The Silver Rose (39 page)

No, not women, his instinct warned him.
Witches.

Simon snatched up his sword and ran, tearing down the stairs. As he burst out into the yard, he brushed back his hair and the rain from his eye. Wolf had Miri in his arms, swinging her around, still unaware of the danger.

Simon ran, his boots splashing through the puddles. He roared out a warning. Wolf snapped alert as the first figure charged. He shoved Miri out of the way, starting to draw his sword, but he made a fatal error.

He hesitated when he saw his opponent was a woman, the chivalrous impulse so typical of the romantic fool, Simon thought. Not until the huge woman brandished a knife did Wolf react. He caught her arm, but she whipped her head down, cracking her skull into Wolf’s jaw.

Wolf reeled back and slipped in the mud. Coming down hard, he was momentarily dazed and defenseless. The giantess bared her teeth and raised her knife to finish him off. Simon leaped over Wolf, deflecting the blow with his sword just in time.

The woman came at Simon with a savage snarl. He slashed out, cutting her down. He didn’t wait to see her fall, barely registering her shriek of pain. He spun about to deal with the other two witches.

One had flung herself at Miri, wrapping her arms about her waist, threatening to drag her down. As Simon rushed to her aid, the third witch came at him. Through the rain he caught a blurred glimpse of a small dark woman with wild eyes, her hand clutching a familiar deadly weapon, the witch blade.

She circled Simon, trying to find an opening to lunge at him. But the next instant a dark shadow loomed over both of them. Elle had leaped the paddock fence and reared up out of the rain, her dark wet mane whipping back, her hooves striking the air.

The witch stumbled back with a terrified cry. Her hands flailed in a desperate attempt to ward the horse off. Elle knocked the witch down, her hooves pounding down again and again.

By the time Simon caught Elle’s reins and managed to draw her off, the witch lay dead, her blood mingling with the rain and mud of the yard. Elle was blowing and trembling with fear and rage. Simon stroked and murmured, seeking to calm the mare while he looked frantically for Miri. But Wolf had recovered his footing and rushed to her aid, dragging the other witch away from her.

By this time Jacques and one of the other hands had come running. Simon consigned Elle to the old groom and hastened to Miri. The young witch nearly broke free of Wolf’s grip in her desperate efforts to get at Miri.

But when Simon raised his weapon, Miri caught his arm, “No, Simon, please don’t. It’s Carole.”

The girl had sagged down in a heap at Martin’s feet, A soaked, bedraggled creature, she looked more like a cowering child than a witch. She desperately tried to call out to Miri, stammer words that wouldn’t come from her terrified lips.

But Miri had frozen, her stricken gaze elsewhere. She went white at the sight of the two dead women in the yard. Simon hurried to block her view, gathering her hard against him, stroking her wet hair. The fire in his veins that had sent him roaring into battle went out, leaving him cold and trembling with fear of what could have happened to her.

Miri sagged weakly against him for a moment, then began to struggle anew as though still straining to see.

“No, my dear, don’t look,” Simon said hoarsely. “I am sorry for what I had to do, but there was no choice. Those witches.”

“No, it’s not the witches,” Miri choked. “Simon, look. Elle—”

He couldn’t understand what she was talking about until he glanced back and saw Jacques crouched down by Elle, examining her chest. Had she sustained some injury?

Simon rushed toward him, demanding, “What is it?”

Jacques turned toward him wordlessly, holding out the object that he had pulled from Elle’s chest. The witch blade, its plunger depressed.

“No,” Simon rasped. He ran his hand desperately over her shoulders and chest as though he could somehow stay the poison from its slow but inexorable course through her veins.

He staggered back a step, raking back his wet hair and clutching his head, feeling as though his mind was exploding with grief and rage. Whipping about, he stormed back toward the only surviving witch. She was clinging to Miri, but Simon dragged her away. Seizing her by the throat, he shook her like a rag doll.

“Damn you! God damn all of you witches to hell. You tell me right now before I break your neck. What devil sent you? Who is the Silver Rose?”

The girl gasped, her teeth chattering with fear. “No, I c-can’t.”

Simon gave her another savage shake. “Is it Cassandra Lascelles? Tell me right now or—”

Both Miri and Wolf seized his arms, prying the girl away. Wolf leaped in between them, shoving Simon back.

