Catherine feared that the stains of this night would never be completely removed, from the palace walls or her soul. She had not intended for the whole thing to get so terrifyingly far out of control. All she had wanted was to overcome her son’s foolish scruples and set a fire under the Catholic nobles to rid her of the Protestant threat.
Her visions of a well-ordered campaign of attack had swiftly degenerated into an unruly mob. Burning, looting, killing—the rampage had continued all through Sunday until Catherine had feared she might have to send in troops to restore order.
She was relieved that the violence here in Paris had finally reached its end. There was still a little unrest in a few sections, but by and large, the city was quiet again. Her spies had informed her that the whispers were already starting, entirely blaming her for the massacre. That Italian woman, that vile de Medici sorceress.
Catherine herself did not know how much of the savagery was owing to her miasma and how much simply to the bestiality of human nature. But it would be a long time before she ever risked tampering with such powerful black magic again.
At least the execution of so many Huguenots should certainly pacify both the Pope and Phillip of Spain. His Most Catholic Majesty could no longer accuse France of being lax with heretics and use that as an excuse to invade. The massacre would also send a message of warning to Huguenot rebels throughout France that they would not soon forget.
But unexpected regret clouded Catherine’s heart. This hideous bloodshed was so far removed from the dreams she’d had as a young girl when she had first come to France to be married. She had been so in love with her young prince and she had imagined them ruling side by side with such magnificence that they would be set down in history with all the glory of a Ferdinand and Isabella. That had been before her bitter realization that Henry of France would never love her, that the only power he would share was with his mistress.
Now Henry was long dead and as for herself, Catherine had the power she’d craved. But no matter what she might ever accomplish for France, she was seized by a bleak premonition that all she would ever be remembered for was this . . . the massacre of St. Bartholomew’s Day.
She forced herself to rally when the antechamber door opened and Gillian Harcourt crept into the room. The petite blond lady-in-waiting sank into a deep curtsy. “Your Majesty, there is someone here—”
“I told you I do not wish to receive anyone,” Catherine interrupted coldly.
“But Your Grace, you told me that when the Lady of Faire Isle arrived seeking an audience, she was to be escorted into your presence immediately. No matter the time of night or day.”
Catherine caught the note of suppressed excitement in the girl’s voice. Even the foolish courtesans of her Flying Squadron were awed by the reputation of the Lady of Faire Isle. Catherine frowned in fleeting annoyance. Never had she achieved anything close to the reverence the uncrowned lady of that one small island commanded.
Catherine grudgingly conceded that her dear Evangeline and the late Eugenie Pellentier had fully deserved such respect. Whether Ariane Cheney did remained to be seen.
Catherine’s mouth curled in a thin smile.
“Show the lady in.”
Ariane was ushered into the antechamber, the train of her mother’s gown of antique gold rustling behind her. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in a large gilt-edged mirror. She was by far too pale, her thick fall of brown hair dressed loosely about her shoulders. But the plain gold circlet that banded her forehead lent her a touch of regal calm and dignity.
Despite her appearance of outward serenity, her heart tripped irregularly as she braced herself to confront Catherine de Medici.
Ariane was only dimly aware of the lady-in-waiting announcing her, then slipping quietly from the room. She found herself left alone with the Dark Queen. Catherine awaited her, framed against the apartment’s tall, sunlit windows.
“Ah, Ariane. So you have arrived at last,” she said. “Come closer, child.”
Ariane forced her feet forward with measured steps as she stared at Catherine. Was this the creature she had so long feared? Mistress of the dark arts, betrayer of her mother’s friendship, employer of witch-hunters, dire authoress of the tragedy whose terrible aftermath Ariane had just witnessed.
Catherine was not very tall, her figure on the plump side. The cut of her black gown was austere, the starkness relieved only by the narrow white ruff at her throat. Her face was smooth, almost masklike.
The two women regarded each other silently, each taking the other’s measure. Catherine’s throat clogged with an unexpected rush of emotion. She felt as though she was looking at a ghost, Evangeline’s soft brown hair tumbled around the young woman’s shoulders. The girl was much taller than Evangeline had ever been. She had obviously inherited her height from her father, along with Louis Cheney’s aristocratic cheekbones. But those were Evangeline’s eyes that stared gravely back at Catherine from Ariane’s countenance.
Catherine experienced a surge of grief and longing for her old friend such as she had not allowed herself to feel for years. But she could not let any lingering sentimentality for the girl’s mother affect how she dealt with Ariane. Catherine flushed at her own folly, seeking to shrug off the maudlin emotion.
But her voice was unusually soft as she held out her hand to Ariane. “I have been looking forward to this meeting, my dear. I have not seen you since you were in your infancy.”
Ariane made a stiff curtsy and took Catherine’s hand, but she could not bring herself to kiss it. The queen did not appear troubled by Ariane’s lack of obeisance. Her fingers curled around Ariane’s.
“I attended your christening, you know. Did Evangeline ever tell you that? I journeyed all the way out to that wretched island for the first and only time in my life. I so wanted to arrange for my dear friend’s confinement in one of my own royal palaces, but Evangeline insisted upon giving birth to you on Faire Isle.”
