The Silver Rose (33 page)

He hurtled at Simon at such a speed, he appeared about to bowl him over. But the young man skidded to a halt at the last minute. He flung his arms about Simon in a rib-cracking hug while the dog raced about them in frantic circles barking.

Miri dismounted, surrendering Samson to the stable hand, scarce noticing what she did as she watched the astonishing scene unfold. She half-expected Simon to rebuke the boy or thrust him away. Although Simon appeared considerably embarrassed with Miri and the grooms looking on, he patted the burly young man’s shoulder awkwardly.

“Er—yes, I am glad to see you too, Yves. But I need to breathe.”

The boy released Simon, beaming. When the dog crouched back, flattening its ears, barking and emitting a low growl, Yves rebuked it sternly.

“Here now, Beau! Quiet! What’s the matter with you? It’s our Master Simon. You remember him. Mind your manners and greet him proper.”

The dog cocked its head, emitting another low woof. But Simon did exactly what Miri would have done herself, hunkered down and held out his hand to be sniffed, making no sudden movement as Beau crept forward. In another instant, the dog was wagging his tail as Simon scratched him behind the ears.

“That’s better,” Yves approved. “Beau is just being extra vigilant, just like you told us all to be, Master Simon. In case any of those witches should—” He broke off as he suddenly took note of Miri.

The stable hands had cast Miri questioning but polite glances. Yves regarded her with undisguised curiosity, his eyes orbs of deep blue. As Miri gazed into their depths, she saw a gentle simple soul, one of those destined to remain a child forever despite his massive size and rawboned limbs.

“Who is this, Master Simon?” Yves demanded.

Simon glanced up from petting the dog to cast Miri a half-smile. “A friend of mine. Miri, this is Yves Pascale, my steward’s son.”

Miri smiled gently at Yves, but when she held out her hand and tried to greet him, the boy blushed and shied back. He raced off in the direction of the house, bellowing at the top of his lungs, “Maman! Maman!”

As the dog tore off after Yves, Simon rose to his feet, brushing off his hands.

“I am sorry,” Miri said. “I didn’t mean to frighten him.”

“You didn’t. Yves is just rather shy, that’s all, and—a little slow in his wits.” Simon hastened to add, “But he’s a hard worker and good with all the animals. He can grasp most tasks if you explain what he is to do carefully. All the other hands on the farm are very patient and understanding with him.”

And if they weren’t, Miri strongly suspected they would have Simon to answer to. A protective note had crept into his voice when speaking of the boy.

“Yves is obviously very fond of you,” Miri observed.

“The poor boy doesn’t know any better.” Simon shrugged, as always trying to deprecate any good opinion of himself.

Before Miri could attempt to argue with him, Yves burst back out of the house, tugging a diminutive woman by the hand.

“Hurry Maman,” Yves urged. “Master Simon has come home and he’s brought a friend with him. Hurry!”

“I am hurrying,” his mother protested with a laugh. She was as tiny as he was tall, garbed in a plain gown and apron, her snowy waves of hair tucked beneath a modest linen cap.

Her face lit up at the sight of Simon. Although she did not embrace him as Yves had done, she rushed forward to take his hand.

“Master Simon!” she exclaimed. “Welcome home. You have been gone so long this time. We were all very worried. What a relief to have you back unharmed.”

“Er—yes, thank you, madame,” Simon replied gravely.

“But far too thin,” the petite woman scolded. “How are you to fight that dreadful Silver Rose if you don’t take proper care—”

“Maman,” Yves interrupted, tugging at his mother’s sleeve. He pointed at Miri. “Look, there is master’s friend. Her name is Miri.” He added in a loud whisper. “She’s a girl even though she dresses like a boy.”

Miri drew back shyly as Madame Pascale’s attention turned in her direction.

“Miri, this is Madame Esmee Pascale,” Simon said. “She acts as my steward.”

Miri had assumed the woman worked in Simon’s house in some capacity, but his
steward
? A position of great trust and responsibility that few would consider a woman fit to hold.

