The Huntress (41 page)

W
HITEHALL FADED IN THE DISTANCE AS THE BOATMAN PLIED
his oars, the wherry gliding down the Thames. Martin wrapped his arm about Meg, holding her so tightly, she could barely breathe. She made no complaint, burrowing her face against her father’s doublet.

“Are you angry with me, Papa?” She risked a glance up at him. “Am—am I to be punished?”

“I must admit, when I was racing to the palace, nearly out of my wits with fear for you, I did have a fleeting thought about switches.” Martin did his best to look stern, but he finished up by pressing a fierce kiss to her brow.

“Mon Dieu, Meggie. You have got to stop slipping away from me. Don’t you know that is my greatest fear?”

Meg’s eyes filled with tears. “I am s-sorry, Papa. I know I have disappointed you. I have tried so hard to be all that you wanted me t-to—”

“Hush, mon ange. No father could be prouder of his daughter. What you did, going to the queen, risking your own life to save Lady Danvers, it was the bravest thing I have ever seen anyone do.”

Meg blinked back her tears and regarded him hopefully. “Was I as brave as Cat?”

“I vow that you were. The pair of you women quite put me to shame.” Martin smiled. Using his thumb he whisked away a stray tear that had trickled down Meg’s cheek.

“I am the one who should be craving your pardon, child. Your mother…” He had to swallow before he could continue.

“I was wrong to forbid you to ever speak of her, wrong about a good many things. I despised what Cassandra did to you, trying to force you to fulfill her dreams, become the Silver Rose. But I treated you no better.”

“Oh, no, Papa, that is not true,” Meg tried to protest but Martin stopped her.

“I fear it is, petite. I also tried to mold your future to suit myself, transform you into an English lady.”

“But it is a father’s right to decide his daughter’s future.”

“Other fathers and other daughters, perhaps. But you are more remarkable than that.”

“
We
are more remarkable,” Meg said solemnly, laying her palm against his bearded cheek.

Martin caught her hand, curling her smaller fingers within his own. “My plans for you were wrong and perhaps a trifle selfish, but I swear all I wanted to do was keep you safe and happy.”

“I am happy, Papa, as long as I am with you.”

“For now, perhaps.” Martin’s smile was tinged with melancholy. “I know that will not always be so. I have no idea what future awaits you but I have no doubt it will be extraordinary.”

“No doubt.” Meg tipped her chin proudly. “After all, I am the daughter of Martin le Loup.”

As her father laughed and hugged her close, Meg gave a contented sigh, feeling safe and loved. She was almost able to forget that final image she had seen swirling in the scrying ball. A disturbing vision that had had nothing to do with Elizabeth, but a far different queen.

Meg had seen Catherine de Medici upon her deathbed and much to her alarm, Meg had seen herself there as well, hovering over the Dark Queen, the witch blade clutched in Meg’s hand. And somewhere in the distance, she fancied she had heard Cassandra Lascelles laughing in triumph.

Meg shivered and clung closer to her father, trying to dispel the frightening vision, remind herself what Cat had often told her.

“Your destiny is in your own hands.”

Meg wanted to believe that. When she returned to the house the first thing she intended to do was find her own scrying ball and shatter it into a thousand pieces.

Epilogue

T
HE NIGHT WAS COLD, THE GROUND HARD WITH FROST, BUT
that did not stop the women of Faire Isle from gathering in vigil outside of Belle Haven. They lit candles and prayed for the safe deliverance of the Lady of Faire Isle.

The wee girl whose arrival had been so breathlessly awaited was coming into the world too soon. A night and a day had already come and gone and still the Lady labored to give birth. The older wise women amongst the crowd already shook their heads and mourned. Given Ariane Deauville’s age and tragic history in childbearing, this delay could not be a good sign.

The window of Ariane’s bedchamber was cracked open despite the chill in the air. A skilled midwife herself, Ariane had nothing but scorn for the customs of confinement that dictated a woman in labor be closeted in a gloom-ridden, stuffy chamber.

Despite the fresh air invading the room, Ariane’s shift was soaked in sweat. As she was seized by another contraction, she gripped Cat’s hand until her knuckles turned white.

“That’s right, milady,” Cat crooned. “Hold on tight. You are doing just fine.”

Just fine? Cat flinched at the inanity of her own words. Ariane looked anything but fine to her, her eyes rimmed with exhaustion, her face as white as the bed linens.

Much as Cat loved her friend, she heartily wished one of Ariane’s sisters had arrived to support her through this ordeal. Cat felt so helpless and inadequate. There was nothing that she would not have done for her chieftain, but this was one battle she could not wage for Ariane.

All she could do was offer Ariane her hand to clutch, try to infuse some of her own strength into the woman whose own ebbed a little more with each contraction.

