The Silver Rose

by Susan Carroll

  She smiled sadly. “I realize I am only a pale reflection of my sisters.”

  “I—I have never thought that,” Marie Claire faltered. “But—but—”

  “I am the last wise woman you would ever send to confront an evil sorceress,” Miri finished wryly. “The foolish dreamer, always hiding in her woods. Maman worried that I dwelt too much amongst my animals and the realms of my imagination, never facing up to the hardship and problems afflicting the rest of the world. She was right.”

  She bit down on her lip to still its quiver. “Maman would—would have expected better of me. I have not the wisdom of the Lady of Faire Isle, or anything like Gabrielle’s fiery courage. But I am also a daughter of Evangeline Cheney. It is time that I remembered that and behaved in a way that would make her proud of me.”

  Marie Claire cupped Miri’s face between her hands. “Oh, my dear, your mother would have been very proud of you. You are every bit as wise and brave as your older sisters. But I knew Evangeline well. Your mother was my closest friend, and I can tell you with dead certainty she would never have expected you to charge off to face some demented sorceress alone.”

  “I wouldn’t be alone.” Miri took a deep breath before confessing, “I intend to find Simon Aristide, seek his help.”

  Marie Claire’s hands fell away from Miri, her jaw dropping open in dismay. “Have you completely lost your wits, Miribelle Cheney? To even think of venturing anywhere near that dangerous man—”

  “You said only the other day that you didn’t think Simon would ever hurt me.”

  “Not intentionally, no. While I concede Aristide has some good in him, he also has more shadows lurking in his heart than a graveyard at midnight.”

  “That might be true, and yet, Simon seems so different from the man who raided our island that summer.”

  When Marie Claire pursed her lips skeptically, Miri went on. “He is no longer as arrogant and inflexible as he used to be. You didn’t see him on the night he turned up on my doorstep out of the storm, so wearied and defeated. It is rather ironic, isn’t it?”

  She gave a mirthless laugh. “When I finally succeeded in steeling myself against him, Simon was telling the truth and really did need help. And I just sent him away, possibly to—to die.”

  “That man’s fate is not your responsibility,” Marie Claire said sternly. “After all he has done, you owe him nothing.”

  “I know that, but Simon may well be our only hope for defeating this Silver Rose and rescuing Carole from her clutches.”

  “What on earth makes you think the girl wants to be rescued?”

  “I don’t believe Carole truly wanted to harm her child. The babe was wrapped in her favorite shawl, her most treasured possession, and she left him where I would be certain to find him. I never perceived any evil in the girl, only deep hurt and confusion. However she became involved with this coven, I don’t think she understood what she was getting into until it was too late.”

  “You may well be right. Yet however sorry I might feel for Carole, I don’t see why you should put yourself at risk to save her.”

  “Because I should have tried harder to reach out to that girl when I had the chance.”

  “And so should I and every other woman on this island,” Marie Claire replied impatiently. “But even you must admit Carole was not the easiest girl to befriend.”

  “No, she wasn’t.” Miri smiled ruefully as she recalled the girl’s bristling defiance, more thorny than the roses that blossomed on the bushes outside Marie Claire’s window. But just like those fragrant blossoms, Carole’s thorns were a poor shield for her vulnerability.

  Miri’s smile faded. “If Carole had been a wounded fox or badger and snapped at me, I would never have backed off. But I let her drive me away, back to my little cottage, and forgot all about her. I have to find a way to save her and I am going to need Simon’s help.”

  “But for a respectable daughter of the earth to get into bed with a witch-hunter. It simply isn’t done, my dear child.”

  “Great heavens, Marie! I—I am only talking about a temporary alliance. I never thought of anything like—” Bedding with Simon . . . Miri’s cheeks heated at the images that flashed through her mind.

  “I was only speaking metaphorically. However, if it comes to that—”

  “It won’t. I assure you any warmer feelings I had for Simon died a long time ago.”

  When Marie Claire cast her a sharp look, Miri busied herself with carefully folding the linen cloth back over the poisonous rose. “My sisters are in exile. The council of wise women has long been disbanded. What other choice do I have besides to make use of Monsieur Aristide?”

