The Silver Rose

by Susan Carroll

  But there was no sense tormenting himself by desiring a woman he could never have. If he had ever been in any doubt about that, he had the sight of that locket dangling around Miri’s neck to remind him.

  As Simon and Miri cleared the line of trees, the path continued through an open field, winding toward the house nestled atop the gentle rise of a hill. Simon had designed the place himself, a modest two-story structure of gray stone, its one extravagance the diamond-paned windows that reflected the afternoon sun.

  Simon had not been near the place for over a year. But as they drew nearer, Elle’s ears pricked forward. Sighting the pasture where she had frolicked as a filly, the mare pulled eagerly at the bit.

  “Whoa, easy, girl,” Simon said, firmly but gently reining her in.

  He squinted into the sun as he surveyed his property. The house was flanked by a series of well-kept outbuildings, the stables, a hen coop, a laundry house, the granary, a shed for the plow. The wheat had been harvested, whatever poor crop had survived the drought. But the orchard looked like it was thriving and the water in the duck pond was not too low.

  Simon became aware of Miri beside him, straining upward in the stirrups as she craned her neck, glancing curiously about her. His decision to bring her to his lands had seemed so simple and logical last night. The farm was where he had left his journals, the diaries that might provide the vital clue they needed to the Silver Rose’s identity. But he felt oddly self-conscious, as though he was offering up yet one more private part of himself for her inspection.

  “So . . . so this is your home?” she asked wonderingly.

  Simon had never thought of the farm that way, had never called the place home, at least not until he had spoken of it to Miri.

  “My home,” he repeated slowly, as though the word was foreign to his tongue. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

  Miri shoved back her hat, her eyes so round with frank astonishment, Simon didn’t know whether to be amused or take umbrage.

  “What the blazes did you expect? That I lived in some dank dungeon surrounded by my torture implements?”

  “I didn’t think you lived anywhere. You spoke of trying to settle somewhere that first night, but I got the impression you had abandoned the attempt. You said you didn’t feel as though you belonged here.”

  “I don’t, but I need somewhere to stow my documents, clothes, and books. I am getting too damned old to only live on what I can carry in my saddlebags. But I haven’t come here since the Silver Rose started sending her assassins after me. I don’t want to put any of the people here in danger. I wouldn’t have risked it now except for the need to consult my journals. I have a very capable steward who keeps things running smoothly, making my presence here unnecessary.”

  His explanation caused that familiar crease to appear between Miri’s eyes. As they proceeded at a slow walk down the lane, her head shifted from side to side. Simon attempted to imagine how the farm must look to her. She couldn’t be all that impressed, not a woman who had been raised in a fine manor house amidst the beauty of Faire Isle with its deep forests and breathtaking coastlines.

  His farm was certainly nothing compared to what she might expect when she married Martin le Loup. According to Miri, her dashing Wolf held a place of high favor with the king of Navarre. Not some half-mad, perverted monarch like the French king Simon had reluctantly served.

  Henry of Navarre was reputed to be shrewd and courageous, with a lusty zest for life, not unlike le Loup himself. He and Miri would probably have a grand set of apartments at the royal palace. Maybe le Loup would even acquire an estate of his own, far more impressive than Simon’s modest acreage. Not that it mattered, Simon told himself. It is not as though he was setting himself up as le Loup’s rival.

  All the same he watched Miri, anxiously awaiting her reaction.

  “The land stretches from those woods we rode through, all the way to those upper fields and beyond.” Simon made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “Over that next rise is a small village and some of the cottagers from there help with the wheat harvesting and apple picking in the fall. The meadow borders a brook and the part of the woods where the goats can roam free to forage. There is also a small herd of sheep, a few pigs, and . . .”

  Simon trailed off, grimacing as he realized he was once again talking too much. He had acquired a lamentable habit of doing that around Miri.

  “And, er, well, there it is,” he concluded, letting his hand fall back to the reins. “Just a small farm. Nothing much.”

  Miri faced him, adjusting her weight in the saddle.

