The Dark Queen

  Catherine pinned most of her hopes of retaining power on her third son, Anjou, clever, ambitious, and charming. If only she could keep the boy from gaming, drinking, and whoring himself to death before it was his turn to ascend the throne.

  And then there was her daughter, Margot, wild and rebellious, vowing she would not go through with Catherine’s plans to wed her to the king of Navarre. She was in love with the duc de Guise, a handsome, greedy nobleman who would be only too pleased to use a union with Margot as an excuse to lay claim to the throne himself.

  Margot was not the only one raising objections to her approaching marriage to the Protestant king of Navarre. His Most Catholic Majesty of Spain had raised an outcry against it. Phillip had been warning Catherine for some time that she had better find an effective way of suppressing the spread of heresy in her country or he would do it for her. Of course, everyone knew the wretched man was merely hungry for any excuse to invade France.

  There were rumblings among the Huguenots as well, suspicious and uneasy about the proposed wedding, even more so since the sudden death of the queen of Navarre. It didn’t help matters that Captain Remy was still out there somewhere, roaming loose with evidence of Catherine’s crime tucked in his purse.

  She needed matters to proceed smoothly. That wedding had to take place. It was her surest way of dealing with both the threat from Spain and further Protestant rebellion. All she had to do was make sure she prepared a proper reception for all those wedding guests.

  Catherine turned her attention to the second bottle on her worktable, a large glass flagon filled with a cloudy liquid, a mixture she had been steeping for weeks. Catherine shook the flagon, the sediment shifting, becoming even more viscous until it looked like mist captured in a bottle. Almost ready.

  Catherine smiled, contrasting the bloodred of her son’s medi-cine to the cloudy liquid in the other bottle.

  One potion to prevent madness. Another to induce it . . .

  Catherine was startled from her thoughts by a light tapping sound. It came from the outer door to the altar room. Her lips thinned with displeasure but she supposed the interruption scarcely mattered since she was finished here . . . for the present. Removing her apron, she pocketed her son’s medicine and locked the other brew carefully away.

  Extinguishing the votive candles, she emerged into the outer room. One tug on the kneeler and the entire altar shifted back in place, concealing the hidden room just as the knocking sounded again.

  Catherine composed herself to appear as though she had just risen from her knees and was mighty displeased to have her prayers disrupted.

  Swinging open the door, she peered coldly at the young woman who sank into a deep curtsy. A petite blonde beauty, the chit’s courage far outstripped her size. Gillian Harcourt was by far one of the boldest members of Catherine’s elite Flying Squadron.

  “What do you want?” Catherine demanded. “You know well my orders that I am never to be disturbed when I am at my devotions.”

  The beauty mark at the corner of Gillian’s lip quivered as though the woman suspected how little praying went on in the queen’s closet. But one basilisk stare from Catherine was enough to wipe the smirk from her face.

  “Forgive me, Your Majesty,” Gillian said, kneeling before her. “But you asked to be informed at once when Louise Lavalle arrived for her audience.”

  “Yes, I suppose that I did,” Catherine said, frowning. “Very well. I will receive Lavalle in the antechamber, but do not make a habit of this impertinence, mademoiselle.”

  “No, Your Grace.” Gillian made haste to kiss her hand.

  By the time Louise Lavalle was escorted into the Dark Queen’s presence, Catherine had arranged herself carefully so that the light spilling through the antechamber windows would fall full upon the face of the young courtesan and not on hers. The chair that Catherine occupied was high-backed and intricately carved. Although not as elaborate as the king’s throne, all of Paris knew which was the true seat of power.

  Louise Lavalle seemed suitably aware of it. The red-haired beauty sank into a deep obeisance before Catherine, her eyes swept down. Catherine did not immediately give her permission to rise, her gaze narrowing as she studied the girl.

  Louise possessed a voluptuous figure, her gown cut low to call attention to her generous décolletage. She had enhanced her charms after the current court fashion by rouging her nipples, but otherwise she employed no cosmetics. She had a fresh face, her nose and cheeks dusted with a smattering of freckles that gave her an impression of innocence men seemed to find attractive.

