The Huntress (21 page)

Even now she could scarce remember the girl. She had been such a plain, scrawny little thing, all fearful wide green eyes.

“Those witches went to their graves without revealing the girl’s whereabouts,” Gautier said. “Myself, I am inclined to believe the wenches have no idea what happened to their precious Silver Rose.”

“Perhaps because they were no more than ignorant lackeys like yourself,” Catherine replied. “If you had not bungled that night on the cliffs and allowed the leader of the coven to escape, perhaps we would have learned more.”

“I did my best.” Gautier shrugged. Unlike other mercenaries who had served her in the past, the captain never stammered excuses for his failures. Perhaps because he was such a bold rogue or far more likely, Catherine reflected bitterly, because the Dark Queen was not as fearsome a figure as she used to be.

“Despite the trick the sorceress played upon us that night, only two of the witches escaped me,” Gautier said. “The leader of the cult and the red-haired woman who was seen galloping away.”

Gautier preened, stroking the ends of his mustache. “I have since learned that the flame-haired wench was likely an Irishwoman named Catriona O’Hanlon who works for Ariane Deauville.”

Catherine frowned. Yes, it made sense that the Lady of Faire would have also heard the rumors of the coven’s revival and sent someone to investigate. A surge of anger coursed through Catherine at Ariane, her sister Miri, and that damned witch-hunter, Aristide.

What a fool they had made of Catherine, deluding her as to the identity of the Silver Rose. But taking vengeance upon them was a distraction she could not afford at the moment. All that mattered was locating that child, finding out what had become of the
Book of Shadows.
Then there would be time enough to deal with Ariane’s duplicity.

Catherine could sense that Gautier had more to reveal. The man rocked on the balls of his feet, gloating like a tomcat about to deposit a plump mouse at the feet of his mistress.

“What else have you discovered?” Catherine demanded. “I have already told you I am in no humor for games, Gautier. Whatever you have learned, spit it out.”

“I have placed spies on the mainland, keeping close watch over the comings and goings from Faire Isle. It seems that the Lady sent the O’Hanlon woman off to find Megaera.”

To protect the little dear no doubt, Catherine thought scornfully, the Lady of Faire Isle as usual being tender-hearted and nobly predictable.

“Quite recently a messenger arrived. I have no way of confirming the fact, but I believe that the tidings were from Mademoiselle O’Hanlon. One of my men was able to track the messenger, ascertain that he embarked for—” Gautier paused dramatically, having the temerity to prolong Catherine’s suspense.

“Embarked for where? Damn you, where?”

“London,” Gautier replied with a grand flourish of his hand. “I believe that is where the child is to be found. I intend to send some of my men to begin the search—”

“You will send no one,” Catherine interrupted icily. “You will go yourself. This matter is far too important to me. You will find that girl and get the book from her if she has it.”

“And the little girl herself?”

“You need even ask me that? There is only one way to end the legend of the Silver Rose and that is to nip this flower in the bud. Do you have a problem dispatching children, Captain?”

Gautier smiled, his hand fingering the hilt of his sword. “If King Herod had had me for his lieutenant, you would not be plagued by these present religious wars.”

“You are a blasphemous dog, Gautier, and a braggart. I don’t want boasts. I want results.”

“And you shall have them.” The captain swept her a suave bow. “I shall not fail Your Majesty.”

“I would advise that you don’t, monsieur,” Catherine replied coldly. “I may not be the woman I once was, but I assure you: The Dark Queen is not dead yet.”

Chapter Eleven

C
AT SHELTERED BENEATH THE OVERHANG OF THE UPPER STORIES
of the Angel, the din of the street assaulting her ears. The clatter of hooves and the creak of cart wheels mingled with the shouts of vendors, milkmaids, and bakers plying their wares.

“Any kitchen stuff, maids?” An elderly refuse buyer shrieked at the top of her lungs, struggling to be heard above a pair of tailor’s apprentices who were engaged in a noisy brawl.

