The Silver Rose (24 page)

Simon swept a glance down the hill and understood what she meant. The village of Longpre seemed as far removed from danger and evil as any place could get. Simon knew from hard experience how quickly that could change, how such serenity could be shattered in the time it took to draw breath. But still there was something reassuring about the sight of two small boys racing a little black dog down the lane, a plump housewife hanging out her wash to dry, some lusty lads jumping off a raft, splashing noisily about in the river.

Some lusty
naked
lads.

Simon cleared his throat and stepped quickly to one side, trying to shield Miri from the sight. She smiled when she perceived what he was doing, looking amused by the gesture.

“It’s all right, Simon. I have been watching those young men cooling themselves off in the river for some time now. With great envy, I might add,” she said, fanning herself with her hat. “A swim would be tremendously refreshing.”

“But Miri, those men are—are—”

“Naked?” She shrugged. “I don’t think there is anything shameful about the human body. We are as God made us. And those young men are fine, strapping examples of His creation. Although not quite as fine as you.”

“But you have never seen me naked.” He added uneasily, “Er—have you?”

Her lashes swept down demurely. “Not completely. But there was that time when I hid you on Faire Isle. I brought you those clothes to change into so you could get out of your witch-hunter’s robes. When you retreated into the bushes to change, I tried to peek.”

“Miribelle Cheney!”

Her smile was completely unrepentant. “I couldn’t help myself. I was curious. It was Gabrielle’s fault. She kept telling me that the reason witch-hunters hate women so is because their man parts were all shriveled.”

“I don’t hate women and there is nothing wrong with my—my male parts,” Simon spluttered indignantly.

“I will have to take your word for that. I wasn’t able to see enough to tell.” Her eyes danced with mischief. “But what I did see of you was quite lovely.”

Although Simon was annoyed to feel his cheeks fire, he couldn’t help laughing. “I never had any idea you were such a little devil.”

“You were too busy imagining I was a witch.”

“No, I never thought that about you.” His smile softened into something more tender as he touched her cheek. “Not once.”

She smiled back at him, her eyes as silvery as the river, her lips soft and moist. It would be so easy to slide his hand behind the nape of her neck, draw her closer, so easy to taste the sweetness of those inviting red lips . . . so easy to love her.

The last thought shook Simon to the core. He hastily dropped his hand back to his side. “We had better be going and make the most of what daylight we have left. With any luck we might be able to overtake those witches by late tomorrow.”

He trudged toward the horses, finding it easier to concentrate on tightening Elle’s girth than to examine too closely the effect that Miri had upon him. The desire—God, how he wished it was only desire she roused in him. Lust, passion, those things he could understand and deal with. It was the deeper emotions she evoked that alarmed him.

She had followed him over to the horses, but instead of readying Samson to depart, she lingered by Simon.

“Simon . . .” She touched his sleeve.

When he risked a glance at her, he saw she was looking subdued, the shadows back in her eyes. He supposed it was his mention of the witches that had done that, reminded her.

She looked up at him gravely. “When we do overtake these women, you—you will remember your promise, won’t you? You do accept that Carole is innocent and that she is not to be harmed?”

“Yes,” he replied.

“And the others?”

Simon couldn’t bring himself to reply, but the taut set of his mouth must have been answer enough.

Miri shivered. “But what if some of the other members of this coven are like Carole and they were tricked or—or coerced?”

Simon fetched a heavy sigh. “Miri, I will try to see that these women are judged fairly and with as much compassion as possible. Except for one.” His lips thinned.

“There will be no mercy for the Silver Rose.”

Chapter Eleven

L
IGHT FADED FROM
another sweltering day in the city of Paris, the shades of evening offering little relief from the heat. Another day of blistering sun and no rain had rendered the city a strange blend of lethargy and tension, especially in the poorer quarters of the city. Along the rue de Morte, another fight had broken out near one of the taverns, fists flying, knives flashing. It was far too hot for such an incident to draw the usual crowd of jeering onlookers, even the pickpockets too listless to take advantage of the distraction a brawl offered to their trade.

