“My liege, you must heed your subjects. There has never been a better time to strike. The wedding celebrations are at an end. The guests will soon start leaving to return home, but right now we have every important Huguenot leader here in Paris, within our grasp.”
There were murmurs of assent from de Guise and the others, but Charles shook his head vehemently.
“The Huguenots are my subjects, too, Maman. We have just given our sister in marriage to my cousin, Henry of Navarre. A marriage of your arranging to bring about a truce with the Protestants. Have you forgotten that?”
Of course, I arranged it, you fool. The better to lure our enemies to Paris. But Catherine suppressed the impatient thought.
Charles’s fingers twitched as he removed them from her grasp. “To attack the Huguenots now would be the worst sort of betrayal.”
“It is they who will betray us,” Catherine said. “They plot against Your Grace even at this moment. Do you realize what large numbers of these heretics are within our city gates? If they chose to storm the palace, they could easily overthrow you, murder every Catholic in Paris.”
The king raised his knuckles to his mouth, backing away from her. “That would never happen. They would never attack me. Admiral Coligny would not allow it. He is an honorable man and I have been learning much from him.”
“But the admiral has been gravely wounded, laid low by an assassin,” de Guise reminded the king.
Catherine glared at the young man. An assassin she was certain the duc had hired, and he had not even had the wit to engage a man with aim good enough to finish the job. The damned arrogant fool had nearly ruined everything. The attempt on the admiral’s life had spread such fear and unease through the Huguenot ranks, it was a wonder they were not fleeing Paris in droves.
Catherine cupped Charles’s face between her hands. “My dear one, don’t you understand? The Huguenots blame us for the attack on the admiral. They want their revenge. They must be stopped.
“What better night to rid ourselves of these heretics than on the Feast of St. Bartholomew?” she intoned piously. “The holy martyr will surely look with favor on our righteous cause.”
Charles’s eyes darted frantically about the room, seeking to avoid her compelling gaze. He grasped hold of her wrists to thrust her away from him. “N-no, the admiral would never allow his followers to hurt me. He has treated me with such respect and kindness. L-like—like a father.”
And what of your mother? Catherine wanted to demand coldly. The woman who has worked so tirelessly to keep the crown safely upon your mad head?
But there was no reasoning with Charles. Catherine had known there wouldn’t be. That was why she had prepared so carefully for this moment. Leaving the duc d’ Anjou to try to reason with his brother, she returned to the window, removing the vial of murky liquid from the bosom of her gown.
Her heart beat with excitement. Brewing a miasma was the most difficult of black magic to perform. The fumes were calculated to weaken the strongest of wills, loosen the bonds of reason, heighten the darkest of emotions, hatred, fear, anger, and lust.
Catherine had never attempted such a difficult potion before. She uncorked the vial carefully. The odor was rank but the incense would help to disguise the smell. She surreptitiously added a few drops to the incense burner.
Only a few. The miasma was excessively powerful. The incense hissed, the smoke issuing from it taking on a slightly darker cast. Catherine backed away, applying a dab of ointment beneath her nose to protect herself from the fumes.
Charles and his advisors were too absorbed by their debate to notice the subtle change in the air. But she could tell the moment the fumes began to have their effect. Faces grew more flushed, voices more angry and belligerent. The impact was strongest on the man with the weakest hold on sanity. Charles began to sweat profusely, his pupils reduced to mere pinpricks.
He gasped in a deep breath, his face contorting in a terrible grimace. He clutched at his head as though his skull were about to split, and let loose a shriek that startled everyone to silence.
Shoving de Guise and his brother out of the way, he rushed at Catherine, spittle flying from his lips. “Go on then if that is what you wish,” he screamed at her. “Kill them. Kill them all. Every Huguenot in the city. Every man, woman, and child so there is no one left to reproach me when the bloody deed is done.”
He raised his fist and Catherine flinched, flinging up one hand to protect herself, forgetting she still clutched the vial in her hand. Charles swung out wildly, knocking the bottle from her grasp, sending it flying out the open window. The glass shattered on the cobbles below.
Sobbing hysterically, the king fled from the chamber. Heart thudding with apprehension, Catherine leaned out the window. She had no idea what the impact of the miasma might be, released full force. She watched in horrified fascination as a large green cloud mushroomed in the courtyard. Fortunately, the breeze seemed to be dispersing it, blowing the fumes away from the palace.
Catherine drew back in, pulling the window closed. Composing herself, she turned to face the men gathered behind her, still a little stunned by the king’s erratic behavior.
“You heard the king’s command,” she said. “You must obey him. Summon your retainers and coordinate your assault. None of the Huguenots must escape, especially not Admiral Coligny or the Scourge. Let the ringing of the bells in the tower of St. Germaine L’Auxerois signal the attack.”
De Guise’s lips pulled back in a savage smile and Anjou gave a wild laugh. None of the men needed much urging from her. They rushed for the door, their eyes glazed with the lust for the kill . . .
Miri moaned, writhing and thrashing so wildly she was in danger of tumbling from the bed. Ariane bent over her, gripping her shoulders, trying to draw her little sister back from the throes of her nightmare.
