The Dark Queen

  Ariane had seen that numb expression of shock on her sister’s face once before—the night that their mother had died.

  “Miri,” Ariane cried, moving instinctively toward the girl, but a wall of witch-hunters swiftly barred her way.

  Le Vis signaled to Simon and the relentless beat of the drum stilled at last. The boy moved to the side, hanging his head, while Vachel Le Vis mounted the steps of the market hall. As he looked out over the crowd, his gaze honed in on Ariane. His cowl thrown back, he made no effort to hide his twisted pleasure. Raising his crosier for silence, he addressed the crowd.

  “Citizens of Port Corsair, as you are by now aware, we come amongst you as deliverers, to rid your island of the terrible influence of the Evil One. This wretched girl you see before you, Miribelle Cheney, is accused of the crime of witchcraft. We call upon you to witness our justice as we test her guilt, using the most righteous ordeal by water.”

  An uneasy murmur rippled through the crowd. Her mouth thinning, Ariane positioned herself at the foot of the steps below Le Vis, her own voice ringing out.

  “Don’t listen to this man. Good people, you have known me and my sisters all your lives. The only evil here resides with Master Le Vis and these unholy wretches who serve him. There is nothing just or righteous about this tribunal. Le Vis comes only to spread superstition and terror amongst us. But we can put a stop to his cruelty right now if you will only come forward to stand with me against him.”

  Ariane’s plea was greeted with a deafening silence, only a few like Madame Jehan and Mistress Paletot brave enough to step forward to join Marie Claire, Gabrielle, and Charbonne.

  The rest sullenly hung their heads or steadfastly avoided Ariane’s eyes. She understood the fear that caused the rest of them to hang back, but had somehow hoped for better. It seemed a cruel irony that many of them even now stood beneath the shadow of the statue they had erected to the memory of Evangeline Cheney.

  “There is often a fine line between a woman being proclaimed a witch or a saint,” Renard had once warned her. Ariane had not fully appreciated the bitter truth of those words until now.

  She started as Le Vis stepped up behind her to murmur in her ear. “Mistress Cheney, you are the only one who can save your sister. Give me what I want and the child shall go free. You have my word.”

  “Just like you kept your word to wait until sunset—” she began angrily, only to check in alarm as she saw Gabrielle break free from Charbonne.

  Trying to take advantage of the momentary distraction when all eyes were on Le Vis, Gabrielle drew her sword and rushed at the two witch-hunters who held Miri. One of them met her advance, drawing his own weapon. The two swords met in a clash of steel.

  Gabrielle parried and lashed out fiercely, but she never stood a chance. A second witch-hunter brought a heavy cudgel down on her arm. She cried out, losing her grip on the weapon. Ariane watched in horror as the witch-hunter felled Gabrielle with another blow.

  The man raised his cudgel to strike again. Hurtling forward, Ariane flung herself over Gabrielle. The blow fell hard upon her shoulder and Ariane gasped in pain. Gabrielle struggled to thrust her aside, but Ariane pinned her, using her body as a shield.

  The next few moments were a chaotic blur. She was vaguely aware of Marie Claire and Charbonne trying to come to their aid, only to be repulsed. With a low curse, Gabrielle shoved Ariane off, but neither of them could move. Resting on her elbows, Ariane peered upward to find they were hemmed in by witch-hunters, the steely tip of several swords leveled at her and Gabrielle.

  “Enough of this folly,” Le Vis growled. The Grand Master towered over Ariane, his lips pulled back in a contemptuous smile. “So this is your answer to my demand, Mistress Cheney? Then so be it. Perhaps you will be in a more reasonable frame of mind when I pull your sister’s lifeless body from the pond and then start in on this one.”

  He prodded Gabrielle savagely with his crook. Ariane tightened her arms around the girl, but she was flooded with a sense of helplessness and despair.

  Oh, Maman, forgive me, Ariane thought as Le Vis turned to the witch-hunters holding Miri.

  “Proceed.”

  As they began dragging Miri toward the edge of the pond, Ariane struggled to rise, only to be held back by the steel pressing against her.

  “No!”

