The Lady of Secrets

by Susan Carroll

  The chamber was mercifully empty now. When the truth of the Tillet girl’s bewitchment had been exposed, the villagers had staggered homeward, as baffled and deflated as an army that had assembled for a battle that never came.

  Graham had been astonished by the outcome himself. When Margaret Wolfe had helped the trembling Bridget down the stairs to make an announcement, Graham had expected the worst, that a witch hunt was about to be launched and there would be nothing he dared do to interfere. Worse still, he feared he would be unable to prevent Armagil from trying to do so. His friend had been even deeper in drink by that point.

  Graham had held his breath along with everyone when Bridget Tillet began to speak in a halting, timid voice. One had to strain to hear the girl’s confession of her own guilt. The claim of bewitchment had been a hoax, a lie to hide the fact the girl was with child.

  Graham could not begin to imagine the courage it must have taken Bridget to face the entire village and admit such a thing. He might have admired the girl for it, except that he would have wagered his last shilling the chit was neither a particularly brave or honest girl. He was sure that the girl’s extraordinary confession was somehow due to the quiet woman who had stood behind Bridget, her hand resting on the girl’s shoulder.

  How on earth had Margaret Wolfe brought this about? It was almost as if she had placed some kind of spell upon the girl.

  After Bridget’s confession, there had been cries of outrage and anger, mostly from the girl’s family. The rest of the villagers had slunk away. Many of them would be nursing a sore head tomorrow, thanks to Blackwood’s liberally supplying everyone with wine.

  Armagil had done much to lighten the mood even before the Tillet girl had emerged to make her announcement. Refilling glasses, clapping a shoulder here, trading a jest there. These dour, suspicious villagers had soon been in a fair way to forgetting that the doctor was both a stranger and an Englishman to boot.

  That didn’t surprise Graham. When Armagil chose to exert himself, he possessed a bonhomie that Graham lacked. Sir Patrick could not even remember at what point he had lost all taste for the pleasures that others enjoyed, when life had become merely a question of survival.

  He crossed the taproom to where Armagil occupied the table farthest from the hearth, as was the doctor’s habit. Blackwood had finally succumbed to the effects of the wine he had imbibed. He slumped forward, his head pillowed on his arm.

  If his friend had one failing, Graham thought, it was a tendency to overindulge in strong spirits. But Graham could not condemn Blackwood for it. He supposed each man must find his own way of dulling the sharp sword of memory, of coping with burdens imposed by the past.

  “My poor Gil,” Sir Patrick murmured. “Time to get you to your bed, old fellow.”

  He hesitated before touching Blackwood. Armagil could be dangerous if roused too suddenly, especially if Gil was in the throes of one of his nightmares. But the doctor emitted soft snores, his expression one of such rare peace, Sir Patrick envied him. If he could have ever achieved such a state of insensibility in the bottom of a bottle, Graham might have been tempted to try it.

  Another clap of thunder sounded just as the inn door cracked open. A short, coarse-featured young man burst inside and slammed the door closed behind him. He brushed back his hood. Despite the protection of his woolen cloak, he was soaked through, his coppery hair plastered to his brow.

  Alexander McMahon stole a wistful glance toward the crackling fire, but the serving man knew his duty well. He strode straight to his master and made Sir Patrick a low bow.

  “Mooshieur.”

  Patrick winced. Alexander’s mangling of the French language was painful to the ear and the information the man brought him too vital to risk any incomprehension. The innkeeper and his family had withdrawn to the region of the kitchens. Patrick still stole a cautious look about him. The need to get Armagil up to his bed forgotten for the moment, Graham pulled his servant closer and addressed the man in his native Scots dialect.

  “What have you learned?” he demanded.

  Alexander paused to slick wet hair back from his brow. “I did as you bade me, Sir Patrick. I followed the lady and her companion when they left the inn.”

  “And?”

