Staring at his physique, Catherine noticed a detail that had escaped her before. His broad back was latticed with long white scars. Someone had made a vigorous attempt to break him beneath the lash. Studying the hard angle of Xavier’s jaw, the hint of arrogance that played about his mouth, Catherine doubted that they had succeeded.
He rubbed his eyes with his fingertips. “Forgive me, Your Grace. The trance is very taxing. I cannot maintain it for long.”
“That is quite all right. This session proved most productive.”
“Truly? I cannot always remember all that takes place when in my hypnotic state. My head feels as fogged as the city.”
He gestured toward the clouded world below. “The blasted mist still has not dissipated. Everyone is saying this thick a fog is most unnatural.”
“No doubt they all accuse me of conjuring it.”
“Did you?”
Catherine arched her brow. Many whispered about her suspected knowledge of the dark arts, but few ever dared to tax her with it. Xavier’s boldness surprised a bark of laughter from Catherine. She gave his arm a playful slap.
“You overestimate my powers, Captain Xavier. I am pleased to discover that I have not overestimated yours.”
“And I am pleased that Your Majesty found me of use.”
“I hope to put you to greater use still,” she murmured, her hand lingering on his firm warm skin.
He smiled, but moved away from her, retrieving his discarded shirt. As he shrugged into it, Catherine’s fingers twitched with an urge to help him smooth the linen folds over that powerful body. She curled her fingers at her side to stay the strange impulse, wondering what the devil had come over her.
As Xavier did up the laces on his shirt, he apologized, “I am glad you find me useful, but I could not attempt another of these sessions that soon.”
“It is not only your second sight that interests me, but your skills as a sea captain. I want you to undertake a voyage for me.”
His face lit up. “Above all things it is what I wish to do. Give me a small fleet of ships. Three or two, even one stalwart vessel would do. I would sail to the far corners of the earth, bring back such riches—”
She checked his eager outburst. “I have a much closer destination in mind. Are you familiar with the Faire Isle?”
The light in his face dimmed. He replied warily, “I have heard of the place. Just off the coast of Brittany, isn’t it? The island of the witches.”
“Only the ignorant call it so. True, the island is inhabited mostly by women. It is governed by one in particular. Ariane Deauville, known as the Lady of Faire Isle. She is extremely gifted in the arts of healing.”
“If you are interested in healing arts, you could learn far more from the shamans in Brazil. You have already experienced a sample of that. The chacruna bark elixir I gave you appears to have done you much good.”
The brew had done much to ease her pain, invigorated her enough to make the difficult climb to the top of the tower. But Catherine’s joints had already begun to throb, making her dread the trek back down.
“Sadly, the effects of your elixir are only temporary. I am looking for something more permanent.”
“Like a Fountain of Youth? The Arawak tribe claims that there is such a thing in the land the Spanish call La Florida. A miraculous spring that could restore anyone who bathes in the waters to the full bloom of youth. I could—”
“—waste years hunting for such a thing,” Catherine interrupted. Years she did not have. “I have no wish to send you in search of a myth.”
“Then exactly what does Your Grace want?”
“The girl who calls herself Megaera. Despite her youth, she is reputed to be a powerful sorceress, possessing ancient knowledge, perhaps of the mystery of life itself.”
“And this girl strikes you as being less of a myth than the Fountain of Youth?” Xavier scoffed.
“I have already seen evidence of her power. She knows how to grow deadly roses, how to fashion a knife with a blade so needle-thin, it can deliver poison direct into a man’s veins.”
“This girl sounds more like the bringer of death than life.”
“Nonetheless, I want to see her, test the extent of her knowledge for myself. From what you said in your trance, I believe she now dwells on Faire Isle.”
“Then invite her to come to your court.”
“She is unlikely to accept such an invitation,” Catherine said. “In the past, there has been some … unpleasantness between us.”
Such as when I sent an assassin to kill her.