  “Simon, it’s perfect,” she said, her smile seeming to blossom inside of him. He had to check the impulse to grin back at her, an even stronger urge to lean forward and kiss those tempting lips.

  How was it possible for a woman to look so enticing with wisps of hair escaping from her braids, her face shaded by that battered hat, her willowy body clad in a shapeless tunic and breeches? But she did, her lovely face possessing a natural glow, the azure of the sky reflected in her silvery-blue eyes.

  Simon tried to imagine Miri in a palace, amidst all the artificiality of court life, attired in corsets, farthingales, costly silk gowns, and jewels, her moon-spun hair confined beneath a fashionable bon grace cap. Tried to picture it and couldn’t. It was like imagining some wild woodland fairy captured and trapped beneath a glass jar until her wings drooped and her glow dimmed.

  He could far more easily envision her here on this farm, roaming the fields or splashing through the brook, her hair tumbled loose about her shoulders as she wandered out into the meadow, her eyes lighting with laughter as she scooped up a newborn lamb and it nibbled at her chin.

  A foolish and futile vision. Just because the differences between them seemed to have blurred over these past few days, that didn’t mean anything had changed. Those differences would resurface sharply enough if Miri’s family got wind of her being in his company and sent someone after her. Or when he apprehended the Silver Rose and her coven and was obliged to see them tried for witchcraft.

  He’d do his best to keep his promise and see the Moreau girl handed safely over to Miri. He had no doubt Miri would not linger long after that. No matter how much she deplored the Silver Rose’s activities, Miri’s tender heart would never be able to endure the trials, the executions.

  She’d take Carole and return to Faire Isle. He’d never see Miri again and that was as it should be, the better for both of them. They had no future, their past shadowed with painful memories and far too many regrets. Beyond that, there was only the present. Although Simon was beset by a hollow feeling of loss, he shook it off, determined not to waste a moment of the pleasure he saw on her face as she looked over his farm.

  As they rode toward the stable yard, he pointed out to her the vegetable and herb garden beyond the house. Although Miri nodded, her gaze was more on Simon. Just when she felt she had begun to know the man, he surprised her yet again.

  When he had spoken hesitantly about bringing her to his home, she didn’t know what she had expected. Some indifferent lodgings he had leased above a shop or inn, perhaps, nothing like this prosperous, sprawling farm.

  He had given her the impression of being a lonely drifter, no real place to call his own. Although he had kept this farm, he insisted he didn’t feel as if he belonged here. But it was only Le Balafre, the witch-hunter with his sinister eye patch, unrelenting black garb, and restless gaze, who did not belong in this serene setting. Simon Aristide could, Miri thought, if only he would give himself half a chance.

  When an elderly groom and a stable hand emerged to take charge of the horses, Miri saw no apprehension of Simon on the men’s faces. They were wary and respectful as they greeted Simon, welcomed him home. Any distance Miri sensed came more from Simon as he dismounted. Not that he was curt or unfriendly as he returned the men’s greetings, merely stiff and reserved, his invisible wall in place.

  A wall that did nothing to deter the young man who had been at wor
k in the garden. He dropped his hoe with a loud whoop when he spied Simon, loping across the stable yard with a black-and-white dog at his heels. The boy was large and ungainly, with a bristle of pale blond hair, a round flushed face, and jug-like ears. His long arms and massive hands flailed wildly as he bounded toward Simon, calling out joyously. “Master Simon! Master Simon! You’ve come back.”

  He hurtled at Simon at such a speed, he appeared about to bowl him over. But the young man skidded to a halt at the last minute. He flung his arms about Simon in a rib-cracking hug while the dog raced about them in frantic circles barking.

  Miri dismounted, surrendering Samson to the stable hand, scarce noticing what she did as she watched the astonishing scene unfold. She half-expected Simon to rebuke the boy or thrust him away. Although Simon appeared considerably embarrassed with Miri and the grooms looking on, he patted the burly young man’s shoulder awkwardly.

  “Er—yes, I am glad to see you too, Yves. But I need to breathe.”

