The Silver Rose (18 page)

Simon snapped the trinket box closed, shoving it back into his purse, resolving to end this unwise alliance between them as swiftly as possible. Track down those witches who had been on Faire Isle, force one of them to give up the identity of the Silver Rose. Then maybe if he suspended his judgment of that miserable Moreau girl and handed her over to Miri, he could persuade Miri to return to Faire Isle, leave dealing with the Silver Rose to—

Simon’s thoughts were disrupted by the heavy tread of boots. He glanced up, startled to realize his musings had made him careless. He had failed to note the arrival of another wayfarer, a gentleman by the look of him, despite his travel-stained cloak, doublet, and trunk hose.

Simon studied the newcomer intently but saw nothing in the stranger to occasion alarm. The traveler glanced about the taproom as though searching for the innkeeper. When his gaze fell upon Simon, he accorded him a deep bow.

“Good evening, monsieur.”

Simon responded with a curt nod and a scowl, meant to discourage any further exchange of pleasantries. Undeterred, the stranger drew closer to his table.

“Do I have the pleasure of addressing the great Le Balafre, master witch-hunter?” The man’s voice was courteous, as soft as the curly ends of his sandy beard. But his hazel eyes were shrewd, watchful.

Simon tensed at the stranger’s inquiry, although he was not particularly surprised by it. Simon was not unknown in this part of the country, often consulted by priests, magistrates, and landowners in the district regarding matters of witchcraft. Usually it turned out to be a mere bagatelle, a waste of Simon’s time, based upon the hysteria of someone’s nervous wife or the superstitious fears of the local peasants. But sometimes, especially considering the recent activities of the Silver Rose, the fear was well-founded.

More wary now, Simon hedged, “Whether or not you address Le Balafre depends.”

“Upon what, monsieur?”

“Upon who it is who asks for him and why.”

The man bowed again. “Captain Ambroise Gautier. An officer of her most gracious majesty Queen Catherine’s royal guard, at your service, Monsieur Aristide.”

Although Simon did not betray his alarm by so much as the flicker of an eyelash, he moved his hand beneath the table until it closed over the hilt of his dagger.

Royal guard, my arse,
Simon thought, running his gaze over Gautier’s nondescript apparel. This was one of the Dark Queen’s lackeys, those private emissaries sent out on errands that usually did not bear up under public scrutiny, whether it be the delivery of clandestine correspondence, a bit of espionage, or the quiet dispatch of some enemy.

Forcing a casual shrug, Simon took a sip of his wine. “Indeed, monsieur? And what would a member of Her Majesty’s
royal guard—
” Simon laid sarcastic emphasis on the words “—want with me?”

“I bear you a message from Her Grace,” Gautier said with an amiable smile. “She desires that you wait upon her as soon as may be.”

“It is a damnably long way to Paris.”

“Ah, but happily the queen is nearby, not ten leagues from here. In residence at Chenonceau. If we set out now, I promise you that you will be returned to this inn and still have the chance of a few hours’ sleep before sunrise.”

“I have had no contact with Her Majesty for years. And she would see me
tonight?
What can possibly be so urgent?”

“Her Grace does not make me her confidant, but—” Gautier leaned closer, lowering his voice. “I believe it has something to do with certain reports you have been sending to Paris.”

Simon concealed his surprise, shifting uneasily in his chair. Gautier had to be referring to his reports on the Silver Rose that he’d sent to the king. For all the heed His Grace had paid, Simon might as well have been dispatching them to the bottom of the Seine. Perhaps Henry had never seen them at all. Perhaps they had been falling into other hands—the Dark Queen’s. As much as Simon had wanted someone to read his reports, he would not have had it be
her.
Even he had not been desperate or mad enough to think of consulting one dangerous sorceress to fight another.

Simon flexed his fingers on his knife, heartily wishing he had not allowed himself to be caught off guard this way, that he had more time to think this situation through.

“I have had a long hard day in the saddle,” he began slowly. “Tell Her Grace I shall wait upon her within the next day or two—”

“One does not keep a queen waiting, Monsieur Aristide. Especially
our
queen. My instructions were most explicit. I was to bring you to her as soon as I found you, day or night.”

“And if I am not inclined to go tonight?”

Gautier’s smile never dimmed, but his eyes narrowed. “Alas, I must fetch you one way or another, on your own two feet or slung unconscious over the back of a horse. I would not make this into something unpleasant, but the choice of course is yours.”