  Frantic as Ariane was, the cry didn’t come from her, but another quarter. Simon Aristide clutched at Le Vis’s robes, his face a tortured mask. “Master, please don’t. There must be some other way.”

  “Silence, boy!” Le Vis snapped, striking his hands away. “Get back—”

  He broke off as another commotion arose, this time from the crowd. Shrieks and shouts. For a wild moment, Ariane hoped her speech might have done some good, that others were rushing to the rescue.

  From her point on the ground, all she could see was that the crowd was breaking up, people colliding as they scrambled for safety, and not in terror of the witch-hunters. The cluster of black-robed men seemed to have frozen in place, even Le Vis wide-eyed and staring.

  It was as though the dark roiling clouds had opened up to spew forth a giant astride a powerful gray stallion. The horse’s mane whipped back as wildly as did that of the man as they charged toward the square.

  “Renard,” Ariane whispered, her chest tightening with a hope that was almost painful.

  Renard loomed closer until he had to rein in to avoid trampling fleeing members of the crowd. Hercules reared up on his haunches, letting loose a shrill whinny like a battle cry.

  “What—what—who the devil?” Le Vis faltered.

  And well might he ask, Ariane thought. Even after Renard brought Hercules to a halt, the stallion snorted and pawed at the ground, looking as though it was about to breathe fire.

  Renard’s own nostrils were pinched tight, his mouth a grim slash in his rough face and any fool could have read his eyes. They were dark with a rage that was implacable as the storm-ridden sky.

  Ariane was reminded of something Renard had once said to her. “If I am ever angry, ma chère, you will know it.”

  She was left in no doubt of the fact as Renard leaned forward in the saddle and snarled at Le Vis. “Release those women.”

  The witch-hunters who surrounded Ariane and Gabrielle wavered. Ariane struggled to her feet, tugging Gabrielle with her.

  Le Vis confronted Renard furiously. “What is the meaning of this, monsieur? Who are you to interrupt the procedures of this tribunal?”

  “Justice Deauville, the Comte de Renard.”

  The title appeared to take Le Vis momentarily aback. He spoke in milder tones. “Well, milord comte, you clearly do not understand what is happening here. I am Vachel Le Vis, Grand Master of the Order of Malleus Maleficarum and—”

  “I know who you are, you bastard, and what you are doing. I am commanding you to desist at once and leave this island.”

  Le Vis’s mouth opened and closed, his jaw working with indignation. “My orders come from Queen Catherine herself. These are not your lands, milord. You have no authority here.”

  “This is my authority!” Renard unsheathed his sword in a hiss of steel.

  Le Vis’s eyes widened in alarm. He had just enough time to dive out of the way as Renard urged his horse forward, charging into the line of witch-hunters. They closed in on him but many were forced back as Hercules reared and snapped.

  Ariane scrambled to a safe distance, pulling Gabrielle after her. She watched with dazed eyes as Renard beat down the swords striking up at him. Bringing his hilt down hard on the head of one witch-hunter, he disarmed another and slashed the arm of a third.

  Gabrielle clutched at Ariane’s arm, her one eye near swollen shut. But she gawked at Renard through her good eye. “M-monsieur le Ogre. Where the devil did he come from?”

  Ariane said nothing. Mutely, she held up her hand bearing the ring.

  “Oh, Ariane, you didn’t!” Gabrielle cried.

  “Apparently I did,” Ariane murmured, still
lost in her own amazement. She was unable to wrench her eyes from Renard.

  He sent another witch-hunter flying to the ground with a kick of his boot as he fought his way through to the edge of the pond. The witch-hunter who guarded Miri bolted, leaving the trembling girl standing alone. Renard swooped in and gathered the child up on the saddle before him.

  Ariane choked on a glad cry, but her relief was short-lived as the witch-hunters regrouped for another attack. They fanned out, surrounding him on all sides, swords drawn.

  Hercules shifted restively while Renard tightened his grip on his sword. He would never be able to fend off all the witch-hunters, especially not with Miri clutched in front of him.

  Ariane twisted the ring on her finger.

  Ride, she pleaded silently. Just put spurs to Hercules and get Miri out of here. But she knew that Renard would never abandon her and Gabrielle.

