Twilight of a Queen

by Susan Carroll

  Jane settled beside Meg on the bench. “There is nothing childish about being distressed by nightmares, Meg. I still suffer them, too.”

  Meg angled a wary glance up at her. “What do you dream about?”

  That I am still locked in my cell in the Tower, shaking with cold, listening to the rats rustling through the straw. That Ned breaks down the door to rescue me, my brother clad in a bright crimson doublet. It is only as Ned draws nearer that I realize, it is his own blood that dyes the fabric, streaming from the gash in his throat.

  But it was unthinkable that Jane should relate such horrors to a child who suffered enough from her own.

  Jane pasted on a brittle smile. “Oh, sometimes I dream that I am back at court and have forgotten to dress myself. I make my curtsy to the queen clad only in my shift.”

  “No, you don’t.” Meg stared, holding Jane’s gaze captive with a look that was far from childlike.

  The lantern at Meg’s feet cast an eerie glow over the angular blade of the girl’s cheekbones and white skin. Her eyes were wide, black in their intensity, and Jane could feel Meg pushing at the locked corridors of her mind.

  “You dream you are still a prisoner. You dream about your brother’s murder.”

  Jane opened her mouth to reply, but no sound came. In that moment she understood why even here on this island, some of the women feared this girl and called her Megaera, the dreaded Silver Rose.

  Jane averted her gaze, edging away from her.

  “Jane, I—I am sorry.” Meg faltered. The deep ringing tones of her accusation dwindled to a voice that was small and contrite. “I didn’t mean to read your eyes. I try to keep out of other people’s heads, but sometimes I cannot seem to help myself.”

  Meg seemed to shrink, no trace of the formidable Megaera remaining, only a troubled young girl. She buried her face in her hands. “Oh, how you must hate me.”

  “Sweetheart, why ever would you think such a thing?”

  “You know. For what happened to you. Your arrest, your imprisonment in the Tower. It was all my fault—”

  “Oh, hush, Meg. We have been through this many times before. When I sought out Father Ballard, I had no idea he was part of a conspiracy to assassinate Queen Elizabeth, but I knew I was breaking the law by smuggling a priest into my household to celebrate the mass. My arrest was entirely my own fault.”

  “You weren’t just charged with treason. You were accused of witchcraft because of me. The queen thought you were the Silver Rose.”

  “That was the doing of Sir Francis Walsingham, spinning his tissue of lies,” Jane reminded her, although she could scarce speak the name of Elizabeth’s spymaster without loathing. But honesty compelled her to admit, “It was also partly owing to my brother’s reckless meddling with alchemy. When Sir Francis discovered the secret workshop that Ned kept in our home, he had enough proof to condemn me to the stake seven times over.”

  Jane placed her hand over Meg’s. “Which is exactly what would have happened but for you. You came forward and told Elizabeth the truth. I owe you my life.”

  “No, you owe it to her. It was Her Majesty that pardoned you in all her wisdom and graciousness.”

  Jane had her own opinion of the queen’s graciousness, but she kept it to herself. Meg had developed an attitude of heroic worship for England’s queen and could see none of Elizabeth’s flaws.

  “My release was still the result of your courage. It was astonishingly brave of you to confront Elizabeth. Things could have gone very differently for both of us if the queen had been in one of her less forgiving moods. You have no idea, Margaret, what a truly extraordinary, amazing girl you—”

  “Please don’t say that.” Meg tugged her hand away, the girl’s eyes filling with distress. “It is the kind of thing the witches in the coven of the Silver Rose were wont to say about me. My mother obliged them all to worship me as though I was some kind of idol. I fear Maman was quite insane.”

  Jane had heard things about the late Cassandra Lascelles that gave her cause to shudder and be glad she had never crossed paths with the woman. But she replied tactfully, “I never met your mother, so I cannot presume to pass judgment upon her.”

  “You would not because you are always so kind, but you may take my word for it. My mother was an evil, demented woman. She was obsessed with this prophecy that she would give birth to a powerful sorceress who would conquer the world with her dark magic. I was a great disappointment to her because the mere thought of becoming such a creature gave me nightmares.”

