Remy supposed the Wolf was right and yet he hardly knew how to explain it to the lad. That something about Simon Aristide had struck an unexpected chord with Remy. That man didn’t seem to be acting out of malice or mindless superstition. He was motivated by a belief in his cause, by a sense of duty that Remy understood far too well.
“Aristide doesn’t strike me as being entirely beyond the pale of reason,” Remy said. “He seems to be a bit above the common cut of witch-hunters.”
Wolf snorted. “No, he isn’t. Let’s just kill him. I’ll do it,” he added cheerfully.
“Not until I make a stab at convincing him to release Gabrielle.”
When Wolf started to register a stronger protest, Remy cut him off. “I have to try, Martin. I have lived as a fugitive, an exile from my country. I know what it is like. There is little enough I can give Gabrielle, but I can at least attempt to spare her such a fate. Living out the rest of her days under the shadow of an accusation of sorcery, constantly looking for witch-hunters over her shoulder.”
“Oh, very well, monsieur.” Wolf sighed, but he looked deeply troubled.
Remy had an idea what was bothering the lad and he said as delicately as he could, “Er—Martin, I know how you feel about the Maison d’Esprit and about witches in general. Nor do I want to expose you to the possibility of this Lascelles creature’s wrath. There is no need for you to accompany me.”
Remy braced himself for vehement protestations from Wolf, fierce indignation against anything that he would perceive as an aspersion on his courage. To his surprise, Wolf merely essayed a low mirthless laugh.
“No, Captain, I will go with you. I am not afraid of that woman.”
At least not anymore, Wolf reflected bitterly. He had already experienced the worst of Cassandra Lascelles. She had tainted him, stolen away forever his dreams of loving Miri. Wolf did not see what more the witch could possibly do to him.
Chapter Twenty-five
Gabrielle shifted on her narrow bed, watching the moon conjure patterns of light across the ceiling. She had long ago surrendered any attempt at sleep, although she was well nigh exhausted. How many nights had it been since she had last slumbered peacefully in her own bed, cradled in Remy’s arms? Six? Seven?
She was beginning to lose track of the empty hours that left her too much time to think, to worry, and to regret. Otherwise she had to admit she had little cause for complaint about her captivity. Aristide had kept his word thus far. She was being decently treated, well fed, provided with hot water for bathing.
She had never been moved to the Bastille or any other grim, dank prison as she had feared. She was being kept confined in one of the more modest rooms at the Charters Inn. The attic chamber had been stripped down to its bare elements, little more than the bed, a table, and a candle remaining. Nothing that would furnish an adequate weapon for escape unless she was rash enough to try braining her guard with the chamber pot.
Of course, she understood why she was being held at the inn. She was more Aristide’s hostage than she was his prisoner. During the one brief visit Aristide had allowed her younger sister, Miri had explained to her what the witch-hunter was after.
Gabrielle was not as quick as Miri to dismiss the possible existence of a Book of Shadows. What she doubted was that Renard had it, but she feared he would still come, make some rash attempt to save her life. Despite their constant bickering, she loved her great ogre of a brother-in-law and hated the thought of being used to lure him into a trap. Miri might desperately want to believe that Aristide only wanted to destroy the book, that he would not harm Renard. But Gabrielle didn’t trust the bastard in the least.
If it was Aristide’s plan to kill Renard, he needed to be stopped. The question that plagued Gabrielle’s every waking moment returned to torment her again. Oh, where was Remy? What was he doing? Miri had not been able to give her any satisfactory answers, only that Remy and Wolf were working on some plan to free Gabrielle. But Remy had not been anywhere near the Charters Inn since their terrible quarrel.
Was he still angry with her, still unable to forgive her? What if he had taken Gabrielle at her word when she’d proudly insisted she didn’t need his help? What if he had left Paris, simply carried on with his quest to rescue Navarre? No. Remy would never do that. The infuriatingly stubborn man considered it his duty to save her. But after that, once he had transported her safely back to Faire Isle . . .