“Stop it. Can’t you see you’re scaring her half to death? You’ll get nothing from her this way.”

Simon snarled and thrust Wolf aside. But the girl had swooned, sinking down into a dead faint. Miri managed to catch her, keep her from hitting the ground as Wolf sprang forward to help.

Simon staggered back, panting, his anger giving way to despair as he returned to Elle.

“Master, shall I—” old Jacques started to ask, the old man’s eyes welling with sympathy.

Simon took the reins from him, shaking his head. “No, she is my lady. It is me that she has always trusted to—”

He broke off, unable to continue. Elle’s head had already begun to droop, but her sad dark eyes regarded Simon with that same devotion and trust she had always shown. Drawing in a ragged breath, he seized her by the reins and led her out of the rain, back into the stables.

Taking her home one last time.

Chapter Eighteen

T
HE RAIN DRUMMED
against the stable roof, the sound that had been so welcome only hours before now bleak and melancholy as Miri and Simon labored over Elle. Her damp gown clinging to her back, Miri applied a poultice to the puncture wound in an effort to draw out as much of the poison as she could. But it wasn’t working. The wound was raw and angry looking, the mare’s glossy coat soaked with sweat.

Simon worked desperately, sponging her with warm water, trying to cool her down. Elle hung her head listlessly, far different from her usual jaunty manner. She attempted to rally, straining toward him when Simon rubbed down her neck.

He caressed her favorite place between her eyes, murmuring hoarsely, “There now, my beauty. I’m right here. Don’t be afraid. I won’t let anything—”

He broke off with a bitter laugh, mocking his own words. “Not let anything hurt her. Christ, I’ve already done that. I’m no better at keeping my promises to Elle than I am to anyone else.”

“Simon—” Miri straightened, tried to rest her hand comfortingly on his arm, but he shook her off. He looked almost wild, his hair a dark wet tangle, his face white beneath its layer of beard. He had stripped off his soaked eye patch and his scarred eye stood out in sharp relief, giving him the appearance of some battered warrior who had fought his way through a storm.

But his hand was gentle as he massaged his fingertips between Elle’s eyes. “I should have had that damned fence built higher. I—I knew she could jump the blasted thing. She’s been able to ever since she was a filly, but I never worried about it, because she never roamed off like other horses will. She—she just always made her way up to the house, looking for me.”

“It would not have mattered how high you built the fence, Simon. She would have just broken it down, hurt herself trying to get to you.”

“At least she would have never gotten between me and that God-cursed witch. Why did you have to do that, Elle? Why?” Simon rasped.

Elle’s dark eye flickered. Despite her own misery and confusion, the mare lipped gently at Simon’s hand, not fully understanding his distress, but as ever seeking to comfort him. For once Simon made no effort to conceal his emotions, resting his brow against Elle’s, his shoulders bowed in despair.

Her eyes burning, Miri ached for both of them, the magnificent and innocent creature who had done nothing to deserve this pain, and the man who had kept himself isolated for so long, never daring to love anything save this one horse. Life had handed Simon Aristide enough disillusionment and painful loss. Miri could not allow him to be dealt one more.

She blinked fiercely. It would avail neither Simon nor Elle for her to give way to useless tears. She needed to remain calm, to think. As Simon resumed sponging Elle, Miri ran her hand along Elle’s lower jaw until she found the mare’s pulse. She pressed her finger to the artery, counting. Elle’s pulse raced at a rate well above what was normal for a horse at rest. The mare’s flanks rose and fell rapidly, making it painfully obvious her breathing was becoming more labored. Miri frantically sorted through her mind for other remedies she had employed for everything from colic to grass sickness.

Resting his hands upon Elle’s glistening back, Simon cast Miri an agonized glance. “This is hopeless, Miri. I don’t know why I even allowed you to persuade me to try these useless remedies. I knew from the minute I saw Jacques pull that damned witch blade out of her that Elle was done for.”

“No, she isn’t, Simon. We can’t give up. We’ve got to—”

“Got to do what?” he interrupted harshly. “There’s nothing else to be done, Miri. All we are going to do is prolong her suffering. I have seen the effects of the witch blade’s poison before. I know how it will progress.”

