The Huntress: A Novel (Dark Queen)

by Susan Carroll

  “You are hardly a Caesar, Henry,” she said dryly, but in his agitation, he ignored her, drumming his fingers against the windowpane. His slender hand was so weighted down by costly rings Catherine often marveled that he was able to lift it.

  “And what of the Emperor Nero? From what I have been reading, he most certainly understood the dangerous significance of comets.”

  “Ah, yes, Nero. What a fine example of reason and sagacity he was.”

  Her sarcasm was clearly lost on her son because he jerked his head in agreement.

  “The emperor was wise enough to consult his astrologers about how to avert the disaster from himself. Do you know what they advised him to do?” Henry leaned closer, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Kill some of the nobles of his court as a sacrificial offering.”

  “What a fine idea. Why don’t you begin with some of those friends of yours who are bleeding the treasury dry?”

  Henry glowered at her. “I was thinking more of the duc de Guise.”

  Catherine froze, peering up at her son in dismay. Even with her dim eyesight, she could not miss the dangerous glitter that had sprung to Henry’s eyes. Despite his lethargy, at times Henry could bestir himself to take action, but it was usually of the most rash and disastrous sort. And he loathed the duc de Guise to the point of madness.

  With a nervous glance at her ladies-in-waiting and her son’s friends, Catherine clutched at Henry’s hand and drew him farther out of earshot. She spoke to him in a low urgent voice.

  “We’ve discussed this before. We will deal with de Guise at a more favorable time, but not now. He is far too powerful at the moment. If anything were to happen to the duke and it could be attributed to us, all of Paris and most of the Catholics in France would rise up in revolt against us. We would be lost. It would be the end of everything.”

  Henry’s face twisted into an expression that frightened her, one she had seen too often of late. For a moment he appeared beyond all reach of reason, on the brink of madness.

  “It is too late already. I have known that for some time. Our end is written in the sky, Maman. In another year, you and I will both be dust and long forgotten.”

  For a man speaking madness, his expression was chillingly sane.

  CATHERINE HUDDLED ALONE BENEATH A SHAWL, HER CHAIR drawn up close to the large stone hearth in her private apartments. Even the blazing fire was not enough to drive the cold from her bones. Yet another consequence of her advancing years, she thought dourly. There were times when she could not seem to get warm, an unpleasant presage perhaps, to that other vast cold that awaited her, the chill of the grave.

  In another year, you and I will both be dust and long forgotten.

  Catherine shivered at the memory of her son’s prediction. She could have dismissed it as the ranting of a madman if it had not struck to the heart of her most secret dread. Dying, ceasing to exist. She feared the notion of a great nothingness far more than she did being called to account for her sins before some mighty Creator.

  Daughters of the earth considered death a natural process, a fitting end to the cycle of life, being restored to the bosom of Mother Earth, becoming one with the rich soil. But Catherine found nothing comforting about the prospect of maggots stripping away her flesh until all that remained was a pile of moldering bones.

  She cringed, shrinking down in her chair. In a fit of self-disgust, she forced herself to straighten. No, she was not ready to become worm food yet, her son’s insane predictions be damned.

  At least she had managed to placate Henry for the moment, turn him aside from taking any rash action against the duc de Guise. But she would have to watch her son more closely, perhaps slip some sort of powder into his food that would guarantee he remained in a state of lethargic calm. Surely she retained enough skill in brewing up potions to accomplish that.

  Kneading her aching shoulder, Catherine sighed. As if Henry’s erratic behavior and the duc de Guise’s ambitions were not enough to plague her, another problem had returned to haunt her, one that she believed she had seen the end of when that Lascelles witch had drowned in the Seine.

  But the legend of the Silver Rose lived on and apparently so did the sorceress herself. Not the Lascelles woman, but a mere child…

  Catherine stirred as her ladies moved about the chamber lighting candles. Lost in her dark musings, she had scarce noticed the day fading into evening. When one of her ladies tiptoed closer to announce that Captain Gautier had arrived, seeking an audience, some of Catherine’s flagging energy returned.