Gabrielle could not even bear to think about that, what it would be like to spend the rest of her life without him. She had to take things one moment at a time, concentrate on the difficulties of her present situation, or she would run mad. She wrestled with the covers, seeking a more comfortable position, only to flop on her back with a gusty sigh. What she truly loathed most of all was her own helplessness. She was the one who had gotten herself into this situation. She ought to find a way to get herself out of it without putting either Renard or Remy at risk.
Witch-hunters were always arresting and persecuting women for witchcraft, exhorting them to repent. Gabrielle wondered wryly how many of these hapless prisoners were just like her and spent their captivity wishing they had actually learned some dark magic in order to save themselves.
She fretted the ends of the sheet between her fingers, noticing how thin the fabric was, how easy it would be to tear into strips. She’d considered the possibility of forming a rope ladder, forcing open one of the chamber’s narrow windows. But her room was on the inn’s uppermost floor. It was a long way to the ground. If she didn’t end up breaking her neck, there were still Simon’s men to contend with.
She contemplated getting Bartolomy Verducci to help her either by bribing or threatening to expose the man. When she had been served one of her meals, Gabrielle had noticed Catherine’s spy lurking down the corridor of the inn. So why was the Dark Queen’s hound still hanging about? If Catherine had sent Verducci to dispose of Simon Aristide, the man had already had plenty of opportunity to do it by now. Obviously Catherine had some other end in view.
It was maddening to sense all the plots swirling about her and to know nothing, be able to do nothing. Gabrielle feared that Remy was right when he’d accused her of having a penchant for intrigue. Long accustomed to being a player in the game, it was wretched to be reduced to the role of insignificant pawn. Was that how she’d made Remy feel when she concealed the truth from him about the medallion and the Dark Queen’s ring? When she got out of here, somehow she would make Remy understand how sorry she was, how much she loved him. She would find a way to win him back. If she ever got out of here—
A sharp rap on her bedchamber door startled Gabrielle into sitting bolt upright.
“Mademoiselle?”
Gabrielle recognized the gruff voice of her chief jailer, Braxton, the older man with the unprepossessing countenance and missing ear. Per Simon’s instructions, the man paid Gabrielle the grudging courtesy of alerting her before he opened her door. Not that he always waited for her response. Gabrielle heard the grate of the key in the lock. Although she was fully clothed, she dragged the coverlet up to her chin.
Shoving the door open, Braxton held up a candle, the taper casting a flickering light over the dismal room and his surly features. “You need to get up, mistress. Monsieur Le Balafre wants a word with you below stairs and—”
“He wants it now,” Gabrielle finished for him in a mimicking tone that caused the man to scowl at her. But her taunt was only a bluff, a way to conceal how her heart had begun to race. She couldn’t imagine any good reason for a prisoner being rousted out of bed in the middle of the night by a witch-hunter. Perhaps Simon Aristide was finally about to drop his polite mask.
So what was it to be? An effort to torture a confession from her or intentions of a more alarming nature? No, if Aristide was capable of feeling anything as human as desire, Gabrielle would not be the one to inspire it. She’d seen the way the bastard looked at her younger sister and it made her want to scratch out his remaining good eye.
> Gabrielle bartered for time as she struggled into her shoes and made a desperate attempt to finger comb the snarls from her hair. Her elegant manner had long been her armor and she felt that hers had grown sadly tarnished. She grimaced to think what she must look like in her crumpled gown, her eyes raw from lack of sleep.
But she forced herself to stand tall, her head held high as Braxton prodded her from the room. He lit her way down two flights of stairs to the taproom. The inn looked eerie and empty, only a few branches of candles holding the night at bay. Aristide waited in the darkness near the windows. The man had an annoying habit of doing that, keeping himself well out of the light while his victim felt mercilessly exposed. His black garb blended with the shadows, his towering height, shaved head, and eye patch giving him a sinister edge, a figure of nightmare.