  “They haven’t gone far. There is some sort of shed behind the inn. The landlord told them they might bed down there for the night, rather grudgingly I thought. I fear the sorceress makes him uneasy. She seems to have that effect on most of the folk hereabout. On me as well.” Alexander shuddered. “They do say this lady has the sight. Her eyes can pierce a man’s soul and strip all his secrets bare.”

  If that were so, Patrick thought, it was a most dangerous gift for a woman to possess. Especially for a man like himself who had so much to conceal.

  When he had first realized he would be forced to seek out this Lady of Faire Isle, he had no idea what he would find. Perhaps that the famed lady was no more than a myth, or if she did exist, she would prove to be some malicious old crone or a mad hermit, or even a Circe, seductive and sinister.

  The tall shameless beauty who flaunted herself so brazenly in masculine garb had seemed far more likely to prove a legendary sorceress than Margaret Wolfe with her short stature and solemn, unassuming manner.

  And yet there had been a moment upstairs in the bedchamber when he had experienced a small taste of her power. When her gaze had locked with his, he had experienced a jolt. An odd presentiment had come over him, as though in that instant, some connection had been forged between them, the thread of their lives destined to intertwine for good or ill.

  Sir Patrick moved his hand from his brow to his chest, making the sign of the cross. That was one blessing of this long hard journey through France. In England, he had to spend every waking hour concealing who and what he was. But at least here he was not obliged to hide his faith.

  “What now, sir?” Alexander asked, prodding Patrick from his thoughts. The younger man wrung some water from the dripping end of his cloak. “It is a lucky chance that brought this sorceress here, is it not? Now we do not have to go to her cursed island in search of her.”

  Alexander was a superstitious man. He had heard too many eerie tales of the Faire Isle as an enchanted place, a haven for witches. He had been dreading the journey, wasting far too much of his coin upon protective amulets. Sir Patrick wished he could tell the young man that they could forget about the Lady.

  Margaret Wolfe made him uneasy. He wished he could let her sail back to the obscurity of her island, but whether he liked it or not, she had become necessary to his plans.

  “What do you wish to do, Sir Patrick?” Alexander asked again. “Will you approach the Lady tonight?”

  Patrick studied the rain beating against the windowpanes and considered. It was obvious that Margaret Wolfe was settled in for the night. No one, not even one acclaimed as a powerful sorceress, would risk the channel crossing in such a storm. It was equally obvious from what he had witnessed that she was no fool, this Lady of Faire Isle. He would have to approach her more carefully than he had ever imagined.

  “No,” he said, clapping his servant upon the shoulder. “Come help me get Dr. Blackwood to bed, then go dry yourself off and retire. The morning will be soon enough to seek out the Lady.”

  Sir Patrick was a patient man. He had bided his time, waiting years to see the cause of justice served.

  He could afford to wait one more night.

  Chapter Four

  THE THUNDER FADED AWAY AND THE WIND DIED, LEAVING only the steady patter of the rain. Meg stood in the doorway of the Tillets’ cowshed, resting her head against the wooden frame. She hadn’t realized how tensely she had been carrying herself ever since leaving Faire Isle. Not until now when she was able to relax, lulled by the soothing monotone of the rain, did she feel the ache of her muscles.

  She was suddenly exhausted, although she ought to bestir herself to help Seraphine arrange the bundles of straw and the blankets Sidonie had provided to bed them d
own for the night.

  But Seraphine had already tended to that and now she was making the acquaintance of the shed’s other occupant, a spotted milk cow with large brown eyes. The comtesse, who could be so haughty and so fierce, stroked the cow’s muzzle and crooned softly to it, displaying a tenderness Seraphine rarely revealed to any creature that walked on two legs.

  When she saw that Meg observed her, she stopped at once, looking sheepish. She joined Meg in the doorway.

  “It appears that the storm has passed us, just a deal of noise and bluster when all is said and done.”

  Meg realized that Seraphine was referring to far more than the weather. “Yes, but it could have proved very different.”

  “It is only owing to you that it didn’t.” Seraphine leaned up against the opposite doorframe. “Master Tillet might have shown you some gratitude for persuading his daughter to tell the truth. At least he could have offered you more comfortable accommodation for the night.”