  Renard wheeled about, bracing himself as the first witch-hunter charged. The man came within inches of Hercules when suddenly he jerked sharply, his sword flying from his hand. The witch-hunter fell back, clutching at the crossbolt embedded in his shoulder, blood blossoming between his fingers.

  The other witch-hunters froze at the sight and suddenly the entire square seemed to swarm with mounted horsemen, the riders wearing Renard’s gold-and-black livery. They bore down on the witch-hunters, led by the formidable-looking old man Ariane had seen with Renard before.

  The old man edged his mount closer, leveling his crossbow. “None of you move. I never miss what I aim at, nor do the rest of these lads. Now throw down your weapons.”

  Slowly one witch-hunter complied and then another, swords clattering to the ground. Choked with rage, Le Vis couldn’t speak. Renard ignored him. Sheathing his sword, he guided Hercules over to Ariane and lowered Miri gently down to her.

  Ariane removed the halter from her little sister’s neck and flung it to the ground while Gabrielle fumbled with her bonds. Ariane laid her hand tenderly on Miri’s cheek. The child felt so cold, her face ice white. She still looked dazed and frightened. The child had never been able to comprehend the violence of men and she appeared as terrified of Renard’s retainers as she was of the witch-hunters.

  “Everything is all right. You are safe now, Miri,” Ariane crooned, hugging the girl close. Even as she sought to reassure her little sister, Le Vis bore down upon them.

  Renard wheeled his mount in between. Le Vis clutched his crosier in a white-knuckled grip.

  “You are going to answer for this, monsieur. We are servants of the crown. To attack us is treason.”

  Renard’s mouth tightened, his hooded eyes narrowing to dangerous slits as he slid off the back of his horse. Any man less crazed than Le Vis would have had sense enough to run.

  The Grand Master stood his ground, quivering with outrage. “You have no idea what you are interfering with.”

  “Oh, I understand too well,” Renard grated. “You intended to torture a child.”

  “Torture? No, the ordeal by water is merely a test for witchcraft.”

  “Then maybe we should try the test on you.”

  “What!” Le Vis gasped. “How—how dare you. I am no witch.”

  “We’ll know soon enough. When you sink like a stone.” Renard advanced closer.

  Le Vis paled, making a desperate attempt to fend Renard off with his crosier. But Renard tore the crook from his hands and tossed it contemptuously aside. Seizing Le Vis by the front of his robes, he dragged him toward the edge of the pond. The witch-hunter emitted a choked protest as Renard heaved him into the water.

  Le Vis hit the pond with a loud splash and someone gave a loud cheer. Ariane believed it was old Madame Jehan. Flailing in sheer panic, Le Vis propelled himself even farther from the safety of shore. The water swiftly weighed down his robes and he vanished beneath the surface, only to bob up again, his face a grotesque mask of terror.

  Simon Aristide had retreated with his drum, observing the entire fray in alarm, but now the boy rushed forward to appeal to Renard. “Please, Monsieur le Comte. The master—he cannot swim.”

  “Good,” Renard snapped.

  Flinging down his drum, Simon peeled off his robe and dove into the pond. He reached Le Vis in several swift strokes, but Le Vis grabbed wildly for him, pulling the boy under.

  Miri gave a stricken whimper, burying her face against Ariane’s shoulder. Horrified herself, Ariane watched the desperate struggle taking place, Simon no match for Le Vis’s frantic strength. She certainly had no love for Le Vis, but it was clear that if someone didn’t intervene, the man was going to drown and take the boy with him.

  Easing Miri away from her, Ariane raced toward the comte.

  “Renard, please,” she began, tugging at him, but he didn’t even seem to hear her. He stared at the pond, watching Le Vis and the boy sink from sight. Renard’s expression was so cold and implacable, it frightened Ariane. For once she could read his eyes and she saw that he had disappeared down some dark corridor of the past.

  Ariane shook him harder. “Renard!”

  She appeared to reach him at last. Renard blinked, shifting his gaze toward her.

  “Please,” she said. “We—we can’t just let them die. Master Aristide . . . he is only a boy.”

  Renard compressed his lips together. His gaze shifted back to the pond, then he muttered an oath. Turning away, he summoned two of his retainers, barking out a sharp command.

