been taught to consider forbidden. He didn’t much like the idea of letting Miri out of his sight, but he had promised to allow her the freedom of consulting her own people without his interference. The witch-hunter in him found it a difficult promise to keep, the urge to assess this sorceress for himself very strong. But considering he had already broken his vow to be completely honest with Miri, it behooved him to keep this part of their agreement.

While Miri vanished into the shop, Simon positioned himself on rising ground just outside the village, where he could keep the chandler’s shop and the lane leading to it well in view. He loosened the girths on the horses’ saddles, permitting Elle and Samson to find what tender shoots of grass they could on this sere hillside. Later, when Miri returned and the horses had cooled down enough, he would lead them to the river to drink.

As the horses grazed nearby, Simon leaned up against a sprawling elm, fighting the exhaustion that threatened to overwhelm him. The village spread out below him, Longpre like so many other hamlets along the Cher, tucked between the river and the sprawling farmlands and vineyards beyond.

As the bell in the church tower chimed out the angelus, Simon could see workers pausing in the fields for their noontime meal. These were common lands that they tilled for their own sustenance and to pay their tithes to the local seigneur, just as Simon’s own father had done.

His father . . . Simon felt the familiar stab of pain, sought to thrust all thought of the man aside. But Miri’s words haunted him.

“If we allow ourselves to forget the people we loved, then they truly are lost to us.”

Simon raked his hand down over his face, for the first time in years allowing the images to come. Like blowing the dust off a book that had remained closed for a long time, the pages at first seemed aged and brittle, then became achingly crisper and clearer. In his mind’s eye, he could see the whitewashed cottage where he had been born, small but meticulously kept by both of his parents from the vegetable patch to the tiles of the roof. The front door had always been a little low. Simon’s father had often banged his head when entering the cottage, and muttered some fierce exclamation, but never a curse.

Javier Aristide would never have sworn in front of his wife and children. In fact, Simon could scarce ever remember him uttering a cross word. A gentle, big-hearted man, his face had been permanently leathered from tilling the fields, his nails cracked, his palms callused from a lifetime of labor. Unlike many of the men from their village, he had been temperate in his habits, both with regard to drink and spending his hard-won coin. Except for that September when Simon had turned eleven and Javier had been standing the entire village to quaffs of wine.

“A toast to my son, Simon,” he had called out. “He becomes a man today with a great future before him. No backbreaking labor in the fields for my boy. Tomorrow he leaves to take up his position in household of the Seigneur de Lacey.”

“Papa,” Simon had murmured, torn between basking in his father’s pride and embarrassment. “I will only be a stable hand, mucking out stalls, spreading straw.”

“Ah, only a stable boy today. But with your way with horses, it won’t be long before you are a groom. And then who knows? Perhaps one day the seigneur’s Master of the Horse.”

And before Simon could prevent him, his father, usually the shyest and most retiring of men, had leaped onto one of the tables, demanding that everyone drink to his son’s health.

Simon rested his head back against the trunk of the tree, surprised he could actually smile at the memory. It was harder to think of his mother that day, Belda Aristide’s eyes red-rimmed from trying not to cry as she pounded the wad of dough, kneading it with unwonted energy.

“Maman,” Simon had protested, looking at the array of provender she had assembled to stuff into his pack. “The kitchen at the château is enormous. They have plenty of food there. I shan’t starve.”

His mother sniffed. “Don’t tell me about his lordship’s kitchens, Simon Aristide. I know the woman in charge of the baking. A clumsy, careless wench. Her bread will never be as light and crusty as mine.”

“Of course not, Maman,” Simon had soothed. “But even though I will be living above the stables, I will be able to steal home for a visit sometimes. The château is scarce three miles from here, an easy walk across the fields.”

Belda had attempted to smile, smearing a smudge of flour across her cheek as she mopped her eyes. Simon’s little sister, who had been anxiously listening to the exchange, crept closer to tug at his sleeve.