  “I exposed Bridget’s frailties. People seldom thank one for that. They often prefer the comfort of a lie. And I don’t mind the cowshed. It is warm and dry.”

  And farther away from the inn chamber that would house the English travelers. Meg rubbed her hand over her bruised forearm, sore from Blackwood’s iron grip. But she wasn’t terribly disturbed by the memory of the doctor’s coarse behavior. For some inexplicable reason, it was the other one, Sir Patrick with his sad eyes, who left her more unsettled.

  “You were very forbearing and kind to that foolish Tillet chit,” Seraphine said. “I just wanted to slap her.”

  “She had her grandmother for that. The only thing that saved Bridget from a severe beating is the fact she is with child.”

  “I doubt her swain will be as fortunate.”

  Meg sighed in wearied agreement. The last she had seen of Denys Brunel had been the young man tearing out of the inn, Bridget’s brother in heated pursuit.

  “Denys appeared very fleet of foot,” she said. “And hopefully the onslaught of the rain will cool Osbert’s temper. I believe the worst is over, but in the morning, I would still like to find la Mère Poulet. You know how it is once a woman has been libeled as a witch. She could still be in danger. We must convince her to leave with us, come to the safety of Faire Isle.”

  “That should be amusing. Trying to persuade some half-witted old woman to abandon the village she considers home. She will probably try to scratch our eyes out or set her chicken upon us.”

  “Nonetheless …”

  “Nonetheless, you are right.” Seraphine swept her a graceful bow. “As always I defer to your wisdom, my Lady of Faire Isle, and seek to do your bidding.”

  Meg laughed. “Ridiculous woman.”

  Seraphine straightened, her grin fading. “You took a terrible risk coming here, Meg. No matter how well it all turned out this time, you know how these things can go.”

  “I do,” Meg murmured. It usually started so simply, just as it had done here in Pernod. A child late for supper, a young girl detected in some transgression, or a boy caught neglecting his chores, hoping to avoid punishment, seeking any excuse. Or in other instances, someone fell mysteriously ill, well beyond the ignorant local doctor’s ability to cure.

  “It was not my fault I am late, Maman. I was bewitched.”

  “The cabbages did not wilt because I forgot to water them. They were cursed by a witch.”

  “Your wife did not die because of the potion I gave her. I am a skilled physician. But no one can fight the power of a witch.”

  The tale would spread, the rumors begin to fly, and someone would be sought to take the blame. Usually some poor old beggar woman like la Mère Poulet, often not right in her wits. Under the pain of torture, she would spin tales of her own, accusing others of witchcraft.

  What began as a small lie would fan into a frenzy like a hot coal dropped into a pile of dried straw. Meg had heard tales of villages nearly depopulated of their women until reason prevailed, bringing an end to the torture, the trials, and the hangings.

  Seraphine continued to complain of Bridget Tillet. “Stupid girl. What could she possibly have been thinking?”

  “She didn’t think. She was too frightened. Not that I am making excuses for her, but you can imagine what it must be like for an unwed girl to find herself with child, the disgrace of it. Her family, her entire village could turn against her, drive her out. How vulnerable, helpless, and terrified such a young woman would be. Exactly the sort of girl my mother used to …”

  Meg trailed off. She seldom spoke of Cassandra Lascelles, not to anyone, not even her good friend Seraphine. Seraphine said nothing, merely watched her, waiting.

  Meg swallowed and continued, “My mother was wont to prey upon desperate girls like Bridget, using their plight to persuade them to join the coven of the Silver Rose. She offered them protection, freedom from shame and want, even promised eventual wealth and power.

  “All she required in return was a blood oath of loyalty. They could even bring their new babe as long as it was a girl. My mother, you see, had no use for a male of any age, so if any of the girls bore a son, he had to die. The poor little boy was left abandoned on a hillside, exposed to the elements, to perish of starvation.”

  Meg’s eyes stung. “I often wondered how many of them died, wailing out for the comfort of a mother who never came, crying until their voices grew too weak.”

