The Huntress: A Novel (Dark Queen)

by Susan Carroll

  Cat felt her own eyes sting, the acrid odor of burning rushes and wood invading her nostrils. But she hugged Meg close, reassuring the child as she pulled her farther downstage away from the flames.

  “It’s all right, Meggie. I’m here now.”

  “I—I knew you and Papa would come. But Sander—”

  “Don’t worry about him. No one shall harm you now.”

  Meg squirmed away from her. Coughing and sniffing, the child gasped out, “You—don’t understand. He’s escaping. With the book.”

  Meg gestured frantically at the opposite side of the theater. Taking advantage of the chaos erupting around him, Naismith skulked toward the exit, the book gripped in his hands.

  Cat reached for the bow. She could not bring herself to shoot the boy down before Meg’s horrified eyes. She did the only other thing she could think of, something that should have been done by a daughter of the earth eons ago.

  Tipping another arrow with flame, Cat fitted it to the bow. Blinking her vision clear, she aimed and launched the arrow at the book, piercing it.

  Sander screamed as the brittle ancient text erupted into flames. The boy might have been all right if only he’d dropped the book. As he sought to put out the flames, the fire caught his sleeve. Panicking, he flailed about, only making the situation worse.

  His shrieks rent the air as the flames consumed him. Cat moved to shield Meg from the horrible sight, but the gesture was unnecessary.

  The fire in the theater raged out of control, the air filling with a blinding haze of smoke.

  “Cat!” Meg heard Martin roar. “Get Meg out of here.”

  Seizing Meg by the arms, Cat lowered Meg off the stage, commanding her to run. She glanced back frantically for Martin and was relieved to see him gaining the upper hand with Gautier.

  Martin broke through the captain’s guard, slashing open Gautier’s face. He bellowed, dropping his sword. As Martin closed in for the kill, a third man whose presence had gone unnoticed rushed to the captain’s aid.

  Cat tried to call out a warning as the man drew his sword, but her throat was too clogged with smoke. Hurtling forward, she dove between Martin and his assailant.

  She gasped with shock as sharp steel pierced her side. Before the man could stab her again, Martin was there, cutting him down. Cat reeled, collapsing to the stage. She could feel the warmth of her own blood oozing between her fingers. As the smoke thickened about them, she could hardly breathe.

  She was dimly aware of Martin lifting her into his arms. She closed her eyes, weakly resting her head against his shoulder, feeling as though the two of them were hopelessly lost in some blazing inferno.

  She would never know how he managed it, but somehow they were clear of the theater, away from the blistering heat and choking smoke.

  As she dragged a gulp of clear cool air into her lungs, it was as painful as the wound burning in her side. Martin lowered her to the ground. She forced her eyes open to narrow slits.

  The night seemed filled with chaos, the sound of shouts in the distance and thundering feet. The burning theater lit up the dark sky, drawing people from their beds and out into the street.

  But Cat saw that Martin and Meg were safe and that was all she cared about. He tore off strips of Meg’s petticoat.

  As he sought to bind Cat’s wound, she gasped his name.

  “Martin.”

  “Don’t try to talk,” he commanded her. “We are all safe, but we’ve got to get out of here. We left four dead men back at the theater and it’s going to be cursed awkward offering explanations.”

  “Not so difficult,” Cat croaked before she lost consciousness for the second time that day.

  “They died of an evil thought.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  MARTIN SPENT WHAT REMAINED OF THE NIGHT SLUMPED in a chair, keeping vigil over Cat as she slept. Exhaustion claimed him at last, and he dozed in fits and starts.

  He was roused by the sound of a lark singing outside his bedchamber. Martin jerked upright, blinking and rubbing his eyes. After such a night of fire, violence, and hair-breadth escape, it seemed strange to wake to anything as normal as a lark’s song and the sunlight spilling through the window.

  He shoved to his feet, going to peer anxiously down at Cat. With Agatha’s help, he had cleaned and bound her wound. She had lost a fair amount of blood, but if Cat took no infection, she should be well.

