The Dark Queen

by Susan Carroll

  Gabrielle shot her a look of exasperation. “A promise coerced from you with threats! Why should you feel obliged to keep such a pledge?”

  “It is a question of honor, Gabrielle.”

  “Honor,” Gabrielle scoffed. “That’s a man’s notion, the excuse that they give for killing each other in duels.”

  “Nevertheless, I gave my word and I won’t go back on it.”

  “My God, Ariane!” Gabrielle rolled her eyes in disgust. “I vow you would feel obliged to play fair with the devil himself even if it meant your funeral. Or in this case, should I say your wedding?”

  “It will never come to that, although . . . perhaps it should.”

  Gabrielle eyed her sternly. “Ariane Cheney! Never tell me you are thinking of giving in and marrying that odious man.”

  “No, I suppose not, although given our circumstances, it seems foolish of me to refuse.”

  Gabrielle reached past her and grabbed the pile of parchment. Ariane had never wanted either of her sisters to know the full extent of the straits they were in, but she felt too weary to stop Gabrielle from sifting through the notes.

  The debts had mostly been incurred by their father in financing the three carracks for his grand voyage of exploration. Grand voyage. In bitter moments, Ariane had called it Papa’s grand flight. Running from the wife he had betrayed and the reproachful eyes of his daughters.

  Gabrielle came to the end of the stack, looking a little subdued. But she rallied, tossing the debts down, sending them cascading across the table.

  “There is nothing there we cannot deal with ourselves. What about that potion you were trying to brew this morning? If we could improve the yield of our holdings in Brittany, given time—”

  “Time is something we may not have.” Ariane tidied up the mess Gabrielle had made, neatly restacking the pile. “Papa has been gone so long, his investors are growing impatient. And if he does not return, the Brittany estate will pass to our cousin, Bernard.”

  Gabrielle made a moue of distaste at the mention of Bernard Cheney.

  “Bernard is a pig.”

  “He is a male pig and that gives him more rights under the law than we have, especially since Papa never saw fit to draw up a will.”

  “Papa has not been declared dead yet, Ariane. So I see no reason for you to rush into some noble sacrifice by marrying Monsieur le Ogre.”

  “Perhaps Renard is a little rough-hewn, but I would not call him an ogre,” Ariane protested.

  “He is an arrogant bully and a brute and—and what’s more a wicked Deauville.” Gabrielle seized hold of both of Ariane’s hands and hunkered down in front of her. Her blue eyes were at once fierce and solemn. “You are so kind and wise and good. You deserve only the very best of men, someone who will adore you, be absolutely devoted to you. And so does Miri.”

  It was a rare thing for Gabrielle to express herself this openly. Deeply moved by Gabrielle’s concern, Ariane stroked back a wayward curl from her younger sister’s brow.

  “And what about you, child?”

  A shadow passed across Gabrielle’s lovely features, but she was quick to rally with a bright laugh. “Me? Oh, I will only ever tolerate a man of the greatest wealth and importance. I would never settle for a mere comte.”

  “Oh? I suppose you would prefer a duke.”

  “A duke?” Gabrielle rose to her feet with a scornful toss of her head. “I’ll have nothing less than a prince, although a king would be better.”

  Ariane couldn’t help smiling as her sister struck a pose of haughty self-assurance.

  “Kings tend to require both royal blood and a considerable dowry of land when they wed.”

  “Who is talking of marriage? Everyone knows it is better to be a man’s mistress. That is where the real power and wealth lie.”

  Ariane’s smile faded. “That is nothing to jest about, Gabrielle.”

  “I was not jesting, Ariane.” The soft contours of Gabrielle’s flawless profile still spoke of youth and innocence, but her eyes took on that hard expression Ariane so dreaded. “If you have any doubts upon the matter, you should remember Papa’s lady friend.”

  The pain and disillusionment of discovering that Papa had kept a mistress still weighed heavily upon Ariane. She had struggled for a long time to reconcile that fact with the image of the father she had trusted and adored.