Catherine swept such thoughts beneath a bland smile. “That is why I want you to go to Faire Isle to fetch her. The women of the island are wary of strangers, but ships frequently dock there to trade. The presence of a sea captain such as yourself would not be considered remarkable.
“You could find Megaera and persuade her to come to Paris. If any man is capable of exerting enough charm, I am sure it would be you.”
“And if the girl won’t be charmed?”
“Then I am confident you are clever enough to find some other way to bring the girl to me.”
“What if I am disinclined to employ my cleverness upon such a mission?” Xavier asked.
“You have entertained me greatly with your visits, all the stirring tales of your voyages. I am also greatly impressed with your abilities as a seer.” Catherine sighed. “But alas, there are those in Paris who do not hold you in such high esteem, one in particular.
“The Spanish ambassador has waited upon me. He has been regaling me with stories about a certain French corsair known as the Jaguar. Perhaps you might have heard of him.”
Xavier’s lips twitched with the hint of a smile, but he replied blandly, “No, I cannot say that I have.”
“Apparently, this corsair has gained rather a sinister reputation for preying upon Spanish and Portuguese merchants. He possesses such uncanny foresight, he always seems to know just where and when to strike. The Spanish are convinced he must be employing sorcery.”
Catherine studied Xavier carefully for any sign of tension or alarm. He merely looked amused.
“And the Spanish ambassador suspects me of being this Jaguar? His Eminence struck me as such a drab dour man. Who would ever have imagined he had such a colorful imagination?” Xavier grinned. “So do the Spanish want this Jaguar hanged for piracy or burned at the stake?”
“Preferably both. That is why I should be extremely reluctant to allow you to be questioned by His Eminence, but you may leave me no other choice.” Catherine spread her hands in a deprecating gesture.
Xavier’s smile fled. “In other words, if I don’t go to Faire Isle and abduct this girl for you, you are threatening to hand me over to the Inquisition.”
Catherine frowned. If Xavier had one fault, it was that he lacked the finesse of a courtier. He could at times be disconcertingly blunt.
“I would not express myself quite so crudely, but yes. That is the proposal before you.”
Something dark and dangerous flashed over his features. Catherine took an involuntary step back, recalling the vulnerability of her position, alone here with Xavier and his savage companion, her guards at the base of the tower not even within shouting distance.
The native appeared to understand little French, but the tension in Xavier’s stance must have alerted him that something was wrong. The dark-skinned man drew himself up to his full height, his tattoos rendering him even more menacing. One word from Xavier …
But Catherine remained calm. Even if she had angered Xavier with her threat, he would not be foolish enough to harm the Dowager Queen of France. Knowing Xavier, the man would always be aware of his own best interests and act accordingly.
Ah, but then how well did she truly know Xavier? How far could she trust him? He folded his arms across his chest, his countenance inscrutable.
Catherine had once been adept at the ancient wise woman’s art of reading eyes. She had been able to penetrate beneath the
masks that men wore, perusing their thoughts and sifting through their memories as easily as she would have read a book.
That ability had become lost to her as her eyesight had dimmed. But even if she was still possessed of her skill, it would not have helped her with Xavier. She suspected the man was as good at guarding his secrets as she was hers.
She adopted a more conciliatory tone. “I have no wish to see you hanged for a common pirate, monsieur. I believe you are destined for far greater things. Just find Megaera. Bring her to me and then I will outfit you with as many ships as you could desire.”
He said nothing for a long moment, and then he smiled, and took her hand.
“I am as ever Your Grace’s obedient servant.” He kissed her hand, the gesture courtly for such a rough, unpolished man. In that moment, he reminded her of someone. But who?
The memory tugged at Catherine before drifting away, as frustratingly elusive as the mist.
Chapter Two
THE FOG HAD FINALLY DISPERSED, BUT XAVIER DID NOT consider it an improvement. He stared out at refuse-filled streets and narrow, close-packed buildings. Not for the first time these past months, he longed for the tang of salt air filling his lungs and the vast swells of the open sea.