The three women who made their way down the narrow street gave the tavern a wide berth. Ursula Gruen, who led the way, was tall and big-boned, with straw-colored hair. She made a striking contrast to Odile Parmentier, dark and petite, with a sharp little face, almost elfin features.

Ever since they had entered Paris, the pair had been engaged in a low-voiced argument, occasionally pausing to glance back at the unhappy girl who trailed in their wake.

“We ought to get rid of her now while there is still time,” Ursula grumbled. “Stupid worthless blubbering little chit. You made a mistake recruiting her and you just won’t admit it, Odile.”

“Oh, for mercy’s sake, the girl is very young. Give her a chance,” Odile whispered back. “Let the Silver Rose decide her fate.”

Carole Moreau trudged along behind the two women, fully aware that she was the subject of this fierce conversation. But she was so consumed by her own misery, she was beyond caring. Exhausted and hungry, her throat was parched, her legs aching from fatigue. The leather of her shoes had worn so thin, she had raised an ugly blister on her heel and her filthy shirt and gown were soaked with sweat, clinging to her thin frame. Her right cheek was bruised and swollen from the last blow she had received from Ursula’s ham-like fist. Odile had cautioned Carole upon more than one occasion.

“You don’t want to provoke Ursula. She has a vile temper. She murdered her own husband, you know. Bashed in his skull with the fire iron. That is the reason she had to flee her village and why she became a follower of the Silver Rose, to avoid doing the hempen jig.”

“T—the hempen jig?” Carole had faltered.

“The gallows. Death by hanging, you little fool.” Her head bent to one side, her arm upraised, Odile had mimed someone dangling from a rope, her feet tapping out a frenetic little dance.

Although she had shuddered at Odile’s warning, Carole had always had difficulty minding her tongue. She had earned her latest blow from Ursula by daring to complain of the woman’s treatment of the stolen mules. After the poor things had been ridden to the point of collapse, Ursula had insisted they get rid of the mules before they were caught with them. She had turned them loose, leaving the creatures to fend for themselves in a thicket of trees.

The heat had made Ursula even more surly than usual. When Carole had tried to object to this cruelty, Ursula had struck her to the ground, snarling that they were close to their destination. The mules were no longer necessary, but at least they had served some useful purpose, which she was sure was more than would ever be said for Carole.

That brief altercation had taken place just outside of Paris. Since then, Carole had maintained a glum silence, reflecting that for once Ursula was right about something. Carole was no longer of use or value to anyone. The last time she had caught a glimpse of her own reflection, she had been shocked and disgusted by what she had seen, a pale, thin, waif of a girl clad in dirty, ragged clothes, her hair matted and filthy.

She had never had much to call her own, but at least she had taken pains to present a clean and tidy appearance. She had faults aplenty, but being a slattern had never been one of them. She could be too quick-tempered and sharp with her tongue and, as her mother had tried to instruct her, she needed to rein in some of her stubborn pride. She had lied to her aunt and uncle when she had sneaked out for her trysts with Raoul, but other than that, she had always been a basically honest girl and never asked anyone for so much as a crust of bread.

But since meeting up with Ursula and Odile, she had been reduced to the lowest kind of vagabond. She had become a beggar, a thief, and perhaps a murderess as well. Her little boy . . .

A lump rose in Carole’s throat and she worked hard to swallow. She had always hated to cry in front of anyone, but since leaving Faire Isle she constantly found herself on the verge of tears, a dangerous weakness around Ursula, who had no patience for any display of sentiment. The slightest sniffle could earn Carole another kick or cuff to the head. Even Odile would frown, looking mighty disappointed in her, unable to understand why Carole was so unhappy. Carole had been offered the great privilege of serving the Silver Rose. She had a glorious future before her.

But Carole felt as though she had left her future, her entire life back on Faire Isle, when she had been obliged to abandon her babe by the stream near Miri Cheney’s cottage. She had been so sure she would hate the alien thing that had grown inside her all these months, turning her life into one long misery.