Among all the island women, Cat would have thought that some skilled midwife could be found, but no one’s knowledge rivaled Ariane’s. The Lady had insisted that she required no attendants other than Cat, her husband, and her maid.

Justice Deauville looked as drained as Ariane, every spasm of his wife’s pain mirrored on his rough-hewn face, even as he tried to offer encouragement.

“I can see the crown of our daughter’s head, chérie. Just another push or two and your little girl will be in your arms.”

Ariane sank back against the pillows, tears leaking from her eyes.

“Oh, Justice, I—I don’t think I can.”

Her giant of a husband looked ready to weep himself from fear and exhaustion, but he said, “Damn it, Ariane. Yes, you can. You have to. Cat, help her. Lift her up.”

As the next contraction struck, Cat shifted her arm behind Ariane, supporting her into a sitting position. Ariane gritted her teeth, straining with the last of her will. She emitted a loud cry.

Somewhere beneath Ariane’s shriek, another wail was heard, feeble at first, then growing lustier by the moment.

“I have her, chérie,” Justice shouted. “I have our girl.”

Both Cat and Ariane collapsed back against the pillows, laughing and weeping. Cat scarce paid any heed as Justice and the maid tended to cutting the cord, cleaning Ariane and the babe.

Cat hovered over her friend. Ariane seemed so spent and Cat knew the danger to the mother often came after the rigors of labor with the onset of fever. As Cat bathed Ariane’s brow, she was heartened when Ariane opened her eyes, regarding Cat with her familiar clear gaze.

“My babe. I want to see my babe,” she whispered.

Cat nodded, unable to speak past the lump in her throat. But when she hastened over to Justice to convey Ariane’s request, Cat’s heart sank.

She could tell from the grave expression on his face that something was terribly wrong. The babe who had cried out so lustily before had gone omniously still.

“My lord, what is amiss?” Cat hardly dared to ask but somehow she found the courage. “Is something wrong with the child?”

Justice nodded, numbly. “The babe. The child Ariane risked her life for—and she will never have another.”

Peeling back the blanket, he displayed the babe to Cat. She caught her breath.

Justice cast a stricken look. “What am I to tell Ariane?”

“The truth.” Cat hunched her shoulders in a helpless gesture. “You can hardly conceal it from her.”

Wrapping the blanket back around the babe, Justice shuffled to the bed. Ariane scooted higher on the pillows, stretching out her arms.

Justice flinched at the sight of the eager, expectant look on Ariane’s face. Desperately, he sought for the words to prepare her.

“Ariane, there is something important I must tell you—”

“Tell me anything you like,” she interrupted. “Just as soon as you give me my son.”

Justice was so stunned, he nearly lost his grip on the babe. Somehow he managed to convey the babe to Ariane without dropping him.

As Ariane drew the child close, Justice sagged weakly down beside her on the bed.

“You—you
knew
it was a boy?”

“Oh, yes, I sensed that some months ago. Your son has often communed with me in the early hours of the morning. Mostly through lusty kicks on his part.”

Her eyes glowing, Ariane peeled back the blanket, inspecting tiny fingers and toes. She gave a heartfelt sigh of satisfaction.

Justice continued to regard her in amazement. “And you don’t mind that the child is a boy?”

“Why would I mind? He’s beautiful.” Ariane beamed at her son, cooing words that sounded like some ancient tongue. Or perhaps it was only that peculiar language that only mothers and babes could comprehend.

“But I thought you wanted a daughter so badly, to succeed you as the Lady of Faire Isle.”

“All I wanted was a healthy child. Yours and mine. As for the succession, I can do as other Ladies of Faire Isle have done before me. Search out the right young girl and train her. I have plenty of time to do so now.”

Justice smiled at her tenderly. Wrapping his arm about her shoulders, he drew Ariane and their new son into his strong embrace.

Ariane pulled down her shift and set the boy to nurse. He latched eagerly onto to Ariane’s nipple, delighting both his parents with his vigor.

Justice pressed a kiss upon Ariane’s brow. “While our son was communing with you, did he ever happen to mention his name?”

Ariane peered deeply into her son’s unfocused blue eyes.

“Leon,” she pronounced softly. “His name is Leon, our young lion.”

T
HE NIGHT THAT HAD BEEN SO SOLEMN ERUPTED WITH WILD
rejoicing. The Lady of Faire Isle was safely delivered of a son. The wine flowed, bonfires were lit. Fishermen, house-wives, and young maidens alike all danced with madcap abandon, capering about the flickering flames.