“Miri! Miri, wake up.” Ariane gave her a gentle shake, but to her alarm, it had no effect on the girl. She was drenched in sweat, half-sobbing in her sleep.
Gabrielle struggled up onto one elbow, rubbing her eyes and muttering sleepily. “What . . . devil is going on?”
But as she caught sight of Ariane struggling with Miri, Gabrielle snapped fully awake.
“She’s having one of her nightmares,” Ariane said, “but I can’t get her to wake.”
Gabrielle seized hold of Miri and shook her roughly. “Miri!”
Miri’s eyes flew open. She gave a shuddering gasp. Clawing away from both Gabrielle and Ariane, she sat bolt upright, her eyes wild and unfocused. Before Ariane could restrain her, she scrambled off the bottom of the bed.
Her face white and pinched with terror, she stumbled over to the window. “Dear God,” she panted. “They—they are coming. Men with torches, knives, swords.”
Ariane rushed over to Miri with Gabrielle hard at her heels. Ariane attempted to gather Miri into her arms. “Shhh, dearest. There is no one out there. You are safe here with me and Gabrielle.”
Miri struggled frantically away from her, cowering back against the wall. “N-no. They’re coming . . . the m-murderers.”
Gabrielle captured Miri’s face between her hands, forcing her to look at her. “Miri, listen to me. You were having another of your bad dreams.”
“N-not another. The same one.” Miri clutched at the front of Gabrielle’s nightgown. “And it was all clear this time. The witch . . . the Dark Queen, she brewed up some terrible potion. Only she dropped it and it broke, spreading this terrible green mist. And the bells—the bells started to ring and people were going mad.
“Killing Huguenots like R-remy. All of them, the women, the children, even the—the little b-babies.”
With a wrenching sob, Miri flung her arms around Gabrielle’s neck, clinging to her. Gabrielle stroked her little sister’s hair while casting an uneasy look at Ariane.
“What is she talking about, Ariane. What does it all mean?”
Ariane believed she finally understood the significance of Miri’s dream. Louis
e Lavalle had been convinced Catherine was plotting something truly vile. But surely not even the Dark Queen would dare release the dark power of . . . of a miasma?
Ariane gazed in the direction of Paris, wondering what terror might soon unfold, endangering not only Remy and his countrymen, but also Renard.
“We had better rouse Toussaint,” she said grimly. “And set out for Paris at once. We have to try to stop Catherine.”
“It’s too late,” Miri wept against Ariane’s shoulder. “I know it is. They are already ringing the bells . . .”
Renard dragged himself out of bed, groping for flint and tinder to light a candle. The soft glow spilled over the bare trappings of his room at the Half Moon Inn. It was a warm night, a heavy mist curling over the city, but he regretted leaving the window open. The incessant pealing of those church bells was damned irritating.
He slammed the window closed and rubbed his eyes, raw from lack of sleep. But he’d already rested longer than he had intended since his exhausted arrival in Paris early this evening.
He needed to stay awake, decide what the devil he was going to do. Renard had been so convinced it was Ariane calling him, that she was in desperate trouble, but the closer he’d come to Paris, the more he’d begun to suspect he’d been cleverly tricked.
It seemed impossible, for that would mean that someone else had got hold of the ring, someone who knew how to use it. And there was only one person it could possibly be, the Dark Queen.
But how and when could the de Medici witch have seized possession of the ring? And did that mean she had Ariane as well? Renard cursed himself now for not taking the time to go to Faire Isle first before tearing off for Paris. But his mind had been in such a feverish haze, it was as though he’d been bewitched.
The last message, purportedly from Ariane, had reached him shortly after he’d arrived in Paris. The voice, silken soft in his ear, had sounded so much like Ariane except for one thing.
“Where are you, my love? I am being held prisoner in the Louvre. Oh, Justin, please come for me at once.”
Justin? Renard’s suspicions had hardened into certainty. He’d been tempted to reply, play along with the mysterious voice, follow its instructions. But in the end, he’d thought better of it. “Justin” wasn’t going anywhere near that palace until he had a better idea what the blazes was going on.
Sinking down on the edge of his bed, Renard dragged on his boots. There was one person who might have some answers for him. The taproom had been full of gossip this evening, terse voices discussing recent events in Paris. The marriage of the Princess Margot to the heretic Navarre, the recent assassination attempt on Admiral Coligny, the return of the Scourge to Paris.
So the gallant Captain Remy had made it back to Paris and by all reports he had not managed to get himself killed yet. He was even installed in lodgings not far from this inn. There had been a point when Renard wouldn’t have minded throttling Remy himself. Although he had a grudging admiration for the captain’s courage and sense of honor, Renard had resented the danger that Remy had brought to Ariane’s doorstep.
And yes, he was obliged to admit, he had been a trifle jealous of Ariane’s regard for the young man. But if anyone could help him discover what the Dark Queen might be plotting now or where Ariane might be, it was Nicolas Remy.
Pausing only long enough to splash some water on his face, Renard gathered up his sword and cloak. As he descended the stairs to the taproom, he caught a flash of light through the windows.
