“Ah, you don’t know Louise. I have never known anyone better at masking their thoughts.”
“Then it is obvious you haven’t spent much time with the Comte de Renard.” Ariane retorted.
Marie Claire cast her a sympathetic glance. “I heard that he returned to the island today. He is still after you to marry him?”
Despite her weariness and tension, Ariane bit back a smile. Marie Claire missed little of what took place on Faire Isle, and she certainly seemed to be better versed in the doings of the world than Ariane.
Pouring out the entire tale of Renard’s visit, Ariane displayed the ring fastened to the chain around her neck. To her astonishment, the abbess was completely fascinated with the small metal band.
“Mon Dieu,” she said. “I have not seen one of these for years.”
“You’ve seen a ring like this before?”
“But certainly. Le cercle d’amour. They always come in pairs. There should be a mate to yours.”
“Yes, Renard is wearing it.”
“These special rings are love tokens fashioned from the metals of the earth to bind two souls together across space and time. I don’t know what gypsy sold the rings to Monsieur le Comte, but no doubt she was a wise woman well versed in the old ways.”
Ariane shook her head. “Maman put no faith in such things as charms or tokens. You cannot possibly believe this ring really is magic, Marie.”
“I don’t know.” Marie Claire held the ring up to the light for one last look before returning it to Ariane. “I have always tended to be a bit more credulous than your wise maman. I would take good care of that ring. If its magic does work, it might prove quite valuable in the days ahead. A powerful man like Renard could be useful in fighting off any minions Catherine might send against us.”
“Yes, at a price! What if I ended up having to marry the man?”
“Would that be such a terrible fate? From what I have seen of him, this Renard appears a lusty specimen.”
“Marie!” Ariane exclaimed, much shocked.
A wicked twinkle sparkled in the abbess’s eyes. “Just because I chose the celibate life doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate the sight of a fine, strapping man.”
“Well, I will admit that Renard does appear rather—rather vigorous.” Ariane blushed a little when Marie Claire laughed. “But that would be no good reason to marry a man, especially one so mysterious. I know nothing about him except that he is a Deauville and that is certainly not to his credit.”
“Surely you are too wise to hold the sins of a man’s grandfather against him. Renard may prove to be quite different from the old comte. He certainly has a finer pair of thighs.”
Ariane frowned. “Marie, are you trying to persuade me to accept this man’s suit?”
“No, child. I was only teasing you. You are always so solemn on the subject of men. You don’t have to end up married to Renard simply because you employed the power of his ring. If you were only to use the thing once or twice, then lock it away . . .”
“Your pardon, Marie, but that strikes me as being slightly deceitful. To call upon Renard’s services twice, and then discard him.”
The abbess shrugged. “Monsieur le Comte set the rules for this game. If he falls victim to his own conditions, it will be no fault of yours.”
But such a course seemed more than deceitful to Ariane. It struck her as being downright dangerous.
“Ah well,” Marie Claire said. “I daresay you are right and this business about a magic ring is all nonsense anyway. Let us go back to more practical means of obtaining help.”
She turned to her weathered book, tapping her finger against the name of the Parisian courtesan. “Sending Louise to spy on Catherine will be a better way of uncovering information than you meddling with those gloves. I can get word to Louise by morning.”
“By morning?” Ariane exclaimed. “All the way to Paris? What have you got, Marie? A flying horse?”
“No, something better.” Marie Claire startled Ariane by emitting a low strident sound at the back of her throat. The raven, which had appeared to be asleep, puffed out its feathers and echoed the cry. To Ariane’s astonishment, the bird plucked open the door to its own cage, hopped out and glided across the room to settle on the abbess’s wrist. Marie Claire bent close to the bird, cooing and stroking its glistening black plumage. Ariane shivered to see Marie Claire draw her face so near to that dangerous-looking beak, but the bird only fluffed out its feathers and nibbled playfully at her fingers.
“Your little Miri is not the only one who has a way with the creatures of the earth, although my skill has always been greater with birds. I have an especial fondness for ravens.”
