The Silver Rose

by Susan Carroll

“That is exactly what I mean.” Carole sneered. “No, Mistress Cheney, I need no help from the likes of you or anyone else on this miserable island. I have friends, very powerful friends who will look out for me.”

  Miri wished that might be the case, but she feared it was only the empty boast of a girl, clinging to her last scrap of pride.

  “Carole—” Miri began, but the girl cast a scornful look and walked away. Despite her awkward gait, she moved rapidly across the green.

  Miri started to go after her, only to draw up short, not knowing what else she could do or say. Trying to reach the heart of a wounded girl was much more complicated than setting the broken leg of an injured fox or badger. Miri watched helplessly as Carole disappeared down one of the lanes. She wished fervently that Ariane was here. Her older sister was so gifted at calming troubled waters and pouring balm into aching souls.

  Even Gabrielle would have known better how to handle Carole. There was something about the girl that reminded Miri poignantly of what Gabrielle had been like when she was young, so quick to hide her hurts beneath a tough façade, shoving away anyone who would comfort her. But Gabrielle was as far off as Ariane, Miri’s family scattered in opposite directions, miles from the island that had once been their home.

  It struck Miri as an inexplicable and cruel trick of nature that Carole Moreau should be burdened with an unwanted babe while Ariane, who had so longed for a child, remained barren. But her sister had put a brave face on it, genuinely rejoicing each time that she successfully delivered another woman of a babe, especially when it had been Gabrielle.

  Happily wed to her Captain Remy, Gabrielle had spent these past years ripe and blooming with creation, three daughters so far, producing babes almost as easily as she did the paintings and sculpture that were Gabrielle’s own special brand of magic.

  Ariane had resigned herself to her childless fate. Taking deep comfort in the love of her husband, Renard, she was content.

  She tried not to dwell on thoughts of her sisters. Her heart ached for them too much. It had been her own choice to come back to Faire Isle, but Miri was starting to feel it was the biggest mistake she’d ever made—next to trusting Simon.

  Faire Isle still looked much as she remembered it, the rocky harbor where she’d once stood and waited hopefully for her father’s ship to return, the same deep, dark woods where she’d hunted for fairies. Port Corsair was still the same with its lumbering old inn, row of timber-framed shops, and dusty lanes where she’d trailed shyly after her older sisters.

  But those lanes she recalled as bustling with activity and women toting their market baskets, gossiping and laughing, stood mostly empty this summer afternoon and not just because of the threatening weather. So many familiar faces were absent: Mistress Paletot, the gifted sword maker; old Madame Jehan, the apothecary; the Jourdaine sisters, skilled weavers. All talented and clever women, charged with sorcery, either condemned or obliged to flee for their lives as Ariane and Gabrielle had done.

  What women remained kept more to themselves, minding their own families and tending their gardens. Miri did not know what she had expected to find on Faire Isle after an absence of ten years, but certainly not this atmosphere of fear and mistrust. It was as though a bottle had been uncorked, releasing a dark miasma that had stolen away the spirit of the island itself.

  Faire Isle had always been populated mostly by women, the wives of fishermen and sailors gone at sea. But there were widows and maidens as well who found Faire Isle a refuge, a unique place they could prosper and ply trades forbidden to their sex elsewhere. And yet Miri was not naïve enough to recall the island as being idyllic. No, women being women, they had known their share of bickering and squabbling. But nothing like the ugly scene Miri had witnessed this afternoon. It was ironic that such violence should have taken place before the statue that commemorated the best traits of a woman, wisdom, compassion, healing.

  Miri gazed up at the monument depicting a gentle lady in flowing robes, her arms extended. One of the hands had been broken off, the face smashed beyond all recognition. Miri’s breath hitched in her chest. She did not know if the vandalism had been the work of witch-hunters, the king’s soldiers, or even embittered townsfolk. The pedestal that used to be decked with floral offerings was now overgrown with weeds.

  “I should have done something about this long ago,” she thought guiltily. But she had steadfastly avoided this part of the town square ever since her return, the sight of the defaced statue far too painful.