“Then describe it to me.”

“Just as it is with Elle. I had a slim hope it might be different for a horse. She’s so much larger, stronger than a man, that maybe somehow she could weather—” He broke off, shaking his head in despair. “But the poison is progressing just the same as I’ve seen before. First the sweats, the listlessness and the fever, the labored breathing. And it will only get worse, moving on to hideous muscle spasms, convulsions, delirium that can last for days, the pain so bad I’ve seen full-grown men go mad, scream themselves hoarse.”

Simon clamped his lips in a tight line, his throat working. “My lady has—has served me faithfully, trusted me far too long for me to allow it to end for her that way. I won’t let her suffer.”

“Neither will I,” Miri cried. “But I refuse to give up so easily. You have to at least give me the chance to fight this poison.”

“How the devil are you going to do that? What do you know of poisons?”

“Only what I learned from Renard.”

Miri saw Simon tense immediately at the name as she’d feared he would. She thrust up her chin and continued doggedly, “Thanks to his grandmother, Renard was well versed in poisons, but he put his knowledge to good use developing antidotes and he taught me—”

“I don’t care what he taught you. If you think I will let Elle be further tormented with that sorcerer’s dark magic—”

“How can it be dark magic if it can save her?” Miri protested. “And I am going to need the use of that witch blade as well.”

Simon’s face suffused with outrage. He came out of the stall, hands on hips as he squared off with her. “Damnation, woman. I can’t even believe you’d suggest such a thing. Bad enough she endured being stabbed once, but you propose to use that hellish weapon to—”

“It’s not a hellish weapon or a witch blade,” Miri said fiercely. “It’s only a syringe and I can use it to speed the antidote into Elle’s veins.”

Simon gave an incredulous snort. “You expect me to believe you can use the same device that is killing her to save her?”

“Yes!” Miri stepped toward him, resting her hands on the unyielding expanse of his chest. “Oh, Simon, I know that Le Vis taught you to revile and fear anything to do with the ancient knowledge, all that he considered dark magic. But you’ve seen for yourself how the same thing can be used for good or evil depending upon who wields it. The same axe that could be used to cut off a man’s head can also be employed to chop wood and build a fire, keep his family from freezing. The thing that you call a witch blade is no different. Do you think I would ever use it for any evil purpose?”

“Of course not. But—” He stared down at her, frowning, the first flicker of uncertainty appearing in his stern gaze. “Even if I did agree to let you try this—this antidote of Renard’s, where would you brew up such a thing? It is not as though I have any witch’s storeroom on my lands.”

Miri bit down on her lip, hesitant to tell him, but having no choice. “Actually you do. Esmee has a stillroom tucked in the back of your laundry house.”

“What!” Simon’s mouth fell open, his expression a mingling of astonishment and betrayal. “After I saved that woman from being condemned for witchcraft, brought her here, she’s been practicing sorcery under my very nose?”

“Not sorcery, Simon, only the kind of magic and healing ways that wise women have preserved for centuries, despite the ignorant superstition and cruelty of men like your late master. Esmee has been using the ancient knowledge to keep your people here well, your very lands thriving. Did you not notice how your orchards and your vegetable gardens have survived when so much of the rest of the country is blighted by drought?”

“Yes, but I thought—” He raked his hand back through his hair. “Hell, I don’t know what I thought. But whatever sort of—of white magic Esmee might have practiced is one thing. The kind of sorcery Renard embraced is a different matter.”

“This isn’t about Renard. This is about me. I beg you to trust me as you never have before. At least give me a chance to save Elle.”

He glanced over to Elle, clearly torn between hope and the mistrust that Le Vis had bred in him for years. His gaze came back to rest on Miri’s face, something softening in his eye as he yielded. “All right. What do you want me to do?”

“Stay with Elle. Keep sponging her down, talk to her, keep her from getting agitated and shifting about too much.” Miri looked up at him earnestly. “And promise me you’ll do nothing desperate until I return.”

Simon nodded reluctantly. “And if this antidote of yours doesn’t work, if her suffering becomes too great?”

“Then I’ll let you do what must be done.” Miri pressed his hand, adding softly, “And help you to say good-bye.”