Catherine gave a light chuckle. “I remember when I peeked into your cradle, thinking what a funny, solemn little thing you were. Hardly ever crying, gazing up at me with those great unblinking eyes. I should have been your godmother, but of course Evangeline felt obliged to accord that honor to your Great-aunt Eugenie as the Lady of Faire Isle.”
Ariane repressed a shiver at the thought of the Dark Queen bending over her cradle like some malevolent fairy. She attempted to ease her hand away, but Catherine’s grip tightened.
It was then that Ariane discovered the true power of the Dark Queen. It was in her eyes, cold and dark as unending night. Never had Ariane encountered a gaze so piercing.
Ariane wanted to avert her eyes, but she forced herself to meet Catherine’s gaze dead-on. The queen stared at her for a long moment before releasing her.
“Yes,” she murmured. “You very much have the look of my dear Evangeline about you.”
These intimate references to the woman whose friendship Catherine had so callously betrayed stirred Ariane’s resentment.
“My mother was never your dear Evangeline,” she said. “May we have an end to these pleasantries and come straight to the point? You know why I am here. I have come to negotiate the release of the Comte de Renard.”
Catherine’s brows rose haughtily. “How do you know I haven’t simply killed him?”
Ariane’s heart constricted with alarm, then she realized the woman was toying with her.
Ariane glared at her. “I know he is still alive. I—I can feel it.”
“How remarkably tender and romantic,” Catherine drawled. “Yes, it so happens your comte is still among the living. You have me to thank for that.”
“You! It was you who lured him to Paris.”
“Regrettably, his arrival was a bit more untimely than yours. He entered the city in the midst of our, er, St. Bartholomew’s Eve celebration. Knowing that he was of little use to me dead, I did try to employ the power of the ring to persuade him to come straight to the palace.” Catherine shrugged. �
�Either he had finally grown wise to my tricks or he decided it would be more amusing to try to save Huguenots.”
“The comte is not the sort of man to stand idly by while innocents are being slaughtered,” Ariane said proudly.
“The more fool he for risking his life by meddling in what does not concern him. His late grandfather would certainly never have done so. All in all, your Renard made a great nuisance of himself. Luckily, I had sent out a contingent of the Swiss Guard to arrest him. The comte strenuously objected to taking up residence in the Bastille. I am afraid you will find him in rather poor condition.”
Ariane was hard-pressed to contain herself as Catherine continued, “Monsieur Le Vis is most eager to minister to him and I’m told the Bastille has a remarkable range of torture instruments.”
Ariane blanched. “You—you have turned Renard over to the clutches of that madman?”
“Not yet I haven’t. At the moment he is comfortably lodged in one of the towers as befitting a man of his rank. But there are less pleasant quarters in the Bastille, dank underground dungeons that have never seen the light of day. Oubliettes where you can toss a man and completely forget about him until he runs mad or starves to death. Your lover’s fate rests entirely in your hands, Ariane. Have you brought the articles I asked for?”
Ariane fumbled with the pouch tied at her belt, her fingers feeling clumsy and wooden. “What you seek is right here.”
She held up the purse, not quite able to control the tremor in her hand. But when Catherine reached for it, Ariane drew it back.
“No. Not until you give me the warrant for Renard’s release.”
Catherine clucked her tongue. “My dear Ariane. I am sensing a marked lack of trust here.”
Still smirking, Catherine drifted across the chamber and settled herself behind a large ornate desk. She reached for parchment, ink, and quill and began to write. Ariane had to check her urge to pace nervously back and forth. She found it hard to believe she could obtain Renard’s release this easily.
As she watched the queen writing out the warrant, Ariane experienced a rush of anger that this woman could look so calm and unruffled after all she had done. Not one sign of regret for her use of the witch-hunters, for her attacks upon the daughters of a woman she persisted in calling her friend. No remorse at all for all those slain men, women, and children heaped like refuse upon the banks of the Seine.
“How could you do it?” Ariane demanded.
The queen looked up from her writing. “Do what?”
“Slaughter all those innocent people.”
“They were not all that innocent. I was merely trying to bring a definite end to the civil war that has been plaguing this country.”
“By murdering women and children?” Ariane cried.
“The unfortunate consequence of war, my dear. It was nothing I could help.”
“Nothing you could help? You induced this madness, you released a miasma.”
Catherine suspended the quill over the page in mid-stroke, a crack appearing in her icy composure. “You—you know about that? Then Louise Lavalle reached you when she escaped?”
“Louise escaped?” Ariane regarded Catherine accusingly. “You wrote to us that she was dead.”
Catherine scowled, clearly nettled that she had parted with a piece of information she would just as soon have Ariane not know. “Both Louise and Madame Pechard should have been strangled and sunk quietly to the bottom of the Seine. But at the last moment Louise was able to exercise her charms upon the guard and procure escape for Hermoine and herself.”
Catherine added dryly. “Never underestimate another witch merely because she has freckles.”
Ariane clasped her hands together, unable to contain her joy at the news. She had blamed herself for using Louise and Madame Pechard, allowing them to risk their lives. It was a great relief and comfort to her to learn that they had escaped.