  What a dreadful legacy to have left this poor child, Jane thought, as Meg wrapped her arms about herself, her face so pale that her freckles stood out stark against her skin, making her appear so young.

  If my daughter had lived, she would not have been much older than Meg is now.

  The thought caught Jane by surprise. She seldom allowed herself to reflect upon the babe she had lost many years ago. She had been so young herself and unwed, the loss had seemed a blessing, a relief.

  Only of late had she begun to recall that stillborn girl with an ache of grief and unbearable yearning that now caused her to fold Meg into her arms. The girl stiffened for a moment before melting against Jane.

  Jane rested her chin atop Meg’s head, murmuring into the girl’s hair, “So is that what you were dreaming about tonight? Your mother and her prophecy?”

  “No.”

  Meg was quiet for so long that Jane feared that was all she would say. But at last the girl confided, “I—I dreamed Sander was alive and betraying me to the Dark Queen, telling her that I retain the Book of Shadows. Like any nightmare, it was all nonsense. I would be quite foolish to allow it to distress me.”

  Meg tried to sound dismissive, but Jane heard the quaver in her voice.

  “Not foolish, my dear.” Jane smoothed her hand through Meg’s hair. “Alexander Naismith did abuse your trust and friendship most cruelly. But both he and that terrible book were destroyed in the fire.”

  “I know.”

  “As for the Dark Queen,” Jane continued. “You need have no more fear of her. You are well protected here on Faire Isle. The Lady is being most vigilant. Her brother-in-law Simon Aristide regularly steals into Paris to gather reports. The queen’s health is failing. She is barely able to retain power over her own son, the king—”

  “I know. In my head, I know all that. But here—” Meg drew away from Jane and struck her fist over the region of her heart. “I am still so afraid. You think me brave, Jane, but I am not. I am such a coward that I wish my papa were still here, although it is quite wrong of me.”

  “It is not wrong at all. It is perfectly natural you should long for your father’s protection.”

  “But Papa would never have left if he had thought I was in any danger and it is not as if I am a little girl anymore.” Despite her stout words, a wistful expression stole over Meg’s face. “I knew when we first came to this island, that Faire Isle was too tame a place to long hold a spirit as adventurous and bold as that of Martin le Loup.”

  “But surely your stepmother might have remained—”

  Meg shook her head. “Catriona O’Hanlon is a warrior too. Besides, my papa tends to be rash and impulsive at times. It relieves my mind to think that Cat is there to keep him out of trouble.”

  Perhaps that was true, but Jane still could not help reflecting that Meg’s welfare should have been of first importance to both Martin Wolfe and his new bride.

  Meg drew farther away from Jane. Whether she read Jane’s thoughts or merely guessed at them, Jane could not tell. She was aware that at times her face could be far too transparent.

  “Neither my father nor Cat would have gone to Nerac if it had not been a matter of the greatest importance,” Meg said. “The duc de Guise and his army are bent on destroying all of Navarre, killing every last Huguenot, including the Remys. Not only is Gabrielle Remy Ariane’s sister, but her husband is my father’s oldest and closest friend. Of course Papa would wish to go and fi
ght by Nicolas Remy’s side, help him to defend his home.

  “As a Catholic, I cannot expect you to understand.” Meg bit down upon her lip and cast Jane a pleading look. “But surely you would not wish any harm to come to the Remys even if they are not of your faith?”

  “Of course not, child. Not to Gabrielle and Nicolas Remy or anyone.” Jane said. “I detest the very thought of war, all this senseless destruction masked under a cloak of piety, so much innocent blood spilled. It—it is like a wound to the earth itself.”

  A slow smile spread across Meg’s face, the impish expression transforming the girl’s somber features.

  “Why, Jane, you are starting to sound more like a daughter of the earth every day.”

  “Am I?” The notion rendered Jane uneasy, but she laughed. “I think I sound more like a foolish woman who has kept you out here talking too long.”