  Flinging off her shawl, she struggled painfully to her feet, determined that even before someone as insignificant as her own mercenary, she would appear as a queen.

  As the captain entered, Catherine dismissed her attendants. The business that brought Gautier to her was of far too private and secret a nature for any ears but her own. As the door closed behind her ladies, Gautier dropped to one knee before Catherine.

  The candlelight played over his sandy-colored beard and curly hair of such thick silken texture many a woman would have envied him. He possessed a genial and smiling countenance, a valuable asset in a cold-hearted assassin.

  Carrying Catherine’s hand smoothly to his lips, he murmured, “How radiant Your Grace appears this evening. May I be bold enough to say—”

  “No, you may not.” Catherine snatched her hand away. “I have had my fill of overbold men and pretense for one day. Just make your report and be brief about it.”

  Undaunted by her rebuke, Gautier swaggered to his feet. “Very well. It is done, Your Grace. The last of the witches that we captured in the raid have been executed.”

  “And the warder of the Bastille was discreet about it?” she asked anxiously. Bad enough that all these wild stories were circulating abroad about a sorceress destined to destroy the Dark Queen. Catherine did not need the execution of these witches lending any more credence to the legend of the Silver Rose.

  “We were as discreet as it is possible to be when hanging nearly half a dozen women. One of them attempted to cry out ‘Long live the Silver Rose.’” Gautier’s teeth flashed in a broad smile. “But she was swiftly silenced when the rope snapped her neck. In any case, there was none but myself and the warder present to hear.”

  “Good.” Standing still for too long was difficult for Catherine. She paced off a few steps in a vain attempt to stretch some of the stiffness from her joints. “So not one of those women was inclined to accept the reprieve that I offered in exchange for more information about the Silver Rose?”

  “Alas, no. For some reason, they placed little faith in Your Grace’s promises of mercy.” The man had the insolence to smirk. “Nor was any form of torture able to loosen their tongues. We tried everything, the rack, the boot, thumbscrews. We learned little beyond what I told Your Grace before. The Silver Rose is actually the daughter of Cassandra Lascelles, a girl who goes by the name of Megaera, and these women worship her to the brink of insanity.”

  Catherine shook her head, still barely able to credit that her dread nemesis was nothing more than a girl. She had actually had the child within her grasp that summer the Lascelles witch had attacked Catherine on the grounds of her own palace.

  If Catherine had not been so distracted, so obsessed by the tantalizing prospect of obtaining the Book of Shadows from Cassandra Lascelles, would she have taken more heed of Megaera? If Catherine’s powers of perception had been as sharp as in her youth, would she have noticed something strange and remarkable about the child?

  Even now she could scarce remember the girl. She had been such a plain, scrawny little thing, all fearful wide green eyes.

  “Those witches went to their graves without revealing the girl’s whereabouts,” Gautier said. “Myself, I am inclined to believe the wenches have no idea what happened to their precious Silver Rose.”

  “Perhaps because they were no more than ignorant lackeys like yourself,” Catherine replied. “If you had not bungled that night on the cliffs and allowed the l
eader of the coven to escape, perhaps we would have learned more.”

  “I did my best.” Gautier shrugged. Unlike other mercenaries who had served her in the past, the captain never stammered excuses for his failures. Perhaps because he was such a bold rogue or far more likely, Catherine reflected bitterly, because the Dark Queen was not as fearsome a figure as she used to be.

  “Despite the trick the sorceress played upon us that night, only two of the witches escaped me,” Gautier said. “The leader of the cult and the red-haired woman who was seen galloping away.”

  Gautier preened, stroking the ends of his mustache. “I have since learned that the flame-haired wench was likely an Irishwoman named Catriona O’Hanlon who works for Ariane Deauville.”

  Catherine frowned. Yes, it made sense that the Lady of Faire would have also heard the rumors of the coven’s revival and sent someone to investigate. A surge of anger coursed through Catherine at Ariane, her sister Miri, and that damned witch-hunter, Aristide.