  She was a witch of course, but Catherine did not hold that against her. Most of the successful women whom she knew were, and Louise was an accomplished seductress. In the past Catherine had attempted to recruit Louise’s talents for her own use, an offer that Louise had politely but steadfastly refused.

  After a lengthy scrutiny, she finally said, “You may rise, Mademoiselle Lavalle.”

  The girl straightened in one graceful fluid movement. “Thank you, Your Majesty. You do me great honor to grant me an audience.”

  “I was intrigued when I received your request for a private interview. I wondered why mademoiselle should make such a request.”

  Louise folded her hands meekly before her and peeped at Catherine through the thickness of her lashes. They seemed ridiculously long, actually casting shadows over her eyes. “Your Majesty once made me an offer that I was unwise enough to decline. An offer to join your elite squadron of ladies. I was hoping—That is, I was wondering if it was too late for me to reconsider.”

  “Perhaps not. But I confess I am astonished to hear you say so. When you refused my offer, you made it quite clear you were doing well enough on your own.”

  “Alas, not any longer. My protector, the duc de Penthieve, cast me off in favor of a new mistress.”

  “Truly?” Catherine murmured. “I had heard that it was quite the other way round, that you had grown bored with His Grace.”

  “Oh, no, Your Majesty. The fault was mine. I have been doing a poor job of managing my own affairs.”

  Catherine leaned forward, doing her best to engage the young woman’s eyes. But Louise had a frustrating way of fluttering her lashes as she spoke, keeping her expression quite blank. Catherine’s attempts to probe yielded nothing.

  Of course it was quite possible that there was little to read, that Louise’s mind was that empty.

  “I realize now that any possibility for real advancement lies only in Your Majesty’s service,” Louise said with an ingratiating smile.

  “I never thought you were that interested in advancement or wealth or power, Mademoiselle Lavalle. Only in your own pleasure.”

  “At some point, a girl has to give thought to the future, Your Grace. I am not getting any younger. And once beauty fades, well!” Louise hunched one pretty shoulder. “I have never placed much faith in those tales of women holding a man spellbound by wit and conversation alone.”

  “Indeed,” Catherine replied dryly. She rose slowly to her feet and paced around Louise, studying the girl from every angle.

  Mademoiselle Lavalle remained quite calm and composed during this intent inspection. It was just possible the girl was telling the truth.

  “Very well,” Catherine said. “You may become one of my ladies, Louise.”

  “Oh, thank you, Your Grace.” The girl started to sink into a curtsy, but Catherine’s hand flashed out to stop her.

  Cupping Louise’s chin, she forced the girl to look up. Louise lowered her lashes.

  “Only understand one thing, mademoiselle. Once you enter my service, I require complete loyalty, unquestioning obedience no matter what I ask you to do. There will be no turning back. Your soul will become mine. Do you understand?”

  Her soft words produced the reaction Catherine desired. A ripple of fear coursed through Louise and her eyes fluttered open wide. The briefest flicker, but it provided Catherine with all the window she needed inside the girl’s hea
d.

  “Y-yes, Your Majesty,” Louise said.

  “Good,” Catherine replied, reading the courtesan’s eyes. She released Louise abruptly, turning away before the courtesan could guess that with that single stare Catherine had drawn out all her secrets, Louise’s real reason for coming to her, and even more important than that . . . who had sent the girl.

  Catherine tensed with a surge of anger and fear, but before she shifted back to face Louise, her more turbulent emotions were already controlled beneath a bland smile. “Then I shall direct that quarters be prepared for you here at the palace with my other ladies.”

  Louise was profuse in her thanks and Catherine offered her hand to be kissed. Both of them wearing their best masks, Catherine thought dryly. Only Louise’s had slipped. As she backed away, Catherine detected the hint of triumph in the girl’s smile.

  The little witch was good, Catherine had to give her that much credit. Just not good enough to be sent to spy on the Dark Queen. As the antechamber door closed behind Louise, Catherine uttered a vexed oath.