  The pair dismounted, racing swiftly to plunge into the water. Ariane watched anxiously as the men dove once, twice, beneath the surface before they emerged, bringing up Le Vis and Simon.

  Renard waded in himself to help retrieve the boy, while the other two dragged Le Vis out, flopping the Grand Master onto his back. Simon sank to his knees, choking and sputtering. But Le Vis’s eyes were closed, his face pale and still.

  “M-master?” Simon quavered, shaking him.

  Renard relented enough to rest one hand on Simon’s shoulder. “I am sorry, boy. There is nothing to be done for him. He’s gone and good riddance.”

  Simon wrenched away from Renard, tears splashing down the boy’s cheek to mingle with the droplets of pond water.

  “Ahhh!” he groaned. “I—I know you all think him hard and cruel. But the m-master only sought to do his duty and—and he was ever g-good to me.”

  As the boy dissolved into bitter weeping, Ariane bit down hard upon her lip. If Le Vis had survived, he would be even more implacable, a relentless enemy, hell-bent on destroying her and her sisters, likely Renard as well. And God knows she despised the witch-hunter. It frightened her how much she wished him dead, but she could hear the echoes of her mother’s voice.

  “Hatred can be the worst sort of black magic, Ariane. It shrivels the heart and turns it cold. Never surrender to that sort of darkness.”

  Ariane hesitated only a moment longer. Hunkering down, she thrust Simon aside. There was a certain white magic her mother had performed. Ariane was not certain she possessed the skill to administer the Breath of Life, but she had to try. Locking her hands together, Ariane pumped the heels of her palms hard against Le Vis’s wet chest. She felt nothing. Although she sickened at the prospect, she forced the man’s lips apart and administered several quick breaths.

  Time seemed to stand still as she labored over Le Vis. She was on the verge of surrendering the effort when the man’s chest heaved. He choked to life, his eyes flying wide. Le Vis twisted onto his side, shuddering and spewing pond water from his mouth.

  Ariane stood up, scrubbing her hand across her lips. A heavy silence descended, broken only by the sound of Le Vis dragging gulps of air back into his lungs. Ariane turned away to find herself surrounded by faces regarding her with a kind of dazed wonder, Simon, the other witch-hunters, Toussaint, the men at arms. Even Renard stared at her with awe.

  He was the first to recover himself and began barking out commands. He nudged Le Vis with the toe of his boot.

  “Get his carcass out of here,” he snapped at Simon. ??
?Before I change my mind and toss him back in again.”

  “Y-yes, monsieur,” the trembling boy said. “Th-thank you.”

  “Save your gratitude for the Lady. If it had been left to me, both you and your pig of a master would still be at the bottom of the pond.” Renard turned sternly to the other witch-hunters. “The rest of you. Pack up and be gone. You have one hour to leave this island and never return. Any witch-hunter attempting to return will not find himself as fortunate as Monsieur Le Vis.”

  The black-robed men hastened to obey, two of the witch-hunters helping Simon to cart off Le Vis, who still managed to throw a malevolent glance in Renard’s direction.

  Renard seemed impervious, but Ariane shivered. This was not the last she would hear from the man or the one who had sent him. But for the moment the danger had passed.

  Miri was safe, surrounded by a cluster of rejoicing women, Marie Claire’s motherly arm wrapped around the child. Ariane knew she should join them, but the strain of the entire ordeal seemed to overtake her at once.

  She felt weak and trembling, her knees beginning to shake. She almost sagged to the ground, but suddenly Renard was there, shoring her up. He wrapped her in his strong arms, straining her close. Ariane leaned gratefully against the hard wall of his chest, her throat constricting, several tears squeezing past her lashes.

  “Ah, don’t cry, ma chère.” Renard cradled her as though she were a child no bigger than Miri. His jerkin and trunk hose were soaked, but the terrifying look was gone from his face; his voice was all gentleness as he comforted. “It is all over now and those devils shall never come near you or your sisters ever again. I swear it.”

  Ariane buried her face against his damp leather jerkin, the events of the past hours seeming like some strange and terrible dream. Even Renard’s rescue did not seem quite real. If he did not feel so solid beneath her touch, she still might have believed she was just imagining him here.