  “I suppose most men are unfaithful to their wives,” she said in a hollow voice. “But I try to believe that in the end it was Maman who held Papa’s heart.”

  “That must have been a great consolation to her. Having his heart while his money and jewels went to that woman in Paris.” Gabrielle stared moodily out the window.

  “Paris,” she murmured. “That is where we should be instead of rotting away on this dismal island.”

  “Paris is the last place Maman would have ever wanted us to go.”

  “Maman is no longer here.” For a moment, Gabrielle’s voice constricted with grief. She shook back her hair, going on in a brooding tone. “Everything is so dull and hopeless here on the island. But Paris! There will be a royal wedding at Notre Dame this summer. The king’s sister, Margot, is to marry the young prince of Navarre. Only think of the balls, the masques, the celebrations there will be.

  “Given the right gowns, the right jewels, I would be certain to have some opportunity to catch the eye of the king.”

  “Gabrielle!” Ariane reproved gently.

  Her sister’s face was at once mutinous and pleading. “If you would only help me get to Paris, Airy. I could make all our fortunes. You and Miri would never have to worry about anything ever again.”

  “Enough, Gabrielle! I don’t want to hear any more of this kind of talk.” Ariane began cramming the stack of bills back into the coffer, hoping to put an end to this disturbing conversation.

  But Gabrielle persisted. “You don’t think I could capture the heart of the king, hold complete sway over him?”

  “King Charles is half-mad and someone else already holds sway over him.”

  Everyone knew the real power behind the French throne was the king’s mother, Catherine de Medici. Sometimes referred to as the Italian Woman or the Dark Queen. But more often called by a word that was only spoken of in hushed whispers.

  Sorceress.

  Ariane was loath to ever speak of her at all, but Gabrielle had no such compunction. She tipped her chin to a defiant angle.

  “I am not afraid of the Dark Queen. She is just the same as we are, another daughter of the earth.”

  “Yes, but one who has devoted herself more to the darker arts than those of healing. She is a dangerous woman, Gabrielle, especially to anyone who challenges her power over the king.”

  “And yet our own mother was her friend once.”

  “Until she sought to thwart one of Catherine’s evil schemes and then—” Ariane broke off, her throat constricting. “And then you know quite well what she did to Maman.”

  The reminder silenced Gabrielle for a moment, but she argued, “Maman was too good, too gentle and vulnerable. I am not like that.”

  She leaned up against the window frame, looking suddenly deflated.

  “I am not like you either, Ariane,” she added in a more subdued tone. “Charming men is all I am good for. It is the only magic left to me.”

  Ariane regarded Gabrielle in dismay. Gabrielle pretended to be so hard, so tough, but Ariane thought her sister had never looked more vulnerable than at this moment, her brittle expression a thin mask for the pain and confusion roiling just below the surface.

  “What you say is not true, dearest,” said Ariane. “Only look at the sculptures and paintings you have created. You breathe life into mere stone, and what you can do with a bit of paint and a yard of canvas—”

  “That’s all gone now. Whatever ability I had, I outgrew a long time ago.”

  “No, only last summer, I fear.”

  Gabrielle tensed, as she always did, at any hint of what had happened last June. The di
sillusionment of discovering certain truths about their father, his abandonment of them, the death of their mother . . . those things had been as hard on Gabrielle as on Ariane.

  But something else had wrought this terrible change in Ariane’s sister, the advent of a certain young knight, a man whose handsome profile had not been matched by his heart.

  The Chevalier Danton had come to visit them one fair summer day, claiming to be a friend of their Cheney cousin. Etienne had been lively and charming, dispersing some of the gloom that had settled over Belle Haven after Maman’s death. If only Ariane had not been so distracted, still struggling to assume her duties as Lady of Faire Isle. If only she had probed Danton’s eyes more carefully, read his true character instead of just being grateful for the diversion that he offered to Gabrielle’s grief.

  Instead Ariane had received the knight into their home with all the courtesy Belle Haven had always extended to travelers. But when Danton had finally gone on his way, he had taken Gabrielle’s innocence away with him as well.

