The Silver Rose

by Susan Carroll

  “Oh, Martin.” She reached across the table to press his hand. “You would be bored and miserable within a fortnight.”

  “No, I wouldn’t,” he insisted. “Not if I was with you.”

  Miri only smiled sadly and shook her head. She knew this man far better than he did himself.

  “The thing I regret most about what has happened between us is the day I took off that locket; I fear that I lost my friend.”

  He smiled tenderly at her, carrying her hand lightly to his lips. “No, he is still here. Whatever happens, Miri, I promise you this. You have my friendship always.”

  ———

  AS SIMON RETREATED into the fastness of his bedchamber, Miri’s soft laughter at something le Loup had said carried up the stairs. The man had an abundance of charm, the ability to make people around him smile and laugh instead of shrink back in fear. Traits Simon himself had once possessed.

  Despite the animosity he had aroused upon his arrival, Martin had already done a great deal to mollify Simon’s people. Coaxing smiles out of Madame Pascale, even getting crusty old Jacques to laugh. He’d taken great pains to make amends to Yves, and not out of some desire to impress Miri or to manipulate the boy. For all the man’s grand gestures, there was a genuine kindness in his overtures to Yves. Simon might have liked the man for that, if not for the way Martin looked at Miri, calling her his love, all those honeyed phrases tripping from his tongue, the things Simon could never say.

  Simon looked in the mirror above the washstand, desperately seeking some trace of the handsome, carefree boy he had once been. All that was reflected back to him was the weary, embittered visage of a man whose face was as scarred as his soul.

  This room more than any other in the house whispered to Simon of dreams he had never acknowledged until now, hopes he had fashioned into the very walls when he had built this place.

  The chamber and the bed were far too big for a solitary man; they cried out for the presence of a woman, a wife to hold fast in his arms on a cold winter’s night, the window seat a good place for her to stitch and dream, the large diamond-paned windows framing the sky for her, a view of the trees, the birds, and the animals in the yard.

  The place at the foot of the bed would have been perfect for a cradle . . . except it was already occupied by the bitter reminders of his past, the trunk he seldom liked to open. All the diaries and records of his witch-hunts, journals that he had kept meticulously when he had been arrogant enough to believe his work was of paramount importance. He had stopped keeping the journals years ago, when he had started wanting to forget, not remember, the trials he had borne witness to.

  Those diaries were full of the vituperative writings of a bitter and angry man. A man he was ashamed to have been, feared he might become again. The trunk was a Pandora’s box of all the evils in the world, of which he had been one. But now the box also might contain the answers that he sought, so he had no choice but to open it.

  He lifted the lid and began sifting through years of dark memories, cases that he had tried. He wondered how many other mistakes he had made besides Faire Isle.

  Many of the records of his earlier days had been lost in the fire at the Charters Inn. He had later tried to painstakingly re-create them with only his memory to rely upon. He sifted through the various journals until he found the one dealing with that last day at the Charters Inn. He flipped it open and it made painful reading because his thoughts that day had not been consumed with justice. They had been dark, full of bitterness, vengeance against Renard, anger with Miri for making him feel weak, hesitant about betraying her trust, trying to justify it to himself.

  That time in Paris, he had been busily interviewing dozens of people, offering coin to anyone who would come forward with tales of those practicing witchcraft. He flattered himself at the time how much fairer and more just his approach was. Unlike his master, he did not torture anyone for information. He used more subtle weapons, clever questioning, intimidation, bribery.

  He had learned to his cost that there were people willing to sell out their own mother for a sou. One notable example of that had been the woman who had betrayed Gabrielle Cheney.

  Cassandra Lascelles. She had claimed to be Gabrielle’s friend, but for whatever angry reason, she was the one who had told Simon how to find the evidence necessary to arrest Gabrielle. She had been in possession of the Dark Queen’s ring and those damning medallions, which had disappeared along with the Book of Shadows.

  He still didn’t know to what extent Miri’s sister had been guilty of witchery or just mere foolishness. He hadn’t really cared. Her arrest had merely been a ploy to lure the Comte de Renard into a trap.

