Twilight of a Queen (5 page)

Young Seraphine Remy had a fine voice, passionate in its intensity, but as a Catholic, Jane knew she should not even have been listening.

Guiltily, she fingered the gold cross suspended about her neck, starting a little at the sound of snapping twigs. Peering round the oak tree, she caught the flash of a lantern in the distance. Someone had entered the gardens from the direction of the house. Coming in search of her? One of Belle Haven’s servants, perhaps, or even worse—the Lady herself.

Jane’s cheeks heated as she thought of trying to explain why she was creeping about Belle Haven’s grounds at this hour like some kind of thief.

“Your ladyship?” Someone called in a low tone as the lantern bobbed closer. Jane breathed out a sigh of relief as she recognized the voice of Margaret Wolfe.

Faire Isle’s other exile. Although Jane supposed it odd that she should think of Meg that way. The girl was French-born and had strong ties to the daughters of the earth that
should have made her better suited to life on this island than Jane was. And yet Jane sensed that Meg felt as lost as herself.

“Jane!” Meg called again, louder and more urgently. She held the lantern aloft and glanced about so frantically she was in danger of darting past where Jane sat concealed beneath the tree.

Jane stood up and replied, “Meg, I am over here.”

Meg spun about, the light from her lantern illuminating her face that appeared ice-white amidst her tangle of cinnamon-dark hair. She vented a tremulous breath, the depth of her relief astonishing to Jane.

The girl hurled herself at Jane, wrapping one arm around Jane’s neck. Jane blinked in amazement. Meg tended to be reserved, rarely given to such displays of emotion.

Although surprised, Jane returned the embrace, murmuring, “Bless me, child. What is all this?”

She cradled her close and felt Meg’s thin shoulders shake. “What’s wrong, Margaret?”

“N-nothing. I saw you disappearing into the garden and I thought… I feared something might—”

Meg sank down upon the bench Jane had vacated, setting down her lantern. “The air is very raw. I—I was worried you might take a chill.”

Jane regarded Meg quizzically. She had a feeling that was not at all what Meg had meant to say, but Jane let that pass as she observed how Meg shivered.

Jane had sensibly taken the time to dress before pursuing her nocturnal ramble, donning her warmest gown. Meg had merely flung a cloak over her nightgown and thrust her bare feet into a pair of boots.

“You are far more likely to take a chill than am I,” Jane said. Bending down, she tucked the hem of Meg’s cloak snugly about her legs. “What are you doing awake at such an hour?”

“I might well ask your ladyship the same thing.”

“Jane. Merely Jane. There is no more ladyship,” Jane reminded her. She ventured to touch the girl’s cheek. Her skin was so cold.

“Were you alarmed by another of your bad dreams?”

Meg shook her head in quick denial. “Nothing so childish. I—I just couldn’t sleep. You know how it is when one reads just before bedtime. Your head becomes stuffed full of words, too many ideas.”

Jane settled beside Meg on the bench. “There is nothing childish about being distressed by nightmares, Meg. I still suffer them, too.”

Meg angled a wary glance up at her. “What do you dream about?”

That I am still locked in my cell in the Tower, shaking with cold, listening to the rats rustling through the straw. That Ned breaks down the door to rescue me, my brother clad in a bright crimson doublet. It is only as Ned draws nearer that I realize, it is his own blood that dyes the fabric, streaming from the gash in his throat
.

But it was unthinkable that Jane should relate such horrors to a child who suffered enough from her own.

Jane pasted on a brittle smile. “Oh, sometimes I dream that I am back at court and have forgotten to dress myself. I make my curtsy to the queen clad only in my shift.”

“No, you don’t.” Meg stared, holding Jane’s gaze captive with a look that was far from childlike.

The lantern at Meg’s feet cast an eerie glow over the angular blade of the girl’s cheekbones and white skin. Her eyes were wide, black in their intensity, and Jane could feel Meg pushing at the locked corridors of her mind.

“You dream you are still a prisoner. You dream about your brother’s murder.”

Jane opened her mouth to reply, but no sound came. In that moment she understood why even here on this island, some of the women feared this girl and called her Megaera, the dreaded Silver Rose.

Jane averted her gaze, edging away from her.