“Wolf birds?” Ariane protested. “But they are predators, Marie, feasting on the flesh of dead beasts.”
“Do we not do the same?” Marie Claire caressed the raven’s sleek head. “I have always found these so-called wolf birds to be amazingly loyal and intelligent. I have trained my Agrippa to carry messages for me in a small band attached to his leg. That is how I have always safely managed to communicate with other daughters of the earth.
“Agrippa has been taught to fly to a certain house in Paris, to the wife of one of the doctors at the university. Madame Pechard will get word of what we need to Louise.”
Ariane regarded her friend in frank amazement. “Marie, I have known you all my life and I never had any idea you possessed such links to other wise women.”
“Now it seems right that you should know. Your mother was well loved, child. Though there are many daughters of the earth who long ago gave up and lost all courage, there is still a great number out there who would willingly offer up their lives to aid the Lady of Faire Isle. And now that Evangeline is gone, that title belongs to you.”
Ariane stared at Marie Claire, both touched and daunted by what she was offering her. She scarcely felt capable of governing her own affairs, let alone commanding some legion of nameless women. She certainly didn’t want anyone offering up their life for her.
“No, Marie,” she said quietly. “I appreciate you telling me all this, but please put your wolf bird back on its perch. If there is to be any risk taken in defying the Dark Queen, it should be mine.” Ariane stiffened her spine, drawing herself up to her full height. “If I am to be the lady of the island, it is my province to protect the people of Faire Isle and that includes you, the sisters of this convent, even the women in that little book of yours. Besides, it was to me that Captain Remy came seeking help and I am the one who gave him my word.”
“No one would blame you for breaking such a promise.”
“I would blame myself. Because it is high time the Dark Queen was brought to justice and not only for the poor queen of Navarre.
“But for what she did to Maman as well,” Ariane added softly. “Like it or not, the task seems to have fallen to me and to me alone.”
Marie Claire studied her for a long moment, recognizing the futility of continuing the argument. She fetched a deep sigh and returned her raven to its cage. Her eyes misting with sudden tears, she hugged Ariane.
“Ah, child, you are indeed your mother’s daughter.”
Ariane wondered. Despite all her brave words, she felt as though a hollow core of fear and doubt had embedded itself deep in her heart. As she returned Marie Claire’s embrace, she stared over the older woman’s shoulder, trying to draw some inspiration from the tapestry mounted on the wall.
Joan of Arc, one of the most courageous daughters of the earth who had ever lived. Caught forever in the intricate woven threads, she valiantly raised her sword.
But St. Joan had an entire garrison at her back. Ariane had only one lone soldier, already wounded. And St. Joan had only been setting out to defeat the entire English army, Ariane thought with a shudder.
Not the Dark Queen.
Chapter Six
The great salon at the palace of the Louvre was silent, only a few candles illuminating the vast recesses of a chamber usually t
hronged with glittering courtiers. Bartolomy Verducci crept across the tiled floor, a gaunt scarecrow of a man with his thinning hair and straggling beard. Bartolomy shuddered as he inched forward for his private audience with the queen.
Bartolomy had more reason than most to be afraid. He had failed his mistress and the Dark Queen seldom tolerated failure.
For a moment, Bartolomy thought the chamber truly was empty. He experienced a brief sense of reprieve until he spotted a dark shadow behind the throne.
“Y-your Majesty.” Bartolomy’s voice sounded strange and hollow, echoing round the salon as he deeply bowed.
Catherine de Medici slowly emerged from the shadows, her plump bejeweled fingers folded before her. She was not a tall woman, but she carried herself with all the regal assurance of one who had been born a duchess in the most powerful family in Italy. Her once fair hair was now streaked with silver, her sallow face round and heavy like the rest of her body. But no one ever mistook the Dowager Queen for a matronly figure. Her dark Medici eyes precluded that, cold and piercing, set beneath razor-thin brows.