  He had meant to investigate the Lascelles woman more fully at the time. It wasn’t the first time she had betrayed her own kind to witch-hunters. According to records left by his old master Le Vis, Cassandra had sought to save her own skin by naming her mother and sisters as witches. Ordinary betrayal would not have been enough to have saved her. But the girl’s youth and blindness had moved Le Vis to a rare display of mercy. After the raid on her home, Cassandra had disappeared for years, only resurfacing that summer when she had laid information against Gabrielle.

  But Simon didn’t see how she could have been the one to steal the Book of Shadows amidst the chaos of the fire. Not only was the woman blind, Simon was certain she had been nowhere near the inn that day.

  He had conducted no interviews, turning away all those eager to turn in their neighbors for a handful of coin. Besides his own men and the Cheneys, there was only one other person mentioned in his notes. A persistent, scrawny, filthy wench clamoring for admittance outside the kitchens. According to Simon’s records, her name was Finette and she had whined something about coming to claim a reward on behalf of her mistress, who had furnished Simon with information the week before.

  The week before . . . about the same time Simon had arrested Gabrielle. He scowled. Was it possible this Finette was the witch who had made off with the Book of Shadows, and the mistress she served was Cassandra Lascelles? Could the Lascelles woman truly be the infamous Silver Rose?

  As Simon pored over the journal, seeking further clues, he became aware of something drumming against the window. A sound he had not heard for so long, it took him a moment to register what it was.

  Rain . . . and not those few pitiful drops that had teased France all summer with the prospect of relief. After all those false storms, the thunder and lightning that had yielded nothing but flash and noise, the skies had opened up at last, showering a healing rain down upon the parched earth. A genuine blessed downpour.

  Simon rushed eagerly to the window, feeling his heart lift at the sight and he wasn’t the only one. Miri had raced out of the kitchen into the rain, heedless of the fact that she was getting soaked. True daughter of the earth that she was, she raised her arms, embracing the rain, twirling about in a joyous dance that brought a smile to Simon’s lips.

  Wolf was apparently watching her from the safety of the doorway. Miri ran back to the house laughing and caught him by the hands, dragging him out. Simon half-expected the man to rush back inside like a scalded cat, but Martin laughed. The two of them locked hands, capering about in a wild dance.

  Simon watched them, wishing he still possessed that kind of lightness of heart, was capable of such abandon. But instead he felt himself tense, his neck prickling with the uncanny sensation something was wrong.

  He fast realized what it was. Elle. She had been left out in the paddock and she was behaving in skittish fashion, shying back, tossing her head. Storms upset her, but there was no thunder or lightning. If she wanted to escape the deluge all she had to do was trot through the side door back into the barn. No, whatever was upsetting her, it wasn’t the rain.

  Simon pressed his face closer to the glass, attempting to peer through the driving rain. He was barely able to make them out. At first they seemed like mere shadows, but there could be no shadows where there was no sun. It was three figur
es creeping stealthily closer and even from this distance Simon was able to discern they were women.

  No, not women, his instinct warned him. Witches.

  Simon snatched up his sword and ran, tearing down the stairs. As he burst out into the yard, he brushed back his hair and the rain from his eye. Wolf had Miri in his arms, swinging her around, still unaware of the danger.

  Simon ran, his boots splashing through the puddles. He roared out a warning. Wolf snapped alert as the first figure charged. He shoved Miri out of the way, starting to draw his sword, but he made a fatal error.

  He hesitated when he saw his opponent was a woman, the chivalrous impulse so typical of the romantic fool, Simon thought. Not until the huge woman brandished a knife did Wolf react. He caught her arm, but she whipped her head down, cracking her skull into Wolf’s jaw.

  Wolf reeled back and slipped in the mud. Coming down hard, he was momentarily dazed and defenseless. The giantess bared her teeth and raised her knife to finish him off. Simon leaped over Wolf, deflecting the blow with his sword just in time.

