“No, I have something I want to give you.”
He started to assure her there was only one thing he desired, but when she continued to pull free, he reluctantly let her go. Gabrielle shook back her cascade of hair and stepped to the foot of the bed. She bent down and tugged open the heavy lid of the chest positioned there. Rummaging through the contents, she impatiently tossed aside linens, petticoats, and other garments.
Remy sat up, his curiosity aroused. “What the blazes are you looking for?”
“You’ll see.” She emerged from the trunk, lifting out a long object wrapped in velvet. Coming around the side of the bed, she tugged away the fabric to reveal a sword. Remy’s breath caught in his throat, but not so much at the weapon as Gabrielle herself. The light of the candle picked out the gold in her hair, cast a warm sheen over her creamy skin, rendered her eyes jewel-bright.
Poised with the hilt in her hands, the blade pointing downward, she was like a creature of legend, the sorceress who had risen from the mystical depths of the lake to present King Arthur with his sword. Except this was no Excalibur she brought him, the hilt as plain and unadorned as the length of naked steel. It was his old sword, the one he’d believed lost to him on St. Bartholomew’s Eve, the object of his desperate search in so many of his nightmares since then.
Gabrielle rested the heavy blade across her arm, presenting the hilt to him. He hesitated to reach for it, fearing the sword would be too full of dark memories of the last time he’d wielded it, the night of the massacre. But as his fingers closed over the worn hilt of the weapon, so familiar to him, down to every nick on the finger guard, he was seized by a far different memory, of the day he’d first acquired the sword.
He could not have been much more than ten years old. Although Remy had been tall for his age, his father had loomed over him. He had difficulty bringing up a clear recollection of Jean Remy’s rugged features and gray-flecked beard. But he well recalled his father’s hands, large, callused, and leathery, his knuckles a little gnarled from the number of times they had been broken.
“Think you are strong enough to handle a weapon like this, lad?”
“Oh, yes, sir,” Remy had replied, although he could feel the strain in his shoulder muscles as he’d hefted the blade.
“Take care of it. Treat this sword with respect, learn to use it well, and it will serve you. With the grace of God, may it always keep your enemies at a safe distance.” Jean Remy’s mouth had quirked in one of his rare smiles as he’d ruffled Remy’s hair.
His father had been a gruff man of few words, not the sort to bestow random words of praise and affection. But the day his father had given him that sword, Remy had felt the full force of Jean Remy’s love and pride in his only son.
“My old sword. You’ve kept it all this time?” Remy marveled. He shifted on the bed, holding the sword nearer to the candle so that he could inspect the weapon better. Gabrielle had obviously cared for it, keeping the blade finely honed and polished.
“What did you think I would do with your sword?” she demanded as she settled herself beside him on the bed. “Toss it into the Seine?”
“Considering the way I treated you when I returned to Paris, all the harsh things I said, I would hardly have blamed you.”
“I said and did a good many things myself that I regret.” She placed her hand over his atop the hilt. “For a long time, this sword was all I had left of you, Remy. No doubt you will laugh when I tell you this, but I felt as though your strength and courage had infused this weapon with a kind of magic. If I was ever lonely or frightened, wearing your sword made me feel safe and protected.”
Remy did not have the least inclination to laugh. Lowering the weapon to the floor beside the bed, he returned to gather Gabrielle up in his arms.
“I wish I did have that kind of magic, to keep you safe,” he said huskily. “But St. Bartholomew’s Eve taught me the futility of promising to protect someone forever.”
“No one can ever make such a pledge. It will be more than enough if you just promise to love me.”
“That I do swear. Now and until I die.” Remy sealed his vow with a kiss.
Gabrielle’s lips parted beneath his, tenderness giving rise to something more urgent with need. Remy tugged at the buttons of her dressing gown, laying it open. His hands delved beneath the parted fabric, exploring the enticing curves, the smooth warm skin laid bare to him. As he kissed her hungrily, he relished the sound of her sighs, her soft moans of pleasure. Gabrielle fumbled with the flap of his breeches, and they yanked and pulled, wrestled with garments until they were once more naked in each other’s arms.