  The boy released Simon, beaming. When the dog crouched back, flattening its ears, barking and emitting a low growl, Yves rebuked it sternly.

  “Here now, Beau! Quiet! What’s the matter with you? It’s our Master Simon. You remember him. Mind your manners and greet him proper.”

  The dog cocked its head, emitting another low woof. But Simon did exactly what Miri would have done herself, hunkered down and held out his hand to be sniffed, making no sudden movement as Beau crept forward. In another instant, the dog was wagging his tail as Simon scratched him behind the ears.

  “That’s better,” Yves approved. “Beau is just being extra vigilant, just like you told us all to be, Master Simon. In case any of those witches should—” He broke off as he suddenly took note of Miri.

  The stable hands had cast Miri questioning but polite glances. Yves regarded her with undisguised curiosity, his eyes orbs of deep blue. As Miri gazed into their depths, she saw a gentle simple soul, one of those destined to remain a child forever despite his massive size and rawboned limbs.

  “Who is this, Master Simon?” Yves demanded.

  Simon glanced up from petting the dog to cast Miri a half-smile. “A friend of mine. Miri, this is Yves Pascale, my steward’s son.”

  Miri smiled gently at Yves, but when she held out her hand and tried to greet him, the boy blushed and shied back. He raced off in the direction of the house, bellowing at the top of his lungs, “Maman! Maman!”

  As the dog tore off after Yves, Simon rose to his feet, brushing off his hands.

  “I am sorry,” Miri said. “I didn’t mean to frighten him.”

  “You didn’t. Yves is just rather shy, that’s all, and—a little slow in his wits.” Simon hastened to add, “But he’s a hard worker and good with all the animals. He can grasp most tasks if you explain what he is to do carefully. All the other hands on the farm are very patient and understanding with him.”

  And if they weren’t, Miri strongly suspected they would have Simon to answer to. A protective note had crept into his voice when speaking of the boy.

  “Yves is obviously very fond of you,” Miri observed.

  “The poor boy doesn’t know any better.” Simon shrugged, as always trying to deprecate any good opinion of himself.

  Before Miri could attempt to argue with him, Yves burst back out of the house, tugging a diminutive woman by the hand.

  “Hurry Maman,” Yves urged. “Master Simon has come home and he’s brought a friend with him. Hurry!”

  “I am hurrying,” his mother protested with a laugh. She was as tiny as he was tall, garbed in a plain gown and apron, her snowy waves of hair tucked beneath a modest linen cap.

  Her face lit up at the sight of Simon. Although she did not embrace him as Yves had done, she rushed forward to take his hand.

  “Master Simon!” she exclaimed. “Welcome home. You have been gone so long this time. We were all very worried. What a relief to have you back unharmed.”

  “Er—yes, thank you, madame,” Simon replied gravely.

  “But far too thin,” the petite woman scolded. “How are you to fight that dreadful Silver Rose if you don’t take proper care—”

  “Maman,” Yves interrupted, tugging at his mother’s sleeve. He pointed at Miri. “Look, there is master’s friend. Her name is Miri.” He added in a loud whisper. “She’s a girl even though she dresses like a boy.”

  Miri drew back shyly as Madame Pascale’s attention turned in her direction.

  “Miri, this is Madame Esmee Pascale,” Simon said. “She acts as my steward.”

  Miri had assumed the woman worked in Simon’s house in some capacity, but his steward? A position of great trust and responsibility that few would consider a woman fit to hold.

  She could not conceal her surprise as she gaped at Madame Pascale. The woman stared steadily back. She barely came to Miri’s shoulder, her face fine boned and as wrinkled as a dried apple, but her eyes were bright blue like her son’s, shrewd and penetrating.

  As their eyes met, Miri experienced a jolt of recognition, each woman seeing the other for what she was—a daughter of the earth. Miri stripped off her hat. Simon had already revealed her secret when he had slipped and called her Miri in front of Yves, but it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. There would have been no deceiving another wise woman like Madame Pascale.