  The woman came at Simon with a savage snarl. He slashed out, cutting her down. He didn’t wait to see her fall, barely registering her shriek of pain. He spun about to deal with the other two witches.

  One had flung herself at Miri, wrapping her arms about her waist, threatening to drag her down. As Simon rushed to her aid, the third witch came at him. Through the rain he caught a blurred glimpse of a small dark woman with wild eyes, her hand clutching a familiar deadly weapon, the witch blade.

  She circled Simon, trying to find an opening to lunge at him. But the next instant a dark shadow loomed over both of them. Elle had leaped the paddock fence and reared up out of the rain, her dark wet mane whipping back, her hooves striking the air.

  The witch stumbled back with a terrified cry. Her hands flailed in a desperate attempt to ward the horse off. Elle knocked the witch down, her hooves pounding down again and again.

  By the time Simon caught Elle’s reins and managed to draw her off, the witch lay dead, her blood mingling with the rain and mud of the yard. Elle was blowing and trembling with fear and rage. Simon stroked and murmured, seeking to calm the mare while he looked frantically for Miri. But Wolf had recovered his footing and rushed to her aid, dragging the other witch away from her.

  By this time Jacques and one of the other hands had come running. Simon consigned Elle to the old groom and hastened to Miri. The young witch nearly broke free of Wolf’s grip in her desperate efforts to get at Miri.

  But when Simon raised his weapon, Miri caught his arm, “No, Simon, please don’t. It’s Carole.”

  The girl had sagged down in a heap at Martin’s feet, A soaked, bedraggled creature, she looked more like a cowering child than a witch. She desperately tried to call out to Miri, stammer words that wouldn’t come from her terrified lips.

  But Miri had frozen, her stricken gaze elsewhere. She went white at the sight of the two dead women in the yard. Simon hurried to block her view, gathering her hard against him, stroking her wet hair. The fire in his veins that had sent him roaring into battle went out, leaving him cold and trembling with fear of what could have happened to her.

  Miri sagged weakly against him for a moment, then began to struggle anew as though still straining to see.

  “No, my dear, don’t look,” Simon said hoarsely. “I am sorry for what I had to do, but there was no choice. Those witches.”

  “No, it’s not the witches,” Miri choked. “Simon, look. Elle—”

  He couldn’t understand what she was talking about until he glanced back and saw Jacques crouched down by Elle, examining her chest. Had she sustained some injury?

  Simon rushed toward him, demanding, “What is it?”

  Jacques turned toward him wordlessly, holding out the object that he had pulled from Elle’s chest. The witch blade, its plunger depressed.

  “No,” Simon rasped. He ran his hand desperately over her shoulders and chest as though he could somehow stay the poison from its slow but inexorable course through her veins.

  He staggered back a step, raking back his wet hair and clutching his head, feeling as though his mind was exploding with grief and rage. Whipping about, he stormed back toward the only surviving witch. She was clinging to Miri, but Simon dragged her away. Seizing her by the throat, he shook her like a rag doll.

  “Damn you! God damn all of you witches to hell. You tell me right now before I break your neck. What devil sent you? Who is the Silver Rose?”

  The girl gasped, her teeth chattering with fear. “No, I c-can’t.”

  Simon gave her another savage shake. “Is it Cassandra Lascelles? Tell me right now or—”

  Both Miri and Wolf seized his arms, prying the girl away. Wolf leaped in between them, shoving Simon back.

  “Stop it. Can’t you see you’re scaring her half to death? You’ll get nothing from her this way.”

  Simon snarled and thrust Wolf aside. But the girl had swooned, sinking down into a dead faint. Miri managed to catch her, keep her from hitting the ground as Wolf sprang forward to help.

  Simon staggered back, panting, his anger giving way to despair as he returned to Elle.

  “Master, shall I—” old Jacques started to ask, the old man’s eyes welling with sympathy.

  Simon took the reins from him, shaking his head. “No, she is my lady. It is me that she has always trusted to—”

  He broke off, unable to continue. Elle’s head had already begun to droop, but her sad dark eyes regarded Simon with that same devotion and trust she had always shown. Drawing in a ragged breath, he seized her by the reins and led her out of the rain, back into the stables.

