“There is no reason we could not revive the old custom, make it just like the old days.”
Miri smiled, but shook her head. “No, we couldn’t. Whether we wish it or not, things change. It is the way of life. Faire Isle is no longer my home.”
“Miri—”
“It is all right, Ariane. I have no regrets about the path I chose. I am quite content on my little farm on the mainland. I love my husband and he adores me. I have been blessed with a beautiful daughter and now another child on the way.”
“Miri! Oh, my dearest, you should not have traveled all this way.”
“I am fine. It is early days as yet. No physician or midwife could even detect the babe, not even a healer as skilled as you. But I know he is there.” Miri caressed her abdomen. “I can sense him, blooming into life beneath my heart.”
“Him?”
“Were you not able to sense that you were carrying a boy long before Leon was born? Speaking of my nephew, is that him?”
Ariane nodded proudly.
“And those must be Gabby’s youngest girls. Oh, how they have all grown.”
Ariane linked her arm about Miri’s waist as they strolled toward the children.
“I am so looking forward to becoming reacquainted with everyone,” Miri said. “But first you must tell me all about him.”
“Leon. Well, he—”
“No, I mean the stranger you are struggling to find a way to mention.”
Ariane froze, peering down at her sister. “I always thought you were better at reading animals’ eyes than humans’.”
“I still am. But I know you all too well, my protective older sister. And I have been barraged by a full measure of gossip ever since I landed on the island. The speculation has already spread as far as Port Corsair.”
Ariane grimaced. Of course. She should have guessed as much.
“Is he really so like Papa?” Miri asked.
“In appearance at least.”
“And what is his name?”
“Apparently that Maitland witch presumed to name him Louis Xavier Cheney, but he goes by Captain Xavier. Much more than that, I cannot tell you. He guards his thoughts well, but he all but flung his origins in my face. He is Marguerite de Maitland’s bastard.”
“And our father’s son.” An awed expression crept over Miri’s face. “So we have a brother, Ariane.”
Ariane frowned. This was not at all the reaction she had expected from her sister.
“You do realize what this means, Miri. Father’s affair went on longer than any of us ever dreamed, perhaps even Maman. If I were to guess at this Xavier’s age, I would wager that he is not much younger than you.”
Miri shrugged. “Is the duration of the liaison of that much consequence? It is all in the past now, Ariane. And Maman forgave Papa before she died. I thought you had, too.”
“Forgiving is one thing, but it is not as easy to forget. It will be even more difficult with this Xavier as a living reminder.”
“Might he not prove a blessing? As though part of our father had been returned to us.”
“He may look like Papa, but there the resemblance ends. Our father was charming, polished, every inch the gentleman. Xavier is rough-hewn and rough-tongued. He swears like—like a sailor.”
“Perhaps because that is what he is,” Miri replied with a smile. “If he voyaged with Papa to Brazil, think of the stories he can tell us, the questions he can answer about Papa’s final days. He is our brother, Ariane. Can we not give him a chance?”
“Half brother,” Ariane insisted, although her voice no longer carried the same conviction as before. Miri’s generous attitude made her feel a trifle ashamed. “I am not sure that Xavier wants any chances. He did not seem to be more pleased with making my acquaintance than I was his.”
“Well, if you had been wrenching my broken arm about and pouring vile draughts down my throat, I would not have been so delighted with you either.” Her sister replied so reasonably, Ariane was forced to laugh in spite of herself.
She gave Miri another hug. “Oh, Miri. It is so good to have you here.”
Miri beamed up at her, then immediately sobered. “I hope you will think so even though I bring more tidings to make you uneasy. As you know, Simon still has contacts in Paris. He has been attempting to keep an eye on Catherine as you requested.”
“Now what is that vile woman up to?”
“Nothing terribly sinister. At least I hope not. There were rumors that last autumn, Catherine was consulting a seer.”
