The Silver Rose

by Susan Carroll

  When Lucie finally roused, her eyes fluttering open, Catherine curtly ordered the guard to stand back. As she moved closer to the prisoner, the girl’s head lolled to one side. She studied Catherine with pain-glazed eyes as the queen drew back her veil.

  “Well, do you know me, Mistress Paillard?”

  A spark of recognition flashed in those dull eyes. Lucie’s dry, cracked lips stretched in a semblance of a smile.

  “De Medici,” she rasped. “Florentine shopkeeper’s daughter.”

  Catherine heard the governor’s sharp indrawn breath, but she remained unruffled. It was an epithet that had been hurled at her ever since she had first set foot in this country, the haughty French never considering a woman descended from Italian merchant princes good enough for their young king, despite the impressive dowry she brought.

  Long inured to the insult, Catherine displayed no reaction until the girl added hoarsely, “Sorceress . . . Dark Queen . . . my enemy.”

  Catherine tensed. She ordered the guard and de Varney to retire from the cell. The governor made a faint effort to protest, but was silenced by a cold look from Catherine. At least her eyes still held that much power, she thought with satisfaction.

  As soon as the men had retreated, Catherine cupped the girl’s chin. Forcing Lucie’s head up, Catherine probed her eyes, concentrating with all her will. But it was like trying to penetrate the surface of some murky stream. Catherine squinted until her own eyes watered and she was obliged to give up the attempt in frustration.

  Forcing herself to speak to the girl in gentle accents, Catherine said, “How am I your enemy, child? I may well be your only friend. You have done a foolish thing by participating in this plot against my life. But I could be merciful if you tell me what I want to know. I alone have the power to save you—”

  Catherine broke off in astonishment. Weak as she was, Lucie managed to pull free of her grasp and shake her head.

  “No. You have . . . no power. Not like my mistress, my Silver Rose.”

  “And who might she be?”

  “The one . . . who will destroy you.” Lucie moistened her lips, barely able to whisper. Catherine had to lean closer in order to hear her.

  “The revolution is coming. Silver Rose . . . will have your kingdom one day.”

  “Indeed,” Catherine replied dryly. “And how does she propose to do that? Conquer France by barraging my armies with poisoned flowers?”

  “She has more than . . . the roses. She has the—the Book.”

  “Book? What book?” Catherine asked sharply.

  Lucie’s breathing grew labored, her eyes filming over. Catherine gave her a brisk shake.

  “What book?” she demanded more fiercely.

  Lucie’s mouth worked silently. Before her head slumped forward, she managed to whisper.

  “Book . . . of Shadows.”

  ———

  CATHERINE SLUMPED against the squabs of her carriage, seeking a more comfortable position for her aching joints as she was jostled back to the Louvre. Despite the stifling heat of the day, she had drawn the curtains across the windows, the glint of the sun unbearable, aggravating the stabbing pain behind her eyes. Another one of her cursed headaches brought on by more vexation.

  And the Lord knows she already had enough of it. As her carriage lumbered through the streets, Catherine was keenly aware that the thin walls of the coach and an escort of Swiss guards were all that separated her from the malcontented populace. Like much of the rest of the country, Paris teemed with misery and unrest.

  It had been an ill-fated spring, floods followed by drought that ruined crops and decimated cattle. Food was scarce, prices were high, bellies were empty, and tempers were short. The civil war between Huguenots and Catholics that had plagued the country for the past two decades continued unabated, a constant drain upon the royal coffers.

  Of course, she was blamed for it all, Catherine reflected bitterly, massaging the bridge of her nose. What had the latest round of scurrilous pamphlets being circulated around Paris called her? “A serpent born of tainted parents in the charnel house of Italy . . . the most infamous she-devil ever to hold royal power.”

  The fools didn’t seem to realize that whatever stability France had known these past years was entirely owing to her efforts. Certainly not to her son, his most royal majesty, Henry III, by grace of God, king of France.