M
ARTIN CREPT THROUGH
the empty kitchen, his head still throbbing from the blow he had taken from the witch. No man liked a good fight better than he did. If there was one flaw that Miri possessed, and Martin was far from willing to concede his Lady of the Moon had any . . . But if Miri did have one failing, it was her marked aversion to any form of confrontation, always wanting everything settled by peaceful means.

And sometimes that just wasn’t possible. There was nothing like a bit of mayhem to get a man’s blood pumping through his veins. But the exhilaration of a duel or a bout of fisticuffs with another man was one thing. There was something unnerving when one’s attacker was a crazed giant of a woman. Martin preferred his ladies soft and feminine, stitching up a fancy embroidered handkerchief to bestow upon an ardent admirer, daintily wielding scissors to snip the thread, not a knife to slit his throat.

He was mortified that he had been caught so off guard. If not for Simon Aristide, it would be his blood soaking into the muddy yard and likely Miri’s as well. Now he was in Aristide’s debt, not a situation Martin relished.

Not only did his debt to the witch-hunter weigh heavily upon him, he was haunted by something Aristide had said when he had roared at Carole Moreau.

“Who is the Silver Rose? Is she Cassandra Lascelles?”

Cass Lascelles. Martin shivered from more than his wet clothes. There was a name he’d done his best to forget, could have happily gone his entire life without hearing again.

Both sorceress and madwoman, she’d had some crazed scheme to seduce Nicolas Remy, force him to sire her witch child. Remy, the man who had been everything to Martin, friend, brother, mentor, and captain. Martin would have done anything for his hero and that night, when Martin had gone to the Cheval Noir in Remy’s stead, he had inadvertently . . .

Despite his wet clothes, Martin felt a bead of sweat trickle down his back as he remembered being locked in that stifling hot inn chamber with the witch, trying to render her drunk enough to steal the evil amulet with which she had threatened his captain’s life. Martin had never anticipated the witch’s dark charms might be turned upon him instead.

The witch groped until her hand struck up against his chest, pawing at him. When Martin had realized the direction her thoughts were taking, the hairs prickled along the back of his neck.

“Are you fer-ferocious?” her drunken voice had slurred. “You said somethin’ before about being tough, sinewy?”

Martin gulped, edging away from her. “I have a tendency to boast far too much.”

“You feel hard ’nough to me to father a fierce babe.”

“I’m more of a lone wolf. I’m not really the fatherly sort.”

“Who cares ’bout that? As long as you’re the f—ing sort.”

Before he could stop her, the witch’s hand caught him between the legs and his shaft stirred in inevitable response. The strange heady essence of her perfume assaulted his nostrils, fogging his brain. Even as some dim corner of his mind struggled to resist, the honeyed poison of her lips destroyed what remained of his reason. With a fierce growl, he fell upon her, ripping away the bodice of her gown—

Martin shuddered, blocking the rest of what had happened that night from his mind. Sickened, shamed by the lust the witch had aroused in him, Martin had done his best to forget.

Cassandra Lascelles had vanished not long after. The witch had not been seen or heard from in years. What the devil made Aristide think Cassandra was mixed up in this affair of the Silver Rose? Whatever had aroused the witch-hunter’s suspicions, Martin hoped the man was wrong, but if there was any chance that witch had turned up back in France, any danger Martin might cross paths with her, he needed to know and know now.

But he could hardly question Aristide. Not only would the witch-hunter be disinclined to answer any questions posed by Martin, the man was too torn up over his horse at the moment to think of anything else. Despite his dislike of Aristide, even Martin had been moved to feel a pang of sympathy for him.

Not that he completely understood the intense bond between the man and his horse. Martin was fond enough of his current mount. The big gray stallion was the kind of horse Martin liked, swift with a bit of a dash about him. But it was only a means of getting him from one place to another.

When all was said and done, Martin’s preferred mode of transportation was still his own two feet. As a boy in Paris, he’d had little to do with horses other than trying to keep out of their way, cursing whatever oaf had nearly ridden him down or splashed him with mud in the streets. He’d stolen many things during his days as a street thief, but horses were not among them. They were simply too damn big to hide. Any ease in the saddle he had eventually acquired, he owed to Nicolas Remy and Miri.