  Ariane had found her sister in the barn after the knight had gone. Gabrielle’s hair had been disheveled, her dress torn, her shoulder bruised. But that had been as nothing compared to the bruised look in Gabrielle’s eyes.

  She had not wept. But Ariane had, cradling Gabrielle’s stiff frame in her arms, torn between grief and outrage. If ever in her life Ariane had been tempted to employ the dark magic against anyone, it had been then. But Danton had already been well out of her reach.

  All that had been left her to do was to take care of her sister. Gabrielle had regained her composure, perhaps all too quickly, and refused to ever discuss what had happened in the barn that day. It was a silence Ariane feared she had allowed to go on for far too long.

  “Gabrielle,” she began, but her sister shied away from her.

  “No, Ariane! I know what you are going to say, and I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “But at some time we must. What happened to you that day—”

  “Nothing happened,” Gabrielle snapped.

  “When one has been—been injured as you have, you cannot begin to heal if you do not at least acknowledge you have been hurt.”

  “I was never hurt.”

  “Gabrielle—” Ariane reached out to her, but Gabrielle pushed her away, eyes blazing fiercely.

  “I know what you think happened, but you are wrong. I am no man’s helpless victim nor ever will be. Danton never forced me to—” She broke off, winking back savage tears.

  “Get it through your head, Ariane. I—I seduced him and then I discarded him. Now let that be an end to the matter.”

  Gabrielle whirled about and stormed out of the room, but not before Ariane saw the tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “Gabrielle!” Ariane called after her, knowing it would do little good to follow her.

  From the time Gabrielle had been a child, she had been difficult to comfort whenever she was hurt. If only Maman were here, she would have found a way to soothe Gabrielle, to heal her.

  But Maman would have never allowed Gabrielle to be hurt. Dragging her hand wearily through her hair, Ariane turned back to the task of locking up the household chest. She picked up Renard’s ring. Somehow since translating that inscription, she felt uneasy wearing it and yet she had promised Renard. But she hadn’t promised to keep it on her finger.

  Fetching a silver chain from the chest, she attached the ring and fastened that about her neck. As she did so, she heard a footfall behind her and spun about, hoping against hope that Gabrielle had changed her mind and come back to talk.

  Miri stood there, regarding Ariane with the stony expression she had adopted ever since Ariane had told her she’d given Hercules back to the comte. Ever since their mother’s death, Miri had come to Ariane every night to have her hair brushed and braided.

  But tonight Miri had done it for herself. It hung over her shoulder, moon-gold wisps sticking out of the clumsy braid like a length of rope that was about to come unraveled. She had grown so much taller this past year that her night shift was too short for her, reaching up to mid-calf.

  Exhausted as she was, Ariane made an effort to smile at her sister. “Miribelle. I thought you might already have gone to bed.”

  “I would, but I can’t sleep. I keep worrying about Hercules.”

  That infernal horse was the least of Ariane’s worries, but she tried to summon all her patience. “Miri, we have been through this already. The comte was not the one who abused Hercules. He will take good care of the horse, I promise you.”

  “You didn’t even let me say good-bye to him. Hercules wanted to stay with me and—and I needed him.”

  “You have a perfectly fine pony.”

  “Butternut is getting too old. It is very hard on him to make the journey up the cliffs of Argot.”

  “You have no business going up those cliffs yourself,” Ariane told her little sister sternly.

  “But it is only days away from the time when the sleeping giants must be honored and you have completely forgotten.”

  The event had slipped Ariane’s mind, but such nonsense was not high on her list of priorities. Legend said that the menhirs on the isolated side of Faire Isle were in truth a pack of petrified giants, that upon the full moon once a year, the mammoth standing stones would assume their human form.

  If one approached the menhirs at just the right moment, one might see the giants awaken. Of course no one ever had, but it was as good an excuse as any for a midnight revel.

  “We have gone every year to pay respect to the giants,” Miri said. “How could you forget?”

  “I have had more important things on my mind, Miribelle. The giants will just have to excuse our absence this time.”