“Bah.” Ariane gave a contemptuous shrug. “She always had an interest in astrology. Maman never set much store by such things.”
“This man may have been more than an astrologer. It is rumored that he was some sort of necromancer as well and he had Catherine completely enthralled.”
Ariane’s brows arched in surprise at the notion of the ruthless Dark Queen susceptible to anyone’s charms, least of all any man’s. “She must be losing her wits in her dotage.”
“Perhaps, but this mysterious magician has not been seen in many months. He just simply vanished.”
“People who get too close to the Dark Queen often do.”
“Simon worries that Catherine may have sent this man on some sort of mission.”
Ariane tensed, realizing what her sister was implying. “You think Catherine is still searching for Meg and the Book of Shadows?”
“I don’t know.” Miri frowned, looking as troubled as Ariane felt. “The coven of the Silver Rose did threaten Catherine’s throne. Unlike our Maman, the Dark Queen does not forgive or forget. Do you think it likely she has ever stopped thinking of Meg?”
“No, but I hoped her other problems with the duc de Guise would keep her preoccupied. I have assured Meg again and again that she is safe on Faire Isle. I hate to frighten the child.”
“There is no need to do so until Simon finds out more about this vanished wizard.”
Ariane nodded. The sun dipped lower on the horizon, spreading its golden light across the waves. The summer’s day that had begun with such fair promise appeared to be ending the same way. But to Ariane there might as well have been another storm brewing.
Chapter Nine
THE CAVALCADE MADE ITS WAY THROUGH THE STREETS, A contingent of guards leading a horse-drawn litter. Heavy curtains shielded the Dowager Queen from sullen eyes as she was borne from the Hôtel de la Reine to the Louvre. The air was thick with dark mutterings of resentment as Parisians scattered out of the way.
Inside the stifling litter, the hum of angry voices was as distant to Catherine as the drone of bees. Despite her best efforts, her head bobbed, her chin coming to rest upon her chest, her eyes drooping closed. Suddenly she was no longer a fat old woman, her aching bones being jarred by the bumping of the litter. She was gloriously young again.
Catherine tore across the hunting field, her spirited gelding’s legs throwing up clods of grass and turf. She leaned forward in the saddle, gripping the reins, feeling the glorious rush of wind through her hair, her heart swelling with pride, the consciousness of being the finest horsewoman in all of France. Surely the eyes of the entire court must be upon her.
Except that they were not. All gazes were trained upon her royal husband Henry cantering beside Diane de Poitiers, the Duchesse de Valentinois. Henry bent toward the dark-haired beauty, exchanging some private jest with his beloved mistress that caused Diane to throw back her head and laugh.
Catherine reined in, shouting, “No, Henry, turn away from her. Look at me!”
Her plea went unheard. She might as well have been invisible. The entire court buzzed about Diane as though she were the true queen of France.
But suddenly the arrogant woman’s smile fled. Clutching her throat, Diane tumbled from her horse, sprawling into the dirt where she belonged. Catherine watched with satisfaction as the duchess writhed with spasms, Catherine’s poison racing through her veins.
It would not be long now. Nothing and no one could save t
he haughty duchess. Catherine urged her mount forward, eager to observe the end. But as she drew closer, she saw someone bending over Diane’s prostrate form.
Evangeline. Catherine’s dearest friend, using her healing magic to revive Catherine’s hated rival.
“No!”
But her voice carried no more force than before. A heavy mist crept over the scene, her husband, Diane, the other courtiers vanishing before her eyes.
Catherine found herself afoot, alone in the middle of the field, trembling with grief and rage.
“I did it for you as well. You know that, Catherine.” Evangeline’s quiet voice echoed from somewhere behind Catherine.
She spun about to glare at her erstwhile friend. “You betrayed me.”