What Miri could possibly see of good in this man was completely beyond Gabrielle’s comprehension. But then Miri was the one who had held longest to her belief in fairies and unicorns. Braxton gave Gabrielle a shove into the center of the room. With a bow to Aristide, the guard left Gabrielle alone with his master.
“Good evening, Mistress Cheney.” The witch-hunter’s voice was still all silken politeness. It was starting to grate on her nerves. “May I get you something?”
“Like what?” she snapped. “Hot brands, thumb screws, boiling oil?”
“I was thinking more on the lines of a flagon of wine.” As Aristide stepped into the light, his lips twitched with the hint of a smile. The glimmer of humor softened his grim visage and rendered him surprisingly more attractive. It only irritated Gabrielle. If the man was a witch-hunter, he ought to behave like one and be completely detestable.
“No, thank you. I prefer that you just tell me what you want.”
She ignored the chair Aristide offered her, smothering a feigned yawn beneath her hand. “It is the middle of the night, in case you hadn’t noticed. Or is disrupting my sleep your preferred method of torture?”
“Oh, were you sleeping?” His dark eye pierced her as though he knew all too well the kind of nights she had been spending, tormented by her fears, her uncertainties, her desperate ache for Remy.
Gabrielle averted her face. Damn Aristide. She was the wise woman. If anyone was supposed to be able to read eyes, it was she. But the witch-hunter’s ravaged face was inscrutable as he stalked closer, hands locked behind his back.
“I regret the inconveniences of your captivity, mademoiselle. But your ordeal will soon be at an end.”
Gabrielle tried hard not to give him the satisfaction of showing her alarm. “But you said I had a fortnight until my trial. I have at least another week remaining to prepare my defense.”
“Your trial may not be necessary. If I do pardon you, I hope you will go on your way a sadder, wiser woman and avoid the company of witches like Cassandra Lascelles.”
Gabrielle glowered at him. “So you have known all along Cass was the one responsible for the medallions.”
“Not all along, no,” was his cool reply. “But I admit when she sprang forward so handily to offer information against you, her name struck a chord with me. I still have the journals of my former master, Vachel Le Vis. I went back through them and discovered I was right. I had heard of Mademoiselle Lascelles before.
“I was not much more than a boy at the time, new to my master’s service, when he took up the case of a girl suspected of practicing the worst kinds of sorcery, necromancy, and curses. Because she was young and blind as well, my master was moved to spare her. Especially when Cassandra bargained for her life by offering up her mother and sisters instead, exposing their hiding place within the Maison d’Esprit.”
“Dear God!” Gabrielle had resolved to display no emotion before the witch-hunter, but she felt herself blanch with horror. This was a far different version from what Cass had told of the destruction of her family. Her grief and torment over the death of her mother and sisters had always seemed quite genuine and perhaps it was, the torment of guilt. Gabrielle would like to believe Cass possessed at least that much conscience.
“So you see,” Aristide concluded. “You are not the first of her confederates Mademoiselle Lascelles has ever betrayed.”
“I was not her confederate. But for a time, I did believe I was her friend.”
“You should choose your friends more carefully.”
“So should my sister,” she shot back.
A muscle twitched in Aristide’s cheek and his eye clouded with something that might have been regret. The emotion was quickly shuttered away as he continued, “Mademoiselle Lascelles and that serving wench of hers appear to have vanished. But I will track them down eventually and the Lascelles witch will answer for her crimes.”
So Cass had fled the Maison d’Esprit. Gabrielle heard the tidings with mixed emotions. It was alarming to think of Cass on the loose with no idea of where she might turn up next. On the other hand, her disappearance did give Gabrielle one advantage.
She cast Aristide a triumphant smile. “If Cass and her maid have vanished, you no longer have a witness against me.”
“I don’t need one. I still have the evidence of the medallions.” He gestured toward where the chest rested upon one of the tables.
Gabrielle’s smile dimmed.
“But as I said before,” he went on. “I am hoping no trial will be necessary.”