  “Mon Dieu, Marie Claire, was this the best you could do?” she muttered scornfully. “When you were at court, you used to be a little more adept at handling intrigue. You have clearly been at your rosaries too long.”

  It might have been almost amusing except that Catherine’s brief glimpse into Louise Lavalle’s mind told her that her worst dread had come to pass. Captain Remy had reached the Faire Isle and spilled out his story to Ariane Cheney.

  It would do no good now for her royal guard to track the man to the island. Neither the captain nor the gloves would be found. It would take more than a company of soldiers to match wits with the women of Faire Isle.

  She needed aid from a different source, a far more ruthless weapon to wield. Summoning Gillian Harcourt to her, Catherine said, “I want you to locate a certain man here in Paris for me.”

  Gillian stretched languorously. “And seduce him.”

  “No, fool. Just find him and fetch him here to the palace under the cover of darkness. I need to see Vachel Le Vis.”

  “Le Vis?” Gillian was unable to conceal her horror at the mention of the name. “The—the witch-hunter?”

  “Yes, you have some objection?” Catherine demanded with an icy lift of her brows.

  “N-no, Your Highness,” Gillian said. “It is only that—that—well—Le Vis. He is a dangerous fanatic, Your Grace. It would be like seeking to deal with the devil himself.”

  “Nonetheless, I want him brought to me and secretly. No one else is to know of his visit, do you understand?”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Gillian said, although it was clear she didn’t. Her usual pert manner was markedly absent as she left to carry out Catherine’s command.

  Catherine fully comprehended the woman’s revulsion. To have dealings with a witch-hunter was the worst thing any daughter of the earth could do. But Catherine had broken nearly every other commandment thus far. She could hardly stick at this one.

  There was one fact of life her lady-in-waiting did not understand that Catherine had grasped a long time ago. Sometimes it was necessary to deal with the devil in order to survive.

  Chapter Eleven

  Captain Nicolas Remy staggered through the narrow by-ways of Paris, pain knifing in his side. He felt dazed, unable to remember what he was doing here, filled with a sense of urgency, a need to escape. But the streets twisted and turned like a maze.

  No matter how hard he ran, he ended up back at the glovemaker’s establishment. The proprietress loomed in the doorway, her teeth glinting as she held out to him his leather purse.

  But as he stumbled closer, he reeled back in horror. It was not a pouch at all, but the head of his queen, Jeanne of Navarre. The shopkeeper assumed the shape of the Dark Queen. Catherine de Medici’s cold eyes taunted him.

  “The Great Scourge,” she mocked. “Did you ever truly think to defeat me?”

  Laughing, she tossed the head at his feet. When Remy bent, trembling, to retrieve it, he saw that it was not Jeanne at all. The sightless eyes of his young king, Henry, stared back at him.

  Remy groaned and forced his eyes open. Heart thudding, he lay still for a moment, shaking off the last wisps of his nightmare. He tossed his head on his pillow, fighting to regain his bearings.

  Wherever he was, he was certainly no longer at St. Anne’s. He was shut up in a small room, cramped and confined as a cell, the darkness only broken by a single torch flickering over the rough stone walls.

  It was like being in a tomb. Remy shuddered. With shaking hands, he touched his own face, half-dreading to feel the cold rigor of a corpse.

  “Am—am I dead?” he whispered.

  “Not quite,” a voice replied.

  Remy twisted toward the sound, realizing that someone watched him from the doorway of the room. Gazing directly at the torch hurt his eyes and he squinted, able to make out no more than the silhouette of a woman.

  “Who—who is there?” he rasped fearfully. “M-mistress Cheney?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  But it was not Ariane who emerged cautiously from the shadows. Remy’s breath caught painfully in his throat as a vision in blue approached him, a young woman whose beauty was beyond a mere soldier’s ability to imagine.

  Long golden hair spilled in shining ringlets around a face of alabaster perfection, fine arched brows, a slim straight nose, and full carnelian lips. Her every movement whispered of silk and some sweet elusive perfume.