  Seraphine wrapped her arm about Meg, who rested her head upon her taller friend’s shoulder, the rain pouring down outside, a blur before her tears.

  “Do you know the worst of it, ’Phine?” she asked when she was able to continue. “My mother wrought these horrors in my name. Megaera, her Silver Rose as she insisted upon calling me, the daughter who was expected to become a powerful sorceress one day and conquer the world.”

  “A madwoman’s dreams,” Seraphine gave her a bracing hug. “You were a child, as innocent as any of those girls Cassandra lured in with her lies. You were not responsible for anything she did and you are no longer her Silver Rose. You are now the Lady of Faire Isle.

  “The past is as dead as your mother, Meg. Let it go.”

  Meg mopped away her tears with the back of her hand, wishing it could be that simple. “At least things will end better for Bridget Tillet than it did for those girls who fell prey to my mother’s lies.

  “Monsieur Tillet is angry with his daughter at the moment, but he will forgive Bridget. Denys Brunel may not be the sort of husband he would have desired for his daughter, a poor fisher lad with not even a cottage to call his own, but I am confident he will consent to the match rather than see his daughter further disgraced. The banns will be cried and they will be happily wed.”

  “Or at least forced to be so.”

  “No, truly. I think Denys and Bridget do care for one another. Bridget, I am sure, loves him deeply.”

  “She loves the illusion of her young swain, the person that she believes him to be. Perhaps it would not be wise to inquire how she feels in ten years’ time.”

  The exact amount of time Seraphine had been wed. Meg caught the bitter edge in her friend’s voice. When she peered up at her, Seraphine moved away, locking her arms over her bosom.

  “Tomorrow morning, I shall return to Faire Isle,” Meg said. “What will you do?”

  “Why, I shall go with you. What else did you think I would do?”

  “I think you should return to your husband.”

  Seraphine’s only reply was a hard laugh. She tried to retreat deeper into the shadows of the barn, but Meg caught hold of her arm.

  “Gerard loves you as much as you do him.”

  Seraphine shook her off. “Don’t be a romantic fool, Meg. Marriage has nothing to do with love, especially among noble families. It is a purely mercenary arrangement, a matter of trade. The man barters his title and estates for a woman’s dowry and the use of her womb.”

  “That was not the way of it for you, ’Phine, and you know it.”

  “So I
was a starry-eyed little fool when I first met Gerard. I’ll thank you not to remind me.”

  “Someone needs to,” Meg began, but Seraphine interrupted her harshly.

  “Stop, Meg. Just … stop. Even if I admit I once felt something for Gerard, that is ended. He took my son, sent my little François to be a page in the household of his good friend, the marquis. And now my boy is dead.”

  “It was an outbreak of the pox, which can strike anywhere. Gerard could not have anticipated such a thing. He was as torn with grief as you.”

  Seraphine shook her head in angry denial. “François would still be alive if I had been able to keep him at home with me as I wished.”

  “But is it not the custom among noble families to send sons away to be fostered?”

  “Oh, yes.” Seraphine’s mouth curved bitterly. “To give the boy a proper education, prepare him to take his place in the world, make important and valuable connections. When did Gerard ever care about anything like that?

  “If the man had ever had any ambitions, he could have gone to Paris and found a place at court. My husband is a clever man and he is of the right religion to curry favor with the king, unlike my own poor father.”

  It was another source of great bitterness to Seraphine. Her father, Captain Nicolas Remy, had served the king for years, long before His Majesty had become Henry IV of France. Captain Remy had fought for Henry when he had been merely the king of the small principality of Navarre, the stronghold of the new religion, the Huguenot faith.

  But when Henry had been offered the chance to ascend the throne of France, he had seized it, even if it meant abandoning the faith of his loyal Huguenot subjects. “Paris is worth a mass,” the king had declared after his witty fashion.

  “The king betrayed my father by abandoning our religion,” Seraphine said. “And I betrayed Papa as well when I wed a Catholic.”