The Dark Queen

by Susan Carroll

  “Those court lackeys? They determined she died of natural causes, but I know better. When a woman is healthy one day and the next perishing in great agony, there can be only one explanation.”

  Ariane sighed. No, there could be several explanations. Ariane would have guessed that under ordinary circumstances Nicolas Remy was a practical and rational man. But grief could drive even the most sensible person into making wild accusations.

  “Captain Remy,” she began gently. “There are many diseases that seem to strike suddenly—”

  “This was no disease!” Remy lowered his arm to glower at her. “My queen was poisoned and I managed to lay hands on the evidence. It is in my saddlebag. You have seen it for yourself.”

  “You mean that half-empty bottle of wine?”

  “No, not the wine. The gloves! The god-cursed gloves.”

  “Poisoned gloves? Captain Remy . . .” Ariane let out a long breath, slowly shaking her head.

  “Are you going to tell me such a thing is not possible, that such black magic does not exist?” Remy demanded.

  “N-o-o,” Ariane said. “But it is extremely rare. You have no idea how skilled one would have to be in the dark arts to brew such poisons that can penetrate the skin, bring about a violent death, then leave no trace on the victim.

  “Fortunately, there are few daughters of the earth who possess that kind of knowledge, especially here in France. One was the witch Melusine, and she is long dead. The only other I know of is—is—” Ariane hesitated.

  “The Dark Queen,” Remy said, finishing the thought Ariane was so reluctant to complete. “Catherine de Medici. Is that not right?”

  When Ariane didn’t answer, Remy prodded, “Or perhaps you think that the Dowager Queen of France would not be capable of such a monstrous act?”

  Ariane would not have put much of anything past Catherine when the woman felt her interests were threatened. She had only to remember what had taken place between her own mother and the Dark Queen. But it was one thing for Catherine to wreak havoc upon courtiers or someone like Evangeline Cheney. Would even Catherine de Medici dare employ her dark arts against another queen?

  “But it makes no sense,” she argued with herself as much as Remy. “Why would Catherine murder your queen? Jeanne of Navarre came to Paris to arrange for the wedding of her son to Catherine’s daughter. The marriage was instigated by Catherine herself, was it not? Heralded as the beginning of a great truce between Catholics and Protestants.”

  “I will tell you something that only I know, mademoiselle,” Remy said. “My queen had begun to suspect some sort of treachery, that there was something truly rotten about this so-called truce. While I was escorting Her Majesty to some of the shops in Paris, she confided to me that she was on the verge of calling off the wedding.

  “Our last visit that day was to Queen Catherine’s own royal glovemakers. My queen bought a pair that she was assured had been designed especially for her by the order of Catherine herself. As we left the shop, my queen, with all a woman’s innocent delight, put the gloves on, never dreaming of such evil magic, of such treachery.

  “By the time we returned to the palace, my queen was seized by the most agonizing spasms as though she’d swallowed an entire cup of hemlock. By the next morning, she was dead. So you tell me what happened, Mistress Cheney.”

  “I don’t know,” Ariane murmured. What Remy suggested could be true. That was much of the reason Ariane chose to keep herself and her sisters well clear of all the political intrigue that seethed in Paris, the dark schemes of Catherine de Medici, even though as the daughters of the Chevalier Cheney, they could have taken their places at court.

  “If your suspicions are correct, monsieur, I am most grieved by it,” she said. “But I do not know in what way I can be of assistance to you.”

  “By helping to prove the gloves were poisoned.”

  “How? By putting them on?”

  “No, of course not,” Remy said with an impatient toss of his head. “I was told you possess great knowledge in these matters.”

  “Not in the dark arts!” Ariane shoved to her feet, venting her agitation in small, useless tasks, smoothing out Remy’s blanket, shifting the position of the candlestick. “I admit that I do have books that I could consult. Possibly there are solvents that might be brewed, methods of detecting poisons.

  “But even if I could prove those gloves had been tampered with, if we could connect the crime to Catherine, then what? Would you like to march into the Palace of Justice in Paris and accuse the Dowager Queen of France of witchcraft and murder?”

