The Courtesan (39 page)

Navarre took the silk scarf Gabrielle had given him and carried the lightly perfumed fabric to his lips. “I shall wear this upon my sleeve and joust in your honor, milady. I am deeply honored that you would bestow your favor upon me and not some other bold champion.”

The irony of the king’s tone was not lost upon Gabrielle. She summoned a stiff smile to her lips. “Why would Your Grace believe I would favor anyone else?”

Navarre arched his brows quizzically. “You have been maddeningly elusive of late, Gabrielle. I wonder if I have done something to offend you.”

“Of course not, Sire.” A telltale blush stole into Gabrielle’s face. She was fighting hard to keep her gaze from constantly moving in Remy’s direction, but it was a losing battle. She stole a glance toward where Remy stood fierce guard over her younger sister. If any man present was tempted to make Miri the object of any dubious gallantries, Remy’s dark glare made him think better of it. He had no armor, but he looked more of the knight than any of these other strutting fools.

She was all too aware of the stir that Remy’s presence at the tourney was causing among the courtiers. The ladies raked him over with appreciative glances while most of the men scowled. Some simply stared. Remy fingered the chain Gabrielle had draped about his neck, toying with the medallion hidden beneath his doublet. She wondered if the amulet was working, if he sensed treachery.

If he was, he didn’t have much farther to look than in her direction, Gabrielle thought miserably. She had lied to him about the medallion, but if she had told him the truth, she doubted that Remy would have accepted the charm.

He would have deplored her friendship with Cassandra Lascelles, in full accord with Ariane’s view that anyone who practiced dark magic was to be avoided. Perhaps Cass’s ability to conjure the dead was unnerving. But how could any woman be accounted evil who grieved so for her lost sisters, who so loved her dog she’d been willing to risk her life to rush to his rescue?

Cass was merely another sad instance of a woman who had been brutalized by the tragedies in her life, who struggled to conquer her weaknesses and survive the best she knew how. And that was something Gabrielle understood all too well.

The lie she had told Remy about the amulet was actually the least of her sins. She was practicing upon him a far greater deceit. Remy assumed that because she had consented to marry him, she was resigned to the plan.

But later after the tourney when Navarre was mellowed with wine, Gabrielle meant to work her charms on him, dissuade him from returning to his country. His destiny lay here in France and hers as well. No matter how much Gabrielle might despair over the fate she had once been eager to embrace, there was no avoiding it.

She could not save herself. But she could save Remy. She would get Navarre to force Remy to leave Paris, to return to the tiny border kingdom in the vastness of the mountains where he would be far out of reach of Catherine and any other enemies at court. How Remy would despise her when he discovered the full extent of her betrayal, but perhaps his hatred would help put an end to her own desperate yearnings for what could never be. His absence would enable her to encase her heart back in ice, return to that blessed numbness that had permitted her to endure for so long.

“Gabrielle?”

She turned back to Navarre to discover he had taken her hand in his. His dark eyes regarded her tenderly. “You look so sad, ma mie. Tell me what is troubling you.”

A lump formed in Gabrielle’s throat and she was unable to speak. She could scarce have answered his question in any event. How could she tell Navarre that fate had played a cruel jest upon her? That she was destined to be his mistress while her heart belonged to the very man the king had unwittingly selected to pose as her husband.

Fortunately Navarre’s attention was diverted by the flourish of a herald’s trumpet. The king of France approached, his entourage following him like the tail of a comet. Unlike Navarre, it was obvious that Henry Valois had no intention of taking part in the joust. He strutted in a doublet of rich purple velvet trimmed in ermine, preceded by one of his obnoxious little dogs on a lead. The whippet barked and growled at everyone in sight, a fact that clearly afforded the king much amusement.

But as Valois neared Navarre’s tent, the whippet broke free. The little dog streaked straight for Miri and leaped, all but springing up into her arms. With a delighted laugh, Miri bent and gathered the dog to her. As she crooned soft words in his ear, the whippet wriggled with canine adoration, his tail lashing back and forth. His tongue lapped at every portion of Miri’s face he could reach.

Valois’s mouth thinned with outrage. As the king of France bore down upon her sister, Gabrielle hastened to intervene. But Remy was already there. With a wry smile at Miri, Remy eased the whippet from her arms and handed it back to the king. When the little dog whined, straining to get back to Miri, the king impatiently handed the whippet off to one of his attendants, his annoyance palpable.