The queen stared down at Bartolomy from the edge of the dais. He held his velvet cap before him like a shield, his thin fingers fretting the plume.
“Well?” Catherine asked.
Bartolomy tried to keep his voice from cracking. “If—if it please Your Majesty. The problem is well in hand.”
“Truly?” Catherine’s brows lifted slightly. She crooked one finger, beckoning him closer.
Bartolomy cringed, suppressing an urge to bolt. He shuffled forward until he stood within arm’s reach of the Dark Queen. She fixed him with a basilisk stare. It was said that Catherine possessed the ability to read eyes, to compel the truth from men. Bartolomy could not seem to tear away from that cold, steady gaze until Catherine abruptly released him.
“Liar.” The single word was spoken softly. “You have allowed Captain Remy to escape,” Catherine said.
“Well, Y-your Grace . . .” Bartolomy realized it was useless to deny it. His eyes had already betrayed him.
“Remy has escaped,” Catherine went on inexorably. “And taken away with him the evidence that you should have recovered.”
“It was not my fault, Your Grace,” Bartolomy whined. “There were so many people attending the queen of Navarre when she died, Captain Remy, her ministers, her ladies-in-waiting. I could not get close enough. I—I—”
“You fool.”
Catherine’s voice was calm. One seldom knew the full extent of her anger—until it was far too late.
Bartolomy prostrated himself before her, clutching at the folds of her gown and pleading for her forgiveness. The queen endured this for several moments before plucking her stiff brocade away from him with an expression of impatience.
“Oh, do get up, you imbecile, and cease your sniveling. This helps nothing.”
Bartolomy rose trembling to his feet, while the queen demanded, “So what is being done to rectify this situation?”
“The soldiers are still hard after the captain. He’ll not get far. He has been wounded and we do know where he is going.”
“Any dolt could guess his destination. He will race back to join his young king in Navarre.”
“No, Your Grace. We have reason to believe he is headed elsewhere. One of our spies discovered that before he left Paris, he consulted the wife of a certain apothecary, a Madame Belvoir.
“She was reluctant to give us any information about the captain, but a few hours on the rack loosened her tongue. She confessed that the captain plans to seek help from some Cheney woman who lives on the Faire Isle.”
“The—the Faire Isle,” Catherine breathed. If it had been anyone else but the Dark Queen, Bartolomy would have imagined he saw a flicker of fear in her eyes.
“Yes, Your Majesty. Though I cannot imagine what help the captain imagines he shall find there. It is only a small island, inhabited mostly by women and—”
“Only an island of women?” Catherine glared. “Yes, only insignificant women. Many of them just like me.”
Bartolomy’s mouth fell open in dismay. Women like the Dark Queen? He knew full well what she meant.
Sorceresses, he thought with a shudder.
“Yes,” the queen said as though he had spoken aloud. “And Ariane Cheney is likely the most dangerous of them all. Her late mother, Evangeline Cheney, was once a friend of mine.”
Bartolomy could not conceal his surprise.
“It astonishes you, does it, my dear Bartolomy?” Catherine asked dryly. “That I ever had a friend?”
“Yes, I—I mean no, Your Grace. I—I—mean,” Bartolomy stammered into incoherence, flushing a hot red.
“Frankly, it surprised me, too,” Catherine said. “But I developed an unusual kinship with Evangeline. Perhaps because we were both new brides and felt like foreigners at the French court, she, the lady from Faire Isle, I, ‘that accursed Italian Woman.’”
Catherine swept past him to the diamond-paned windows. She stared into the night, a faraway look settling in her eyes.
“We became great allies, Evangeline and I. But unfortunately she never understood the necessity for employing the darker arts available to us. She even sought to thwart me when I did so. Of course, I could not allow that.”
Catherine sighed. “Oh, what I was obliged to do to my poor dear friend.”
The queen fell silent, but at length she appeared to rouse herself from her reflections. She turned her attention back to Bartolomy. “Now thanks to your ineptitude, I may have Evangeline’s daughter to deal with.”