  What a fool they had made of Catherine, deluding her as to the identity of the Silver Rose. But taking vengeance upon them was a distraction she could not afford at the moment. All that mattered was locating that child, finding out what had become of the Book of Shadows. Then there would be time enough to deal with Ariane’s duplicity.

  Catherine could sense that Gautier had more to reveal. The man rocked on the balls of his feet, gloating like a tomcat about to deposit a plump mouse at the feet of his mistress.

  “What else have you discovered?” Catherine demanded. “I have already told you I am in no humor for games, Gautier. Whatever you have learned, spit it out.”

  “I have placed spies on the mainland, keeping close watch over the comings and goings from Faire Isle. It seems that the Lady sent the O’Hanlon woman off to find Megaera.”

  To protect the little dear no doubt, Catherine thought scornfully, the Lady of Faire Isle as usual being tender-hearted and nobly predictable.

  “Quite recently a messenger arrived. I have no way of confirming the fact, but I believe that the tidings were from Mademoiselle O’Hanlon. One of my men was able to track the messenger, ascertain that he embarked for—” Gautier paused dramatically, having the temerity to prolong Catherine’s suspense.

  “Embarked for where? Damn you, where?”

  “London,” Gautier replied with a grand flourish of his hand. “I believe that is where the child is to be found. I intend to send some of my men to begin the search—”

  “You will send no one,” Catherine interrupted icily. “You will go yourself. This matter is far too important to me. You will find that girl and get the book from her if she has it.”

  “And the little girl herself?”

  “You need even ask me that? There is only one way to end the legend of the Silver Rose and that is to nip this flower in the bud. Do you have a problem dispatching children, Captain?”

  Gautier smiled, his hand fingering the hilt of his sword. “If King Herod had had me for his lieutenant, you would not be plagued by these present religious wars.”

  “You are a blasphemous dog, Gautier, and a braggart. I don’t want boasts. I want results.”

  “And you shall have them.” The captain swept her a suave bow. “I shall not fail Your Majesty.”

  “I would advise that you don’t, monsieur,” Catherine replied coldly. “I may not be the woman I once was, but I assure you: The Dark Queen is not dead yet.”

  Chapter Eleven

  CAT SHELTERED BENEATH THE OVERHANG OF THE UPPER STORIES of the Angel, the din of the street assaulting her ears. The clatter of hooves and the creak of cart wheels mingled with the shouts of vendors, milkmaids, and bakers plying their wares.

  “Any kitchen stuff, maids?” An elderly refuse buyer shrieked at the top of her lungs, struggling to be heard above a pair of tailor’s apprentices who were engaged in a noisy brawl.

  Accustomed to spending most of her life out of doors, Cat sometimes felt the need to escape the narrow confines of Martin’s town house, but even after a fortnight, she had yet to accustom herself to the perpetual dirt, noise, and stench that was London.

  But at the moment it was preferable to the racket taking place within the house. Meg was having another of her music lessons and, bless the wee girl’s heart, she had no aptitude for it, being all but tone-deaf. Listening to Meg attempt to pluck out a tune on the lute was about as pleasant as hearing someone rip out a cat’s claws.

  Cat had stepped outside, seeking a brief moment of respite. But she was obliged to shrink back against the black-and-white timbered frame house as some noble lord and a troop of his retainers trotted past, flinging up mud and refuse and sending a trio of kites who had been feeding off a dung heap squawking and fluttering up onto the eaves.

  Cat gritted her teeth. By the lady Brigid, how she hankered for the peace of the deep forests and rugged coves of Faire Isle, all swept clean and sweet by a brisk sea breeze. She comforted herself with the message she had recently received from Ariane.

  All seemed quiet on the island, nor were there any dire tidings from the mainland of France regarding the Dark Queen and the coven. Ariane had been in communication with her brother-in-law. The witch-hunter Aristide intended to cautiously investigate the matter further. If it became evident that they had overestimated the danger to Megaera, Ariane saw no reason that Cat could not return to Faire Isle by next Christmas.