  When Henry wasn’t amusing himself in wild revels with other painted fops, he indulged in fits of religious zeal that involved lengthy retreats and flagellation. While he wasted time, prostrate on his knees before some marble statue, his kingdom was on the verge of disaster, his crown threatened by the rising power of his nobles, especially one in particular, the duc de Guise.

  The duke had but to appear within the gates of the city for these wretched Parisians to rush after his horse crying, “À Guise, à Guise.” Like he was the second coming of the Christ, their great Catholic hero, Catherine thought scornfully. Handsome, bold, and arrogant, the duke used piety as a thin mask for his ambitions, which reached as far as the throne itself.

  As if all of that were not enough to plague her, she had this new threat to worry about, this—this Silver Rose, whoever the devil she was. But Catherine would learn nothing more from young Mistress Paillard.

  The girl was dead, thanks to de Varney and his oafish warders. The governor had sweated and babbled excuses. Lucie Paillard must not have been as strong as she looked. Perhaps the girl had a weak heart or—or—

  Catherine had silenced de Varney with a cold look. The plain truth was de Varney and his minions lacked finesse in the arts of torture. And now the Paillard girl had slipped into the dark arms of death, taking the rest of her secrets with her.

  No wonder Catherine’s head felt ready to split in twain. She had not even had the strength to properly rebuke de Varney for being so inept. Hobbling up from the dungeons, her one thought had been to escape before the governor or any of his minions realized how shaken she was. That there were words that could strike fear even into the heart of a Dark Queen.

  “My Silver Rose will destroy you. She has the Book of Shadows.”

  Could that wretched girl have possibly known what she was talking about or was it merely the ravings of someone tortured to the brink of madness? The Book of Shadows was the stuff of legends among daughters of the earth. Rumored to be a compendium of ancient knowledge long lost to the world, it contained magic of the most dangerous and wondrous kind. Descriptions of how to fashion weaponry that could decimate populations or destroy entire cities, potions and methods to keep one young, preserve life until one became all but immortal.

  Many called the book a fable, but Catherine knew better. She had come so close to obtaining it once, or so she had believed. She closed her eyes, her mind drifting back to that summer night ten years ago when she had awaited the return of her spy from the Charters Inn, where the witch-hunter Le Balafre and his men were quartered in Paris.

  A trade was supposed to take place between the Comte de Renard and Simon Aristide, a bargain made to save the life of Gabrielle Cheney. Catherine had little doubt it would prove to be some kind of trap. She knew what an arrogant and ruthless bastard young Aristide was and grudgingly admired him for it. Dealing with Le Balafre’s treachery was a problem for the Lady of Faire Isle and her family. Catherine was only interested in the object of the trade, the mysterious book that the Comte had somehow managed to acquire.

  As Catherine had paced her apartments, alarming reports reached her that something had gone terribly wrong at the Charters Inn. There had been a battle or some sort of an explosion. No one seemed able to tell her exactly what, only that the building had caught fire and likely would burn to the ground. As yet, there were no reports of any casualties, but the witch-hunter’s prisoners had escaped and Monsieur Le Balafre was definitely still alive.

  Catherine paid scant attention to those details. She had only wanted to know one thing . . . Where the devil was Bartolomy Verducci? She only p
rayed the old fool had not gotten himself blown to bits on the most important mission she’d ever given him—the acquisition of the Book of Shadows.

  She had begun to consider the rash action of venturing forth to make some inquiries herself when one of her ladies-in-waiting brought her the welcome intelligence of the signor’s return. When Verducci staggered into her antechamber, his breeches and jerkin were ashen with soot. His eyebrows had been singed off, likewise the ends of his beard. His head was wrapped in a thick bloodstained bandage that prevented him from donning his cap.

  At any other occasion, Catherine would have rebuked him for appearing before her in such a state, but she wasted no time on pointless preliminaries, not even asking where he had been all this while.

  “Well, sirrah, have you succeeded in your mission? Did you acquire it?” she had demanded anxiously.

