The Huntress: A Novel (Dark Queen)

  Ridiculous, she thought, to be so wary of a wee slip of a girl, but she had already had a sharp taste of what this particular girl could do.

  Megaera halted about a foot away, devouring Cat with her eyes. Cat stared back just as fiercely, squaring off with her small nemesis.

  “My name is not Megaera,” the girl announced with a stubborn lift of her chin. “It is Margaret Elizabeth Wolfe.”

  “And mine is Catriona of the Clan O’Hanlon. Would you care to be telling me why you were lurking outside the door, spying upon me?”

  A hint of color crept into the girl’s cheeks. “I wasn’t lurking. I only wanted to see how you were faring.”

  “How kind of you,” Cat replied dryly. “Aside from the hole you punched in my back and the hammering in my skull from whatever concoction you shot into my veins, I am faring just grand. I’d like another look at that witch blade of yours. I never saw one before and I confess I am curious.”

  Meg’s lips tightened in a stony line. “I do not have the least notion what you are talking about.”

  “Don’t you? Then perhaps we had best call your father and ask him.”

  “No!” Meg’s hauteur vanished, her face suffused with something akin to panic. “Please, don’t do that. Papa has no idea that I—I—.”

  “Go about stabbing folk with your witch blade?”

  “It is not a witch blade. Its proper name is a syringe and I don’t go about stabbing people. Not unless I have to and—and I can’t show it to you because I don’t have it with me.”

  “Truly? I thought you might have been sneaking in here to take another poke.”

  “No!” Meg cried again. “I wouldn’t have poked you the first time if I hadn’t thought you were trying to kill my papa. Anyway it was only a sleeping draught.”

  “Only a sleeping draught?” Cat pressed a hand to her throbbing head. “I suspect much more of your sleeping draught and I might never have waked up.”

  The girl stiffened indignantly. “I know the right amount to use. Besides, if I had wanted to kill you, I could have just used poison. I am very skilled at brewing those, too.”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt that you are.”

  “I would never want to hurt you, but make no mistake, to protect my father, I would destroy you or anyone else.”

  The warning look that Meg leveled at Cat was disconcertingly adult, woman to woman, warrior to warrior.

  “I believe you would,” Cat replied gravely.

  Meg regarded Cat belligerently for a moment, then her lip trembled and she whispered in a voice that was that of a child.

  “I love my papa. He is everything in the world to me, all that I have.”

  “I can understand that,” Cat admitted. “I felt the same way about my father.” Against her will, Cat was carried back to that summer when she had raced desperately through the heather after the brawny man whose fire-colored hair was so like her own.

  “Da! Wait,” she had panted, her small legs pumping hard to overtake his great strides. Tiernan O’Hanlon had turned to wait for her and she had flung her arms about his waist, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “Da, you must not go to fight today. Gran has had one of her visions. She—she says you’ll not return if you go.”

  Her father had merely let loose his booming laugh and scooped her up in his burly arms. “Whist now, ma chroi. You’ll not be after listening to the rantings of that foolish old woman. Be a good lass, my Cat. Run home and wait for me. I’ll be back before the sun sets with many a fine tale to tell you.”

  Her father had kissed her cheeks, dried her tears, but in the end pried away her small arms and set her from him. Because nothing or no one stayed an Irishman when his blood ran hot and the war drums were calling, Cat reflected bitterly.

  She had returned to their cottage and waited…and waited. But as usual her grandmother’s vision had proved true. Long after the sun had set, her father’s stool by the hearth remained empty and Tiernan of the Laughing Eyes came no more.

  A timid touch on her arm drew Cat back to the present. She was startled to find Meg standing right in front of her. The girl peered up at her with intent sad eyes.

  “You lost your papa when you were very young, didn’t you? I am sorry.”

  Cat stared at the girl. It could have been a good guess on Meg’s part or the girl just might be adept at the ancient wise woman’s art of reading the eyes.

  Cat had always kept her hurts and grief buried deep in the dark corners of her heart, wounds too tender to bear the light of day. Clutching the sheet like protective armor, Cat inched warily away from the little girl.