  By Christmas…nearly five months away. The prospect would still have filled Cat with bliss except for one thing. She would be going alone, leaving Martin to pursue his mistaken dream of transforming himself and Meg into a proper English family. But she had to remind herself fiercely again and again, it would no longer be any of her concern.

  The sound of someone cursing carried to Cat’s ears above the usual cacophony of the street. Rob Nettle, the lad who delivered fresh water to the Angel, emerged from the rear of the house. Laboring under the large stave strapped to his burly shoulders, his amiable countenance was flushed bright red.

  He was one of the few Englishmen Cat had taken a liking to, a well-spoken, civil lad. But instead of his usual cheery, “Good morrow, Mistress O’Hanlon,” he merely grunted in reply to her greeting.

  Shielding her eyes from the sun, Cat stared at the tall conical container balanced on Rob’s broad back. She blinked in astonishment, for a moment imagining she was seeing things.

  “Your pardon, Master Nettle,” she called. “But did you realize that um, er, there appears to be an arrow lodged in your water carrier?”

  Rob cast a disgruntled look as he trudged by. “It bloody well is and I count myself fortunate it didn’t end up in my back.”

  “But who on earth—”

  “Your lunatic of a master, that’s who!”

  “Wolfe shot at you?” Cat frowned, too startled by Rob’s reply to correct him as she usually did, indignantly declaring that Martin was not her master. Rob was already too far down the crowded street to question him further. As Cat started around the house to investigate for herself, she heard Rob bellow out.

  “I wouldn’t be going back there if I was you, mistress. Not unless you don some bloody armor!”

  Ignoring him, Cat threaded her way through the narrow passage between the Angel and the neighboring house, heading for the back gate.

  Cat usually avoided the garden in the morning, that being the time of day when Agatha did her weeding and pruning. Although Cat had finally succeeded in winning the respect of the other servants, the friction persisted between her and Mistress Butterydoor. For the peace of the household, Cat tried to avoid the old woman as much as possible.

  But as she inched open the garden gate, she saw no sign of Agatha. Nor would anyone else have ventured into the garden who had any regard for their skin, Cat thought.

  A target had been set up near the apple tree, but the ground before it was peppered with arrows sticking up at odd angles in the dirt. The fence and the trunk of the tree were likewise pierced. Only the target itself re
mained un-molested as the frustrated bowman nocked his arrow for another try.

  Despite the crispness of the day, the dark strands of Martin’s hair and his white linen shirt were both damp with sweat, testifying to the vigor of his efforts.

  Raising the longbow, he clenched his jaw with determination as he drew back the string. Cat frowned at his awkward stance, the stiff positioning of his left arm only begging for trouble.

  She was tempted to call out a warning, but it was too late. Martin released, the bowstring whanging against his arm with a force that made Cat wince. The arrow sailed off wildly, imbedding itself in the beleaguered apple tree.

  Martin flexed his battered arm and swore, forgetting his English accent. He cursed in French with a Gallic fluency Cat could not help but admire.

  Closing the gate behind her, Cat entered the garden, calling out, “Oh, well done, monsieur. But I think you may hold any further assault. I doubt that tree will dare threaten us again.”

  Perhaps it was not the wisest thing to taunt a man armed with a longbow and a quiver of arrows belted around his waist, but Cat was entirely unable to resist.

  Tensing at the sound of her voice, Martin swung round to glower at her. “If you don’t mind, I—”

  But he broke off whatever sharp retort he had been about to utter. His scowl easing, he rested the tip of the longbow against the ground and subjected Cat to an intense scrutiny that caused her to bury her hands in the folds of her new gown.

  She had been obliged to swallow her pride and allow Martin to order a few garments to replace her stolen wardrobe. Her only other choice would have been to continue wearing the same worn frock and chemise day after day until she became as odiferous as the English, who had a marked prejudice against daily bathing.

  The gown had arrived from the dressmaker only that morning. Although cut on the simplest lines, it was a bright shade of blue and the softest wool Cat had ever owned. With an apron knotted about her waist and her fiery hair confined beneath a linen coif, Cat figured she must present the image of a proper maidservant in a fine household.