His cabin aboard the Miribelle was much smaller than this inn chamber, yet he had never felt as confined as he did here with dingy gray walls closing in on him. The room felt heavier this afternoon, burdened with the weight of his companion’s disapproval.
Pietro hunched his tall frame over the washstand, scrubbing the painted tattoos from a face that reflected both the proud bloodline of African warriors and the Indians of Panama. He plucked the last of the feathers from his braids and scowled at Xavier. He spoke in a deep cultivated voice, his command of the French language as flawless as his Spanish.
“You are playing a dangerous game, Captain.”
“Am I? Well, it does not appear as though I am winning.” Xavier glanced dourly at the object he had tossed upon the bed, the small purse he had received from the queen.
“Besides, you are in no position to lecture me,” he added. “You have been gambling right along with me.”
“Only to make sure that devil woman does not put a curse on you.”
Pietro toweled off his face, his broad forehead knit into worried lines. “Unless you succeed in cursing yourself. The macumbu is powerful magic, meant for healing and enlightenment. Not this sort of trickery and deceit. The gods will frown upon this misuse of your powers.”
Xavier plunked down upon a wooden stool and stretched his feet closer to the fire that crackled on the hearth. “Ah, but we both know I have no powers, although my trance was almost a magical performance. I thought the rolling of the eyes was a particularly nice touch.”
“I hope you will not attempt it again. You cannot keep fooling this queen. She may be an old woman, but her mind is keen. She is a witch, that one.”
“So my mother always told me,” Xavier murmured. He stared into the fire, the flames blurring into a red-gold haze, his mind conjuring half-formed recollections from his childhood. The queen coming to visit their house in Paris and Xavier’s mother forcing him to hide in … the aumbry? Her wardrobe chest? Someplace narrow and dark.
“Don’t make a sound, petit, or the Dark Queen will get you.”
“But what about you, Maman?” Xavier had clapped his hand to the hilt of the wooden sword his father had given him. “Let me stay with you. I can protect you even if she is a witch.”
“No, no you can’t,” his mother had replied frantically. “She must never see you, never know that you exist. Bad enough the use that evil woman makes of me. Do you want her to turn you into a pawn as well?”
That threat had served to quiet him. At the age of five, he had taken his mother’s words quite literally. He had shivered and imagined the sorceress finding him. Casting a spell to make his arms melt into his sides, his legs shrivel and disappear, until he became no bigger than a carved wooden pawn trapped forever on the witch’s chessboard.
He’d often wondered since then if it had been his imagination spinning out of control or his mother’s. Had the Dark Queen really posed any danger or had his mother merely been desperate to find some way to induce a wild hellion of a boy to behave?
His mother’s fear of the queen had seemed genuine and yet there were times when Maman demonstrated a tendency to become a bit… overwrought.
Overwrought? Don’t you mean a bit mad?
Xavier’s fingers strayed to the scar at his throat. He was roused from his thoughts by a rap at the chamber door.
Xavier leaped to his feet, springing for his sword. Pietro did likewise, the queen’s warning about the Spanish ambassador still fresh in both their minds.
“Captain?” a gruff voice called out.
Pietro released a long breath and Xavier felt the taut set of his own shoulders relax. He sheathed his sword before unlatching the door to admit his first mate.
The little man waiting on the threshold could not have presented a more disreputable appearance, his beard grizzled, his skin leathered from salt and sun, his eyes cast in a permanent squint beneath thick gray brows.
Tough and sinewy, his movements were little hampered by the wooden leg that had earned him the sobriquet of Jambe du Bois. The motley assemblage of his garb was complimented by a colorful parrot that perched on his shoulder.
The bird emitted a loud squawk as Jambe stumped into the room and Xavier bolted the door behind him. As Pietro put up his own sword, he frowned and shook his head.
“Never say you have been marching all about the city with that thing on your shoulder. Are you mad, mon ami? You know how valuable those birds are over here. Do you want to end up bashed over the head and the creature stolen?”