Miri sank into a curtsy. Remy managed a stiff bow, but his spine appeared so rigid, Gabrielle marveled it did not snap in two. The king shook back his mane of dark hair, accorded them a sullen nod, then pointedly ignored them.

It was another voice that exclaimed, “Ah, Captain Remy. Welcome back from the realms of the dead. You grace us with your presence at last.”

The folds of Catherine’s black gown swept the grass as she approached. Remy made no response or move to offer her even the most token bow. His jaw might well have been carved from stone.

“Come, my dear Captain. Let all past misunderstanding between us be forgotten. It pleases me greatly to receive such a noted hero at our celebration today. I offer my hand in friendship. Let me see some sign of your own goodwill and regard.”

She held out her hand to him. Catherine’s smile was all that was amiable, but the sly cast of her eyes told Gabrielle that the Dark Queen knew full well what it would cost Remy to pay homage to the woman responsible for the slaughter of his people. A muscle twitched in Remy’s jaw, his deep brown eyes unable to disguise his loathing of the Dark Queen. He’ll never do it, Gabrielle thought, not even if it should cost him his life. Her heart constricted with dread, wondering how Catherine would react to the insult.

The Dark Queen extended her hand even more imperiously. An air of hushed expectancy seemed to have fallen over the entire gathering near the tent. The king of France watched, smiling wolfishly.

Catherine stepped closer, murmuring. “Come now, Captain. If you will not accept my friendship for your own sake, then do it for the sake of your dear friend, Mademoiselle Cheney.” Catherine smiled and nodded in Gabrielle’s direction. Her voice was soft, even caressing, but her implied threat was more than clear. If Remy did not bend before Catherine, he risked her displeasure falling upon Gabrielle.

Remy hesitated but a moment more, then slowly bent until he knelt before the Dark Queen. Gabrielle bit down hard on her lip to keep from begging him not to sacrifice his pride, at least not on her account. Remy took Catherine’s hand. His face ashen, he pressed his lips to the Dark Queen’s fingertips. A deep sigh of satisfaction echoed through the watching crowd. The king of France actually laughed as the proud Scourge who had rarely known defeat on the battlefield was obliged to humble himself before his enemies.

Remy bore it stoically, only his eyes revealing the full depth of his misery and shame. Gabrielle felt her own eyes sting with furious tears. And in that moment, she hated Catherine more than she ever had before. The Dark Queen kept Remy on his knees until Gabrielle could endure it no longer.

“Enough!” she cried. She thrust Catherine’s hand away from Remy and tugged at his shoulder, urging him to his feet. Catherine arched her brows and regarded Gabrielle quizzically. Her outburst drew many a stunned look, not least of all from Navarre. Gabrielle gritted her teeth and sought to recover behind a cool smile.

“Forgive me, Your Grace. But the captain has promised to be my escort today. It vexes me to see him pay homage to any other lady, even a queen.” She met Catherine’s eyes levelly. “And one never knows what a jealous woman might be provoked to do.”

“Oho, that sounds like a challenge, Your Grace,” the king of France called out. “Fetch the ladies swords. I will wager ten sous upon my maman.”

His mocking words sent a ripple of laughter through the tent, easing the tension in everyone but Remy. Even Catherine smiled. “Mistress Cheney and I prefer a subtler form of jousting. We shall leave the cruder and rougher passage of arms to the gentlemen. Such as our bold captain here, who must be itching to take to the field.”

The queen shifted to address her son-in-law. “My dear Navarre, why have you not outfitted your bold Scourge with some armor?”

Navarre shrugged. “My bold Scourge is a serious man, Your Grace. He has no taste for sport.”

“Nor do I lay claim to the title of knight,” Remy added.

“Then we shall make one of you, at least for the day,” Catherine purred. “You shall be my own special champion. I myself shall provide you with horse and armor.”

“No!” Gabrielle cried, clutching at Remy’s arm. She moistened her lips and forced a more playful tone into her voice. “What, Your Grace! Will you deprive me of my gallant escort? I am determined to have the captain watch the joust with me.”

“Tied to the lady’s petticoats, monsieur?” the king asked. His sneer brought a dark surge of blood into Remy’s cheeks.