She could not conceal her surprise as she gaped at Madame Pascale. The woman stared steadily back. She barely came to Miri’s shoulder, her face fine boned and as wrinkled as a dried apple, but her eyes were bright blue like her son’s, shrewd and penetrating.

As their eyes met, Miri experienced a jolt of recognition, each woman seeing the other for what she was—a daughter of the earth. Miri stripped off her hat. Simon had already revealed her secret when he had slipped and called her Miri in front of Yves, but it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. There would have been no deceiving another wise woman like Madame Pascale.

“Madame Pascale, this is Miribelle Cheney,” Simon began. “She—”

“I know who she is,” Esmee Pascale interrupted, sinking into a deep curtsy. “She is the sister of the Lady of Faire Isle.”

“No,” Simon astonished Miri by saying. He added with a quiet smile. “Well, yes, she is Ariane’s sister. But Miri is better known as the Lady of the Wood.”

E
SMEE FLITTED ABOUT
the kitchen, reminding Miri of an industrious hummingbird as she set the household into motion, sending off one young maid to air the bedchambers, another to fetch more water from the brook, and urged the kitchen boy to run home.

“. . . and tell your Maman to send us both your sisters. We are going to need the extra help since Monsieur Aristide is here and he has brought a guest.”

Seated out of the way at the broad kitchen table, Miri wondered if the man who deemed himself unnecessary to this place had any idea of the flurry of excitement his arrival had caused. Simon had allowed himself to be dragged off by Yves to inspect a cow due to calve at any moment. Miri would willingly have accompanied them, but Simon insisted that she refresh herself after their hard morning’s ride. He had consigned Miri to the care of Esmee Pascale, who had seemed so eager to wait upon her, Miri had been unable to refuse.

Besides, she was more than a little curious about both Simon’s house and the wise woman who dared to dwell beneath the roof of a witch-hunter. If Simon had any idea what Esmee was, he had given little sign of it and thus far Miri had had little chance of conversation with the woman.

While Esmee handed out her orders, Miri waited quietly, taking stock of her surroundings. Simon’s house was a modest one, constructed with a simplicity she found pleasing. There was no ostentatious great hall, the main floor given over to an enormous kitchen that served as both cooking and dining area. It boasted a hearth large enough for a man to walk into, shelves laden with every cooking implement imaginable, kettles and cauldrons, skimmers, spoons, scoops, spits and skewers, colanders, mortars, pestles, and graters. Besides a massive table with its bench and stools, there was a well-stocked spice cupboard and a rack for drying herbs suspended from the ceiling.

Handing a pile of fresh linens to the young maid, Esmee shooed the girl upstairs and then bustled over to Miri, bearing a steaming mug of some fragrant liquid.

“I am sorry to keep you waiting and that we are so ill prepared to receive you, milady. But Master Simon comes here so seldom, alas, and we have never entertained such an exalted guest.”

“I am very far from being exalted,” Miri protested, peering ruefully down at her travel-stained clothing. “Nor am I titled milady.”

“Master Simon says that you are and that is good enough for me.”

Miri only smiled and shook her head. She had been embarrassed and astonished when Simon had introduced her as the Lady of the Wood, but touched as well. For so long he had repudiated who and what she was, but when he had presented her to Madame Pascale, he had almost sounded proud of Miri.

Drawing nearer, Esmee pressed the mug into her hands. “Please favor me by trying some of my herbal tea. I realize it would be a much more welcome brew on a cold winter’s day, but the tea is very restorative after a long hard journey.”

Esmee did not need to tell her that. Miri held the mug beneath her nose and inhaled, breathing in the familiar aroma that spoke to her poignantly of home and Ariane. Her older sister had taught Miri to concoct a similar brew but her tea had never tasted as good to her as Ariane’s.

As she took a sip from her cup, Miri realized that Madame Pascale’s did. She gave a grateful sigh. “Thank you—” she began, but she was interrupted by the maid calling down the stairs, wanting to know which bedchamber Miri was to have.