“No, I saved you. You already were acquiring a reputation as a witch, an Italian skilled in poisons. If Diane had died, you would have been the first one suspected and I feared not even your position as queen could have saved you from the king’s wrath. To say nothing of the damage to your soul. Daughters of the earth were meant—”
“To heal, not to harm. Oh, yes, I have heard it all before from you,” Catherine sneered. “You were always so concerned about being the noble Lady of Faire Isle; you forgot what it was like to feel the pain of a mere woman devastated by her husband’s infidelity. But I taught you what that was like, didn’t I, my dear Evangeline?”
“Yes, you did,” Evangeline agreed sadly. “But I forgave you.”
“Damn your forgiveness. I never wanted it.” Catherine spun away from her, muttering. “What does any of it matter anymore? Henry and his whore are both long dead. So are you.”
“As you will be soon.”
Catherine shivered and shook her head in fierce denial.
“You must not be so frightened of death, Catherine. It is natural—”
“Don’t give me any more of your mystic nonsense about the cycles of life and returning my bones to our mother earth, my spirit at peace. I don’t want your cursed peace.”
“Yes, you do, Catherine.” Evangeline’s hand came to rest gently on her shoulder. “And there is still time for you to find it. Turn away from the darkness and become the queen you always wanted to be.”
“And just how am I supposed to do that? I am too old, too worn down. It is too late.” Despite her agonized protest, she groped for Evangeline’s hand, only to close upon air.
The litter came to an abrupt halt, jarring Catherine awake. She blinked as she regained her surroundings and realized her mouth was hanging agape. She wiped the drool from her chin, disgusted with herself for nodding off in the middle of the day like any pathetic old woman.
But she had not been sleeping well of late, her dreams haunted by the ghosts of her past, sometimes her dead husband and his mistress, sometimes her dead children, sometimes all the bloodied, accusing faces of the Huguenots she’d had massacred that long ago St. Bartholomew’s Eve.
But mostly it was Evangeline who stalked her dreams, like some nagging angel, urging Catherine toward peace, the eternal rest she so dreaded. Perhaps it was that more than anything else that disturbed Catherine’s slumber, the fear if she closed her eyes, this might be the time she never awakened.
She straightened her ermine collar, composing herself as her retainers came to help her from the litter. Pain lanced through her body as she stepped down, the boning in her bodice creaking in protest, or maybe it was her knees.
The ache in her joints was all but unbearable these days and she had no longer a drop of Xavier’s magic elixir to ease her pain. When she had consumed the last of the potion in January, a great depression of spirits had settled over her. The past winter had been a succession of gray miserable days without the handsome rogue about to charm her with the bold color of his tales. Or the sight of his hard-muscled body swaying to the pulse beat of the drum as Xavier sunk deeper into his mystical trance.
He had been absent from her court for months now, more than enough time to complete his mission by her reckoning. She feared that she had been the one put into a trance, mesmerized into believing she had found a true necromancer at last. Likely he had betrayed her like so many others she had trusted before.
Or perhaps Xavier had tried to abduct Megaera and the present Lady of Faire Isle had proved too much even for a corsair as bold as Xavier. Ariane was not the saint her mother had been. If she had taken Megaera under her protection, Catherine imagined that Ariane could wax quite ruthless in the girl’s defense. Ariane had even had the temerity to threaten Catherine once in her own apartments in the Louvre.
The Louvre … the white walls of the palace rose up before Catherine, the glazed windows gleaming in the sunlight, flooding her with memories.
As a young woman, she had loved dancing as much as riding. Oh, the fetes, the pageants, the masked balls she had helped plan. But as Catherine crossed the courtyard, these memories were dimmed by others less pleasant.
Her gaze dropped to the paving stones. Nearly sixteen years had passed, the courtyard had been scoured countless times, and still Catherine fancied she could see the bloodstains from that hot August night.
St. Bartholomew’s Eve, the night Catherine had woven a dark magic, provoking her mad son, Charles, to order the massacre of the Huguenots gathered in Paris, men, women, and children alike. She was not a cruel woman, Catherine assured herself, only a pragmatic one.