Accustomed to spending most of her life out of doors, Cat sometimes felt the need to escape the narrow confines of Martin’s town house, but even after a fortnight, she had yet to accustom herself to the perpetual dirt, noise, and stench that was London.

But at the moment it was preferable to the racket taking place within the house. Meg was having another of her music lessons and, bless the wee girl’s heart, she had no aptitude for it, being all but tone-deaf. Listening to Meg attempt to pluck out a tune on the lute was about as pleasant as hearing someone rip out a cat’s claws.

Cat had stepped outside, seeking a brief moment of respite. But she was obliged to shrink back against the black-and-white timbered frame house as some noble lord and a troop of his retainers trotted past, flinging up mud and refuse and sending a trio of kites who had been feeding off a dung heap squawking and fluttering up onto the eaves.

Cat gritted her teeth. By the lady Brigid, how she hankered for the peace of the deep forests and rugged coves of Faire Isle, all swept clean and sweet by a brisk sea breeze. She comforted herself with the message she had recently received from Ariane.

All seemed quiet on the island, nor were there any dire tidings from the mainland of France regarding the Dark Queen and the coven. Ariane had been in communication with her brother-in-law. The witch-hunter Aristide intended to cautiously investigate the matter further. If it became evident that they had overestimated the danger to Megaera, Ariane saw no reason that Cat could not return to Faire Isle by next Christmas.

By Christmas…nearly five months away. The prospect would still have filled Cat with bliss except for one thing. She would be going alone, leaving Martin to pursue his mistaken dream of transforming himself and Meg into a proper English family. But she had to remind herself fiercely again and again, it would no longer be any of her concern.

The sound of someone cursing carried to Cat’s ears above the usual cacophony of the street. Rob Nettle, the lad who delivered fresh water to the Angel, emerged from the rear of the house. Laboring under the large stave strapped to his burly shoulders, his amiable countenance was flushed bright red.

He was one of the few Englishmen Cat had taken a liking to, a well-spoken, civil lad. But instead of his usual cheery, “Good morrow, Mistress O’Hanlon,” he merely grunted in reply to her greeting.

Shielding her eyes from the sun, Cat stared at the tall conical container balanced on Rob’s broad back. She blinked in astonishment, for a moment imagining she was seeing things.

“Your pardon, Master Nettle,” she called. “But did you realize that um, er, there appears to be an
arrow
lodged in your water carrier?”

Rob cast a disgruntled look as he trudged by. “It bloody well is and I count myself fortunate it didn’t end up in my back.”

“But who on earth—”

“Your lunatic of a master, that’s who!”

“Wolfe shot at you?” Cat frowned, too startled by Rob’s reply to correct him as she usually did, indignantly declaring that Martin was not her master. Rob was already too far down the crowded street to question him further. As Cat started around the house to investigate for herself, she heard Rob bellow out.

“I wouldn’t be going back there if I was you, mistress. Not unless you don some bloody armor!”

Ignoring him, Cat threaded her way through the narrow passage between the Angel and the neighboring house, heading for the back gate.

Cat usually avoided the garden in the morning, that being the time of day when Agatha did her weeding and pruning. Although Cat had finally succeeded in winning the respect of the other servants, the friction persisted between her and Mistress Butterydoor. For the peace of the household, Cat tried to avoid the old woman as much as possible.

But as she inched open the garden gate, she saw no sign of Agatha. Nor would anyone else have ventured into the garden who had any regard for their skin, Cat thought.

A target had been set up near the apple tree, but the ground before it was peppered with arrows sticking up at odd angles in the dirt. The fence and the trunk of the tree were likewise pierced. Only the target itself remained un-molested as the frustrated bowman nocked his arrow for another try.

Despite the crispness of the day, the dark strands of Martin’s hair and his white linen shirt were both damp with sweat, testifying to the vigor of his efforts.

Raising the longbow, he clenched his jaw with determination as he drew back the string. Cat frowned at his awkward stance, the stiff positioning of his left arm only begging for trouble.