  “That was all a long time ago,” she said. “Besides, we weren’t talking about my father. I believe we were discussing yours.”

  Meg bit down upon her lower lip. “So are you going to tell my father about me? He wouldn’t like me having the syringe or brewing potions. He wants me to forget everything I learned when I was with Mam—I mean, from the old days. Papa would be so disappointed in me if he knew what I did today.”

  Cat frowned. Martin le Loup definitely needed to have his eyes opened where his daughter was concerned and yet as Cat studied Meg’s downcast face, she felt an unwilling empathy. She well remembered those days when one disappointed look from Tiernan O’Hanlon had been worse than a blow.

  “Perhaps it might remain our secret for now.”

  Meg brightened only to blanch with consternation when Cat added, “But you’ll have to surrender that witch blade to me.”

  “Oh, no, please, I can’t. I always carry the syringe with me when I go out. To—to protect Papa. And if the sisterhood is still after me as you claim, or even the Dark Queen, I’ll need my weapon more than ever.”

  Meg sank down in front of Cat, begging. “Please, Catriona…Cat, please. Let me keep the syringe. I’ll be careful how I use it and my potions. I swear it. Just please promise you won’t tell Papa any of this.”

  Cat thought she would be an idiot to agree to any such thing or to make such a promise. But as she gazed down at Meg, she could not steel her heart against that earnest young face or those great pleading eyes.

  She blew out a gusty sigh. “Oh, very well.”

  Meg reached up to touch her hand. “No, you must really promise.”

  “What on earth do you want, girl? An oath in blood?”

  Meg regarded her gravely. “Promise me upon your sacred honor. I know that’s a vow you’d never break.”

  And there was only one way Meg could know that. The little witch could read eyes and she had raided Cat’s mind again.

  “All right. I promise you upon my sacred honor,” Cat said, then added sternly, “but you must promise me. No more practicing that little trick of yours upon me.”

  Meg rose slowly to her feet. “What trick?”

  “You know full well. You are dealing with another wise woman here, not your gullible papa. I am very familiar with the practice of reading eyes.”

  “Oh. That.” Meg looked sheepish. She solemnly held up one hand. “I promise I won’t do it anymore. Upon my honor.”

  But as she lowered her hand, her lips twitched with the hint of a smile. “But I am very skilled at it, aren’t I?”

  “Yes, you are, minx.”

  Meg’s smile widened and it was astonishing how the expression transformed her grave little face, giving it a hint of Martin le Loup’s roguish charm.

  “I am good at other things too, like brewing potions.” She gestured to the empty cup on the bedside table. “That tisane I fixed for you should make you feel perfectly all right soon. If not, I can make you some more.”

  “You brewed the tisane?” Cat asked. By the goddess Brigid! Was Martin le Loup aware of anything that went on beneath his own roof? “Your father told me it was Mistress Butterydoor who made the posset.”

  “Aggie? She knows nothing about such things. Besides, she said she would not give you so much as a cup of her piss.”

  Meg offered Cat an apologetic glance. ??
?I am sorry, but Aggie doesn’t like Irish people. She says you’ll crunch my wee bones the first chance you get.”

  “And you believe her?”

  “Of course not. I am not some naive child,” Meg replied with dignity. “Aggie is a kindhearted woman, but sometimes she can be a trifle…”

  “Superstitious and ignorant like most of the English?”

  “I was going to say unlettered and untraveled. She has never been farther from London than Southwark. She has not had my experience of the world.”

  It was an absurd claim for an eleven-year-old girl to make. Anyone but this one, Cat thought. But studying Meg, she glimpsed something sad and weary in the girl’s green eyes, so very like her father’s and yet so very different.

  Martin’s eyes sparkled with a youth and vitality the man would likely possess if he lived to be a hundred. But as for Meg, an expression passed over her face that made her look as though she were already a hundred years old. There was a very old soul haunting that child’s eyes.

