The Silver Rose

by Susan Carroll

  ———

  SIMON SLUMPED back in his chair, nursing a cup of wine. It was strange. He had come to regard the night as his time, comfortable with the long stretches of dark and silence that isolated him from the rest of humankind. Only him, Elle, and a pale ribbon of open road.

  But tonight darkness and loneliness seemed to hem him in on all sides. Perhaps it was all those other empty chairs and tables in the deserted taproom. The Paillards had retired to their cleaning up in the kitchens, leaving Simon alone with the remains of his supper and a few candles.

  Ordinarily, Simon sat with his back to the wall, but he had positioned his chair so he could keep his eye trained upon the top of the stairs. He had taken up Miri’s supper tray himself awhile ago, not entering the room, simply handing it to her through the door. He assumed that Miri would be fast asleep by now and tried not to think of her soft warm body curled up in that bed, her silken hair fanning across the pillow.

  At some point he was going to have to get some rest himself to prepare for tomorrow, when they would begin their dangerous search in earnest. He had resolved to stretch out in front of Miri’s door, no matter what the Paillards might think of this strange behavior. Somehow he doubted either of them would notice or care if they did.

  Unhitching his purse from his belt, he loosened the drawstrings and counted out enough coins to pay for the supper and lodging. He meant to settle his reckoning with the Paillards so that he and Miri could slip away unheeded at first light.

  But as he laid the coins upon the table, he was aware of the other object weighting down the bottom of his purse. Something that he rarely ever allowed himself to examine except on nights that seemed lonelier or longer than the rest, a night like this one.

  Delving into the bottom of his purse, he drew forth a small octagonal box he’d purchased to conceal something he’d stolen years ago. Thumbing the catch, he watched the lid spring open to reveal a lock of moon-spun hair nestled against velvet folds. Simon winced when he remembered how ruthlessly he had taken it from Miri, backing her up against the wall of the inn, hacking off the lock of hair with his knife. He’d only done it to frighten her, intimidate her into staying away from him. Far away where she wouldn’t weaken him with her soft lips and searching eyes, dissuade him from what, in his youthful arrogance, he had perceived to be his manifest destiny: to conquer evil, to rid all of France of witchcraft.

  That didn’t explain why he had kept Miri’s lock of hair all these years. As penance perhaps, a constant reminder and reproach for all the wrong he’d done her, the way he’d betrayed her trust time and again. God, she should still hate him. Why didn’t she? He had never known anyone like her, with such a capacity for forgiveness, a willingness to search for the best, even in a ruthless bastard like him. It astounded him, humbled him, shamed him.

  “I believed in you, Simon. I still wish that I could.”

  Oh, the damnable temptation, to take her in his arms and persuade her to do just that. He had glimpsed enough of longing in her face to realize it would be possible to seduce her. To slake his dark, parched soul by drinking in a little of her light, to find ease for his emptiness by burying himself deep within her welcoming warmth.

  But for all she was a woman of some twenty-six years, he sensed that she was still untried, knew little of how one could be consumed by the fires of passion. He had sinned enough against Miri Cheney without teaching her that, for if he understood nothing else about her, he understood this. The woman was not capable of engaging in anything that did not involve her entire heart and soul. And neither would be safe in his cold rough hands.

  Simon snapped the trinket box closed, shoving it back into his purse, resolving to end this unwise alliance between them as swiftly as possible. Track down those witches who had been on Faire Isle, force one of them to give up the identity of the Silver Rose. Then maybe if he suspended his judgment of that miserable Moreau girl and handed her over to Miri, he could persuade Miri to return to Faire Isle, leave dealing with the Silver Rose to—

  Simon’s thoughts were disrupted by the heavy tread of boots. He glanced up, startled to realize his musings had made him careless. He had failed to note the arrival of another wayfarer, a gentleman by the look of him, despite his travel-stained cloak, doublet, and trunk hose.

  Simon studied the newcomer intently but saw nothing in the stranger to occasion alarm. The traveler glanced about the taproom as though searching for the innkeeper. When his gaze fell upon Simon, he accorded him a deep bow.