What she had never expected was the rush of feeling that came over her at her first sight of the babe. He was so small, so helpless, and . . . so utterly perfect with his diminutive fingers and toes.

“Don’t look at him and whatever you do, don’t name him,”
Odile had advised.

But Carole’s heart had already christened him, Jean Baptiste, after her much-loved grandfather. Gathering the babe closer in her arms, Carole had stammered out her thanks to Odile and Ursula for helping her through the ordeal of childbirth, but she had changed her mind. She no longer had any interest in joining the coven of the Silver Rose.

It was then that she had first seen the ugly side of Ursula Gruen. It was too late for second thoughts, Ursula had growled. They had trusted Carole, taken her into their confidence. She knew too much about the Rose to be simply allowed to turn away. Their pact had been sealed with blood. It could not be broken. Carole must join the Silver Rose or die. And the child must be sacrificed.

Carole had clung to the babe, pleading. She would go with Ursula and Odile as promised, but there was no reason her babe had to die. Jean Baptiste could be left with her aunt and uncle. They had always promised to care for her child if it was a boy.

But her pleas had fallen upon a heart of stone. Ursula had pried the babe from her arms. As Jean began to wail, Carole had been obliged to release her grip, fearing he’d be hurt in the struggle. Weakened as she was from the ordeal of childbirth, all Carole could do was cry as Ursula tore the infant away from her.

Odile had leaned over the bed to soothe her, urgently whispering in her ear. “For mercy’s sake, come to your senses or Ursula will dash the child’s brains out right in front of you, then kill you as well.”

Carole had smothered her sob, trying desperately to think of something to do or say that might save her child. How she wished she had never stumbled across Odile and Ursula on the beach that day, never heard all of Odile’s enticing stories about the Silver Rose, how the sorceress was the champion of all women who were abused by their lovers, their husbands, their families, and all the rest of the harsh, unfeeling world. Join her and Carole would never know fear or want, never have to suffer scorn and cruelty or feel so helpless ever again.

What a fool she had been to listen, to believe their wild tales. Why had she been so angry and pigheaded that day when Miri Cheney had been kind, offering to help—

Mademoiselle Cheney.
At the thought of the Lady of the Wood with her soft but compelling silvery-blue eyes, an inexplicable feeling of calm had descended over Carole, a glimmer of hope, perhaps the only one for her petit Jean. She had swallowed her tears, apologizing for her moment of weakness.

It had been hard, but she had pretended to be revolted by the babe, declaring she knew the place he should be abandoned, on the rocks by the river deep in the wood. No one lived anywhere near there. The site was perfectly isolated, she had insisted, the lie tripping off her tongue.

Her courage had almost failed her when the moment had come to abandon Jean, but she had gulped back her tears and laid him carefully near the stream, wrapped in her best shawl. She had tried not to think how fragile he looked, how dark and threatening the forest loomed around them. Instead she had prayed that all the love her grand-mère had woven into that shawl would somehow protect her little boy, keep him safe until Miri Cheney found him.

She thought she had Ursula and Odile completely fooled. Ursula in particular with her mean squinty eyes was not all that bright. Carole didn’t realize how badly she had underestimated the woman until they were in the dinghy rowing away from Faire Isle, when Ursula had informed her with a malicious grin of the other gift she had left for the Lady of the Wood, that poisonous silver rose.

Very likely, by now both Mademoiselle Miri and Jean were dead. Carole’s eyes burned and she winked fiercely to hold back her tears. No. She could not allow herself to believe that. If she didn’t think it, it wouldn’t be true.

She prayed that the angels in heaven would somehow look out for her son and the Lady of the Wood, protect them. Carole’s lip quivered. Perhaps the Almighty would not listen to the prayers of a girl as evil as she. She prayed instead to the soul of her gentle grand-père, begging him to intervene with God on behalf of his namesake. That Jean Baptiste might be permitted to live, grow tall and strong, become a good man, have a good life.