  Martin touched his fingers lightly to her brow and was relieved to find no sign of fever. She slept so deeply but that could just be evidence of exhaustion. Martin’s throat tightened when he reflected how near he had come to losing her last night.

  He had once been fool enough to imagine that it would be Miri Cheney’s ethereal image that would haunt him to the end of his days. But if he lived to be a hundred, he knew he would never forget the sight of Cat silhouetted in the gallery, a fiery-haired warrior goddess clutching that bow in her hands.

  She did not look quite so indomitable now, swallowed up in his bed, her hair tumbled across the pillow, her face pale and bruised, a rough line of stitches marring her brow. But Martin thought he had never seen any woman more beautiful.

  There was so much he wanted to say to her when she awoke. So much he needed to tell her. But for a man who had always been so glib with words, he had no idea how he would even begin.

  When he drew the coverlet up over her bare shoulder, Cat stirred at last. Her eyes fluttered open, the blue depths clouded with confusion.

  “Martin?”

  “Yes, I am right here and so are you.” He caressed her cheek. “Thank the bon Dieu. I thought I might lose you.”

  “No, I am right here. Wherever here is.” Her gaze roved about the room as she appeared to assess her surroundings. Lifting the coverlet, she stole a peek beneath and complained, “I am naked. And back in your bed again.”

  Perhaps that is where you belong, Martin was tempted to quip, but his heart was far too full. Frowning, Cat sniffed at him.

  “You smell like smoke.”

  “Er, yes. Your pardon, but after all that happened, I felt far too exhausted to bathe and change my attire.”

  “After all that happened,” Cat repeated. Her eyes cleared as remembrance flooded back to her. She groaned.

  “Oh, hell’s kite. I burned your theater down.”

  “While saving my daughter’s life, to say nothing of my own miserable hide. The theater is of little consequence as long as I still have all that is precious to me.” Martin curled his hand about hers.

  Either she did not understand him or she did not choose to do so. Cat drew her hand away.

  “Meg,” she murmured. “How is she?”

  “Well enough, all things considered. When I last looked in upon her, she was asleep. A rather astonishing thing considering she now has an entire new set of horrors in her head.”

  Martin shook his head bitterly. “I was so arrogant when I took Meg away from her mother. I vowed I would do so much better by my daughter, keep her safe and protected. But I have turned out to be as bad a parent as Cassandra ever was.”

  “That is not true, Martin,” Cat reproved. “You are being most unfair to yourself.”

  “No, you are the one I was unfair to. All those harsh things I said to you yesterday, blaming you for my own faults. I hardly know how to beg your pardon.”

  “You don’t have to. You had every right to be angry with me. I should have told you that Meg was still practicing the ancient arts, attempted to make you understand.”

  “Not an easy thing to do, my dear, when a man is determined not to listen. I want you to know that you have won. As soon as you are well enough, we’ll take Meg to Faire Isle.”

  Cat regarded him sadly. “Oh, Martin, I didn’t want to win. I never wanted you to feel forced into this decision. I had hoped that in time you would come to see that that was best for her.”

  “I do see that. Perhaps a part of me always did.” Martin’s lips quirked in a rueful smile. “But I am a very self
ish man. Meg has been mine for such a short time. I found the thought of sharing her with anyone unbearable, even the Lady of Faire Isle.”

  Cat said nothing, merely stretched her hand out to him in a gesture of comfort. Martin sank down on the edge of the bed, gathering her hand in his.

  “There is another reason that I have always been terrified of Meg having anything to do with the ancient learning. It is something that is difficult for me to admit even to myself.” Martin moistened his lips. “There have been times when I have stood over my daughter, watching her sleep, searching her face, terrified that I might see some trace of her mother in her. That no matter what I might do, Cassandra would triumph in the end and Meg would become the Silver Rose.”

  “That will never happen, Martin. Not with Ariane guiding her.”

  “I am sure you are right. I pray that in time the whole myth of the Silver Rose will be forgotten. How many lives that cursed legend has already claimed and I fear it will have one more.

  “Jane Danvers. I have no idea how to save her, Cat, short of telling the truth. But Meg is my daughter. I can’t sacrifice her, even to spare Jane.”