Catherine paused once more in her writing. “But if Louise did not tell you about my miasma, then who did?”
Ariane lowered her lashes to conceal her thoughts. She had no wish to reveal to Catherine Miri’s capacity for prophetic dreams. Somehow it would feel as though she were rendering her little sister more vulnerable to the Dark Queen. Also it might give Ariane a decided advantage if she were able to mystify Catherine.
She had never been a particularly good liar or actress, but Ariane took a sweeping turn about the room, assuming a haughty stance. “I know more about you than you think, Your Grace. After all, I am the Lady of Faire Isle. I have more power than you could imagine.”
Catherine made a sound perilously close to a snort. Ignoring the derisive sound, Ariane continued, “For instance, I know all about what went on at your secret council meeting. How you drove your poor son to madness. How you dropped the vial out the window. You should not presume to practice the dark arts if you’re going to be that careless.”
Catherine’s jaw dropped, her expression hovering between disbelief and unease. “How could you possibly . . .” She checked herself, seeking to recover her composure.
“My brew may have helped things along a little, but if you think men require much prompting to behave like beasts, then you know little of their nature. I wonder if my little concoction was even necessary. Bring a tribe of Huguenots into the heart of Catholic Paris, throw together those who have been bitter enemies, and the situation was already ripe for bloodshed.”
“Which you could have prevented. You could have used your gifts and abilities to heal this terrible breach, not urge men on to death and destruction.”
A hint of color flamed in Catherine’s cheeks. “Don’t presume to lecture me, impertinent girl. You know nothing of what it takes to govern a country, to survive amidst so much treachery and intrigue. You with your quiet, sheltered life on your island.
“I have danced on the blade of a knife for most of my life, from the time I was a child and revolutionaries swept through my own country. I was taken prisoner and would have perished then if I had not swiftly learned how to manipulate and control others. Employ any means necessary to survive, even the dark arts you so despise. Why by the time I was fifteen—”
Catherine checked her passionate outburst, settling her icy mask back into place. Compressing her lips, she affixed the royal seal. Rising to her feet, she extended the parchment toward Ariane.
“Here,” she said curtly. “Now give me those tiresome gloves.”
When Ariane surrendered the pouch, Catherine all but snatched it from her. Ariane perused the document to make sure it was in order, all the while keeping a wary eye on Catherine as she inspected the contents of the pouch, waiting for the explosion of wrath she feared was coming.
Catherine did not lose her temper. But her jaw tightened. “There is only one glove here.”
“Yes,” Ariane replied with as much calm as she could muster. “I left the other one in the care of some friends here in Paris. I shall send the second glove to you once Renard and I are safely out the city gates.”
“Do not trifle with me, Ariane.” Catherine reached across the table and yanked the warrant away from her. “Because of my affection for your late mother, I have borne far too much of your insolent interference in my affairs. What makes you think I will permit either you or your noble lover to leave the city?”
“Because if you try to stop me, I will make sure the other glove disappears and you will never know when or where it will turn back up to haunt you.”
“Bah,” Catherine sneered. “Those gloves are not of that much consequence. If you had found a way to prove they were poisoned and bring an accusation against me, you would have already done so.”
“But I can prove they are poisoned. All I have to do is slip one on.”
“You would also end up dead.”
“Not if I have the antidote,” Ariane countered.
“And since when did you become such an expert in the dark arts?” Catherine demanded scornfully. “I am sure my dear virtuous Evangeline
never taught you.”
“No, but there was once another witch as well versed in the dark arts as you. Melusine.”
Even Catherine flinched at the name. “But how would you have acquired anything from her? Melusine is long since—”
Catherine broke off and stalked around the desk, coming closer. She probed Ariane’s eyes before she could look away.
“God’s blood,” she muttered. “Renard . . . he is Melusine’s grandson?” Catherine gave a mirthless bark of laughter. “The Lady of Faire Isle has given her heart to the offspring of a notorious witch? Evangeline must be tossing in her grave.”
“I am sure Maman would be far too wise to hold Renard accountable for the sins of his grandmother,” Ariane retorted. “Any more than your unfortunate children should be blamed for yours.”
Catherine’s smile faded. “This is all bluster and nonsense. I don’t know why I have even been so afraid of what these gloves could prove. No one would believe—”
“Oh, yes, I am afraid the people of France would be all too eager to believe anything of you, especially after St. Bartholomew’s Day. Many Catholics are going to be horrified by what you have done and as for all those noblemen who supported you in this bloody deed, they would be only too eager to turn on you and bring you down.”
Catherine pursed her lips in a stubborn line. “I am the Dowager Queen of France.”
“Other queens have met with destruction. Have you forgotten that Anne Boleyn was charged with witchcraft as well as adultery before she was beheaded?”
A ripple of unease crossed Catherine’s features. “That was England and she was a commoner, not of a royal house.”
“Neither are you. You are little more than an Italian merchant’s daughter.”
Catherine’s brows snapped ominously together and Ariane feared she had gone too far. The Dark Queen advanced upon her.
The Dark Queen Page 46