“She is to be placed in the master’s room, Marguerite,” Esmee shouted back.

Miri choked in the act of taking another sip of tea. She had been so overwhelmed with other impressions upon arriving at the farm, she had given little thought to the conclusions Esmee might draw about her traveling alone with Simon.

She blushed and stammered, “Oh, no, madame, I—I realize how improper it must seem—but I assure you that Simon and I do not—” Recollecting how she had just spent the previous night in the man’s arms, Miri’s face flamed even hotter. “I don’t want you to think—”

“I don’t think anything, milady. Don’t fret yourself over the matter of the bedchamber. Master Simon never uses it, but the room is the finest in the house and he would want you to have it.” Esmee pulled a wry face. “Whenever the man sleeps at all, he tends to nod off in that little coffin of a room that serves as his study.”

Reassured, Miri sought to recover from her embarrassment as Esmee fetched her some fresh bread and honey.

“Just a little something to tide you over. I promise there will be a very fine supper.” Esmee sighed. “Not that Master Simon will notice. The man never takes much heed of what he eats and from the look of you, I daresay you will not be any better. But I vow I will find something to tempt your appetite.”

Miri would have been more than content with just the bread and honey, but not wanting to disappoint Esmee, she declared that after so many days on the road, she was looking forward to a fine meal. As Esmee settled upon the bench opposite her, Miri struggled to combat the bashfulness that often overtook her in the presence of someone new who did not possess fur, a tail, or paws.

“Your tea is as excellent as your very fine kitchen, madame,” she said.

“Thank you, but it is not my kitchen, although Master Aristide insists that I treat the place as my own. But the design is entirely owing to him.” Esmee mopped a trace of perspiration from her brow. “When I first met the dread Le Balafre, I would have expected him to be far more adept at stocking a torture chamber than a kitchen. I believe when he furbished this place, his head was filled with memories of his mother, and he fashioned the sort of place that would have been her dream.”

“Simon told
you
about his mother?” Miri exclaimed.

“No . . . not directly.” As Esmee colored guiltily, lowering her eyes, Miri’s earlier suspicions about the woman were confirmed.

“Then I was right when I guessed you are a wise woman. You—you can read eyes.”

“A bit,” Esmee confessed sheepishly. “As did the generations of women in my family before me.”

“So does Simon know that—that—”

“That he has offered shelter to one of our kind? He could hardly help knowing, considering he is the one who saved me from being tortured and burned at the stake. I daresay that astonishes you.”

“No.” Miri took another swallow of her tea. “At one time it might have, but not so much anymore, considering what I have learned about Simon Aristide these past few days.”

“Good.” Esmee’s small shoulders appeared to relax with a great amount of relief. “I wanted to explain that to you straight off. I could tell you sensed what I was and I worried you might find it so wrong and strange for any wise woman to be employed by a witch-hunter.”

“No more strange than myself,” Miri said. “Although I am not employed by Simon, I have joined forces with him to—to—”

“To hunt down the Silver Rose.”

“So you know about that as well?”

Esmee nodded gravely. “Master Simon usually never refers to his other occupation here, but he felt obliged to warn us about the Silver Rose lest any of those dreadful witches turn up at the farm. I wish I could have done something to help him, but I confess anything to do with black magic scares me spitless. But I am glad he has you at his side now. How very brave of you, my dear.”

“Not at all. There was simply no one else.” Embarrassed by the older woman’s admiration, Miri made haste to change the subject. “Do you mind telling me how Simon came to rescue you?”

“No, but it is hardly an interesting tale or a new one.” Esmee spread a generous dollop of honey on a slab of bread and thrust it toward Miri, urging her to eat. Miri took a few bites to please her, waiting impatiently for Esmee to commence her tale.

She finally did so with a reluctant sigh. “I was once married to a prosperous vintner and merchant. Marcellus and I had many babes, but the only one who ever survived infancy was Yves. But he is a gentle and loving son and we considered ourselves quite blessed, our life a happy and prosperous one.”