  She knelt down now and doggedly tugged up clumps of weeds, clearing the inscription at the base. Evangeline . . . Our Lady of Faire Isle.

  “Maman,” Miri whispered. With a heavy heart, she traced her fingers across the worn lettering. She had only been eleven years old when her mother had died and the island people had erected this monument to Evangeline’s memory. Evangeline’s knowledge of the old ways and her skill in brewing medicines had saved the entire island from the ravages of the plague.

  But the statue also honored the generations of wise women who had gone before her. There had always been a Lady of Faire Isle, counseling, protecting, and healing with her gentle magic. At least until Ariane had been forced into exile.

  Ariane’s husband, the former Comte de Renard, had ever been wont to say, “There is a fine line between a woman being proclaimed a saint or a witch.”

  Her mighty brother-in-law had been proved right on more than one occasion. Just as Ariane had been when she had counseled Miri not to return to Faire Isle.

  “I should have listened to you, Ari,” Miri murmured.

  Miri was still rather surprised that Ariane had not done more to prevent her return. Ariane had always been notoriously protective of her younger sisters. Exile had been hard on all of them, but Miri felt as though she was the only one never able to adjust to the change.

  She was like one of those small white wildflowers that grew on the far side of the island, unable to successfully take root elsewhere. They clung to life, the shoots still green, but the petals never blossomed again. She had tried to conceal her unhappiness, but there had never been any deceiving Ariane. The Lady of Faire Isle was far too gifted at the wise women’s ancient art of reading eyes.

  Whatever she had read in Miri’s eyes, Ariane had finally consented to her return to the island. As she had handed Miri into the boat, she had attempted to smile through her tears.

  “Godspeed, little sister. And whatever you are looking for, I hope you find it.”

  “I am not looking for anything, Ariane,” Miri had protested. “I only want to go home.”

  Home . . . A hard lump rose in Miri’s throat. As she cleared the last of the weeds from her mother’s monument, she wondered if there was such a place anymore. Not with her mother dead and her sisters far away. As for her father, all hopes for Louis Cheney’s return had ended a year ago when she had received word that his ship had been wrecked off the coast of Brazil. The Evangeline had sunk during a storm, taking with her all hands.

  With her family gone, the island was a bleak and lonely place. But if Miri didn’t belong here on Faire Isle, then she didn’t belong anywhere. She felt as though she was nothing but a ghost drifting through a land that should have been so familiar to her but no longer was. The feeling might have been quite unendurable except for one small consolation.

  She was not the only phantom haunting Faire Isle.

  ———

  THE CONVENT OF ST. ANNE’S was situated above the town on a gentle rise of hill. But the bells calling the sisters to prayer had long ago been silenced, the stately stone buildings bleak and empty beneath the lowering gray skies. The convent had been closed many years ago, the sisters dispersed to other orders—at least those who had been fortunate enough not to be charged with heresy and witchcraft.

  The only sign of habitation was the smoke curling from the caretaker’s cottage nestled in the shadow of the convent walls. It was there that the other ghost of Faire Isle dwelt—Marie Claire Abingdon, onc
e the formidable abbess of the convent and closest friend of Evangeline Cheney.

  The cottage was rather humble surroundings for a woman who had wielded such power, the daughter of a powerful aristocratic family, accustomed to command the elegancies of life. But Marie Claire had managed to make the place her own, colorful braided rugs scattered over the rough stone floor, the shelves that should have held a peasant’s crockery laden with her books. A large cage occupied one corner of the room where her two pet ravens croaked and preened their glossy feathers.

  A cozy fire and a branch of candles did much to dispel the gloom of the day. Although the wind whistled and rattled the slate tiles of the roof, Miri felt safe and comforted, seated at Marie Claire’s small table near the hearth. Like Ariane, Marie Claire possessed a calming aura, although it still gave Miri a jolt to see the woman no longer wearing her habit.

  The absence of her flowing robes and wimple made Marie Claire seem somehow diminished, more vulnerable. Her advancing years were beginning to tell upon her, her soft white hair thinning, her posture a little bowed, but her countenance still bore those marks of strength that had made one exasperated bishop label her “far too willful for a nun.”