“Oh, n-no, Your Majesty.”
“You will stop Captain Remy from ever reaching that island.”
“Oh, y-yes, Your Majesty.” Bartolomy nodded.
“And recover the evidence.”
Bartolomy nodded even more vigorously.
“Stop bobbing about like an idiot and get to it! And for mercy’s sake, continue your hunt with some discretion. I want no hint of anything suspicious reaching Henry of Navarre. I need the young fool here in Paris for the wedding.”
Bartolomy started to nod again, then checked himself. He bowed, backing away, thankful to make his escape. He had almost gained the safety of the door when Catherine’s voice floated after him.
“Bartolomy.”
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“Do not fail me again,” the queen said quietly.
Catherine pursed her lips as the trembling servant all but tripped over his own two feet in his haste to quit the room. She remained stiff and rigid until the door closed behind him. Only then did Catherine allow her weariness to show, the weariness of a woman who had long battled to maintain her position in a land where she was frequently mistrusted and despised. Fighting to keep her half-mad son secure in his throne, threatened by other noble French families with claims to royal blood, by uprisings of Huguenot rebels, by the king of Spain stretching his greedy fingers toward France.
Most days, Catherine felt more than equal to the struggle for power. At times, she even relished all the intrigue. But tonight she was feeling strangely tired and alone.
It was the mention of Faire Isle, stirring up memories of Evangeline and all those conflicting emotions her dear friend had stirred in Catherine. Love and hate, admiration and the bitterest of envy. In the end, the hatred and envy had won out.
Evangeline with her perfect marriage, perfect love, daring to thwart Catherine’s attempt to rid herself of her husband’s mistress. Evangeline had been right to stop her, of course, but that had not made her interference any more tolerable.
Catherine had resolved to show Evangeline exactly what it felt like to be the scorned wife of a faithless husband.
“Pain for pain, my dear Evangeline,” Catherine whispered.
It had been so pathetically easy to set one of her ladies loose upon the Chevalier Cheney. Despite all his passionate avowals of adoration for his wife, he had proved as weak as any other man.
Catherine could recall quite cl
early that exquisite instant when Evangeline had first learned of her husband’s betrayal. Evangeline had always had such incredible eyes, as though a light burned behind them, strong and steady.
But in that moment, Catherine had watched the light flicker and dim, never to fully rekindle. The memory should have been so sweet, yet somehow it had become aching and empty.
Catherine rubbed her eyes, trying to grind out all thoughts of her friend. But she could not help wondering. What if the captain did manage to reach the Faire Isle and solicit Ariane’s help?
Catherine’s mouth set in a grim line.
“Oh, my dear Evangeline,” she murmured. “I pray Ariane has better sense than you ever did, the wisdom not to meddle in my affairs. I truly should not like to have to destroy your child.”
Chapter Seven
Ariane led her pony away from the convent as Charbonne locked the gates behind her. Ariane doubted that Marie Claire would be pleased if she knew that Ariane had dispensed with Charbonne’s escort, but it was late and the woman would need her sleep, having a full day of chores awaiting her in the morning.
Ariane felt bone-tired herself, wanting to swing into the saddle and gallop for home. But that was scarcely possible with Butternut. Miri was right. The pony was getting old. Ariane would have to spare him as much as possible, even if it meant leading him through the streets until they gained the road that wound inland away from the harbor.
She would not likely reach home until the small hours of the morning, but it would not be the first time Ariane had been abroad that late. She had frequently ridden out alone after sunset, hastening to the bedside of someone desperately ill. She had always felt safe enough here on her island.
At least until tonight.
As she tugged Butternut down the moonlit hill, she huddled close to the pony’s side, all too conscious of the secret burden she carried strapped to her side, Captain Remy’s leather purse with its deadly contents.
When she had ridden to the convent only hours ago, Faire Isle had seemed the most peaceful place in the world. Now even the herb garden outside the apothecary’s shop bore a sinister aspect, too many corners to lurk in, too many bushes to hide beneath.