  “Good evening, monsieur.”

  Simon responded with a curt nod and a scowl, meant to discourage any further exchange of pleasantries. Undeterred, the stranger drew closer to his table.

  “Do I have the pleasure of addressing the great Le Balafre, master witch-hunter?” The man’s voice was courteous, as soft as the curly ends of his sandy beard. But his hazel eyes were shrewd, watchful.

  Simon tensed at the stranger’s inquiry, although he was not particularly surprised by it. Simon was not unknown in this part of the country, often consulted by priests, magistrates, and landowners in the district regarding matters of witchcraft. Usually it turned out to be a mere bagatelle, a waste of Simon’s time, based upon the hysteria of someone’s nervous wife or the superstitious fears of the local peasants. But sometimes, especially considering the recent activities of the Silver Rose, the fear was well-founded.

  More wary now, Simon hedged, “Whether or not you address Le Balafre depends.”

  “Upon what, monsieur?”

  “Upon who it is who asks for him and why.”

  The man bowed again. “Captain Ambroise Gautier. An officer of her most gracious majesty Queen Catherine’s royal guard, at your service, Monsieur Aristide.”

  Although Simon did not betray his alarm by so much as the flicker of an eyelash, he moved his hand beneath the table until it closed over the hilt of his dagger.

  Royal guard, my arse, Simon thought, running his gaze over Gautier’s nondescript apparel. This was one of the Dark Queen’s lackeys, those private emissaries sent out on errands that usually did not bear up under public scrutiny, whether it be the delivery of clandestine correspondence, a bit of espionage, or the quiet dispatch of some enemy.

  Forcing a casual shrug, Simon took a sip of his wine. “Indeed, monsieur? And what would a member of Her Majesty’s royal guard—” Simon laid sarcastic emphasis on the words “—want with me?”

  “I bear you a message from Her Grace,” Gautier said with an amiable smile. “She desires that you wait upon her as soon as may be.”

  “It is a damnably long way to Paris.”

  “Ah, but happily the queen is nearby, not ten leagues from here. In residence at Chenonceau. If we set out now, I promise you that you will be returned to this inn and still have the chance of a few hours’ sleep before sunrise.”

  “I have had no contact with Her Majesty for years. And she would see me tonight? What can possibly be so urgent?”

  “Her Grace does not make me her confidant, but—” Gautier leaned closer, lowering his voice. “I believe it has something to do with certain reports you have been sending to Paris.”

  Simon concealed his surprise, shifting uneasily in his chair. Gautier had to be referring to his reports on the Silver Rose that he’d sent to the king. For all the heed His Grace had paid, Simon might as well have been dispatching them to the bottom of the Seine. Perhaps Henry had never seen them at all. Perhaps they had been falling into other hands—the Dark Queen’s. As much as Simon had wanted someone to read his reports, he would not have had it be her. Even he had not been desperate or mad enough to think of consulting one dangerous sorceress to fight another.

  Simon flexed his fingers on his knife, heartily wishing he had not allowed himself to be caught off guard this way, that he had more time to think this situation through.

  “I have had a long hard day in the saddle,” he began slowly. “Tell Her Grace I shall wait upon her within the next day or two—”
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br />   “One does not keep a queen waiting, Monsieur Aristide. Especially our queen. My instructions were most explicit. I was to bring you to her as soon as I found you, day or night.”

  “And if I am not inclined to go tonight?”

  Gautier’s smile never dimmed, but his eyes narrowed. “Alas, I must fetch you one way or another, on your own two feet or slung unconscious over the back of a horse. I would not make this into something unpleasant, but the choice of course is yours.”

  Gautier lifted his gloved hand in a gesture and Simon heard the tread of boots behind him. He realized that Gautier’s men had followed their captain into the taproom, were no doubt but awaiting his command. How many there were Simon could not tell. He caught a glimpse of at least two out of the corner of his eye, sensed another might be lurking on his blind side.