Jambe snorted. “I’d just like to see any varlet try to take the Sea Beggar.”
“So would I. We would be well rid of the cursed nuisance.” Xavier swore and ducked as the parrot flapped past his head and settled on the window ledge.
Beggar cocked his head. Eyeing Xavier with his usual malevolence, he screeched at him, “Merde! Merde!”
Jambe beamed. “Just listen to the brilliant boy. I have been teaching him to swear in French. I plan to work on Spanish next.”
As if the blasted bird wasn’t obnoxious enough, without being tutored by Jambe’s awkward accent. The old man’s flat vowels betrayed his English origins every time he opened his mouth.
Pietro, more tolerant of Sea Beggar than Xavier, coaxed the parrot onto his arm while Jambe faced Xavier with a bright hopeful expression.
“So how’d it go today? Was the information I gave you useful?”
Despite his disappointment over his session with the queen, Xavier could not repress a slight smile. Jambe was like a magpie, gathering up gems of gossip in every port. Over tankards of ale in Plymouth, Jambe had encountered a seaman who had recently been imprisoned in the Marshalsea. One of his cellmates had been a man badly burned from a fire, feverish, ranting about dark queens and silver roses. From this source had come the extraordinary story of Queen Catherine’s search for the grimoire and the girl with the strange name.
When Jambe had related the tale to Xavier, he had been inclined to dismiss it as nonsense but had stowed the story away in his memory nonetheless. One never knew when even the ravings of a madman might prove useful.
“The information you gleaned helped convince the queen of my prophetic abilities,” Xavier said. “The story worked powerfully upon her, but not the way we had hoped. It blew up in my face like a badly loaded cannon.”
“What do you mean? Didn’t it convince the old witch to open her purse strings?”
Xavier gestured toward the bed. Spying the silken purse, Jambe rubbed his hands and pounced upon it gleefully. But as he shook the small cache of coins onto the mattress, his gap-toothed grin changed to a scowl.
“What the devil is this? There is barely enough coin here to patch up the Miribelle and purchase enough supplies
to sail the channel.”
“Unfortunately that is all that the queen wishes us to do.” Tersely Xavier related what had happened in the tower that afternoon.
“So the old witch wants you to go to Faire Isle in search of this girl.” Jambe let out a low whistle and glanced toward Pietro.
The tall black man stroked the parrot’s feathered head, ignoring Beggar’s playful nips at his finger. The two sailors exchanged a significant look that irritated Xavier although neither man spoke a word.
That was the trouble with men one had voyaged with for so long. They ended up knowing far too much of one’s past. Both Jambe and Pietro were well aware that the Faire Isle was the last place on earth Xavier wished to go.
Jambe cleared his throat and asked, “Er—so will you carry out the queen’s request?”
“No, I’ll be damned first!”
“The witch will not be happy if you defy her. She threatened to hand us over to the Spanish,” Pietro said. Despite the sailor’s imperturbable expression, Xavier saw the shade of fear in his eyes.
“That is never going to happen, my friend.”
“I know,” Pietro said quietly. “Because I will die before I ever allow the Spaniards to take me alive again.”
Xavier nodded. He felt exactly the same way, but Jambe grumbled, “There would not have to be all this noble talk of dying and we wouldn’t have had to come a-begging of any queen if we had not wasted that last cargo we took. A hold full of African slaves worth their weight in gold and you insisted upon putting them all ashore, just letting them go.”
“I had thought I had made myself clear on that score,” Xavier said. “I won’t make my fortune by trading in human lives.”
“But why not? The entire world does so. The Turks, the English, the Portuguese, the Spanish. Even the Africans themselves.” Jambe drew himself up into a self-righteous stance. “Slavery is even sanctioned in the Bible.”
Under other circumstances, Xavier might have been amused at an old reprobate like Jambe citing holy scripture.
Twilight of a Queen Page 2
