The Huntress

by Susan Carroll

  “After what?” Martin snapped.

  “I—I threatened to tell you that she had it,” Cat replied in a low voice. “But I don’t think that was what stopped her. I think it was because after I came with all my vows to protect her, to—to protect both of you, Meg felt safe. She felt like she no longer needed the weapon.”

  Cat winked back fierce tears. “I wish I had never interfered. I wish Meg had her witch blade with her right now.”

  “For the love of God, Cat. She’s only a child.”

  “No, she’s a daughter of the earth and an astonishing one at that. She—”

  Cat only stopped when she realized the way Martin was looking at her, his eyes glinting with hurt, accusation, and betrayal. And no doubt she deserved it. But this time she forced herself to meet his gaze.

  “Was that all that was tucked away in her hiding place?”

  “Isn’t this enough?” Martin demanded. But he returned to the loose board. Bracing himself as though he was about to thrust his hand into a nest of vipers, once more he groped inside.

  He drew out a small worn book no larger than the size of the bible. He simply stared at it for a moment like a man who has received the final blow.

  Cat’s heartbeat quickened as Martin strode back to her. She flinched as he hurled the book in her lap.

  “Is that it? The Book of Shadows?”

  “I—I believe so.” Cat had never set eyes on the book herself, although years ago she had joined the Lady of Faire Isle in a desperate search for the dangerous text. The book certainly matched the description she had been given, ancient, bound in worn black leather, no title emblazoned on the cover.

  It was so harmless looking, but as Cat stroked her fingertips down the spine, she shuddered, able to sense the book’s dark power. When she opened it, the pages were brittle with age, the parchment covered with strange symbols that whispered of ancient knowledge long lost to the world, secrets that had better remained so.

  “Is that the Book of Shadows?” Martin demanded again. “Can you read it?”

  “Only a little. The book is written in a language dating back to the earliest days of the daughters of the earth and it is encrypted as well. Only a few wise women could translate this, Ariane and the Dark Queen perhaps.”

  “And my daughter,” Martin added flatly.

  “Yes, most certainly Meg. As I told you, she is very gifted.”

  “But you didn’t see fit to tell me about much else. You knew she had that damned book. All this time, you knew.”

  “No, I only suspected that she might. As for the rest, Meg told me in confidence. I could hardly win the girl’s trust if I betrayed her secrets. Even to you.”

  “Her trust? What about mine? You knew how I felt about her meddling with this damnable magic, these infernal instruments. Do you know what Cassandra did with this blasted witch blade, the hideous death she inflicted upon innocent people?”

  “Meg only used it for protection.”

  “Maybe what my daughter most needed protection from was you.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Cat cried.

  “That no matter what agreement we made between us, you hoped to carry Meg off to Faire Isle, to draw her back into your world of witchery and magic. That is why you allowed her to keep these things.” Martin gestured furiously to the objects strewn across the counterpane.

  Cat flushed and retorted, “I admit that I felt Meg’s talents would be wasted in this snug English life you had planned for her. There is a difference between good magic and bad. Meg needs to learn the difference and you are far too blind to teach her.”

  “I have been blind about a lot of things. But at least now I have the means to ransom my daughter.” Martin wrenched the book from Cat’s grasp.

  Cat regarded him in dismay. “You can’t think of surrendering that dangerous book to Gautier.”

  “I don’t give a damn about the book or what becomes of it. All I want is my daughter back.”

  “That is all that I want too, and that book is the only leverage we have. If you think that by handing that book over to Gautier, he will politely return Meg to you, then you know nothing of the man or the woman he serves. We have to use our heads, think—”

  “There is no we involved here, Mistress O’Hanlon. Meg is my daughter and I will be the only one to protect her, just as I always should have done.”

  “It is my province as well. If you think I intend to remain tamely here while—”

  “That is exactly what you will do.”

  As Cat struggled to rise, Martin thrust her back down. “You are in no condition to go anywhere.” He added in clipped tones. “Even if you were, neither I nor my daughter has any further need of your services.”

  As Martin stormed out the door, Cat tried to go after him, but her head reeled again. She sagged back down on the bed, cursing both Martin and her own weakness.

  Angry and hurt, Martin was about to do exactly what she had feared, rush headlong into disaster, and Cat was powerless to stop him. Even if she went after him, he’d never listen to a word she had to say. He no longer trusted her. He likely never would again, Cat thought bleakly.

  She buried her face in her hands, weighted down with a sense of failure and despair.

  “Mistress Cat! Mistress Cat!”

  The urgency in Agatha Butterydoor’s voice forced Cat to look up. The old woman rushed panting into the room, wringing her hands in her apron.

  “Oh, Mistress Cat. I believe the master has finally been driven out of his wits with grief. He is charging off all alone to fight those varlets who took Mistress Meg.”

  “I know,” Cat said dully.

  “Then why are you just sitting there? Why are you not going with him to save our precious girl?”

  “Because I am not wanted. Master Wolfe has ordered me to remain behind.”

  Agatha glared at her, the woman’s double chin aquiver. “When have you ever heeded his commands before? And what about your oath to Mistress Meg? Are you that girl’s feedaddle or aren’t you?”