  Taking her home one last time.

  Chapter Eighteen

  THE RAIN DRUMMED AGAINST THE STABLE ROOF, THE SOUND that had been so welcome only hours before now bleak and melancholy as Miri and Simon labored over Elle. Her damp gown clinging to her back, Miri applied a poultice to the puncture wound in an effort to draw out as much of the poison as she could. But it wasn’t working. The wound was raw and angry looking, the mare’s glossy coat soaked with sweat.

  Simon worked desperately, sponging her with warm water, trying to cool her down. Elle hung her head listlessly, far different from her usual jaunty manner. She attempted to rally, straining toward him when Simon rubbed down her neck.

  He caressed her favorite place between her eyes, murmuring hoarsely, “There now, my beauty. I’m right here. Don’t be afraid. I won’t let anything—”

  He broke off with a bitter laugh, mocking his own words. “Not let anything hurt her. Christ, I’ve already done that. I’m no better at keeping my promises to Elle than I am to anyone else.”

  “Simon—” Miri straightened, tried to rest her hand comfortingly on his arm, but he shook her off. He looked almost wild, his hair a dark wet tangle, his face white beneath its layer of beard. He had stripped off his soaked eye patch and his scarred eye stood out in sharp relief, giving him the appearance of some battered warrior who had fought his way through a storm.

  But his hand was gentle as he massaged his fingertips between Elle’s eyes. “I should have had that damned fence built higher. I—I knew she could jump the blasted thing. She’s been able to ever since she was a filly, but I never worried about it, because she never roamed off like other horses will. She—she just always made her way up to the house, looking for me.”

  “It would not have mattered how high you built the fence, Simon. She would have just broken it down, hurt herself trying to get to you.”

  “At least she would have never gotten between me and that God-cursed witch. Why did you have to do that, Elle? Why?” Simon rasped.

  Elle’s dark eye flickered. Despite her own misery and confusion, the mare lipped gently at Simon’s hand, not fully understanding his distress, but as ever seeking to comfort him. For once Simon made no effort to conceal his emotions, resting his brow against Elle’s, his shoulders bowed in despair.

  Her ey
es burning, Miri ached for both of them, the magnificent and innocent creature who had done nothing to deserve this pain, and the man who had kept himself isolated for so long, never daring to love anything save this one horse. Life had handed Simon Aristide enough disillusionment and painful loss. Miri could not allow him to be dealt one more.

  She blinked fiercely. It would avail neither Simon nor Elle for her to give way to useless tears. She needed to remain calm, to think. As Simon resumed sponging Elle, Miri ran her hand along Elle’s lower jaw until she found the mare’s pulse. She pressed her finger to the artery, counting. Elle’s pulse raced at a rate well above what was normal for a horse at rest. The mare’s flanks rose and fell rapidly, making it painfully obvious her breathing was becoming more labored. Miri frantically sorted through her mind for other remedies she had employed for everything from colic to grass sickness.

  Resting his hands upon Elle’s glistening back, Simon cast Miri an agonized glance. “This is hopeless, Miri. I don’t know why I even allowed you to persuade me to try these useless remedies. I knew from the minute I saw Jacques pull that damned witch blade out of her that Elle was done for.”

  “No, she isn’t, Simon. We can’t give up. We’ve got to—”

  “Got to do what?” he interrupted harshly. “There’s nothing else to be done, Miri. All we are going to do is prolong her suffering. I have seen the effects of the witch blade’s poison before. I know how it will progress.”

  “Then describe it to me.”

  “Just as it is with Elle. I had a slim hope it might be different for a horse. She’s so much larger, stronger than a man, that maybe somehow she could weather—” He broke off, shaking his head in despair. “But the poison is progressing just the same as I’ve seen before. First the sweats, the listlessness and the fever, the labored breathing. And it will only get worse, moving on to hideous muscle spasms, convulsions, delirium that can last for days, the pain so bad I’ve seen full-grown men go mad, scream themselves hoarse.”