Martin le Loup hung back, observing the merriment from beneath the shadows of a huge oak. Happy as he was for Ariane and Justice, he was content to observe the celebrations from a distance, wistfully watching Cat as she linked hands with the other women, laughing and dancing wildly about the bonfire. Even old Agatha Butterydoor joined in, hopping about and brandishing her cane.

Out of all of Martin’s household, only Agatha had been brave enough to face the channel crossing and the prospect of living in a foreign land.

She had declared fiercely that nothing or no one would separate her from her wee poppet, certainly not a parcel of Frenchies. And if Agatha could accustom herself to Mistress Cat and her strange Irish ways, the old woman was confident that she would not be daunted by anything.

And indeed for a woman who had never been farther from London than Southwark, Mistress Butterydoor had adapted remarkably well to Faire Isle. She was even learning to speak French, albeit with an accent that often caused Martin to cringe.

He summoned up a half-smile as he watched Cat and Agatha prance about the flames, even though he felt closed outside of the celebrations, of the entire world that comprised Faire Isle. He had never been entirely comfortable on the island, finding it entirely too narrow and solitary.

The important thing, he told himself, was that Meg seemed happy here. But it had been difficult to watch her these past few weeks becoming more and more absorbed in Ariane’s teachings, caught up in the life of the island. His daughter seemed to be growing up and away from him at far too great a rate.

When she sought him out in the garden, he thought that Meg looked so much older, even though she wriggled beneath his arm, nestling against his side in quite the old way.

“Isn’t it wonderful, Papa? About the Lady of Faire Isle’s new babe?”

“Wonderful,” Martin stooped down to deposit a kiss atop Meg’s head. “So you are quite pleased with your new home?”

“Oh, yes. Cat was right. Faire Isle is an amazing place. You can feel the ancient magic pulsing everywhere, even in the trees.” Meg wriggled away from him to caress her fingers along the trunk of the tree. “You see? Try it for yourself.”

To oblige her, Martin stroked the oak’s trunk. “Feels like tree bark to me.”

Meg laughed and shook her head at him. “I love you dearly, Papa. But you are so hopelessly obtuse sometimes about a good many things.”

“I realize I was wrong when I tried to force you to deny your gifts as a daughter of the earth. I believe I have apologized on several occasions.”

“I am not talking about your blindness in regards to me. I am speaking of Cat. I know you adore her and you are certainly adept at courting a lady. So why haven’t you gone down upon your knee and declared yourself by now?”

“Perhaps because I am afraid of getting my ears clouted,” Martin retorted. He added in a quieter tone, “Cat does not love me, no matter how much you or I might wish it.”

“Yes, she does,” Meg insisted with an impatient stamp of her foot.

“What have you being doing? Reading her eyes?”

“It so happens I have, but any dolt could see how much she adores you. She is just far too proud to tell you so.” Meg splayed her hands upon her hips, leveling a severe look at him.

“The question is, Papa, what are you going to do about it?”

C
AT STRODE ACROSS THE MEADOW, MOONLIGHT SHIMMERING
over the frost-struck grass, the earth crunching beneath her feet. The sounds of the revels left far behind, she drew in a deep breath, relishing the quiet to gather her thoughts.

She reflected back to when she had first left the island at the beginning of summer to carry out the mission Ariane had given her. Things had turned out so much better than Cat had had reason to hope at the time.

Ariane was safely delivered of her babe, the coven of the Silver Rose destroyed, Meg safely lodged on the island. With the
Book of Shadows
gone, it seemed unlikely that even the Dark Queen would have reason to pursue the child.

Cat was now back on Faire Isle, exactly where she had so longed to be. Why then had she often found herself so restless and beset with melancholy?

She did not have to wrack her brain too hard for an answer to that. Martin. Cat could tell that he was not comfortable residing here on Faire Isle any more than Jane Danvers was.

Exiled from England, her ladyship had joined them on the journey to the island, a sorrowful figure in the black mourning Jane had donned in memory of her brother. The mystical atmosphere of Faire Isle clearly made Lady Danvers uneasy.

She intended to move to Paris, where she had friends among the other Catholic exiles. It would not surprise Cat if Martin volunteered to escort her. Jane’s tragic situation was exactly the sort of thing to appeal to Martin’s romantic notions of chivalry.

Expecting the parting to come, Cat had done her best to detach herself from Martin, reclaim the heart that she had given him. Thus far she could not congratulate herself on her success.

The crackle of a twig alerted her to someone’s approach. She came about to find Martin striding toward her.

Her heart did its familiar foolish dance, but she sought to quell the emotions that flooded her at the mere sight of the man.

“Martin.” She managed to greet him with a friendly, but cool nod. “So you felt the need for a little quiet too?”

“The revels do appear likely to go on until morning.” He smiled. “But they all have reason to rejoice. A young Lord of Faire Isle is not born every day.”