  Tightening his grip on his knife, Simon weighed his options. If he decided to resist, he was badly outnumbered, his chances of winning slim to none. The ensuing fracas would only serve to rouse the Paillards from the kitchen, possibly put them at risk. Worse still, it might involve Miri. If she were to awaken and come rushing to his aid—

  Simon cut a quick glance up toward her room. The Dark Queen had always been as much of a threat to Miri and her family as ever the Silver Rose could be. But there was no reason for this Captain Gautier to suspect that Simon did not travel alone as usual. Not if Simon kept his head.

  Holding up his hands to display that he held no weapon, he rose slowly to his feet, matching Gautier’s smile with an ironic one of his own. “I am as ever at Her Grace’s disposal.”

  Simon only hoped that would not prove true.

  Chapter Nine

  THE MOON PIERCED THE CLOUDS, SHEDDING A SILVERY LIGHT over the castle, causing the white stone walls to glisten like a lustrous pearl set amidst the rolling hills of the Loire Valley. No grim fortress this, but more of a fairy-tale palace with its towers and turrets, its rows of sparkling windows. It bridged the River Cher, and the dark waters flowed beneath the castle’s series of graceful arches.

  Chenonceau was not large when compared to other châteaus, but it was certainly reckoned among the loveliest in France. Yet as Simon crossed the courtyard, he reflected that he had had far too much experience with how evil could be hidden beneath a beautiful façade. Whether it be a castle or a silver rose.

  The Château de Chenonceau owed its elegant design not to any male architect but more to the cleverness of the three women who had owned it over the past decades: one finance minister’s wife, one royal mistress, and . . . one Dark Queen.

  Like many of her subjects, Simon had long suspected Catherine de Medici of being a sorceress skilled in the black arts, especially those involving poisons. Her cold smile had often challenged Simon to prove it, something he had surrendered all hope of doing. The woman was simply too careful, too cunning, and she was the queen mother of France. At one time, Catherine might have regarded Simon as a troublesome adversary, but after he had fallen out of favor at court, she appeared to have dismissed him from her thoughts. Or so he had believed until tonight . . .

  Simon marched toward the torch-lit entryway, closely surrounded by his escort. Although Simon had surrendered his weapons and come quietly, Captain Gautier was watchful, taking no chances. He had hustled Simon out of the Brass Horse and straight onto the back of a waiting horse.

  For all of Gautier’s assurances that the queen only wished for a brief audience, Simon tensed as he passed beneath the shadow of the castle. As the entry doors slammed shut behind him, he couldn’t help thinking how easily a man could be detained within these thick stone walls for an indefinite period. Or be made to disappear and never be heard from again. A cold feeling trickled down his spine, the emotion so foreign to him, it took him a moment to identify what it was.

  Fear. Not for himself but for the woman he had left behind, wondering what Miri would do if he failed to return. Waking up abandoned in a strange inn, with no idea what had become of Simon. Would she set out in search of him and risk falling into the hands of the Dark Queen herself? Would she continue alone on her quest to defeat the Silver Rose?

  She had a weapon. Simon had left his sword in the room with her, not that he could imagine Miri ever using it on anyone, not even to save her own life. He could more picture the weapon being wrested away, turned against her, his own blade piercing her—

  Simon ground his teeth. He was not the sort to let his mind run riot with fearful imaginings, and now was not the time to begin. Not when he needed to remain calm, think rationally. If Catherine had made up her mind to dispose of Simon after all these years, Simon reckoned he’d already be dead. Gautier was the kind of smiling bastard who would have no compunction about slitting a man’s throat, apologizing while he did so. Simon had no reason to suppose that the situation was other than Gautier had described. The queen had read his reports and was disturbed by them. But Simon had been sending those reports for months. Why all of a sudden did Catherine urgently desire to question him?

  Simon had to admit he was curious, and that could be a dangerous thing where the Dark Queen was concerned. The sooner he could conclude this interview and get back to Miri, the easier he would feel.

  Once he had Simon securely within the castle walls, Gautier relaxed. Dismissing the other guards, the captain escorted Simon to the main stair, a wide, straight series of risers that stretched up to the landing above, the ceiling carved with the two intertwining “C”s of Catherine de Medici. As if anyone was in danger of forgetting who was mistress here, Simon thought.