Remy tried to be as gentle and patient as he’d been before, but Gabrielle would not allow it. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down on top of her, kissing and caressing. Remy rejoiced to see her grow bolder, as eager for him as he was for her. She opened herself to him, inviting him in, with a sultry smile and eyes hazy with desire, as passionate and undaunted a woman as nature had always meant her to be. Losing himself in her loving, Remy let her take him to a place where nothing else mattered. Not the pain of the past, nor the perils of the morrow.
The candle at the bedside burned out, leaving them in darkness except for the flare of light at the window where another distant burst of fireworks lit up the night sky.
The final skyrocket hissed skyward and erupted in a shower of sparks that elicited applause and gasps from the courtiers seated at the banquet tables beneath the trees. Many of the participants of the tourney were more than mellow from the wine served at the feast. Bursts of raucous laughter mingled with the sounds of delight evoked by the fireworks display.
Swallowed up by the darkness in her own apartments, Catherine hovered near the windows grimly observing the distant scene. The flare of the torches, the occasional shout or sound of rough voices, stirred in her an unpleasant memory. Of a night when she’d been scarce more than twelve years old, an orphaned heiress, the young Duchess of Florence, a city in rebellion against its de Medici rulers. The mob had surrounded the convent where she’d been sheltered, thundering at the gates.
“Give us the girl. Surrender the young witch. We want no more de Medicis lording over us. We’ll hang her from the city walls.”
“No! Give her to the soldiers to sport with first, then we’ll execute her.”
Even after so many years, Catherine shuddered at the memory of the obscene threats, the outpouring of hatred that had been directed at her. By some miracle, she had survived unscathed and the rebellion had eventually been put down. But that night had taught her that not even one’s high birth or noble name, or a convent’s holy walls could be counted upon for protection. One had to rely upon one’s own dark magic and wits.
But her wits felt unaccountably dulled this evening. Her mind still reeled from the realization that her son, the one she had always regarded with most affection, had turned on her, mounted what was tantamount to rebellion. Henry had actually had the impudence to smile at her after the initial uproar over the witch-hunters’ arrival.
“Was this not an excellent surprise, Maman? Are you not proud of me for taking such an initiative? Le Balafre and his men will certainly make any witch, no matter how powerful she might be, think twice before meddling with my kingdom.”
Catherine had been far too angry and alarmed to give him the sort of sharp answer he deserved. Instead she made a stiff curtsy and retreated to the palace. Dismissing her ladies, cowering in the darkness of her own apartments like some frightened rabbit gone to ground, she thought with a surge of self-contempt.
And why? All because of the arrival of this Le Balafre. She’d recognized him almost at once. This terrifying Monsieur Scarface was none other than that young person who had attended upon the grand master of witch-hunters, Vachel Le Vis. Simon something or other. That had been his name, and he’d seemed no more than an insignificant boy. But even then Catherine had glimpsed something in the lad’s eyes that had made her uneasy. Le Vis had been
a madman and a fool, easily tricked into serving Catherine’s purpose, never realizing he was serving a far greater witch than those she had sent him to find. Simon, however, had stared at Catherine as though he saw straight through her, recognized her for what she was. He seemed possessed of an intuition far beyond his years.
After Le Vis had outlived his usefulness, Catherine had disposed of him. She should have done the same with the lad, but she had allowed the boy to go free, a mistake for which she might now be about to pay dearly . . . perhaps with her life.
“Stop thinking like such a fool,” she admonished herself with disgust. When all was said and done, this Le Balafre was still no more than a pipsqueak boy the same as her own son.
She would crush him like that. Catherine gave a scornful snap of her fingers. But Simon was not as foolish as his former master had been. He had refused Henry’s offers to quarter him and his troop of witch-hunters here at the palace. She’d already learned that Le Balafre had commandeered the use of an inn, turning it into a miniature fortress. It would make getting at him more difficult, but not impossible.