Gabrielle squeezed his arm warningly. She was terrified he would forget all prudence and let himself be goaded into entering the lists. The sidelong glance Catherine exchanged with her son made Gabrielle more apprehensive than ever for Remy’s safety.

The king of France drawled, “How very disappointing. We were hoping for a sample of the Scourge’s famed valor and skill at arms.”

“I would have thought Your Grace had already sampled plenty of that on the battlefield,” Gabrielle said too sweetly.

When Valois flushed and glared at her, she reflected that it was less than wise to remind the king of his defeat at Remy’s hands. This situation was charged enough.

To her relief and great pride in him, Remy kept his temper. He addressed both Catherine and the French king with quiet dignity. “Loath as I am to disappoint anyone, this mock show of arms has never held any interest for me. I don’t play at war.”

The king looked vexed, but Catherine continued to coax, “Surely you might oblige us this one time. Your reputation as the Scourge is known throughout France. So many of our young nobles long to challenge your skill, especially one in particular.”

She shaded her eyes with her hand, gazing out across the field of tents. “Now, where has he gone? Ah, yes, there he is.”

Smiling in a way that sent a shiver of apprehension through Gabrielle, Catherine stepped away from the shelter of Navarre’s pavilion. Raising her arm, she beckoned to a distant figure that appeared to have been waiting for her signal to approach. He was already outfitted with armor for the joust, except for his gauntlets and helmet, but the sun striking off his breastplate made it impossible to discern his features.

Gabrielle clutched at Remy’s hand, casting him a look both plea and warning. But Remy wasn’t even looking at her. Like everyone else, his attention was focused on the approaching figure, a deep frown etched between his brows.

If this man turned out to be the duc de Guise or any of the other great Catholic lords who had taken active part in the massacre, Gabrielle feared that nothing would stay Remy from accepting the challenge.

Her pulse beating anxiously in her throat, she watched the armor-clad figure march closer, his features still indistinguishable until he bowed stiffly to Catherine and then slowly lifted his head. Gabrielle’s breath left her entirely. She felt the blood drain from her cheeks as she stared at the lean, saturnine countenance of Etienne Danton.

She was dreaming, Gabrielle told herself desperately. Lost in the throes of one of her nightmares. If she blinked or shook herself hard enough, she would surely wake up and Danton’s hateful face would disappear.

But it didn’t. The chevalier summoned forth his squire and presented the Dark Queen with a single bloodred rose. Danton’s every movement was imbued with a careless arrogance, a mocking image of the true knight she’d once believed him to be.

Gabrielle recoiled a step, swaying slightly on her feet, the only thing steady and solid Remy’s hand. He caught her just beneath the elbow, bracing her.

“Gabrielle? Are you all right?”

Gabrielle glanced up to find Remy’s eyes clouded with concern. She tried to answer him, but her lips had gone too numb to form any words. She turned her head, avoiding the sight of the man clad in such brilliant armor.

Danton here in Paris. How was that possible? Ever since that terrible day in the barn, she’d dreaded encountering him again, but she had felt safe enough at the French court. She’d heard the rumors that Danton had done something to land himself in disgrace, banished back to his estates in Normandy.

Then why had he been allowed to return and—and what did it even matter? Nothing mattered beyond the fact that he was here and with a few more steps he’d be close . . . close enough to touch her again.

“Gabrielle?” Remy’s voice prodded at her again, but she pulled free of his gentle grip, consumed by one thought, one urge. To flee. To run as far and fast as she could. Even all the way back to Faire Isle.

She’d actually staggered a few steps back when her gaze collided with Catherine’s. The queen’s expression was as bland as ever, but her eyes were dark with calculation and a hint of triumph. The realization slammed into Gabrielle like a mighty fist. If she had not been blindsided by shock and panic at the sight of Danton, she would have arrived at the truth at once. It was Catherine who had arranged Danton’s return to court, Catherine as ever weaving some dark web of her design.

Her steady gaze mocked Gabrielle, her faint smile letting Gabrielle know the Dark Queen was fully aware of her past relationship with Danton. It was as Gabrielle had feared that night she had met with Catherine after the masked ball. Catherine had finally managed to read her eyes. She was now in possession of all Gabrielle’s vulnerabilities, her fears, her memories of that shameful encounter with Danton.