  As Marie Claire fetched a simple repast of bread and cheese from her cupboard, Miri regaled her with the grim happenings in the square that morning. Marie Claire listened gravely but an odd smile played about the woman’s mouth when Miri said, “. . . and those women were so angry, so beyond reason, especially Madame Alain. I have nothing like Ariane’s manner of authority. I have no idea how I persuaded them to relent.”

  “Don’t you?” Marie Claire threw her a fond glance. “It’s those fey eyes of yours, child. They shine a fierce light into the darkest corner of a person’s soul. Make one feel mighty ashamed, want to do better.”

  Miri shook her head at what she could only think of as pure nonsense. “However it happened, I was relieved to save Carole from a severe beating.” She added ruefully, “Although that was all I was able to do for her.”

  “Yes, she’s rather a belligerent little creature,” Marie Claire said as she carried the food over to the table.

  Miri eyed the amount of bread and cheese Marie Claire had heaped on her plate, doubting she could consume the half of it. She never seemed to have much appetite these days. But to please Marie Claire, she nibbled at a piece of bread.

  As Marie Claire filled two pewter cups with a robust red wine, she remarked, “I have warned Carole myself many times. She would do far better to remain quietly at home and mind that sharp tongue of hers.”

  “Is that what the daughters of the earth have come to on this island?” Miri asked sadly. “Living quietly, minding their tongues, trying to be invisible? You surprise me, Marie. That was never how you behaved.”

  “No and look where it got me.”

  “You now regret how you lived your life?”

  “A woman can’t get to be my age and not have some regrets, child.” Marie Claire sighed as she settled herself into the chair opposite Miri. “I fear I was always too strong-willed. First rebelling against my parents’ efforts to marry me off to some aristocratic dolt. Then as abbess, defying the archbishop, insisting on running St. Anne’s on my own terms, reading books the church had clearly forbidden. Am I sorry that I didn’t make more effort to curb my intellect, to be more meek and biddable?”

  Marie Claire’s mouth crooked in a wry smile. “No, not entirely, though I think I could have learned to be a trifle more—er, diplomatic and discreet. That is all that I tried to counsel Carole. That sometimes a little caution is best.”

  She trained her shrewd gaze upon Miri. “The same advice I would give to you, my Lady of the Wood.”

  Miri had raised her glass to take a sip, but she set it back down with a sharp click. “Oh, lord, you heard about that. You must have been speaking with Madame Greves.”

  “Madame Greves and quite a few others. You set most of the island abuzz when you brought the Pomfreys’ cow back to life.”

  “I did no such thing. The cow was indeed unconscious, but bringing it round was no great matter.”

  “No great matter! Miri, I am told the poor beast suffered from milk fever, which is well known to be an incurable disease.”

  “It wouldn’t be,” Miri said indignantly, “if the world had not become such a superstitious and ignorant place that people have become afraid to consult the ancient texts wise women compiled centuries ago. But no, I perform a simple procedure and am suspected of being a witch.”

  She spread her hands in appeal. “But what else could I have done, Marie? The Pomfreys are poor folk. They could not afford to lose that cow. Should I have just refused to help, let that poor animal perish? And her with a newborn calf.”

  Marie Claire sighed. “No, you could no more deny aid to a sick creature than Ariane could turn her back on an ailing child. Just be as careful as you can and remember, you still have powerful enemies.”

  “If you mean the Dark Queen, her battles were with Ariane and Gabrielle. I doubt she even remembers the existence of a third Cheney sister.”

  “Trust me, my dear, Catherine de Medici has a long memory. She never forgets anyone or anything that might prove a threat to her power.”

  “That hardly describes me. The Dark Queen would have far more reason to be wary of you, Marie. You were the one who was able to plant a spy in her very court.”

  “That was a long time ago. Now I am an old woman of no power or consequence. Most of the world believes me long dead.”

  “Forgive me, Marie,” Miri said hesitantly. “But I doubt your pretense has really fooled anyone. At least not here on Faire Isle.”