  “We will think of something, Martin. Once we have Meg tucked safely back on Faire Isle.” Cat pressed his hand.

  Martin smiled at her gratefully, carrying her fingers to his lips.

  Neither of them noticed the creak of the door or the retreat of the small figure who had been listening. Meg flattened herself against the wall in the corridor, pressing her hands to her lips.

  She had only stolen downstairs to check on Cat, see how her wound was faring. Meg had never expected to be dealt such a sharp blow herself.

  Papa…her own papa had feared that one day Meg might become like her mother, that she would fulfill the dark prophecy of the Silver Rose.

  Meg’s lips trembled, a tear stealing down her cheek. Now that he realized she had been hiding the Book of Shadows, he would be more convinced than ever.

  Meg could only see one way of proving to him he was wrong, of bringing an end to the Silver Rose and saving Lady Danvers. Only one way…if only she could find the courage to do it.

  STILL DRAINED BY THE EVENTS OF LAST NIGHT, CAT HAD dozed off again. Martin seized the opportunity to clean himself up a bit. Stripped down to his breeches, he was splashing water over his bared chest when his bedchamber was invaded.

  Mistress Butterydoor and Maude charged in, distraught and breathless, both women trying to talk at once.

  “Oh, Master Wolfe, she’s gone and it’s all Maude’s fault.”

  “’Tis not,” Maude responded, bursting into tears.

  “Indeed it is, you great blubbering fool. You were the one who helped lace her up in her finest gown.”

  “Well, h-how was I to know? After all the t-terrible things that happened to her yesterday, I t-thought she just wanted to look p-pretty.”

  “Idiot. If you had half a brain, you would have—”

  Martin intervened, commanding them both to silence. “Now, Mistress Butterydoor, will you tell me in some coherent fashion that I can possibly understand what the devil is going on?”

  “It is Mistress Meg. She has run off,” Agatha announced dramatically while Maude wept into her apron.

  “Don’t talk nonsense, woman,” Martin snapped. “After what she has just been through, Meg would be neither rash nor foolish enough to do such a thing. She is likely just out in the garden.”

  Her eyes filling with tears, Agatha shook her head and handed him a small folded note. Martin snatched it from her with mounting trepidation.

  There was no mistaking Meg’s handwriting. His daughter had a careful, labored script. As Martin scanned the brief lines, he swore.

  “Sweet Jesu.”

  The uproar had disturbed Cat’s rest. Wincing, she attempted to raise herself higher on the pillow as she asked anxiously. “Martin, what is it?”

  He responded by reading aloud in a taut voice.

  Papa,

  I am sorry I have proved to be such a great disappointment to you. I have tried terribly hard not to become an evil sorceress like Maman and I don’t want anyone else to be hurt because of my legend. There is only one way I can save Lady Danvers and that is to confess that I am the Silver Rose.

  Forgive me and remember me always as your loving daughter,

  Margaret Wolf

  Martin could scarce read her signature, it was so stained with tears. He experienced an unmanly urge himself and had to swallow thickly.

  Cat for once made no effort to conceal her emotion, her eyes welling as she exclaimed, “Sweet, brave girl!”

  “Brave?” Agatha wailed. “My poppet has run mad. Is the child so determined to get herself hung?”

  “That is not going to happen.” Flinging the note down, Martin set up a frantic search for his boots. “I’ll find Meg, stop her before she ever gets near Walsingham.”

  When he saw Cat struggling to rise, he commanded her to lie still. “You are in no condition to accompany me.”

  “I know that,” she said. “But you’ve got to listen to me before you go rushing off. Stop and think, Martin. Meg knows nothing of Walsingham. If the girl has made up her mind to confess, there is only one person in London she would seek out and we both know who that is.”

  Martin froze, fearing that Cat was right. And if she was, it made it all the more urgent that he get to Meg in time.

  THE PRESENCE CHAMBER AT WHITEHALL WAS THRONGED with courtiers and petitioners, all hoping to catch the eye of the queen as she returned from chapel. Any person presenting a well-dressed appearance could gain admittance to this outer chamber.