  “Just take care he doesn’t end up using you, my girl,” Marie Claire warned grimly. “And what about your Martin le Loup? What would he think of you roving about the countryside, pursuing this dangerous quest, putting yourself at risk? By what you have told me, the man is completely devoted to you, intrepid, resourceful, and skilled at intrigue to boot. Why not send for him?”

  “Because there is no time, Marie, and I would not have the least idea how to reach Martin anyway. He—he is likely off on some reckless adventure of his own, another mission for the king of Navarre.”

  Miri’s hand strayed to the locket hidden beneath her gown and she experienced a stab of guilt. Truth be told, she had scarce given Martin a single thought since this morning, when she had resolved to leave Faire Isle and marry him. But this morning seemed a lifetime ago and Martin felt very far away. Miri was ashamed of feeling glad of that fact.

  Martin could be a trifle . . . volatile and impulsive. As passionately as he adored Miri, he had always loathed Simon with an equal measure of jealous detestation. The last thing Miri needed or wanted would be to have the two men crossing swords.

  “Martin would hate what I am about to do,” Miri admitted reluctantly. “Sometimes I think if the man had his way, he would keep me in a velvet-lined room, safe and protected while he fought all my battles for me. I hope that in time I can teach Martin what Renard has become wise enough to understand about Ariane. That a wise woman cannot always remain tamely by her own hearthside, no matter how much she might wish to do so.”

  And God help her, Miri did very much wish it. She drifted back to the window lest Marie Claire see, despite all her bold words, how far from calm and resolved Miri felt. She stared wistfully out at the garden, drinking in the bold mix of colors and textures, cabbages and marigolds, wild fennel, lavender and asters. But most of all the lush red roses, beautiful even in their imperfections of fallen petals and overladen stems. So different from that sterile rose enfolded in the linen cloth.

  Beyond the garden was the dusty lane, leading back to the deep comforting shadows of her woods. Or on down to the harbor, the rocky causeway that stretched to the mainland and the uncertain future beyond.

  Miri sighed, wondering who she was attempting to fool, Marie Claire or herself. The mere prospect of flinging harsh words at someone was enough to tie her stomach in knots. How did she ever imagine she would be able to destroy some unknown sorceress? And it could very well come to that. Unless the Silver Rose destroyed her first.

  She was afraid of battling this Silver Rose, even more afraid of the consequences should she fail. And then there was Simon Aristide. Miri didn’t know if she was afraid she would not be able to find him, or more afraid that she would. No matter how vehemently she insisted her feelings for him were dead, she knew that she risked arousing that dark attraction that pulsed between them, desires that would be a betrayal of Martin, of her entire family, all that she stood for and was . . . a daughter of the earth.

  When Marie Claire stepped up beside her, Miri stiffened, anticipating that the woman meant to assail her with more arguments. But Marie Claire folded her hands, looking worn down and resigned.

  “Very well, if you are determined upon this course, I am coming with you.”

  Miri was deeply touched by the offer, but she shook her head gently. “N
o, Marie.”

  Marie Claire bridled. “What? You are willing to consult a witch-hunter, but you are dismissing my help? You think me too old and useless?”

  “What I think is that you have never been a good horsewoman and I am going to have to ride fast and hard, cover a lot of ground quickly to have any hope of catching up to Simon.”

  Marie Claire folded her arms stubbornly, but she apparently recognized the truth of Miri’s argument because she grimaced.

  “Besides,” Miri went on. “You are needed here to keep watch over Faire Isle lest any of the Silver Rose’s followers turn up here again. You can also aid me in other ways. I know you still have some contacts on the mainland. I can never make this journey on Willow. I need to find a swift horse with a great deal of stamina and you must tell me where I can find other wise women I can trust to help me on my way, offer me safe shelter for the night. I also have to find someone to look after my place while I am gone and there is one other task only a wise woman like you can manage.”

  Marie Claire eyed Miri warily as though she suspected Miri of trying to cozen her. “Humph! And just what might that be?”