  “Yes!”

  Ariane cast him a disbelieving look. “You are quite mad, monsieur. You still don’t seem to understand the sort of woman you are dealing with.”

  “I understand perfectly, Mistress Cheney,” Remy said somberly. “I only said that bringing the Dark Queen to justice is something I would like to do. That may not be possible . . . yet.”

  “Or ever. Do you realize Catherine may be aware that you suspect something and that you have those gloves? Who has been shooting at you?”

  “The queen’s private guard,” Remy admitted.

  “Then you may well have endangered everyone on this island by coming here.”

  “No, I managed to elude pursuit and it will be expected that I will head west, back to Navarre, to warn my prince—” Remy paused to sadly correct himself. “I mean my king now. And that is what I should do except that I fear my king will be determined to go through with this marriage and the truce, unless I can offer him solid proof of what Catherine did to his mother.”

  “I wish you all the luck in the world, monsieur, but I don’t think I can help you.”

  “But I was told you are the daughter of one of the greatest wit—” Remy caught himself and amended quickly. “One of the greatest wise women who ever lived.”

  Ariane traced her fingers wearily across her brow. Yes, she was Evangeline Cheney’s daughter. But what Remy and no one else seemed to understand was that she did not possess a tenth of her mother’s skill, strength, and courage.

  “I am sorry,” she began, but Remy cut her off.

  “Please, mademoiselle.” Remy dragged himself up onto one elbow to plead with her. “If Catherine did this to my queen, I am terrified of what else she might be plotting. Against my countrymen, against my young king. He is all that remains of the house of Navarre. You must help me to save him.”

  Ariane turned away to avoid his imploring eyes. Why did she feel so cold? Because she did not want to become involved in any of this. She had troubles enough of her own. All she desired was to take care of her sisters, keep them safe, live quietly on her island, and tend to her herbs. She wanted nothing to do with poisoned gloves, Dark Queens, or desperate Huguenot soldiers.

  Yet she was a daughter of the earth, a seeker of wisdom and knowledge, a defender against superstition and darkness, a healer and a caregiver. These roles had been bred into her very bones. To turn her back on Captain Remy would be to fly in the face of everything she had been taught.

  After a long tussle with her conscience, Ariane faced Remy.

  “All right,” she said. “I cannot promise anything, but I will at least take the gloves back to my workshop and examine them.”

  “Merci, mademoiselle.” The captain was so grateful, it was all Ariane could do to keep the earnest young man from tumbling from the bed to his knee, to take her hand and express his gratitude.

  She once more forced him back to his pillow, but it was not so difficult this time. Having made his case, the captain seemed thoroughly drained and it was not long before he fell into an exhausted sleep. As Ariane tucked the blanket across his shoulders, she was astonished to see the grim set of his features relax in a deep repose. But then why not? Ariane reflected. The captain had just managed to ease the weight of the world from his shoulders and shifted it squarely onto hers.

  Candlelight flickered over the rough stone walls, the austerity of the abbess’s quarter
s broken by touches of Marie Claire’s own forceful personality, a colorful braided rug, a tapestry of St. Joan making war on the English, and a large cage holding her pet bird, a raven with brilliant black feathers and a long bill. It greeted Ariane with a harsh quork, tipping its head to study her with curious brown eyes.

  The fierce-looking bird was positioned well away from the shelves bending under the weight of Marie Claire’s books. Many of these were traditional texts, the Bible, orthodox scripture interpretations, the canons of the Church. And many were not, writings of female mystics, the articles of Martin Luther, even a copy of the Koran. As Marie Claire had once told the horrified convent chaplain, if one’s faith could not bear the test of reading a few forbidden books, well, then, it was a paltry faith indeed.

  Even though Ariane admired Marie Claire’s thirst for knowledge, she did not think the abbess wise to flaunt it. It was dangerous even here with the security of the island.

  But Ariane doubted that anything could prove more dangerous than what she had brought to Marie Claire’s attention tonight. Even with the shutters firmly closed, sealing off the room from any prying eyes, Ariane still felt a strong sense of unease with the contents of Captain Remy’s purse spilled out across Marie Claire’s table.