  Meg had trailed in after a stout country knight and his wife, attempting to blend in with their flock of chattering daughters. Losing herself amidst the waiting crowd, she could only marvel at how brave Elizabeth must be, to parade boldly among her subjects after so many plots against her life.

  Meg only hoped that she could match the courage of the queen she so admired. She feared that she had used up what small store she had possessed merely getting herself here. She shrank to the back of the crowded chamber, unable to see anything past the forest of shoulders and heads.

  Her only intimation of the queen’s approach came from the stirring of the crowd, caps being doffed, voices crying “God save the queen.”

  Meg’s heart began to beat so fast she could scarce breathe. She stood frozen, overwhelmed by the prospect of at last coming into the presence of Queen Elizabeth and dread of what she was about to do.

  Meg knew if she did not move soon, her chance would be lost. Gulping in a lungful of air, she fought her way forward through the sea of silk skirts and masculine legs clad in trunk hose. Ignoring the rebukes and protests hurled at her, Meg surfaced at the front of the crowd.

  For a moment she felt almost blinded by a dizzying vision of a tall willowy woman who seemed all fire and gold, her costly gown embroidered with gems, the silk fabric fanning out over a wide farthingale.

  Allowing herself no more time to think, Meg hurled herself forward and sank to her knees. She bowed her head, not daring to raise her eyes.

  “God’s death. Who is this?” Meg heard a musical voice exclaim.

  “G-God save Your Grace. I—I crave—,” Meg stammered, but she could not make herself heard above the hum of voices in the chamber.

  A problem the queen did not have. “Silence,” Elizabeth called out in a ringing tone.

  Her Majesty was instantly obeyed, but to Meg that made everything worse. The chamber was now so quiet all she heard was the quickness of her breath, her pulse drumming in her ears. She was aware of every eye in the chamber trained upon her and she stared fixedly at the hem of Elizabeth’s gown.

  “There is nothing to be afraid of, child,” the queen said. “Tell us your name.”

  “It is Margaret. Margaret Elizabeth Wolfe,” Meg replied in a voice scarce above a whisper.

  “Well, Mistress Wolfe. What would you have of your sovereign?”

  Heartene
d by the kindness she detected in the queen’s voice, Meg was emboldened to speak a little louder.

  “God save Your Grace. I crave your ear…” Meg glanced upward and the rest of her carefully prepared speech fled from her mind.

  Her jaw falling open, she studied Elizabeth, the queen at once so much more and so much less than Meg had expected.

  Elizabeth carried herself with a regal bearing, a ruff circling her slender neck. She had an intelligent face, long and thin with a hooked nose and pointed chin. Her red curly hair was obviously a wig, her complexion layered beneath cosmetics to conceal the ravages of smallpox and time.

  This Elizabeth appeared so much older and far more a mere mortal than the queen of Meg’s imaginings. Except for her eyes.

  Set beneath fine arched brows, Elizabeth’s eyes seemed ageless, so bright and piercing that Meg blinked. It was like staring straight into the sun.

  “Gloriana,” Meg breathed, sending a ripple of laughter through the chamber.

  Even the queen looked amused, but her smile bathed Meg in all the warmth of a summer’s day.

  “You may dispense with the flattery and come to the point, Mistress Wolfe,” Elizabeth said. “To what end do you crave our ear?”

  Meg moistened her lips and blurted out, “I came to beg you to free Lady Danvers.”

  The queen’s smile fled. It was like watching the sun vanish behind the clouds. A murmur of unease circulated about the room.

  “What is her ladyship’s fate to do with you, girl?” the queen demanded.

  “May it please Your Grace, I—I know she is innocent.”

  “And how would you know that?”

  Meg’s heart beat so hard with fear she felt she would faint. She swallowed hard and managed to tip up her chin bravely as she replied, “Because I am the one who should have been arrested. I am the Silver Rose.”

  MEG SAT UPON THE STOOL AS THE QUEEN COMMANDED HER, not daring to move, but her eyes darted about the room. She had fully expected to be arrested by this time and taken under guard to the Tower.