The Huguenots had become such a threat to her power, to the stability of France itself, they needed to be dealt with once and for all. But the violence had gone beyond even what Catherine had intended, the mobs of Paris rampaging out of control for nearly three days, blood spilling and the corpses piling up even in the courtyard of the Louvre itself.
And all for what? Catherine reflected bleakly. The massacre had achieved nothing but the making of martyrs. The new religion continued to spread like the plague, the civil war waging on, draining the royal treasury and swelling the power and popularity of the opportunistic duc de Guise as he championed the Catholic cause.
Catherine swayed slightly on her feet, suddenly feeling so wearied of it all. Her glance flickered wistfully toward the cool green of the gardens and the soft burbling fountains and she longed to lose herself in the winding paths.
She had designed those gardens, along with the new wing of the palace, incorporating much of the dazzling architecture of her Italian homeland. She had done the same for Chenonceau and many other of the royal residences.
So much beauty she had brought to France and she feared she would be remembered for none of it. Only for the bloodstains in this courtyard.
“Turn away from the darkness, Catherine.” Evangeline’s voice whispered through her mind. “Become the queen you always wanted to be.”
Impossible. Not while she was this weak and worn down, but if she could but recover some of her youthful strength and power … Her one hope was laying her hands upon Megaera, wringing from that wretched girl the secrets of the Book of Shadows.
“Xavier, don’t fail me.” Catherine breathed the silent prayer that had sustained her all these months as she followed her escort into the Louvre.
The main salon was crowded as it too often was these days, thronged with disgruntled petitioners and disenchanted courtiers. The king’s chair as usual remained empty. The crowd would have swarmed Catherine with their pleas and complaints had not her guards held them at bay.
Steeling herself against each pain-wracked footfall, Catherine trudged up the sweeping stair to the second floor, her breath coming in short gasps. She felt as weighted down by disappointment as by her voluminous black silk skirts.
So her son was still neglecting the affairs of his kingdom, making more enemies he could not afford. Catherine had urged Henry until her voice was hoarse, begging the king to make himself more accessible to his subjects.
Henry had even eschewed the royal custom of dining in public, retreating more and more to his private apartments while his kingdom slipped away into the hands of the duc de Guise.
&nb
sp; Henry had always been more headstrong than her other sons, but there had been a time when Catherine could reason with him. Now her voice went as unheard as when she cried out in her dreams. Even those rare times when they still worked together on correspondence, she and Henry sat at separate desks in the council chamber, scarce addressing a word to each other the entire day.
As Catherine approached her son’s private apartments, she wondered with dread which version of Henry she would encounter today. The one who liked to paint his face and dress like a woman in violet silk trimmed with red ribbons. Or the one who donned a monk’s robes and sang the Miserere, flagellating himself to the point of ecstasy.
When Catherine was admitted to the royal antechamber, she found neither. The king was clad in black velvet, his doublet embroidered with silver death’s-heads. Tiny silk skulls adorned his shoes as he paced the room like an edgy wolf.
As she noted the hectic flush on Henry’s cheeks, the agitated gestures of his hands, Catherine’s heart sank. She felt she almost would have preferred the rouged and perfumed Henry in his violet gown.
“The Dowager Queen, Your Grace.”
As Catherine was announced, she winced, forcing her knees into a stiff curtsy. The king came to an abrupt halt, sunlight from the tall latticed windows spilling across his face, revealing every deep carved line.
How old and thin he looked for a man of only seven and thirty years, Catherine thought in dismay, this remaining son who was all that stood between her and oblivion.
A woman who had given birth to four sons should never have had to feel this tug of fear. But her oldest, Francis, had been a sickly youth, the next in line, Charles, both sickly and insane. Neither had held the crown for long. Her youngest, Hercules, had lived but long enough to prove a nuisance, envious of his older brothers, forever scheming and plotting rebellion.
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