She was tempted to call out a warning, but it was too late. Martin released, the bowstring whanging against his arm with a force that made Cat wince. The arrow sailed off wildly, imbedding itself in the beleaguered apple tree.

Martin flexed his battered arm and swore, forgetting his English accent. He cursed in French with a Gallic fluency Cat could not help but admire.

Closing the gate behind her, Cat entered the garden, calling out, “Oh, well done, monsieur. But I think you may hold any further assault. I doubt that tree will dare threaten us again.”

Perhaps it was not the wisest thing to taunt a man armed with a longbow and a quiver of arrows belted around his waist, but Cat was entirely unable to resist.

Tensing at the sound of her voice, Martin swung round to glower at her. “If you don’t mind, I—”

But he broke off whatever sharp retort he had been about to utter. His scowl easing, he rested the tip of the longbow against the ground and subjected Cat to an intense scrutiny that caused her to bury her hands in the folds of her new gown.

She had been obliged to swallow her pride and allow Martin to order a few garments to replace her stolen wardrobe. Her only other choice would have been to continue wearing the same worn frock and chemise day after day until she became as odiferous as the English, who had a marked prejudice against daily bathing.

The gown had arrived from the dressmaker only that morning. Although cut on the simplest lines, it was a bright shade of blue and the softest wool Cat had ever owned. With an apron knotted about her waist and her fiery hair confined beneath a linen coif, Cat figured she must present the image of a proper maidservant in a fine household.

But she felt like a bit of a fool when Martin commanded, “Turn about for me, please.”

She frowned, but realizing she was indebted to the man, whether she wished to be or not, she reluctantly complied.

Martin’s eyes twinkled as he took her in from hem to head. His gaze lingering on the demure lace-trimmed cap, he grinned.

“Why Mistress O’Hanlon, you look positively ador—”

But when Cat folded her arms and glowered, daring him to say it, he amended, “Respectable. You look most respectable.”

“Thank you,” she muttered. “It would have been far better if you had chosen a more sensible and darker fabric. Brown perhaps.”

She was only too happy to draw the attention away from herself by gesturing toward his bow. “So what are you doing with that besides slaughtering a poor tree that never did you a lick of harm?”

His grin fading, Martin regarded the bow as though it were some sort of alien object he clutched in his hand. “What the blazes does it look like I am doing? I am trying to learn how to use this damnable thing, but I think there is something wrong with it. It doesn’t work at all the way the book said it should.”

“Book?”

Martin indicated a volume he’d left lying open face-down upon the garden bench. Cat picked it up and scanned the title.
Toxophilus.
Cat leafed through a few pages, slammed the text closed, and tossed it contemptuously over her shoulder.

“Cat!” Martin protested as the book hit the dirt. “That was written by Roger Ascham, a noted scholar and tutor to Queen Elizabeth—”

“I don’t care if it was written by the queen herself. You will not be after learning how to use the bow from any book, especially not one written by an
Englishman.
Such skill is acquired only from years of practice. Happily for you, my da placed my first bow in my hands when I was but six years old.”

Striding toward Martin, she said, “All right. Let’s have a look at what you are doing wrong.”

Martin arched one brow in haughty fashion, but she ignored him, tugging on his hips herself to pull him into correct position.

“Keep your side square to the target. Stand straight. Weight evenly balanced. Feet a little farther apart.” Cat kicked at his boot until he gave up resisting her with a disgruntled sigh.

He opened his stance and allowed her to position his hands, bend his elbow to the proper safe angle. “Keep your elbow down. Relax your hands. One finger above the arrow, two below.”

To her frustration, he shifted. Placing one hand against his back, she slid the other one around the front of his hips and forced him back into correct position.

“Now draw the string back slowly and concentrate.”

“Uh, that’s a little difficult. With you grabbing hold of my bollocks.”

“Oh. Sorry.” In her eagerness to help, she had not realized how far her hand had slipped. Feeling him stir against her, she snatched her fingers away.