  The sight of the hall stirred in Simon an unpleasant memory of the last time he had come to Chenonceau, to report to the French king the debacle of his raid on Faire Isle. He had been exhausted, weighted down by his failure to recover the Book of Shadows, to arrest the sorcerer Renard, to keep control over his men, to stop them from looting and burning. Riddled with guilt as well over the grief he knew he must have inflicted upon Miri.

  His black mood had left Simon in little humor to find himself caught up in the wild gaiety of some court fete. A fete? No, more like an orgy, courtesans scandalously clad in venetians and nothing else draped all over the castle stair. Cooing, calling out lewd greetings to Simon, attempting to thrust their bare breasts in his face.

  Simon had shrunk back, turning to the only woman present respectably garbed in silk gown and farthingale. She had sketched him a demure curtsy, fluttering her fan before her face. But when she lowered the fan, Simon had frozen in shock. Beneath the ridiculous purple wig and layers of rouge, the king of France leered up at Simon. And this was the man to whom Simon had bound himself? He had believed Henry Valois to be a young king of serious mind, upright and sincere, passionately committed to ruling over a France that would be free of all evil and corruption.

  Simon had felt sick to his stomach as the king had planted a buss full on his mouth, then pretended to recoil in horror from Simon’s scars. Face burning, Simon had scarce known what to do, where to look as the entire court had dissolved into laughter. And from somewhere in the shadows above, she had watched, the Dark Queen, her lips thinning in a smile at his discomfiture.

  Simon shook his head to clear off the disturbing memory. Perhaps Miri was right. He was a bit of a prude, had been even more so in his youth. He had witnessed enough debauchery in Henry Valois’s court to be far more jaded now. All the same, he was relieved to find the activity in the castle mundane tonight.

  It was obvious that the queen had only recently taken up residence. Exhausted-looking servants toted chests and trunks still to be unpacked. A courier, his clothes as travel stained as Simon’s, rushed past, clutching missives to be delivered.

  The staircase opened onto a long hall covered with rib vaults, the candle sconces sending flickering shadows over walls of costly Flemish tapestries and many doors. As Simon and his escort reached the landing, a petite blond woman rustled forward to intercept them, the cool accents of her voice disturbingly familiar to Simon.

  �
��Thank you, Captain Gautier. I will conduct Monsieur Aristide from here.”

  Gautier hesitated a moment, then bowed respectfully and departed, leaving Simon alone with Gillian Harcourt, one of Catherine’s chief ladies. Ladies? There were far less kind terms some might apply to the beautiful and clever women who served the Dark Queen. Known as the Flying Squadron, they were recruited by Catherine to seduce her enemies and ferret out their secrets, to keep her powerful nobles in check by holding them in thrall.

  During his days in service to Catherine’s son Henry, Simon had given these notorious seductresses a wide berth . . . except for Gillian. He had always liked the woman’s humor and quick wit. In fact, there had been a period of a few weeks when he had done far more than merely like her.

  Simon and his former mistress regarded each other in silence for a long moment. The years had not been gentle with the courtesan. Her beauty was fading, her low-cut mauve gown revealing far too much of a bosom that was no longer firm. Lines bracketed her mouth, her face was ravaged by too many revels, too many late nights, and all the rouge she applied to her cheeks could not disguise the fact.

  Like many of the queen’s women, her eyes had a hard and calculating expression but something in them softened at the sight of Simon.

  “Simon Aristide, it has been a long time,” she murmured.

  “Mademoiselle Harcourt.” Simon accorded her an ironic bow.

  Gillian drifted closer in a cloud of heavy perfume. Simon had always found it too cloying. She stroked a strand of hair back from his brow. “So you finally decided to let your hair grow back. There were some mornings, the sun glancing off that bald pate of yours was almost blinding, Monsieur Le Balafre. I would declare your appearance improved except—” Gillian wrinkled her nose. “Some clean clothing would not come amiss.”

  “Forgive me, milady,” Simon replied dryly. “But my escort gave me little opportunity to refresh myself. Besides, it has been a long time since I have been received at court. I have grown out of the habit of waiting upon royalty.”