  Verducci held up a pouch that he attempted to present to her, but the scrawny little man collapsed at her feet. Catherine had snatched up the pouch, barely able to suppress her cry of triumph as she drew out the worn leather book. Her euphoria had lasted no more than the fleeting second it took her to crack open the cover. What she had held clutched so tightly in her hands was no Book of Shadows. Only a Huguenot Bible.

  Catherine braced herself against the sway of the carriage, remembering the depth of her anger and disappointment. She had been sick with rage, nearly forgetting the regal bearing that had been drilled into her since childhood. She had wanted to throttle Verducci with her bare hands, only one thing staying her. The man was already at death’s door and he held the only clue to what had gone wrong.

  When she had nursed him back to consciousness, the signor had been devastated when he had learned of his failure. He had wept like a mewling infant.

  “F-forgive me, Your Grace. But I did acquire the Book, I swear it. In the chaos after the explosion, I managed to seize it all, the Book, the twin medallions, the r-ring you gave Mademoiselle Cheney. E-everything . . .”

  Catherine could not have cared less about the ring. She had no idea what medallions Verducci was nattering on about. All she had wanted to know was what had happened to the Book of Shadows.

  Her powers had been so much stronger then. She had forced Verducci to lie still while she had pierced his gaze with her own, seeking to probe his memory. But it was like stumbling through the ash and debris of a cottage leveled by cannon fire. The old man’s wits were permanently addled by the injuries he had sustained to his head.

  The best Catherine could retrieve was a blurred memory of Verducci staggering away from the blazing inn, the pouch containing the precious book clutched to his chest. Blood trickled down his brow, his eyes streaming from the acrid sting of smoke, his throat raw and parched. And then there was someone, a woman, Catherine thought, but the person’s face and form were lost in the haze of Verducci’s damaged memory.

  All he recollected were hands bandaging his head, a soothing voice urging him to drink from a flask. And then nothing more until he managed to drag himself up into the saddle for the long journey to Blois.

  But it had taken no great mental leap on Catherine’s part to fill in the gaps in Verducci’s memory. The old fool had allowed himself to be drugged and robbed. At the time Catherine had believed one of the Cheney sisters to be responsible, Gabrielle most likely.

  The young woman always had been too clever for her own good and it would be like Gabrielle’s impertinence to mock Catherine by substituting a Bible for the Book of Shadows. Or perhaps there had never been any Book of Shadows. Perhaps it had all been a ruse concocted by the Comte de Renard to save his sister-in-law. Perhaps like so many foolish daughters of the earth before her, Catherine had merely been chasing a myth.

  She had heard nothing more of the book in all these years. At least not until this morning, when Lucie Paillard had whispered her dying words in Catherine’s ear.

  Catherine rubbed her pounding temples. Was it possible that she had been wrong about the Cheneys, that on that long-ago night there had been another watching and waiting in the shadows, a sorceress who had outwitted them all and walked off with the prize?

  Despite the heat, Catherine shivered, her blood chilled by the thought of that powerful book in the hands of some sorceress as skilled and ruthless as herself. That would make Mistress Paillard’s talk of a coming revolution more than the ravings of a feverish girl. This Silver Rose might well prove a greater danger to Catherine’s power than all the famine, floods, civil war, and ambitious nobles put together. But if the unknown sorceress had possessed the Book of Shadows all these years, why had she waited until now to make use of it? The book was said to be complex, written in an ancient tongue, not easily deciphered.

  Perhaps thus far all the witch had learned from it was how to grow poisoned roses. Or perhaps this woman didn’t have the book at all. Only one thing was certain. All this useless speculation did nothing but exacerbate the pain in Catherine’s head.

  She had to get to the crux of this new threat and do it quickly. This Silver Rose needed to be unmasked and destroyed. But how? Any clue to the woman’s identity had died with that wretched girl. Catherine might have despaired except for one thing.

  This was not the first time she had heard tell of the Silver Rose.