“Jane, I—I am sorry.” Meg faltered. The deep ringing tones of her accusation dwindled to a voice that was small and contrite. “I didn’t mean to read your eyes. I try to keep out of other people’s heads, but sometimes I cannot seem to help myself.”

Meg seemed to shrink, no trace of the formidable Megaera remaining, only a troubled young girl. She buried her face in her hands. “Oh, how you must hate me.”

“Sweetheart, why ever would you think such a thing?”

“You know
. For what happened to you. Your arrest, your imprisonment in the Tower. It was all my fault—”

“Oh, hush, Meg. We have been through this many times before. When I sought out Father Ballard, I had no idea he was part of a conspiracy to assassinate Queen Elizabeth, but I knew I was breaking the law by smuggling a priest into my household to celebrate the mass. My arrest was entirely my own fault.”

“You weren’t just charged with treason. You were accused of witchcraft because of
me
. The queen thought you were the Silver Rose.”

“That was the doing of Sir Francis Walsingham, spinning his tissue of lies,” Jane reminded her, although she could scarce speak the name of Elizabeth’s spymaster without loathing. But honesty compelled her to admit, “It was also partly owing to my brother’s reckless meddling with alchemy. When Sir Francis discovered the secret workshop that Ned kept in our home, he had enough proof to condemn me to the stake seven times over.”

Jane placed her hand over Meg’s. “Which is exactly what would have happened but for you. You came forward and told Elizabeth the truth. I owe you my life.”

“No, you owe it to
her
. It was Her Majesty that pardoned you in all her wisdom and graciousness.”

Jane had her own opinion of the queen’s graciousness, but she kept it to herself. Meg had developed an attitude of heroic worship for England’s queen and could see none of Elizabeth’s flaws.

“My release was still the result of your courage. It was astonishingly brave of you to confront Elizabeth. Things could have gone very differently for both of us if the queen had been in one of her less forgiving moods. You have no idea, Margaret, what a truly extraordinary, amazing girl you—”

“Please don’t say that.” Meg tugged her hand away, the girl’s eyes filling with distress. “It is the kind of thing the witches in the coven of the Silver Rose were wont to say about me. My mother obliged them all to worship me as though I was some kind of idol. I fear Maman was quite insane.”

Jane had heard things about the late Cassandra Lascelles that gave her cause to shudder and be glad she had
never crossed paths with the woman. But she replied tactfully, “I never met your mother, so I cannot presume to pass judgment upon her.”

“You would not because you are always so kind, but you may take my word for it. My mother was an evil, demented woman. She was obsessed with this prophecy that she would give birth to a powerful sorceress who would conquer the world with her dark magic. I was a great disappointment to her because the mere thought of becoming such a creature gave me nightmares.”

What a dreadful legacy to have left this poor child, Jane thought, as Meg wrapped her arms about herself, her face so pale that her freckles stood out stark against her skin, making her appear so young.

If my daughter had lived, she would not have been much older than Meg is now
.

The thought caught Jane by surprise. She seldom allowed herself to reflect upon the babe she had lost many years ago. She had been so young herself and unwed, the loss had seemed a blessing, a relief.

Only of late had she begun to recall that stillborn girl with an ache of grief and unbearable yearning that now caused her to fold Meg into her arms. The girl stiffened for a moment before melting against Jane.

Jane rested her chin atop Meg’s head, murmuring into the girl’s hair, “So is that what you were dreaming about tonight? Your mother and her prophecy?”

“No.”

Meg was quiet for so long that Jane feared that was all she would say. But at last the girl confided, “I—I dreamed Sander was alive and betraying me to the Dark Queen,
telling her that I retain the
Book of Shadows
. Like any nightmare, it was all nonsense. I would be quite foolish to allow it to distress me.”

Meg tried to sound dismissive, but Jane heard the quaver in her voice.

“Not foolish, my dear.” Jane smoothed her hand through Meg’s hair. “Alexander Naismith did abuse your trust and friendship most cruelly. But both he and that terrible book were destroyed in the fire.”

“I know.”

“As for the Dark Queen,” Jane continued. “You need have no more fear of her. You are well protected here on Faire Isle. The Lady is being most vigilant. Her brother-in-law Simon Aristide regularly steals into Paris to gather reports. The queen’s health is failing. She is barely able to retain power over her own son, the king—”

“I know
. In my head, I know all that. But here—” Meg drew away from Jane and struck her fist over the region of her heart. “I am still so afraid. You think me brave, Jane, but I am not. I am such a coward that I wish my papa were still here, although it is quite wrong of me.”