  “You don’t have to go. I will go by myself—”

  “No, you most certainly will not. After the way you behaved today, stealing that horse, I think you had better stay closer to home. Spend a little more time on your studies.”

  Miri’s eyes filled with rebellion, but her lower lip trembled. “You are always so tired and cross these days, Ariane. And all Gabrielle thinks about is her gowns and dressing her hair. If Papa were here, he would not forget about the ceremony.”

  Yes, very likely. Louis Cheney was as big a dreamer as Miri. Maman had always done her best to teach them the difference between genuine magic and nonsense, but Papa had been ever ready to believe in legends of sleeping giants or wild tales of an El Dorado full of gold to be found across the ocean.

  Ariane closed up the heavy chest and toted it over to the cupboard, wishing Miri would just take herself off to bed. Exhausted, she felt the niggling of a headache behind her eyes.

  But Miri trailed after her. “When Papa comes home, he promised to bring me a monkey and a parrot from Brazil. He will come sailing grandly into the harbor, his ship loaded with such treasure, we’ll have a stable full of fine horses again and he would never forbid me to ride anywhere. If Papa were here now—”

  “Well, he isn’t,” Ariane snapped, goaded beyond endurance. “And when he does come back, it will likely be with an empty ship and a broken sail. That is if he ever comes back at all.”

  Ariane regretted the bitter words the minute they were out of her mouth. Miri’s eyes flew wide, her face crumpling.

  “You and Gabrielle don’t believe in anything anymore. Not even P-papa.”

  “Miri, I am sorry,” Ariane began, but her sister had already burst into tears and bolted from the room.

  Ariane sagged against the bedpost. Within the space of minutes, she had managed to reduce both her sisters to tears. She felt like sinking down by her mother’s bed, burying her face in the coverlet and weeping herself.

  But she was denied even that small luxury. The little maid, Bette, poked her head into the room with an announcement.

  “Please, Mistress Ariane, if you could come at once. Charbonne has ridden all the way from town with an urgent message for you from the mother abbess.”

  What now?
Ariane thought in dismay.

  But she wearily nodded her assent. “I shall be there at once.”

  Moments later, she trudged down the corridor to find Charbonne waiting for her in the great hall. She was a strapping peasant woman who did gardening and stable work and ran errands for the convent of St. Anne located near the harbor town. Her closely cropped milk-white hair and muscular frame often led her to be mistaken for a comely boy.

  At the sight of Ariane, Charbonne respectfully doffed her cap. “Pardon the intrusion, Mistress Ariane, but Reverend Mother asked me to deliver this to you.”

  Charbonne handed over a folded piece of parchment sealed with the emblem of St. Anne’s. Marie Claire, the head of the convent, had been a longtime friend of Evangeline Cheney’s. A daughter of the earth herself, she had frequently consulted with Maman regarding the old healing potions and remedies.

  Ariane broke the seal of the letter to find a few lines written in Marie Claire’s elegant flowing hand.

  Ariane, there is a man here from Paris asking for you. He will speak to no one else. I would beg you come to town as soon as may be.

  Ariane frowned. There was no one she knew from Paris, or at least, she amended, no one that she wished to know. Ever since she had sent inquiries abroad, trying to gain some word of her father, she had been beset by wandering sailors and travelers, claiming to have information, hoping for some manner of reward.

  She folded the note. “Very well. Tell Marie—I mean the Reverend Mother, I will come see this gentleman in the morning.”

  To her surprise, Charbonne shook her head vehemently. “Oh, no, mistress. That won’t do. He may not be here.”

  “Where would he go at this hour?”

  “To heaven or to hell, wherever someone tried to send the poor devil.”

  “What!” Ariane exclaimed.

  Charbonne leaned closer, saying in a hushed whisper. “The man is dying, milady. He’s been shot clean through.”

  Chapter Four

  Light spilled from the windows of the Passing Stranger into the narrow street. On such a fine summer evening, the breeze was coming from the harbor of Port Corsair, enabling the inn’s shutters to be left open with no dread of noxious odors drifting down from the tanner’s shop at the next corner.