  “Her fianna,” Cat corrected. The word spoke to her of generations of proud Irish warriors, all the notions of duty and honor instilled in her by her father, reminding her of Tiernan of the Laughing Eyes…reminding her who she was.

  Cat squared her shoulders. “Yes, that is exactly who I am, Mistress Butterydoor. But I am going to need your help to get ready. I have to change out of these useless petticoats and I’ll require a weapon.”

  The woman braced Cat with her stout arm, helping her to rise. “Of a certainty. Shall I fetch your sword?”

  “No, Mistress Butterydoor, I’ll need a weapon of a different sort. This Gautier is a treacherous bastard.”

  “You’ve encountered the man before?”

  “Oh, yes,” Cat replied. “But this time I won’t be the one running away.”

  MARTIN HOPED HE WOULD POSSESS THE ADVANTAGE OF SURPRISE by arriving early. He knew his theater well, but then, he reminded himself, so did Naismith.

  But even the Crown seemed an alien place to Martin tonight, the silent tiers of galleries bathed in moonlight. He felt estranged from his entire world, nothing or no one who they had seemed.

  Jane Danvers, Sander, his own daughter. But the one whose duplicity cut him the worst was the woman he had most come to trust and rely upon.

  Cat.

  But Martin could not bear to think of her now. He was going to need all his wits about him to see Meg safely through this.

  By arriving early, he hoped to set a trap of his own. But as he crept along the lower tier of galleries, the sight that greeted him drove all thoughts of caution out of his head.

  Meg was positioned center stage, pooled in a circle of light provided by several lanterns. Her hands bound behind her back, she was perched precariously upon a stool. A thick rope was knotted about her neck, the noose suspended from the gallery that overhung the stage.

  Martin drew in a sharp breath, his heart missing a beat. Not only had Gautier anti
cipated his early arrival, the bastard had arranged this cruel scene in preparation. Even realizing that, Martin could not contain the strong surge of emotion that coursed through him.

  “Meg,” he rasped. Scrambling over the railing, he leapt down into the pit.

  His daughter was so still, Martin feared the worst. But Meg stirred at the sound of his voice, squinting into the darkness.

  “Papa?” she quavered. Her face was pale with fear, but unstained by tears. Obviously she had made a valiant effort to be brave, denying her captor the satisfaction of seeing her weep.

  The realization only wrenched at Martin’s heart the more. He charged forward, drawing his sword. Before he could vault up onto the stage, a cool voice warned him.

  “That is close enough, Monsieur le Loup.”

  A tall raw-boned man emerged from the shadows, a shock of raven hair framing his hawk-like features. Grinning, he placed one thick boot against the stool. Meg gave a terrified whimper.

  “No!” Every instinct Martin possessed urged him to rush the villain, run him through. But he knew he’d never get there in time before the bastard kicked the stool away.

  Martin came to a halt. “Damn you, Gautier, if you hurt her—”

  “I assure you, monsieur, the child shall not be harmed if you do exactly as I say.”

  Martin’s gaze narrowed as he realized the silken voice did not emanate from the man threatening Meg. Gautier had concealed himself somewhere offstage.

  “Cast your sword aside and remain down in the pit or I will be obliged to command Jacques to kick away the stool. Your daughter has a most delicate neck, monsieur. So easily snapped.”

  Martin ground his teeth in rage and frustration. He had little choice but to obey. Flinging his sword away from him, he held up his hand to show that he was disarmed. With the other, he displayed the Book of Shadows.

  “Let my daughter go, Gautier. I have brought you the God-cursed book.”

  “Oh, Papa, I—I am so sorry,” Meg said. That in the midst of all this horror his daughter should look so guilty and apologize to him was almost more than Martin could bear.

  He did his best to cast her a reassuring smile. “Everything will be all right, petite.”

  “Indeed it will, mademoiselle,” Gautier called out. “Just as long as you remain still until your Papa and I have concluded our transaction.”

  Martin attempted to home in on Gautier’s place of concealment. The man had to be backstage, speaking and watching through the prompter’s wicket.

  “You will pardon me if I am a bit skeptical, Master Wolfe,” Gautier said. “Before I can release your daughter, I must determine the book’s authenticity. My royal mistress, Queen Catherine, has been tricked twice before in her efforts to gain possession of the book.”

  Martin waved the volume tantalizingly aloft. “Come examine the text for yourself,” he challenged, thinking that if he could overcome Gautier, get a blade to the man’s throat, he could force him to order Meg’s release.

  As though the man was able to guess Martin’s thoughts, he chuckled. “I think I prefer to remain where I am. Master Naismith, you claim to have some knowledge in these matters of the occult. Go down and inspect the book.”

  Martin had all but forgotten Sander’s part in all this. The boy emerged from backstage, his usual swagger markedly absent. He descended into the pit, flinching before Martin’s glower. Approaching Martin warily, Sander had enough grace to look abashed.