  Meg’s lantern had burned itself out during their conversation, but it scarce mattered for the sky had lightened to a pearly shade of gray.

  Jane rose, flexing her stiff shoulders. “It is nearly dawn and the housemaids will be stirring, but perhaps you will still be able to get a little sleep.”

  She extended her hand and tugged Meg to her feet. “Otherwise you will be too drowsy to absorb Ariane’s lessons in distilling herbs, knowledge that will be important to you if you are to become the next Lady of Faire Isle.”

  “That is by no means certain,” Meg said, falling into step beside Jane as they retraced their steps along the path.

  “But as I understand it, it is tradition for the Lady to name and train her own successor. And Ariane has no daughter.”

  “Yes, but she has her niece, Seraphine. There is also Carole Moreau, who has been learning much from Ariane.”

  “Seraphine is too headstrong and Carole not nearly as clever.”

  “But she is of the island. She has grown up here, but as for me—” Meg hung her head. “While everyone in Faire Isle has been kind enough, I sense them studying me, watching for any sign that I might become Megaera, my mother’s evil daughter.”

  Jane wished she could have offered Meg some kind of reassurance, but even she was aware that was true.

  “Sometimes I wish I could have stayed hidden in England,” Meg continued. “Life was so much simpler when I was able to be plain Margaret Wolfe, no one fearing or expecting anything of me. I—I miss my English days, although I am sure not as much as you do.”

  She halted, glancing almost shyly up at Jane. “It is very selfish of me, but I have been glad of your company. Although I realize I must lose you. You had a letter from Paris today. I—I suppose you will be going soon?”

  “No, my cousin finds herself entirely unable to receive me.”

  “Oh!”

  Meg’s expression of delight appeared to escape her involuntarily. She colored, looking chagrined. “That is—I mean, oh, that is too bad. I am sorry if you are disappointed.

  “But I do so value your friendship. Next spring, Ariane intends to hold a council of the daughters of the earth. It is then that she will announce who the next Lady will be. I—I will be so nervous. It would be such a comfort if you were still here with me.”

  Jane stared at the girl, both surprised and touched. She had felt so lost, so discarded, so useless this past year. To discover that there was someone who needed her made her cousin’s rejection seem of less importance.

  “I’ll be here, Meg,” she said with a tremulous smile. “I believe I can safely promise you that.”

  Meg beamed and gave Jane a swift hug. But as she pulled back, the lines of the girl’s face set into Meg’s familiar somber expression.

  “Can you promise me something else? That you will never ever wander off alone again as you did tonight?”

  “I don’t make a habit of it, but Belle Haven is such a peaceful place and even the paths through the woods are well worn and safe—”

  “For others, maybe, but I don’t think they are for you.”

  When Jane regarded her in puzzlement, Meg shifted her feet, looking uncomfortable. “I have been consulting my scrying ball again.”

  Jane’s breath hitched. “Oh, Meg, you shouldn’t have. Even Ariane does not approve of you meddling with such disturbing magic. I thought you were going to get rid of your crystal.”

  “I have been meaning to. I use it very infrequently because some of my visions—” Meg broke off, that unsettling expression passing through her eyes again. She appeared to give herself a mental shake. “But the last time I consulted my glass, my vision was all about you.”

  “Me?” Jane took an uneasy step back from her.

  “The vision was not as clear as some others I have had, but you were lost in a jungle and being preyed upon by a large ferocious black cat.”

  Jane found Meg’s conjuring with her crystal every bit as alarming as the girl’s ability to force her way into Jane’s mind. But Meg looked so worried, Jane attempted to smile and make light of it.

  “There is no jungle on Faire Isle and the only black cat I have seen is the kitten in the barn, although it is rather a feisty little thing. When I attempted to pick it up, it hissed and scratched. But I thought we had made our peace when I offered it a saucer of milk.”

  Her words evoked no answering smile from Meg. “My visions don’t always make a great deal of sense. Just tell me you will be careful. Promise me!”

  “Very well, I—I promise.”