“It is not wrong at all. It is perfectly natural you should long for your father’s protection.”

“But Papa would never have left if he had thought I was in any danger and it is not as if I am a little girl anymore.” Despite her stout words, a wistful expression stole over Meg’s face. “I knew when we first came to this island, that Faire Isle was too tame a place to long hold a spirit as adventurous and bold as that of Martin le Loup.”

“But surely your stepmother might have remained—”

Meg shook her head. “Catriona O’Hanlon is a warrior
too. Besides, my papa tends to be rash and impulsive at times. It relieves my mind to think that Cat is there to keep him out of trouble.”

Perhaps that was true, but Jane still could not help reflecting that Meg’s welfare should have been of first importance to both Martin Wolfe and his new bride.

Meg drew farther away from Jane. Whether she read Jane’s thoughts or merely guessed at them, Jane could not tell. She was aware that at times her face could be far too transparent.

“Neither my father nor Cat would have gone to Nerac if it had not been a matter of the greatest importance,” Meg said. “The duc de Guise and his army are bent on destroying all of Navarre, killing every last Huguenot, including the Remys. Not only is Gabrielle Remy Ariane’s sister, but her husband is my father’s oldest and closest friend. Of course Papa would wish to go and fight by Nicolas Remy’s side, help him to defend his home.

“As a Catholic, I cannot expect you to understand.” Meg bit down upon her lip and cast Jane a pleading look. “But surely you would not wish any harm to come to the Remys even if they are not of your faith?”

“Of course not, child. Not to Gabrielle and Nicolas Remy or anyone.” Jane said. “I detest the very thought of war, all this senseless destruction masked under a cloak of piety, so much innocent blood spilled. It—it is like a wound to the earth itself.”

A slow smile spread across Meg’s face, the impish expression transforming the girl’s somber features.

“Why, Jane, you are starting to sound more like a daughter of the earth every day.”

“Am I?” The notion rendered Jane uneasy, but she laughed. “I think I sound more like a foolish woman who has kept you out here talking too long.”

Meg’s lantern had burned itself out during their conversation, but it scarce mattered for the sky had lightened to a pearly shade of gray.

Jane rose, flexing her stiff shoulders. “It is nearly dawn and the housemaids will be stirring, but perhaps you will still be able to get a little sleep.”

She extended her hand and tugged Meg to her feet. “Otherwise you will be too drowsy to absorb Ariane’s lessons in distilling herbs, knowledge that will be important to you if you are to become the next Lady of Faire Isle.”

“That is by no means certain,” Meg said, falling into step beside Jane as they retraced their steps along the path.

“But as I understand it, it is tradition for the Lady to name and train her own successor. And Ariane has no daughter.”

“Yes, but she has her niece, Seraphine. There is also Carole Moreau, who has been learning much from Ariane.”

“Seraphine is too headstrong and Carole not nearly as clever.”

“But she is
of
the island. She has grown up here, but as for me—” Meg hung her head. “While everyone in Faire Isle has been kind enough, I sense them studying me, watching for any sign that I might become Megaera, my mother’s evil daughter.”

Jane wished she could have offered Meg some kind of reassurance, but even she was aware that was true.

“Sometimes I wish I could have stayed hidden in England,”
Meg continued. “Life was so much simpler when I was able to be plain Margaret Wolfe, no one fearing or expecting anything of me. I—I miss my English days, although I am sure not as much as you do.”

She halted, glancing almost shyly up at Jane. “It is very selfish of me, but I have been glad of your company. Although I realize I must lose you. You had a letter from Paris today. I—I suppose you will be going soon?”

“No, my cousin finds herself entirely unable to receive me.”

“Oh!”

Meg’s expression of delight appeared to escape her involuntarily. She colored, looking chagrined. “That is—I mean, oh, that is too bad. I am sorry if you are disappointed.

“But I do so value your friendship. Next spring, Ariane intends to hold a council of the daughters of the earth. It is then that she will announce who the next Lady will be. I—I will be so nervous. It would be such a comfort if you were still here with me.”