  ———

  CATHERINE LONGED TO SINK down upon her bed, command her ladies-in-waiting to fetch possets and cooling cloths for her head. But she had no time to waste upon such self-indulgence. Dismissing all her attendants, she hobbled toward the magnificently carved cabinet of Italian design that she kept in her study. The small key that opened it dangled from her chatelaine.

  Catherine’s fingers were so swollen, her knuckles so stiff, she had difficulty working the key in the lock. Softly cursing her inability to perform such a simple task, she gritted her teeth until the lock sprang at last and the doors swung open. Upon the lower shelf resided a small chest in which Catherine kept a sheaf of private correspondence.

  Pawing awkwardly through the contents, she dug until she found what she was looking for, a thin stack of dispatches sent by Simon Aristide that Catherine had bound together with a black ribbon.

  The reports had not been sent to Catherine, but to her son. Years ago Henry had engaged Simon Aristide and his mercenary troop of witch-hunters to launch a crusade, Henry announcing a pious intent to rid France of all sorcery. Of course Catherine had known what Henry was really doing, using Le Balafre in an attempt to intimidate her, warn her off from meddling in affairs of state. Just another aspect of the game waged between her and her son, a private tussle for power.

  A game that the king had eventually grown bored with, as he did with much else. The troop of witch-hunters had disbanded, the notorious Le Balafre falling from royal favor much to Catherine’s relief.

  Simon Aristide was intelligent, ruthless, and incorruptible, a dangerous combination in any man, let alone a witch-hunter. She was glad when Aristide had faded into obscurity. Little had been heard from the man until these dispatches had begun to arrive about a year ago. Reports that Henry had ignored, not even bothering to break the seal.

  Catherine had read and saved them more out of curiosity than anything else. It was always good to know what one’s enemy was about . . . But now, she slid off the black ribbon and perused the dispatches with new interest.

  The pain in her head caused her vision to blur. She had to grind her fingertips against her eyes, holding the parchment almost at arm’s length to be able to focus. Fortunately, the witch-hunter wrote in a large, bold, and blunt hand. The first report contained nothing particularly alarming, only Aristide’s growing concern over a new coven.

  “The initiation into this coven appears to involve a rite of the most heinous kind, the sacrifice of newborn babes, healthy male infants . . .”

  When Catherine had first read this report, she had dismissed it as the actions of a few demented women, although she had to admit, it had given her a sharp pang. Such a stupid, senseless waste, destroying a healthy boy. Sh
e compressed her lips, thinking what such a child could mean.

  If her son ever managed to produce an heir, it would do much to quiet the rumblings against him, secure the future of his throne. But when Henry bedded a woman at all, it was seldom his own wife, and the act of coupling so exhausted the king, he was obliged to take to his bed for days afterward.

  “What kind of Frenchman is this?” That was what many of his scornful subjects had been overheard to whisper about him. “No proper Frenchman at all, but more a devious Italian like his mother.”

  Small wonder that more and more of the Catholics were turning their hopes to the virile duc de Guise, while the Huguenots gave their support to a lustier Henry, the king of Navarre.

  Catherine sighed, wondering what she had ever done to be plagued with such weak sons. She should have had nothing to worry about. She had given birth to four male children who had survived to adulthood. But she had already outlived three of them.

  If Henry were to die young as well, without leaving an heir, what would become of her? Another nagging worry that Catherine shoved to the back of her mind as she perused the next few reports. Aristide’s dispatches to the king grew more urgent with each writing.

  “. . . and I implore Your Grace to take some action in the matter and aid me in my investigations. The ranks of this coven are swelling, their power growing. These witches range about the countryside, leaving death and havoc in their wake wherever they go. What their ultimate aim is, I do not know. But I finally have a name for their leader. She calls herself the Silver Rose and waxes increasingly bolder about announcing her presence.”

  Catherine squinted at the rest of the lines on the page, but they contained little more than another plea for the king to turn his attention to the problem. It was the last report Aristide had sent and it was dated over six months ago.