Gautier lifted his gloved hand in a gesture and Simon heard the tread of boots behind him. He realized that Gautier’s men had followed their captain into the taproom, were no doubt but awaiting his command. How many there were Simon could not tell. He caught a glimpse of at least two out of the corner of his eye, sensed another might be lurking on his blind side.

Tightening his grip on his knife, Simon weighed his options. If he decided to resist, he was badly outnumbered, his chances of winning slim to none. The ensuing fracas would only serve to rouse the Paillards from the kitchen, possibly put them at risk. Worse still, it might involve Miri. If she were to awaken and come rushing to his aid—

Simon cut a quick glance up toward her room. The Dark Queen had always been as much of a threat to Miri and her family as ever the Silver Rose could be. But there was no reason for this Captain Gautier to suspect that Simon did not travel alone as usual. Not if Simon kept his head.

Holding up his hands to display that he held no weapon, he rose slowly to his feet, matching Gautier’s smile with an ironic one of his own. “I am as ever at Her Grace’s disposal.”

Simon only hoped that would not prove true.

Chapter Nine

T
HE MOON PIERCED
the clouds, shedding a silvery light over the castle, causing the white stone walls to glisten like a lustrous pearl set amidst the rolling hills of the Loire Valley. No grim fortress this, but more of a fairy-tale palace with its towers and turrets, its rows of sparkling windows. It bridged the River Cher, and the dark waters flowed beneath the castle’s series of graceful arches.

Chenonceau was not large when compared to other châteaus, but it was certainly reckoned among the loveliest in France. Yet as Simon crossed the courtyard, he reflected that he had had far too much experience with how evil could be hidden beneath a beautiful façade. Whether it be a castle or a silver rose.

The Château de Chenonceau owed its elegant design not to any male architect but more to the cleverness of the three women who had owned it over the past decades: one finance minister’s wife, one royal mistress, and . . . one Dark Queen.

Like many of her subjects, Simon had long suspected Catherine de Medici of being a sorceress skilled in the black arts, especially those involving poisons. Her cold smile had often challenged Simon to prove it, something he had surrendered all hope of doing. The woman was simply too careful, too cunning, and she was the queen mother of France. At one time, Catherine might have regarded Simon as a troublesome adversary, but after he had fallen out of favor at court, she appeared to have dismissed him from her thoughts. Or so he had believed until tonight . . .

Simon marched toward the torch-lit entryway, closely surrounded by his escort. Although Simon had surrendered his weapons and come quietly, Captain Gautier was watchful, taking no chances. He had hustled Simon out of the Brass Horse and straight onto the back of a waiting horse.

For all of Gautier’s assurances that the queen only wished for a brief audience, Simon tensed as he passed beneath the shadow of the castle. As the entry doors slammed shut behind him, he couldn’t help thinking how easily a man could be detained within these thick stone walls for an indefinite period. Or be made to disappear and never be heard from again. A cold feeling trickled down his spine, the emotion so foreign to him, it took him a moment to identify what it was.

Fear.
Not for himself but for the woman he had left behind, wondering what Miri would do if he failed to return. Waking up abandoned in a strange inn, with no idea what had become of Simon. Would she set out in search of him and risk falling into the hands of the Dark Queen herself? Would she continue alone on her quest to defeat the Silver Rose?

She had a weapon. Simon had left his sword in the room with her, not that he could imagine Miri ever using it on anyone, not even to save her own life. He could more picture the weapon being wrested away, turned against her, his own blade piercing her—

Simon ground his teeth. He was not the sort to let his mind run riot with fearful imaginings, and now was not the time to begin. Not when he needed to remain calm, think rationally. If Catherine had made up her mind to dispose of Simon after all these years, Simon reckoned he’d already be dead. Gautier was the kind of smiling bastard who would have no compunction about slitting a man’s throat, apologizing while he did so. Simon had no reason to suppose that the situation was other than Gautier had described. The queen had read his reports and was disturbed by them. But Simon had been sending those reports for months. Why all of a sudden did Catherine urgently desire to question him?

Simon had to admit he was curious, and that could be a dangerous thing where the Dark Queen was concerned. The sooner he could conclude this interview and get back to Miri, the easier he would feel.

Once he had Simon securely within the castle walls, Gautier relaxed. Dismissing the other guards, the captain escorted Simon to the main stair, a wide, straight series of risers that stretched up to the landing above, the ceiling carved with the two intertwining “C”s of Catherine de Medici. As if anyone was in danger of forgetting who was mistress here, Simon thought.