  “I am s-sorry, Master Wolfe,” he stammered. “I meant Meg no harm. I didn’t want to help Monsieur Gautier, but he forced me to—”

  “Hold your tongue,” Martin said. “You will spare me any more of your performances if you know what is good for you, boy.”

  Sander lapsed into a sullen silence, extending his hand for the book. Martin reluctantly surrendered it to him.

  Sander stared at it, running his fingers almost reverently over the ancient leather cover. As he opened the book, studying the strange writings, the boy’s face lit up with a covetousness that was all too transparent.

  “Well, boy?” Gautier prompted.

  Sander turned back toward the stage to reply. “It looks genuine, monsieur.”

  “Then fetch it to me.”

  “No!” Martin clamped his hand upon Sander’s arm. “Not until you release my daughter.”

  “I will as soon as I have the book. Master Naismith, bring it to me.”

  Before the boy could respond, Martin acted with lightning swiftness. Locking Sander in an iron grip, he unsheathed the boy’s own dirk and held the blade to his throat.

  Martin heard the intake of Sander’s breath. Although the boy looked terrified, he maintained his grip on the Book of Shadows.

  Martin snarled, “Let Meg go right now or I’ll—”

  He was interrupted by Gautier’s mocking laugh. “Or you’ll what, monsieur? Slit the boy’s throat? I was tempted to do the same thing myself earlier. He means nothing to me. Go ahead and kill him. But if I don’t have that book by the time I count to ten, you will see your daughter dangling lifeless from the end of that rope.

  “One…two…”

  Martin’s brow beaded with sweat as Gautier began his count. He silently cursed himself, realizing he had rushed into this situation, ignoring Cat’s warning. She had been right. He doubted that Gautier had any intention of allowing Martin or his daughter to leave this theater alive whether he surrendered the book or not.

  “Three…four.”

  Martin’s thoughts raced, weighing his options. He could only think of one thing to do: Thrust Sander out of his way, hurl the knife into the heart of the man looming over Meg, then race to save his daughter before Gautier got to her.

  Martin wondered if he had the skill and speed to bring it off. He had to, he told himself. It was their only hope.

  CAT HUNG BACK, CLOAKED IN THE DARKNESS OF THE UPPER tier of the theater. Drawing on a well of strength she had never known she possessed, she had managed the journey to the Crown. The night air had done much to clear her head, sharpen her senses.

  The bandage threatened to slip over her eyes and Cat stripped it off. The whiteness of the linen could only serve to draw attention to herself, something that she had avoided by being otherwise garbed in black.

  Keeping to the shadows, she observed the scene unfolding below her. Meg’s plight made Cat want to roar with fear and rage. But she kept her jaw clamped tight while Martin held Sander hostage and Gautier began his relentless count.

  The bastard was hidden somewhere offstage. One raven-haired brute guarded Meg. For all Cat knew there could be more men lurking in the wings, but she had no more time to assess the situation.

  Martin’s bow clutched in her hands, the huntress prepared to take the most difficult shot of her life. Cat drew from her quiver the arrow she had tipped with pitch. She lit it from the lantern concealed on the floor behind her.

  “Five…six,” she heard Gautier intone. “I am losing patience, Monsieur le Loup.”

  Cat’s heartbeat quickened, but she knew she could not afford to lose her nerve and panic. She nocked the flaming arrow into position, taking aim with careful deliberation.

  She paused only long enough to offer up a silent prayer to the goddess Brigid and the good Mother Earth. Then she let the arrow fly.

  It hissed through the air in a flaming arc, lodging itself in the rope suspended above Meg’s head. Before anyone below had time to react, Cat hastened to fit another arrow to the bow.

  At the same moment, Martin hurled Naismith from him. He flung the knife at the man guarding Meg. Jacques howled with pain. Cat loosed her second arrow, driving it straight through the man’s eye.

  Jacques sprawled to the floor, knocking over a lantern and Meg’s stool. But the rope had given way, releasing Meg. With a tiny cry, she toppled to the stage.

  Martin raced to his daughter, barely reaching her as Gautier emerged from backstage, drawing his sword with a furious hiss.

  Martin scrambled to retrieve
the sword from the fallen Jacques. He unsheathed it just in time to fend off Gautier’s deadly assault.

  As the two men fought, parried and thrust at each other, Cat reached for another arrow, waiting for a chance to unleash it at Gautier without hitting Martin. But she caught sight of something that filled her with more alarm. Either a spark from her arrow or the overturned lantern had set the rush matting strewn across the stage afire.

  Fueled by the dry straw, the flames spread rapidly, threatened to consume all in its path and that included Meg.

  Cat slung the bow over her shoulder and raced for the stairs, nearly tumbling down them in her haste to reach the pit.

  Her hands still bound, Meg choked on the smoke, trying to inch her way to the edge of the stage, farther from the flames.

  “Meg!” Martin cried. He was prevented from rushing to his daughter’s aid by Gautier’s blade. Martin barely avoided a lethal thrust.

  Cat reached Meg’s side and drew out her knife, slicing through the girl’s bonds.

  “Cat,” Meg rasped, her eyes streaming, whether from relief or the rising smoke Cat could not tell.

  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.