  Meg appeared relieved, the tense set of her shoulders relaxing as she headed toward the house. As Jane followed her, her own mind was far less quiet. She could not help noting that Meg had avoided any pledge to dispose of her scrying ball.

  But even more disturbing was the thought: No matter how inexplicable Meg’s visions, they had a strange way of coming true.

  Chapter Four

  Spring, 1588

  THE SHIP CUT THROUGH THE MORNING MIST, APPEARING AS suddenly as though it had sprung from the depths of the sea itself. The sails billowed ghostlike against the pearly gray sky as the Miribelle bore down upon the Spanish merchant vessel.

  No alarm was raised upon the San Felipe at first sight of the Miribelle. The holy cross of Spain fluttered from the mast. Only when the pennant disappeared and the Miribelle sailed under no flag at all, did fear spread through the Spaniards.

  One seaman, more sharp-eyed than the rest, spied the carved figure adorning the prow, a snarling jungle cat ready to pounce.

  “Aiee! Corsairs! The Jaguar!” the seaman shrieked. Fear escalated into panic, the crew of the San Felipe diving for weapons and scrambling to load the cannons.

  Aboard the Miribelle, Xavier swore at the freckle-faced lad who in his eagerness had lowered the pennant too soon. The Miribelle was not yet in range to discharge the culverins to any effect.

  Dominique shrank from the captain’s fierce bellow, but there was more exasperation than anger in Xavier’s voice. Despite the frantic activity aboard the San Felipe, there was no way the vessel would escape. The Miribelle might be older and less seaworthy, but she was lighter and faster than the Spanish ship, which rode low in the water, pregnant with the promise of a rich cargo.

  Fists planted on his hips, Xavier regarded the narrowing distance with grim satisfaction. All around him, the Miribelle was a hive of activity. His crew might be a collection of strays gathered from the gaols, alehouses, and wharves of a dozen different ports, but Xavier knew he could count on his men to pull together with the precision of the best trained naval ship.

  Sea dogs readied grappling hooks, loaded muskets, and prepared the cannons, grizzled faces flushed with anticipation of the fight to come. Only Xavier did not stir, waiting … waiting for just the right moment to open fire. He was annoyed when his concentration was broken by a tug at his sleeve.

  Scowling, he glanced down at the fresh-faced young man at his side. Another of his strays, but one Xavier could have done without, especially at a moment like this. Father Bernard was one of those missionaries who had ventured to Brazil wi
th grand notions of saving the souls of the natives.

  Xavier had been obliged to rescue the priest from a tribe of Indians who were less than enthusiastic about being baptized into the Catholic faith. But the earnest priest had proved such a nuisance, there were times Xavier wished he had let the Tupi have him.

  “Captain, I must protest,” Father Bernard said. “I thought you meant to forsake these—these military engagements and pursue a different course, one of exploration and enlightenment.”

  “So I did until the French queen enlightened me by the paltry size of her purse. Besides, I don’t consider this a military engagement, merely a commercial transaction.”

  “It is an act of war, my son, and France is at peace with Spain.”

  “Perhaps back in the civilized courts of Europe. But you have sailed with me long enough to know that beyond the latitude that marks the borders of the New World, there is only one law. No peace beyond the line. Now you will oblige me by returning below.”

  Xavier added in an irritated afterthought, “And I am not your son.”

  He strode away, roaring out the command to fire. The Miribelle shook as the cannons discharged the first salvo. The San Felipe issued a thunderous response, neither ship causing any damage, all smoke and noise. Cannons were not as effective on the open sea as they would have been if Xavier had been able to corner the Spanish vessel in a cove.

  Clapping his hands over his ears, Father Bernard trailed after Xavier. “Your men are such fierce fighters and you outnumber those Spanish merchants. This will be murder.”

  “Not if they can be persuaded to be reasonable.”

  “And will all your crew remain likewise?”

  The priest gestured anxiously in the direction of Pietro. Stripped to the waist, his dark cheeks streaked with paint, the tall Cimmarone armed himself with both a pistol and a cutlass. The fierce expression on Pietro’s usually gentle face gave even Xavier pause.