The sight of the hall stirred in Simon an unpleasant memory of the last time he had come to Chenonceau, to report to the French king the debacle of his raid on Faire Isle. He had been exhausted, weighted down by his failure to recover the
Book of Shadows,
to arrest the sorcerer Renard, to keep control over his men, to stop them from looting and burning. Riddled with guilt as well over the grief he knew he must have inflicted upon Miri.

His black mood had left Simon in little humor to find himself caught up in the wild gaiety of some court fete. A fete? No, more like an orgy, courtesans scandalously clad in venetians and nothing else draped all over the castle stair. Cooing, calling out lewd greetings to Simon, attempting to thrust their bare breasts in his face.

Simon had shrunk back, turning to the only woman present respectably garbed in silk gown and farthingale. She had sketched him a demure curtsy, fluttering her fan before her face. But when she lowered the fan, Simon had frozen in shock. Beneath the ridiculous purple wig and layers of rouge, the king of France leered up at Simon. And this was the man to whom Simon had bound himself? He had believed Henry Valois to be a young king of serious mind, upright and sincere, passionately committed to ruling over a France that would be free of all evil and corruption.

Simon had felt sick to his stomach as the king had planted a buss full on his mouth, then pretended to recoil in horror from Simon’s scars. Face burning, Simon had scarce known what to do, where to look as the entire court had dissolved into laughter. And from somewhere in the shadows above,
she
had watched, the Dark Queen, her lips thinning in a smile at his discomfiture.

Simon shook his head to clear off the disturbing memory. Perhaps Miri was right. He was a bit of a prude, had been even more so in his youth. He had witnessed enough debauchery in Henry Valois’s court to be far more jaded now. All the same, he was relieved to find the activity in the castle mundane tonight.

It was obvious that the queen had only recently taken up residence. Exhausted-looking servants toted chests and trunks still to be unpacked. A courier, his clothes as travel stained as Simon’s, rushed past, clutching missives to be delivered.

The staircase opened onto a long hall covered with rib vaults, the candle sconces sending flickering shadows over walls of costly Flemish tapestries and many doors. As Simon and his escort reached the landing, a petite blond woman rustled forward to intercept them, the cool accents of her voice disturbingly familiar to Simon.

“Thank you, Captain Gautier. I will conduct Monsieur Aristide from here.”

Gautier hesitated a moment, then bowed respectfully and departed, leaving Simon alone with Gillian Harcourt, one of Catherine’s chief ladies. Ladies? There were far less kind terms some might apply to the beautiful and clever women who served the Dark Queen. Known as the Flying Squadron, they were recruited by Catherine to seduce her enemies and ferret out their secrets, to keep her powerful nobles in check by holding them in thrall.

During his days in service to Catherine’s son Henry, Simon had given these notorious seductresses a wide berth . . . except for Gillian. He had always liked the woman’s humor and quick wit. In fact, there had been a period of a few weeks when he had done far more than merely like her.

Simon and his former mistress regarded each other in silence for a long moment. The years had not been gentle with the courtesan. Her beauty was fading, her low-cut mauve gown revealing far too much of a bosom that was no longer firm. Lines bracketed her mouth, her face was ravaged by too many revels, too many late nights, and all the rouge she applied to her cheeks could not disguise the fact.

Like many of the queen’s women, her eyes had a hard and calculating expression but something in them softened at the sight of Simon.

“Simon Aristide, it
has
been a long time,” she murmured.

“Mademoiselle Harcourt.” Simon accorded her an ironic bow.

Gillian drifted closer in a cloud of heavy perfume. Simon had always found it too cloying. She stroked a strand of hair back from his brow. “So you finally decided to let your hair grow back. There were some mornings, the sun glancing off that bald pate of yours was almost blinding, Monsieur Le Balafre. I would declare your appearance improved except—” Gillian wrinkled her nose. “Some clean clothing would not come amiss.”

“Forgive me, milady,” Simon replied dryly. “But my escort gave me little opportunity to refresh myself. Besides, it has been a long time since I have been received at court. I have grown out of the habit of waiting upon royalty.”

Gillian stole a furtive look down the corridor. Two harried maids rushed by, carrying armloads of blankets and fresh linens to one of the bedchambers. Gillian waited until they passed before leaning closer to Simon and whispering, “I must admit I am surprised to see you. I thought you had enough wisdom to keep clear of the Dark Queen.”

“I had little choice. Gautier took me by surprise.”

“You? The great Le Balafre?” Gillian mocked. “I have never known you to be caught off guard.”