All she had to do was wait and be patient, although she was not sure she had that luxury. She tried to convince herself that Henry was using these witch-hunters as a bluff, an attempt to intimidate her into retiring from her position of power behind his throne.
Her son would not dare allow these creatures to charge his own mother with witchcraft, would he? Even if he did, what evidence would there be? Except for that matter of the poisoned gloves, Catherine had always been most careful. She had never shared the secrets of her magic, not even with her own daughters, as other wise women did.
Very few knew of the hidden room behind her chapel where Catherine kept all her darkest secrets. She experienced an urge to clear out the chamber, destroy all potions and ancient parchments, but she quelled it, refusing to give way to panic. She was not a terrified girl of twelve, she reminded herself fiercely. She was the dowager queen of France. Yet she could not help recalling that that august title had not been enough to save another queen of not so distant memory.
The English queen, Anne Boleyn, had been brought to trial by her husband, Henry VIII. Among the charges of adultery and treason, there had also been included one of witchcraft. And Anne Boleyn, queen though she had been, had lost her head.
Catherine’s hand crept involuntarily toward her own throat and she trembled, momentarily giving way to her dark, secret fear. Death . . .
“Your Majesty?”
The voice sent her heart leaping into her throat. Catherine whirled around to confront the man who had dared creep into her presence unannounced. Enough moonlight filtered through the windows to enable her to make out Bartolomy Verducci’s skeletal frame.
“Verducci!” Catherine clutched her hand to the cross suspended over her bosom. Her fright gave way to fury. “Sirrah! What do you mean by coming upon me this way unbidden? Did I not leave orders I had no wish to be disturbed?”
The little man bowed deeply and backed away from her like a whipped cur. “P-pardon, Your Grace. I would not have bothered you had I not thought it important. There is someone who craves a private audience—”
“If it is that idiot Danton, I will not see him. I have already told him so. I have no use for those who fail me. Besides, the doings of Mademoiselle Cheney and her Scourge are the least of my worries at the moment.”
With a crisp snap of her skirts, Catherine rustled angrily back to the window. Verducci made no attempt to approach again, but his timid voice trailed after her. “It—it is not the Chevalier Danton who desires admittance into your presence, my liege—”
“I don’t care who it is. Send them away.”
“It is your emissary, Majesty. From—from Faire Isle.”
Catherine had started to rebuke him again, but clamped her mouth shut. Her emissary? How like Bartolomy to put the matter so discreetly. Her spy had arrived at last to make report on the Lady of Faire Isle and her council meeting. This could prove the most heartening tidings Catherine had had all day.
“Very well. Show the woman in, but light some of the candles first.”
As Bartolomy hastened to do so, Catherine drummed her fingers against the windowpane. As soon as she realized what she was doing, she checked the motion. It had never been her habit to give way to nervous gestures that revealed any weakness. By the time Bartolomy returned with her visitor, Catherine had composed herself.
Bartolomy stepped forward to present his companion, but Catherine cut him off.
“Leave us,” she commanded.
The scrawny little man bowed and slunk away, leaving Catherine alone with her spy. Bartolomy had lit several candles and left them burning atop Catherine’s escritoire. She beckoned to the woman to join her in the pool of light. Despite the fact that the night was warm, the woman was swathed in a long brown cloak, the hood drawn forward to hide her face. Catherine extended her fingers to be kissed as the woman knelt before her. But when she made no move to fling back her hood, Catherine withdrew her hand.
“It is not my habit to receive those who hide their eyes from me, madam,” the Dark Queen said coldly.
Reluctantly, the woman threw back her hood and revealed the pale pinched features of Hermoine Pechard. Catherine deigned to offer her hand again and Madame Pechard saluted it. The woman’s touch felt unpleasantly clammy and cold.
Catherine curled her fingers away in distaste. “Well, Madame Pechard. So you are come to Paris at last. I had all but given up on you, you have taken so long.”
“That—that is not my fault, Your Grace,” Hermoine whimpered, but Catherine silenced her with an imperious gesture.