  “Madame Pascale, this is Miribelle Cheney,” Simon began. “She—”

  “I know who she is,” Esmee Pascale interrupted, sinking into a deep curtsy. “She is the sister of the Lady of Faire Isle.”

  “No,” Simon astonished Miri by saying. He added with a quiet smile. “Well, yes, she is Ariane’s sister. But Miri is better known as the Lady of the Wood.”

  ———

  ESMEE FLITTED ABOUT the kitchen, reminding Miri of an industrious hummingbird as she set the household into motion, sending off one young maid to air the bedchambers, another to fetch more water from the brook, and urged the kitchen boy to run home.

  “. . . and tell your Maman to send us both your sisters. We are going to need the extra help since Monsieur Aristide is here and he has brought a guest.”

  Seated out of the way at the broad kitchen table, Miri wondered if the man who deemed himself unnecessary to this place had any idea of the flurry of excitement his arrival had caused. Simon had allowed himself to be dragged off by Yves to inspect a cow due to calve at any moment. Miri would willingly have accompanied them, but Simon insisted that she refresh herself after their hard morning’s ride. He had consigned Miri to the care of Esmee Pascale, who had seemed so eager to wait upon her, Miri had been unable to refuse.

  Besides, she was more than a little curious about both Simon’s house and the wise woman who dared to dwell beneath the roof of a witch-hunter. If Simon had any idea what Esmee was, he had given little sign of it and thus far Miri had had little chance of conversation with the woman.

  While Esmee handed out her orders, Miri waited quietly, taking stock of her surroundings. Simon’s house was a modest one, constructed with a simplicity she found pleasing. There was no ostentatious great hall, the main floor given over to an enormous kitchen that served as both cooking and dining area. It boasted a hearth large enough for a man to walk into, shelves laden with every cooking implement imaginable, kettles and cauldrons, skimmers, spoons, scoops, spits and skewers, colanders, mortars, pestles, and graters. Besides a massive table with its bench and stools, there was a well-stocked spice cupboard and a rack for drying herbs suspended from the ceiling.

  Handing a pile of fresh linens to the young maid, Esmee shooed the girl upstairs and then bustled over to Miri, bearing a steaming mug of some fragrant liquid.

  “I am sorry to keep you waiting and that we are so ill prepared to receive you, milady. But Master Simon comes here so seldom, alas, and we have never entertained such an exalted guest.”

  “I am very far from being exalted,” Miri protested, peering ruefully down at her travel-stained clothing. “Nor am I titled milady.”
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br />   “Master Simon says that you are and that is good enough for me.”

  Miri only smiled and shook her head. She had been embarrassed and astonished when Simon had introduced her as the Lady of the Wood, but touched as well. For so long he had repudiated who and what she was, but when he had presented her to Madame Pascale, he had almost sounded proud of Miri.

  Drawing nearer, Esmee pressed the mug into her hands. “Please favor me by trying some of my herbal tea. I realize it would be a much more welcome brew on a cold winter’s day, but the tea is very restorative after a long hard journey.”

  Esmee did not need to tell her that. Miri held the mug beneath her nose and inhaled, breathing in the familiar aroma that spoke to her poignantly of home and Ariane. Her older sister had taught Miri to concoct a similar brew but her tea had never tasted as good to her as Ariane’s.

  As she took a sip from her cup, Miri realized that Madame Pascale’s did. She gave a grateful sigh. “Thank you—” she began, but she was interrupted by the maid calling down the stairs, wanting to know which bedchamber Miri was to have.

  “She is to be placed in the master’s room, Marguerite,” Esmee shouted back.

  Miri choked in the act of taking another sip of tea. She had been so overwhelmed with other impressions upon arriving at the farm, she had given little thought to the conclusions Esmee might draw about her traveling alone with Simon.

  She blushed and stammered, “Oh, no, madame, I—I realize how improper it must seem—but I assure you that Simon and I do not—” Recollecting how she had just spent the previous night in the man’s arms, Miri’s face flamed even hotter. “I don’t want you to think—”