That was the only thought that had kept Carole going all these weeks, that and the idea she might somehow escape, make her way back to Faire Isle. But in the beginning part of the journey, she had felt so weak from giving birth and Ursula had kept such close watch over her.

The big woman had relaxed some of her vigilance since they had passed through the gates of Paris. She and Odile were so deep in conversation, Ursula did not appear to notice that Carole had lagged behind. This might be Carole’s last, her only chance to flee before they reached the lair of the Silver Rose. She slowed her steps even more. Neither of her companions looked back.

But as Carole darted a glance around her, her heart quailed at the prospect of trying to lose herself in this maze of dirty, narrow streets, amidst a sea of so many rough-looking strangers with cold, indifferent eyes. What hope would she have of survival with no money, nothing more than the ragged clothes on her back? Even on Faire Isle she had heard too many grim tales of the kind of thing that might befall a young girl on her own, swallowed up by a city like Paris.

She could be ravished, compelled to work in a brothel or—or forced into a life of other crime. She could even end up doing the hempen jig herself. But could any of those fates be worse than what might await her if she was delivered into the hands of this Silver Rose and found wanting?

Her pulse racing with uncertainty, Carole froze. Her hesitation proved costly, for Ursula noticed her lagging behind. The woman glared at her, hands on hips.

“Keep up, you worthless little bitch, and don’t even think of trying to run off. If I have to come after you, you’ll be damned sorry.”

Carole had no doubt she would be. Even if she was rash enough to make a run for it, she’d never get far, not with her blistered foot, and tired, aching legs. It was hopeless. She was trapped, completely trapped, had been from the moment she had first set foot off Faire Isle.

All she could do was stumble after Ursula like a whipped cur. She avoided a kick from the woman’s thick boot by crouching closer to Odile. The petite dark-haired woman risked giving her an encouraging smile. “Don’t worry, Carole. We are almost there. Look.”

Carole lifted dull eyes in the direction Odile pointed, toward a large house looming behind a high stone wall at the end of the street. The manor was an incongruous sight set next to the tenements and squalor of the surrounding area, like a relic of other days before prosperity had taken itself off to some more promising quarter of the city.

Silhouetted against the fading light of day, the rambling stone house with its pepperpot turrets appeared dark and decayed. But as Carole drew nearer, limping to keep up with her two companions, she saw that someone had been making efforts at repairs. Sections of the wall surrounding the property appeared recently mortared, less grime-ridden than older portions of the stonework.

Carole ventured a peek past the iron grille. Evening shadows enveloped the courtyard beyond, but she was still able to make out a garden of roses. No deadly unnatural silver things, but lush, living blossoms, a profusion of both red and white. Their sweet aroma wafted to Carole, a pleasant contrast to the stench of the streets.

Despite the heat and drought, it was obvious someone had managed to keep this garden well tended, each rose lovingly watered by hand. The sight filled Carole with confusion. She had been so numbed with misery during her journey, she had scarce allowed herself to think about her final destination, to imagine the sort of place a sorceress might dwell.

If she had, she would have been more likely to conjure up images of a cottage set deep in some dark, sinister wood, or the ruins of a castle perched high upon some rocky, inaccessible cliff. She would never have expected to find the formidable Silver Rose dwelling in a place so ordinary as the old house with its pretty garden.

Carole blinked, experiencing a stirring of renewed hope. Perhaps all the wretchedness she had endured so far, including being forced to abandon Jean Baptiste, was more owing to the cruelty of Ursula than the Silver Rose.

If this sorceress was the champion of desperate women that Odile claimed that she was, perhaps Carole could appeal for mercy from the Rose herself, explain that she had made a mistake, that she just wasn’t suited to become a witch. She could swear upon her mother’s grave that she would never tell anything she had learned about the Silver Rose. The sorceress could even cut out Carole’s tongue if she wished to ensure her silence. Carole trembled at the thought of such a ghastly thing, but she was willing to brave any pain, accept any punishment. If only she could be allowed to go home . . .