She could not abide women who whined or squealed like frightened vermin. Such pitiful creatures ought to be sewn up in sacks and drowned, a fate that Catherine had once planned for Madame Pechard when she had caught the woman and the courtesan Louise Lavalle spying on her for the Lady of Faire Isle.
Catherine had little patience for other people’s spies, but if Hermoine proved of use to her now, Catherine would be glad the woman had been spared. If not . . . there were still plenty of sacks to be had. Realizing she might gain more information from the foolish woman if she did not terrify her out of what few wits she possessed, Catherine graciously bid her rise. She suppressed her irritation as Madame Pechard resumed making excuses for her delay in that annoying querulous tone.
“It is a long journey from Faire Isle. And I almost turned and fled straight back again. He is here.” Hermoine huddled her arms beneath her cloak and shivered. “Oh dear lord, he is right here in Paris. That evil man.”
“I thought you were hoping to be reunited with your husband,” Catherine said dryly.
“I am not talking about my Maurice,” Madame Pechard replied with an indignant squeak. “But that—that devil.” She darted a nervous glance about her, then lowered her voice to a whisper. “Le Balafre.”
“You know of this witch-hunter?”
“He was much discussed at the council meeting.”
“Tell me.”
To Catherine’s annoyance, Hermoine shrank back biting her pale, thin lips. Catherine would have liked to have seized her by her bony shoulders and pinned her to the wall, ruthlessly probing her eyes. Hermoine’s gaze darted every which way, like a terrified mouse hunting for a place to hide. Curbing her impatience, Catherine strove to put Hermoine at her ease, offering to send for a glass of wine, inviting her to be seated. But Madame Pechard refused all refreshment and eyed the proffered chair as though it was an iron maiden where Catherine proposed to torture her.
“Before I tell you anything more, you must understand. I have no wish to betray the Lady of Faire Isle. She was good to me when—when you had me arrested and then when I had to flee Paris.” Hermoine actually achieved a modicum of dignity as she said this, her voice holding a faint hint of reproach.
Catherine felt a flicker of grudging admiration. Not for Hermoine but for Ariane, that she could inspire loyalty and c
ourage even in this wretched excuse for a woman.
“My arresting you was all an unfortunate misunderstanding, as I explained in my letter when I approached you to work for me. It was all owing to Louise Lavalle, her wicked behavior, that implicated a virtuous woman such as yourself in her misdeeds.”
Catherine realized she could not have hit upon a more efficacious argument. Hermoine nodded, her lips tightening in self-righteous indignation.
“Mademoiselle Lavalle is indeed a wicked, licentious creature, just as so many of these young wise women are today. But the Lady of Faire Isle is possessed of great wisdom and virtue.”
“Of course Ariane is and I wish to be her friend as well,” Catherine said soothingly. “But until I can get her to trust me, I must rely on you for information, my dear Madame Pechard. I assure you I can be generous to those who serve me.”
The absurd creature clutched her hands together, her eyes filling with tears. “All I want is the return of my comfortable little house, my good name as the respectable wife of a doctor at the university. My life back as it was before I got involved with that wretched Lavalle woman and her schemes to spy on Your Grace.”
And what a small pathetic life it had been, of value to no one. Catherine could not imagine any woman wanting such an existence back, but she patted Hermoine’s hand.
“I will make sure everything is restored to you, my dear. Now tell me all about the council meeting and what was said of this man, Le Balafre.”
“Well, there was this mad red-haired wise woman come over from Ireland, Catriona O’Hanlon. Quite rude she was. She interrupted my turn to address the council to tell us about this Le Balafre and the missing book that brought him to France . . .”
Catherine fast realized that once one got the woman talking, it was all but impossible to shut her up. Hermoine waxed far more eloquent about her grievances with the behavior of the other women at the council than she did on the subject of Le Balafre. After the first ten minutes, Catherine scarcely paid attention. She had already heard all she needed to hear.
The Courtesan Page 36