  “Necromancer.” Miri smiled ruefully. “You must prevent my very wily, but ancient cat from trying to follow me.”

  ———

  THREE DAYS LATER, the island was still unsettled by the disappearance of Carole Moreau and the equally mysterious departure of the Lady of the Wood. There was more visiting between cottages and traffic amongst the shops in Port Corsair than there had been in years. Women neglected their workaday tasks, gathering in small knots along the lane, to gossip, to exclaim, and to speculate. The only one who might know the full truth behind recent events was Marie Claire. But the former mother abbess kept more to herself than usual, spending increasing amounts of time at St. Anne’s, praying for Miri’s safe return.

  On the third day after Miri’s departure, Marie Claire knelt to perform a more earthbound task. Wincing at the stiffness in her joints and the state of her garden, she eased down onto her knees to attack the army of weeds that threatened to overrun her herb beds.

  It was a soft morning, a light breeze tickling the strands of hair that escaped from beneath her linen cap. Sparrows twittered amongst the branches of her apple tree, the leaves making a pleasant rustling sound. Marie Claire might have found a momentary balm for her worries, had not the peace of the day been disrupted by the sounds emanating from her cottage. Even from here, she could hear the plaintive yowls of the cat caged in her kitchen.

  “I hear you, my friend,” Marie Claire murmured wearily. “But I can’t let you out. I promised her.”

  She grimaced, realizing that over the past few days, she had begun to talk to that cat as much as Miri, although she was not able to understand Necromancer as well. And that, Marie Claire decided, was a very good thing, because she was convinced that at times, that little black devil was actually swearing at her, hissing bitter reproaches at her for ever letting Miri go.

  Marie Claire paused in her weeding to brush some strands of hair out of her eyes with the back of her hand. Not that she hadn’t heaped the same reproaches upon herself, she thought. But short of trying to cage Miri instead of the cat, Marie Claire had seen no way of stopping her. None of Evangeline’s daughters had ever been tractable women. The Cheney sisters had inherited a full measure of their mother’s stubborn strength.

  Despite all her gentleness, Miri had an inner core of adamantine and this was not the first time Marie Claire had struck up against it. Years ago, Miri had done something very similar, run off alone to Paris, impelled by concern for her sister Gabrielle. That journey had been perilous enough, but not one tenth as dangerous as this one.

  Before Miri had left, she had obliged Marie Claire again to promise she would not write to Ariane and tell her of her younger sister’s doings. Never had she been so tempted to break a pledge. Not only was she terrified of the dangers Miri would face in confronting this unknown Silver Rose, but Marie Claire was just as troubled by the idea of Miri being alone with Simon Aristide.

  “He has changed, Marie.”

  Did Miri have any notion how much her eyes softened when she said that, when she even pronounced the witch-hunter’s name? How she blushed even as she insisted she harbored no tender feelings toward Aristide? Who was it that Miri was really rushing off to save from the Silver Rose, Carole Moreau or Simon Aristide? Marie Claire doubted that even Miri knew the answer to that question and that was what truly worried her. No matter what gentler feelings Aristide harbored for Miri, the man was far too much at war with the darker side of his own soul ever to be relied upon.

  At least a dozen times each day, Marie Claire had reached for her quill, determined to write to Ariane. If Marie Claire maintained her silence and God forbid, anything happened to Miri, how could Marie Claire ever face Ariane again? And yet . . . how could she draw one dear friend into peril to insure the life of the other?

  Besides, it would take time for her message to reach Ariane, even more precious time for the Lady of Faire Isle and her husband to return to France. By the time Ariane and Renard were able to go after Miri, it might already be far too late.

  Marie Claire issued a tremulous sigh. Never had she felt so infernally old and useless. Glancing down at her hands, she realized that in her abstraction, she was pulling up clumps of rosemary along with the weeds. She bent back to her weeding, trying to keep her attention focused on her task when she was startled by a distant shout.

  She glanced up to see a small figure come hurtling down the lane. Shading her eyes and squinting, Marie Claire recognized Helene Crecy’s six-year-old daughter, Violette. Skirts flapping about her bare ankles, the girl ran, bellowing for her mother at the top of her lungs.