Simon grimaced, remembering the way he had been mooning over Miri’s lock of hair. “I was a bit, er, distracted.”

“Now you truly astonish me. Even the queen says she never met a man more tenacious or single-minded. She once put a large price on your head, did you know that?”

“I have many enemies who would be happy to see my head part company with my shoulders.”

“Not this head, you fool.” Gillian tweaked the end of his beard and gave a throaty laugh. “This one.” She slid her fingers provocatively near his crotch. “Her Majesty offered a queen’s ransom in jewels to the one who could seduce you away from your mission to hunt witches.”

As Gillian’s fingers inched lower, Simon sucked in his breath and put her hand firmly away from him. “Then I assume you became a wealthy woman.”

“Me?” Gillian snorted. “I held your interest for less than a month. That didn’t even earn me a pearl necklet. Especially when the queen suspected you were only seeking a way to prove she was a witch. Of course, when you realized I would be of no help, you were done with me.”

“Gillian, I am sorry—” Simon began, but she cut him off with a shake of her head.

“Don’t be. I am accustomed to being used and you did it far more gently than most.” A look of unexpected sadness stole through her eyes, but she was quick to rally, flashing him an overbright smile. “Despite the fact that neither of us got what we wanted, we did share a pleasant interlude, did we not?”

“Yes, we did,” Simon agreed. Gillian had been a skilled and generous lover and for a time she had eased some of the emptiness of his nights. He felt a strange urge to draw her gown up over her shoulders and get her to wash the paint from her face.

“Surely you have amassed enough rewards in the queen’s, er, service. Why don’t you leave this life?”

Gillian’s mouth thinned into a bitter line. “No one simply walks away from the Dark Queen. Remember that if you are ever tempted to sell your soul to her.”

“I doubt my soul would be of any interest to Her Grace. Even if it was, I have no intention of making any deals with the devil.”

“That is what we all say, my dear Simon. Come, it is unwise to keep Her Majesty waiting.”

She led him briskly toward a door near the end of the hall, her perfume lingering behind her like a troubling memory. Simon fought to keep his head clear, knowing he was going to need his wits about him. He had first encountered the Dark Queen when he had been a mere lad, apprenticed to the witch-hunter, Vachel Le Vis. Master Le Vis had been fooled by the queen’s matronly demeanor, but Simon had been chilled when he looked into those dark de Medici eyes.

Eyes that could mesmerize, strip a man’s soul bare, plant thoughts in his head that he should never entertain, just as she had done with Le Vis. Simon had vowed that he would never go the way of his poor master and he had resisted the queen’s efforts to gain any control over him.

Perhaps he had been so successful because he had no personal ambition for her to prey upon, no one he cared about to be threatened, no point of vulnerability. Except that was no longer true. He did have a weakness and she was tucked up fast asleep, back at the Brass Horse. Simon resolutely blocked all thought of Miri from his mind. Give the Dark Queen any hint of vulnerability or fear and she would use it as a weapon against him.

Gillian ushered him into a large study with an oak coffer-style ceiling, the walls adorned with many paintings set in heavy gilt frames, portraits mixed with scenes of bucolic country life. One of the queen’s ladies, an older woman, sat working on some embroidery near the hearth. Several others stood about in quiet attendance. They cast nervous glances as Simon and Gillian entered, but otherwise took no notice of him.

Near the center of the room was a writing desk littered with parchment, ink, quills, and sealing wax. The ornate chair was drawn back as though only recently vacated by its owner, the woman who had retreated to the windows at the far end of the chamber.

Her back was turned to him, but Simon had no difficulty recognizing the short, heavy figure of the Dark Queen garbed in her usual unrelenting black, her thinning silver hair drawn back beneath a bon grace cap. She rested one plump white hand against the windowpane, staring out. Or perhaps she merely sought to escape the trio of men who trailed after her wide skirts like a pack of yipping dogs.

Their doublets and trunk hose were of good quality, but somber, not nearly fashionable enough for courtiers. The obvious leader of the group, a burly man with a florid complexion, was gesticulating fiercely. “. . . and something has got to be done, Your Grace. A regiment of the Catholic League invaded my land only last week, making off with cattle and some of my finest horses.”

“And if that were not bad enough, a pack of these ruffians broke up our services,” one of his thinner companions complained. “It was a miracle we were all able to escape with our lives.”

“The last treaty signed by His Majesty guaranteed certain rights to those of the Reformed religion,” the burly man added. “That we might worship as we chose, providing it was done quietly and that certain towns and cities would be refuges—”