  “No, most of the local people are quite aware of who I am, but they tolerate my presence. Even Father Benedict says nothing when I creep into his church to hear the mass. But he is a kind young man, a good shepherd who would rather coax a wayward lamb back into the fold than see it slaughtered for straying.”

  Marie Claire smiled and took a long swallow of wine, but there was clearly something else weighing on her mind, something that filled Miri with an inexplicable sense of apprehension.

  Marie Claire ran her finger over the rim of her cup, silent for a long moment. “Miri . . . I have been reluctant to tell you this until I was sure. But I have had another message from a friend of mine, a wise woman living in Saint-Malo.”

  Marie Claire paused, released a long breath before saying, “He is back.”

  There was no need for Miri to ask who Marie Claire meant by he. Her stomach clenched so hard it hurt. She wrapped her arms across her middle.

  “S-simon Aristide?” she faltered. “But he has not been heard from in years.”

  “Nonetheless, he has been spotted prowling about Brittany. Le Balafre is far too distinctive a figure to be mistaken. He appears to be traveling alone, no army of witch-hunters at his back, but that does not make him any less dangerous.”

  “You need hardly tell me that.” Miri shot to her feet, struggling to conceal her agitation. She paced over to the cage and thrust crumbs of her bread through the bars. With a flutter of wings, the ravens descended from their perch and pecked greedily at the crusts with their long beaks.

  Wolf birds . . . that was the other name for Marie Claire’s beloved pets. Predators.

  Just like Simon.

  Except that that had not always been true. Miri’s mind swept her back to a long-ago midnight upon a rugged cliff amidst the towering circle of stone giants and the flare of torchlight. The night winds had teased the dark curls spilling over Simon’s brow, a startling contrast to his milk-white skin . . . the most beautiful boy she had ever seen.

  “I thought all witch-hunters were old and ugly,” she had said in dazed accents and Simon had flashed his irrepressible smile.

  “Odd. I have always believed the same about witches.”

  “But I am not a witch.”

  “I never said you were,” he had responded in a gentler tone.

  And Simon hadn’t
. . . at least not then. Becoming aware that Marie Claire was addressing her, Miri thrust aside her troubling memories of the past.

  “. . . and perhaps now you will understand why I am so concerned about the reputation you are getting as this Lady of the Wood. I fear that Simon Aristide has never given up searching for your family since you all fled Faire Isle. Not that I am afraid he would harm you. He always harbored a certain tenderness where you were concerned.”

  “Tenderness? The man is not capable of such an emotion, although once . . .” Miri trailed off. Once she had believed that there was so much good to be found in Simon, that he was merely lost, misguided, wounded. If she could have coaxed him out of his darkness, she could have healed him. But her experience of injured animals in the wild had led her to the painful understanding that some creatures were damaged beyond even her ability to help, a flat empty look in their eyes. She had seen that look in Simon’s face. The man no longer had a soul.

  As she fed the last of her bread to the eager ravens, Miri was struck by the full import of Marie Claire’s words. She spun about to regard the older woman intently. “If you are not worried that Simon would harm me, then what are you afraid of?”

  Marie Claire shifted uncomfortably, avoiding Miri’s eyes, but Miri read her silence all too well. She felt the blood rush into her cheeks, a hot sting of guilt and shame.

  “You fear that if our paths crossed, I’d be weak enough to trust Simon again. Perfectly understandable. I put my family, you, this entire island at risk because I believed in him.” She swallowed hard. “I—I was even foolish enough to fancy that I loved him.”

  “Oh, my dear.” Marie Claire crossed the room and caught Miri’s hands in a gentle grasp. “That was not foolish. There is a great virtue in trying to find the best in people. No one is entirely black of heart, not even Aristide.”

  “How can you speak one word in his defense?” Miri cried. “After all that he cost you, the closing of the abbey, your position, almost your life?”

  “That was not entirely Aristide’s doing. The church never cared for uppity women and I am afraid the sisters of St. Anne’s were always too independent for the archbishop. His Eminence had long wanted to disband our order.”