  “Dear God in heaven, now what?” Marie Claire muttered, her chest tightening in apprehension. Pressing her hand to the small of her back, she struggled to her feet just as Madame Crecy burst out of her cottage, the Moreau infant clutched in her arms.

  As she hurried out onto the lane to intercept her daughter, she was hard followed by Madame Alain and her own brood of children, Josephine’s face pinched with alarm.

  “Maman! Maman!”

  As Violette skidded to a halt in front of the women, Helene balanced the babe against her shoulder and bent down to the little girl. Marie Claire could not hear Helene’s anxious inquiries, but Violette’s piping reply carried clearly.

  “The prince has come to Faire Isle.” The child shrieked and danced in her excitement. “Like the stories you tell me, Maman. You know, the handsome prince who kisses the poor girl and saves her from the witch’s spell and then they live happily ever after. Well, the prince is here and maybe he’ll kiss you. Only I expect Papa would not like that.”

  Helene straightened, giving vent to a relieved laugh. Marie Claire pressed her hand to her chest, overwhelmed with relief herself, not certain her heart could have taken the arrival of any more dire news or trouble. Even Josephine essayed a dry laugh, although she could not resist scolding Helene. Marie Claire caught snippets of something about “unwise to be filling the girl’s head with such nonsense.”

  “It is not nonsense,” Violette cried, stomping her small foot with indignation. “Look, here he comes.”

  She pointed one chubby finger at an approaching rider. As the man drew closer and Marie Claire was able to discern his figure more clearly, she thought the child could well be forgiven for mistaking him for a fairy-tale prince. Seldom had such a dashing gallant been seen on the shores of Faire Isle. Even from this distance, he gave the impression of being a handsome man, his deep brown hair smoothed back beneath a black velvet cap sporting a white plume. A short green cloak with a rose silk lining hung off one broad shoulder, his doublet and venetians appearing of as fine quality as his brown leather riding boots.

  All along the lane, women peered out windows or hung over garden fences to gawk as the stranger trotted past, his sleek dapple-gray stallion moving with a jaunty step as his master smil
ed and nodded. It was as though the horse was as well aware as the man of what a swath they were cutting through town and both were mightily enjoying it.

  Marie Claire wiped her hands on her apron, realizing that she was gaping as much as everyone else, but could not seem to help herself. She drifted closer to her garden gate, as the stranger reined to a halt not far from Helene Crecy, whose mouth was hanging open.

  As he bent forward in the saddle, murmuring some greeting, Helene was all but knocked aside by Josephine’s eldest daughter, Lysette, a buxom fourteen-year-old. Blushing and giggling, the girl sidled up to the stranger, but before they had a chance to exchange more than a few words, Josephine pounced like a mother tigress.

  Roughly hauling her daughter back, Josephine stepped forward. Some low, brief conversation took place between her and the stranger. As hard as Marie Claire strained, she could not catch a word of it.

  The stranger straightened in the saddle, looking considerably taken aback. As Josephine continued her harangue, he cast a disgruntled glance down the lane. His entire face seemed to light up. Ignoring Josephine, he smiled and bowed to the other women, then gigged his horse into motion.

  Marie Claire scarce had time to realize he was heading straight to her cottage until he was at her gate. Vaulting from his horse in one graceful, fluid motion, he looped the reins around a fence post. She saw that her first impression of him had been correct. He was handsome, the sharp angles of his face tamed somewhat by a neatly trimmed mustache and beard. But that was by far the only tame thing about him.

  He had a rogue’s eyes and a rogue’s smile, the kind that would make most women lock up their daughters and then be unable to resist his charm themselves. Even Marie Claire was discomposed at the way her heart fluttered as he came through her gate.

  She was further disconcerted when he dropped to one knee before her. Capturing one of her hands, he carried it reverently to his lips.

  “Reverend Mother,” he murmured.

  “I beg your pardon, monsieur. But I am not— That is I am no longer—” Good Lord, Marie Claire thought in disgust. Was she actually blushing and stammering?