  She peered down at him with a tentative smile and he still didn’t know whether he was in heaven or hell. The lady possessed the beauty of the brightest seraphim, but her blue eyes held the haunting sadness of a fallen angel.

  “You—you are not Ariane,” he said hoarsely.

  “No, I am her sister, Gabrielle.”

  Gabrielle . . . she even had the name of an angel. Remy stared, too dazed to speak. When he attempted to moisten his parched lips, she moved to pour him a cup of water from a pitcher that had been left on a crude table.

  He was too weak to lift his head from the pillow and she was obliged to support his neck to press the goblet to his lips. Remy swallowed, the liquid cool and soothing upon his throat, but he was equally conscious of the feel of Gabrielle Cheney’s fingers against the nape of his neck.

  Remy’s experience with women was that of a soldier, limited to the simpler, coarser class of female. He had never realized a woman’s touch could be so warm and soft. Even as he sipped at the water, he could not tear his eyes from her face.

  “So . . . you are Mistress Cheney’s sister. Then you also must be a witch. I—I beg your pardon. I mean a wise woman.”

  A ripple of amusement crossed Gabrielle’s face. “You needn’t be so tactful with me. I don’t mind being called a witch, but unfortunately I have misplaced my magic.”

  “Where did you lose it?”

  Gabrielle’s smile turned brittle. “In the hayloft of a barn.”

  The conversation only added to Remy’s confusion and he struggled to focus on something that would make sense.

  “Where am I and—and how did I get here?”

  “I have no idea how you got here, but you are now hidden in one of the dungeon chambers beneath our home at Belle Haven.”

  Remy frowned. So he had been moved from the convent to Ariane Cheney’s own home. The Dark Queen’s soldiers must have traced him to Faire Isle.

  A jolt of alarm surged through Remy and he made an effort to rise. A sharp pain bit through his side, leaving him gasping and his head spinning. Gabrielle placed her hands upon his shoulders to restrain him.

  “Lie still,” Gabrielle commanded.

  “But—but, I must go. I put you all at risk by staying here.”

  “I don’t know who is after you, but they will never find you here. At Belle Haven, we are very good at keeping things hidden.”

  Remy made another futile effort to sit up that only left him feeling dizzy and frustrated. “I should have been long gone from here.
I need to return to my king.”

  “Your king?”

  “Yes, I—I serve Henry of Navarre.”

  “Truly?” Gabrielle’s remarkable eyes shifted over him as though she doubted he could be of much service to anyone. Remy suddenly felt acutely conscious of how he must appear to this elegant young beauty, weak and bedraggled, haggard, and totally naked beneath the thin layer of blanket. He had never worried a day in his life over how he appeared to any woman, but now he tugged the blanket higher across his bared chest.

  “Could—could you possibly fetch me my clothes?”

  “Yes, but I doubt it would do you any good. You don’t even have the strength to lift your trunk hose, let alone put them on.” She dimpled with a mischievous smile. “And I certainly am not going to help you.”

  “No, of course not, mademoiselle. I would never expect that, but—but I endanger you every moment I linger. The soldiers—”

  Gabrielle touched his brow lightly. “You still seem to be a trifle feverish. I am not that skilled in the healing arts. I had better fetch Ariane.”

  “No, wait!” Before she could pull away, Remy caught her hand and held it to him. He felt strangely loath to let Gabrielle Cheney go, although he scarcely knew what he wanted with her. Perhaps just to look at her a little longer.

  Her bright blue eyes softened as she promised, “Don’t worry. I will be back to sit with you later.”

  She eased her hand away with another dazzling smile and then she was gone. Remy stared weakly after her, feeling light-headed. Ariane Cheney might choose to call herself a wise woman, but Remy had no doubt that her sister was an enchantress of the most dangerous kind.

  Ariane bent over her worktable, grinding Madame Jehan’s powders in the bowl, hurrying to brew another dose of medicine for Captain Remy. She had one ear cocked for any untoward sound above stairs. Leon had been posted on the road, instructed to alert her if there was any sign of a mounted troop approaching Belle Haven. Thus far all remained quiet.