  Cat was rarely subject to maternal impulses, but she brushed her fingers through a strand of Meg’s silky brown hair, smoothing it over the girl’s shoulder.

  “Since you are so good at reading eyes, you must have some idea why I came to London.”

  “You think I am in danger. I overheard you talking to my papa.”

  “Ah, listening at the keyhole, were you?”

  Again there was that trace of an impish smile, but Meg immediately sobered. “It is wrong of me, I know, but I have to. Papa doesn’t always tell me the things that he should. He tries too hard to be protective.”

  Papa wasn’t the only one, Cat was tempted to retort, but she kept the observation to herself.

  “If the sisterhood or the Dark Queen still threatens us, I need to know these things.” Meg shuddered. “I met her once…the queen. In the gardens of her palace in Paris. She is very old, but still quite powerful and frightening. There—there is a terrible darkness in her.”

  “Which is why I came to fetch you to Faire Isle.”

  Meg cocked her head to one side, considering. “Would I be entirely safe there?”

  Cat hesitated over her answer, but was unable to lie to the girl. It would have done no good with Meg anyway. The child was far too wise for that.

  “No, Margaret. There is no place on this earth entirely safe, but I think you would be safer there than in this infernal city.”

  “Is Faire Isle a pleasant place? Who lives there?”

  “The island is inhabited mostly by women because their husbands and sons are often away, making their living upon the sea as sailors or fishermen. Consequently, you will find many women employed in trades you would not elsewhere, blacksmiths, carpenters, brewers, shopkeepers, and—”

  “And wise women?” Meg interrupted eagerly.

  “Most certainly wise women. Faire Isle has long been a refuge for those seeking the ancient knowledge, herbalists and healers. The isle is small, but lovely like a gem set in the sea, with rugged cliffs and shell-strewn beaches, and at the heart of the island, a deep dark wood with trees too old to imagine. There’s a beautiful, wild spirit that inhabits Faire Isle, even more ancient than the ones that dwell in my own country.”

  Or at least used to dwell there, Cat thought sadly. She had long felt that the spirit of Ireland was dying, being driven out by the invading English and the folly of her own countrymen.

  “And what about the Lady of Faire Isle?” Meg asked.

  “She is as wise as she is good and very learned. She could teach you a great deal more about the healing arts and the ways of the earth.”

  “It sounds wonderful.” Meg looked wistful for a moment, and then sighed. “But Papa will never agree to go there. He likes London and he has great ambitions for me. He wants me to become a grand lady, admired, beautiful, and accomplished in music and dancing and—and fine needlework. I am not sure I can be all he wants me to be, but I have to try.”

  “You talk a great deal of what Papa wants. But what about Meg?” Cat asked. “What does she want?”

  “To please my papa. It is my duty. The clergyman at St. Barnaby’s preached just last Sunday how important it is for daughters to be obedient.”

  Cat took the little girl’s smooth hand between her own calloused ones. “There are other kinds of daughters, Meg. Daughters of the earth, which is what you are. First and foremost a wise woman learns to be true to herself.”

  “I—I remember. My first nurse, Prudence Waters, was just such a wise woman. She tried to teach me—” Meg broke off with a sorrowful shake of her head. “But I need to forget all of that. It is what my papa desires.”

  “It is not that easy, Meg, forgetting the past, trying to deny who you really are deep in your bones, striving to be what someone else wants you to be. Trust me. I know.”

  But the girl drew her hand away. “It was interesting talking to you, Catriona of the Clan O’Hanlon. But I agree with my papa. You should rest and then go home.”

  Meg bobbed a quaint curtsy, her shuttered face a mirror image of what Martin’s had been. “I wish you a safe journey back to Faire Isle.”

  The girl whisked from the room and once more Cat found herself staring at a closed door. She sprawled back upon the mattress with a disgruntled sigh.

  Go home? She wished she could take Meg’s advice, but it had been a long time since Cat had known exactly where that was. As for the journey to Faire Isle, she would have been glad to embark on the next tide.