“I was only trying to arrange—” She stammered, breaking off when he cast her a wicked look. She retreated a step, folding her hands awkwardly in front of her.

“Just—just take the damn shot already,” she growled.

Martin complied, sending another arrow into the fence. And then another. Cat watched as long as she could from a safe distance, her fingers twitching with impatience as she called out more advice. But when another arrow thudded into the dirt before the target, she could no longer bear it.

Her embarrassment forgotten, she pounced on him again, tugging, arranging shoulders, elbows, hips, but taking a little more care where she put her hands this time. She wished she could have helped him with his draw and aim, but it was difficult being so much shorter than he was.

When Martin finally succeeded in nicking the edge of the target, she said, “Better. But let me show you something.”

When she reached for the bow, he protested, “This is not a child’s toy. You’ll never even be able to draw the string.”

Cat snorted and wrenched the bow from his grasp. She subjected it to a critical inspection.

It was a fine bit of weaponry, although a little fancy for her taste with its ivory nocks. She held it up and tested the string, estimating the bow to have about a hundred-pound draw. A little heavy for her, but nothing she could not handle.

She extended her hand, demanding an arrow. Martin gave her one with an indulgent shrug of his shoulders. As she fit the arrow into the nock, Cat pulled a face. “Peacock fletching? You’d be better off with plain gray goose feathers. They wear better and are more accurate.”

Squaring off to the target, she attempted to line up her shot only to find the strings of her cap in the way. She paused to untie it, impatiently tossing the cap down on the stone bench.

Raising the bow again, she flexed her back muscles, drawing back the arrow and taking aim the way her father had taught her. It had been a long time since she had done any hunting, but the bow felt good and right in her hands, as familiar as caressing a longtime lover.

She took aim, relaxed her draw hand, and released, the arrow piercing the center of the target. Wolfe let out a low whistle of admiration. Cat did her best to bite back a smug smile.

“Now I want you to stand behind me as I take my next shot. Place your hands on my back and feel how I use my muscles.”

Martin moved very close, his hands warm on her back as she drew back the string. She could feel the heat of him even through the fabric of her gown, an overwhelmingly masculine presence, all musk and sweat. Carried away by her enthusiasm for her teaching, Cat realized perhaps this had not been the best idea.

Her voice was a little unsteady as she tried to take aim. “You—keep relying on the strength of your arm. But you’ll end up sore and tired before you ever complete a morning of hunting. You have to put your entire body into the task.”

“Oh, I always prefer to do so,” he murmured, his voice rife with suggestion, his breath tickling her ear.

Cat shivered and loosed the worst shot she had ever taken in her life, even when she was six. The arrow careened wildly through the branches of the apple tree, shredding leaves.

She bit her lip in irritation as Martin crooned, “Bad luck, m’dear. Perhaps you needed to concentrate a shade more.”

He seemed solemn enough, but as she twisted away from him, she saw that his eyes held a roguish twinkle.

“There is no such thing as luck with a bow, only skill,” she said sternly and shoved the bow back into his hands. She strode off to retrieve the arrows, resolutely ignoring his chuckle.

She spent the next hour putting him through his paces, as merciless as any drillmaster, forcing him to fire off arrow after arrow. Martin’s chief problem was similar to what hers had been when learning the bow. Impatience.

“Wielding a bow is not like rushing in with a sword, my wee Cat. It is a far more deliberate art.”
Her father’s voice echoed through her mind, the memory warm and poignant.

Her throat thickened. She swallowed, focusing her attention on Martin. To her delight, he finally achieved a creditable shot, hitting the target near the center.

“Well done,” she cried. “What a remarkable man you are.”

“Why?” he laughed. “Just because I managed to stop slaughtering the tree?”

“N-no.” A little embarrassed by the enthusiasm of her outburst, Cat traced her shoe in the grass and continued almost shyly, “Because you have endured me bullying and hectoring you. There are few men I know who would tolerate being instructed in anything by a woman.”