  Yet the gloves were so harmless looking, costly white silk, exquisite workmanship, apparel truly fit for a queen. Marie Claire studied them, prodding one fingertip with the tip of her quill pen.

  “Quite beautiful,” she pronounced. “Trust our dear Catherine to find a way to convey death in so charming a fashion.”

  Ariane felt her stomach knot. “Then you do think the gloves are poisoned? That Catherine used them to kill the queen of Navarre?”

  “Knowing what I do of Catherine, I think it highly probable. It would not be the first time she has employed such methods and I doubt it will be the last.”

  “Someone should have stopped her a long time ago.”

  “Your Maman tried, my dear, and you know how that turned out.”

  Ariane did, to her sorrow. Not that she could accuse the Dark Queen of killing her mother. Perhaps in some way that might have been more merciful. Instead Catherine’s vengeance had taken a more cruel and diabolical form. She had found the one sure way of breaking Evangeline’s heart, of shattering the peace and happiness of the Cheney family forever.

  “Maman was always reluctant to talk to me about what she had done to incur Catherine’s anger,” Ariane said. “All I know is that she prevented the Dark Queen from using her poisons on someone.”

  “Not just any someone,” Marie Claire replied. Folding her handkerchief about the gloves, she carefully tucked them back inside Remy’s purse. “Evangeline stopped Catherine from killing Diane de Poitiers, an intelligent and fascinating woman. She was also the king’s mistress.

  “In those days, Catherine was queen in name only, ignored by her husband. It was Diane who held the king’s heart and ear, making her the most powerful woman in France. Catherine had good reason for wanting her gone. She had actually succeeded in administering the poison and Diane would have died.”

  “Except for Maman,” Ariane said with quiet pride.

  “Yes, Evangeline was able to counteract the poison and save her. The ironic thing was that she intervened for Catherine as much as Diane. Catherine was not as subtle with her poisons way back then. She would have been the first one suspected, and not even her position as queen could have protected her from the king’s wrath.

  “Your mother very likely saved Catherine’s life.” The abbess sighed. “Unfortunately Catherine did not see it that way.”

  “So she set out to destroy my mother.” Ariane had often wondered why the Dark Queen had not simply chosen to kill her mother. Perhaps in some strange way it had amused Catherine to strike in another way, at the place where Evangeline Cheney had been most vulnerable, her love for her husband.

  The romance between Evangeline and Louis Cheney had been the stuff of legends, the Lady of Faire Isle and France’s most valiant knight. Few noblemen wed for love or remained faithful even when they did so. But even after years of marriage and the birth of three daughters, the Chevalier Cheney had remained devoted to his Evangeline—that is, until the Dark Queen had set that creature loose upon him.

  Marguerite de Maitland, one of Catherine’s infamous Escadron Volant. The Flying Squadron, a collection of some of the court’s most beautiful ladies. Ladies? Ariane thought contemptuously. No, women of the night, courtesans, skilled in every unholy art of seduction and betrayal.

  “Papa should have been stronger, Marie Claire. If—if he had truly loved Maman, he should have resisted that evil woman.”

  Marie Claire only shook her head and gave Ariane’s shoulder a sympathetic squeeze. “Child, you have no notion how devastatingly irresistible those creatures of Catherine can be. Beautiful and voluptuous. I have heard that the Dark Queen even further enhances their charms with mind-stealing lotions and perfumes that she brews.”

  “At least I will never have anything to fear from the Flying Squadron,” Ariane said fiercely. “I don’t ever intend to be in love and I don’t have a husband to lose.”

  “No, you have only your life to lose. And your sisters.”

  Ariane felt herself grow a little pale at the mention of Miri and Gabrielle. “So then you are advising me to have nothing more to do with this business, Marie? You think I am being too reckless?”

  Marie Claire gave a dry laugh. “All I am saying is that we must proceed with great caution and a clear head while we consider the alternatives.