  She had hoped to accomplish her mission swiftly and return to Ariane as soon as possible. For all of Ariane’s assurances about how well she was doing, Cat was deeply worried about her friend. Not that she was of much use when it came to the mysteries of childbearing, but if anything went wrong, she wanted to be there at Ariane’s side.

  But this mission was proving to be more difficult than Cat had ever dreamed, navigating the shoals between Martin le Loup and his equally obstinate daughter a near impossible task.

  Cat didn’t blame Meg. For all of her wisdom, she was only a little girl desperate to please her father. Martin, on the other hand, ought to know better than to risk his daughter in this fashion. But the man was too blinded by his own ambitions to see what was best for his child.

  Well, it was up to her to teach Monsieur le Loup the error of his ways. She would get Meg safely back to Faire Isle even if she had to snatch the girl out from under her father’s nose to do so.

  Chapter Four

  MARTIN STRODE THROUGH THE SILENT CORRIDOR, SHIELDING his candle from the draft, the rest of the household long abed. It was not the first time he had found himself stirring while the rest of the world slept. From his days as a thief in Paris to when he had acted as an agent for the king of Navarre, much of his business had been conducted under the cloak of darkness.

  His hooded cloak fastened about his neck, sword and dagger tucked in his belt, he prepared to steal from the house for a late-night meeting with his patron. But not before he checked to see that all doors and windows were barred, and he looked in on his daughter. For the third or perhaps the fourth time. That wild Irishwoman with all her dire warnings had alarmed Martin far more than he cared to admit.

  Easing Meg’s bedchamber door open, Martin tiptoed inside. She was like a princess lodged in a tower, with her room situated at the highest point of the house. Martin had run up considerable debt refurbishing the chamber in regal fashion, the ceiling trimmed with gilt moldings, the walls papered with heraldic devices. An arras hung from one corner to shield the room from drafts that came from the north, the heavy tapestry depicting Meg’s favorite creature, a blue-green dragon with his wings tricked out in iridescent threads.

  The chamber was crowded with everything a doting father could bestow upon his daughter, trunks stuffed with lovely gowns, a golden harp, a workbasket overflowing with silken skeins of thread, shelves crammed with books, a small writing desk.

  Martin set the candle down atop the desk, the surface littered with ink, quill,
and parchment where Meg had been busy translating some passage of Latin into English. Never much of a scholar himself, Martin was proud of his daughter’s achievements, although sometimes the hunger of her mind worried him.

  His friends the Cheney sisters would no doubt be ready to roast him alive for harboring such an opinion, but Martin feared it was not always a good thing for a woman to be too clever. Certainly, Meg’s mother had benefited little from—Martin compressed his lips, blocking out all thought of Cassandra Lascelles.

  He stepped closer to Meg’s bed, taking great care not to wake her as he drew back the Indian silk bed-curtains. His daughter looked small and fragile, a mere babe curled up in the center of the huge feather tick mattress.

  He was relieved to see that she was fast asleep, her brow smooth and untroubled. He had been afraid that the events of the afternoon might trigger some of her bad dreams. It had been a long time since Meg had been tormented by any of her nightmares and Martin was determined to keep it that way.

  She had fallen asleep as she often did, poring over the contents of her treasure box. The small chest inlaid with mother of pearl lay open on the mattress near her. Martin carefully eased the small coffer away, lest Meg roll over on it and hurt herself in her sleep. He smiled over her tiny hoard of treasures, a shell from the beach at Dover, a bird’s feather, the strand of pearls he’d given her for her tenth birthday, and a large oval locket that stirred other memories.

  Hooking his finger around the silver chain, he drew the locket out of the box and dangled it in the candlelight. The oval surface was adorned with the portrait of a wolf baying at the moon. The pendant opened to reveal a cunning miniature clock and the etched words Yours until time ends.

  The necklace originally had been a gift for Miri Cheney, a prelude he had hoped to a betrothal. He remembered all too well the night he had discovered Miri was no longer wearing it. They had been walking in the moonlight by the pond on Simon Aristide’s farm.

  “I have the locket safe,” Miri had said. “I meant to give it back to you the next time we met.”