“I know what you are hoping,” Gabrielle said scornfully. “Miri told me all about the trade you have offered Renard. Did you know that every Midsummer’s Eve, my little sister attended a ceremony at the stone circle on the far side of Faire Isle?”
“Yes.” A brooding look stole over Aristide’s face. “That is where I first met her.”
“Miri actually believed that the dolmens were frozen giants who might return to life on that one magical night. Well, there is about as much a chance of that happening as the Comte de Renard ever—”
Gabrielle stumbled to a halt as she realized that the inn door had swung open, letting in a breath of crisp night air and the massive figure of a man.
“Yes? Renard will ever what?” her brother-in-law demanded affably.
Gabrielle’s jaw dropped. She knew she must look like a witless idiot with her mouth hanging open, but she couldn’t seem to close it any more than she could stop staring at the huge man who filled the doorframe. It was as though she had conjured up Renard with the mere mention of his name. But the comte had always had a disconcerting way of doing that, springing up out of nowhere.
Small wonder that Simon Aristide suspected the man of being a demon. Although the witch-hunter had clearly been expecting Renard tonight, Simon paled at the sight of him. Aristide’s fingers twitched as though he wanted to reach for a cross to fend Renard off. Appearing as unperturbed by the sensation he had aroused as he was by the two stout witch-hunters who flanked him, Renard ambled into the room, the floorboards creaking beneath his heavy boots. He leisurely stripped off his riding gloves, his hooded green eyes sweeping the taproom with that laconic expression that masked a sharp and cunning intelligence.
“Monsieur Le Balafre, the comte has arrived,” one of Renard’s escorts announced.
“I can see that,” Simon snapped. He dismissed the men, only Braxton remaining to post guard at the door. The comte ignored Aristide, turning to Gabrielle instead.
Gabrielle tipped up her chin, bracing herself for her brother-in-law’s anger and contempt. The comte had little tolerance for anyone who caused his beloved wife grief and she had never been anything but trouble to Ariane. She was completely disarmed when he took her hand and carried it to his lips.
“My dear sister-in-law. I am as ever charmed to see you.” Despite his teasing tone, Gabrielle found something astonishing beneath his hooded lids. Warmth, gentleness, and concern as his eyes searched her face. “I find you well, I trust?”
A lump rose to her throat. Ariane’s ogre appeared so comfortingly large and solid, Gabrielle had to master a strong urge to sag against his chest and burst i
nto tears.
“T-tolerably well,” she managed to reply with a tremulous smile.
Renard gave her cheek a reassuring pat before turning to Aristide. The comte possessed an overwhelming presence. Even someone as formidable as the witch-hunter Le Balafre seemed to dwindle before him. Simon suddenly looked much younger and more vulnerable as Renard’s scornful gaze swept over him.
“Ah, and this would be our young Master Aristide. You’ve grown so much I would have scarce recognized you.”
Simon flushed, his hand flying to his scar. “Yes, I suppose I have changed.”
“I am sorry about the damage to your pretty face, lad,” Renard said in a softer tone. “It was never my wish to fight you that day. I had no desire to be your enemy.”
“You were born to be my enemy.” The hate radiating from Aristide was so strong, it sent a chill through Gabrielle. He inhaled sharply as though fighting to contain the virulent emotion. “I believe you came here to barter for mademoiselle’s freedom, not thrash over old times. Did you bring the article I require?”
After a hesitation, Renard nodded, reaching for a pouch slung round his shoulder. Gabrielle watched, almost breathless with suspense as Renard undid the straps that held the pouch closed. He slowly extracted a plain volume bound in black leather. Of no great size or thickness, the book appeared no more threatening than a folio of poems.
Gabrielle’s heart sank. Aristide was no fool. Did Renard really think he could trick the witch-hunter with a text as harmless looking as that? As the comte handed over the volume, Simon’s sneer showed his skepticism.
“This is the infamous Book of Shadows?”
“I hope so. I paid dearly to acquire it.”
“Not yet you haven’t,” Simon muttered. Snatching the book from Renard, he carried it close to the lit branch of candles and cracked the cover open.