  “And in aid of that . . .” Marie smiled at her and went to a small cupboard to fetch two fine crystal glasses and a dustcovered bottle. Like the inhabitants of many other convents, the sisters of Saint Anne would have had to close their gates and disband a long time ago for lack of funds. But St. Anne’s had managed to remain self-sufficient by means of the currant wine they distilled and sold on the mainland.

  Ariane eyed the glass of ruby-colored liquid Marie pressed into her hand with some misgiving. The wine was a heady brew and Ariane doubted it would contribute much to clarity of thought.

  But she took a polite sip, the ruby-colored liquid sweet and heavy upon her tongue. A warmth spread through her, dispelling some of the chill that seemed to have settled in her veins ever since she had heard Captain Remy’s tale. She leaned back in her chair, some of the tension melting from her shoulders while Marie Claire settled opposite her.

  “To begin with, the captain is certain that he managed to elude his pursuers?” she asked.

  “Fairly certain,” Ariane said. “Although as soon as he seems well enough, it might be wise to move him to a safer hiding place.”

  Marie Claire nodded in agreement.

  “And I will set to work on the gloves.”

  Marie Claire sipped her wine, peering thoughtfully into her glass. “And if you can prove they have been poisoned, then what?”

  “I honestly don’t know,” Ariane confessed. “In ancient times, we used to have the council to deal with matters like this. Elected daughters of the earth who met twice a year at the circle of standing stones on this island, to consult, to govern, to discipline.”

  “Alas, my dear, nowadays, women are quite simply too afraid that if they left their homes and husbands to hold a great assembly, they would be deemed a satanic coven and all of them burnt at the stake.”

  Ariane acknowledged Marie Claire’s words with a rueful sigh.

  “And yet . . .” Marie Claire lightly traced one fingertip around the rim of her glass. “The Council of the Earth may be long gone, but the daughters have not entirely been scattered to the four winds.”

  Rising from her chair, Marie Claire glided over to her bedstead and knelt down. Ariane watched, mystified as Marie Claire dragged a heavy iron box from beneath the bed. Producing a key she kept hidden beneath her robes, the older woman unlocked the box and rummaged through the contents.

  She struggled to her feet with a thin leathe
r-bound manuscript clutched in her hands. Ariane shuddered to think how dangerous this book must be that was kept locked away. Curiosity drove her to rise and peer over Marie Claire’s shoulder as the older woman thumbed through the crackling parchment.

  The words were inked out in the old runic symbols, but the writing did not look that ancient. In fact, it looked remarkably like Marie Claire’s own elegant flowing style.

  “What is that?” Ariane asked, straining to translate some of the words, but the abbess flipped through the pages too quickly.

  “It is a listing of the daughters of the earth.”

  When Ariane gawked at her in astonishment, Marie Claire chuckled. “Well, not all the daughters of the earth. Only the ones who are known to me. As you are well aware, too many of our number have been reduced to the state of peasant women, unable to read or write.

  “But the ladies set down in my book are well educated and determined to stay connected as in the old days. We correspond frequently to share knowledge and—ah, here we are.”

  Marie Claire paused at last on one particular page long enough to allow Ariane to read the heading.

  Paris.

  Ariane watched as Marie Claire skimmed her finger down what was obviously a list of names. “Marie, what or should I say who are you looking for?”

  “Someone who may be able to help us,” Marie Claire murmured. “They say that the Dark Queen has eyes everywhere these days. Well, we may need some eyes of our own and . . . and yes!”

  Marie Claire jabbed her finger down hard on a particular entry. “I believe this may be our woman.”

  Ariane translated slowly. “Louise . . . Louise Lavalle?”

  “Yes, a bold and accomplished woman. A noted courtesan in her own right. She has always preferred being a rich man’s mistress than a poor man’s wife.”

  “I don’t understand. How is such a woman to help us?”

  “By letting us know what is really going on in Paris. Louise could help us find out by insinuating herself at court, perhaps even become a member of Catherine’s Flying Squadron.”

  “Spy on the Dark Queen? Catherine de Medici is not so easily fooled. Maman said she had never met anyone better at the reading of the eyes.”