The streets seemed to be full of an inordinate amount of activity tonight, mounted men clattering by on horseback. Just as strangely, the taproom was nearly deserted except for a waiter wiping down the tables and an old man nursing a bottle of wine. A cold feeling of unease stole through Renard.
There was a palpable tension in the air. Renard tried to dismiss it as the product of exhaustion or imagination. But that was one of the better things he’d learned from his grandmother.
“We are not so different from the beasts of the earth, Justice. We have the same uncanny instincts that warn us that something is amiss, that danger is approaching. But most men are fools and simply dismiss these feelings. Learn to trust yours.”
The back of his neck was definitely prickling. Renard hoped that he had indeed come to Paris on a fool’s errand. That wherever Ariane was tonight, she was miles from here.
As he stalked toward the door, the landlord of the inn suddenly came bursting out of the kitchens. To Renard’s surprise, the portly innkeeper rushed forward to intercept him.
“M-monsieur le Comte.” The little man sketched him a bow. “Surely you—you are not thinking of going out tonight.”
Renard frowned at him. The man was so nervous, his palms were sweating. “Yes, why the devil not?”
“Well—well, be-because. This is Paris. The streets can be very dangerous at night.”
“I am a goodly sized fellow,” Renard replied. “I can look out for myself and surely this is one of the better quarters of the city. We are not that far from the royal palace.”
With a friendly nod, he attempted to step past the innkeeper, but to his annoyance, the man continued to bar his path.
“Are—are you a good Catholic?”
Renard studied the man through narrowed eyes. What the devil did that have to do with anything? His grandmother had been a witch. He had been raised more as a pagan than anything else. But as the Comte de Renard, he knew his duties to his people.
“I hear the mass. I observe holy days,” he replied curtly.
“G-good. Then if you insist upon going out, you’d better wear this.” The landlord produced a white armband, which he attempted to tie around Renard’s arm.
When Renard balked, the landlord beseeched him. “Please, monsieur. It may save your life.”
The man was so desperately earnest, Renard submitted, allowing him to knot the white scarf about his forearm. As he did so, Renard sought to probe the landlord’s eyes and what he read there chilled his blood.
Renard needed to find Nicolas Remy and find him quickly . . .
Remy dashed from the house into the darkened street, his sword clutched in his hand. The Huguenot family who’d given him lodging huddled in the doorway, Monsieur Berne, his wife, and three young daughters. Their faces were tense and apprehensive as, like Remy, they listened to the distant, relentless tolling of the bells.
Remy thought it was coming from the direction of the tower of St. Germaine L’Auxerois, a church near the Louvre. But what the deuce did it mean? There was something about the peal of the bells at this late hour that resonated more of warning . . . or a call to arms. Remy’s hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. He’d been on edge, even more alert than usual since he’d received word of the assassination attempt on Admiral Coligny.
As he stepped another pace into the street, other sounds carried to his ears from the next square, shouts, the clatter of horses’ hooves, and a loud crack like . . . like gunfire.
Remy’s gut knotted. “Get back inside and bar the door,” he snapped at the Berne family.
The women hastened to obey, but Monsieur Berne remained frozen on the threshold.
“C-captain Remy,” the merchant gestured with a shaking finger, alerting Remy to the shadowy figure of the man who rushed through the gap between the houses across the street.
Remy raised his sword, positioning himself protectively in front of the doorway as the stranger approached. But the man gasped, half-staggering the last few steps. As light from the house spilled over his features, Remy drew in a sharp breath.
It was Tavers, although Remy scarcely recognized him. His sandy hair was matted with the blood that streaked down one side of his face. He stumbled forward. Only the strength of Remy’s arm kept him from crashing to his knees.
“Remy. G-god help us,” the young soldier choked, clutching at the front of Remy’s doublet.
“What the devil is going on, Jacques?” Remy demanded. “What’s happening?”
&n
bsp; “The d-duc de Guise’s men. They’ve finished what the assassin started. They—they’ve dragged the admiral from his bed. K-killed him. Put his head on a pike.”
Remy compressed his lips, more grieved than surprised. He’d been to call upon the old man only that afternoon, made one last desperate attempt to warn him. Although weak from his wound, the admiral had pressed Remy’s hand and continued to insist, “No, no, the attack on me was the work of one religious fanatic. The king will get to the bottom of the affair and see that the proper punishment is meted out. Charles is—is an earnest young man, eager to learn. I—I have acquired great influence with him.”
The old warrior was so anxious for peace, he’d deluded himself, Remy thought sadly. No one controlled mad Charles of France. No one but the Dark Queen.
“Come on,” Remy said. “Let’s get you inside.” But as he looped Tavers’s arm around his neck and tried to urge him toward the house, the wounded man balked.
“N-no, Remy. You don’t understand,” he panted. “Catholic lords . . . going on rampage. Killing every important Huguenot they can find.”
“Sweet Jesu,” Monsieur Berne exclaimed.
“Especially w-want you, Remy. The Scourge. Are—are looking for you.”
“Then let them find me,” Remy snarled.
“No!” Tavers pawed at him desperately. “You must go—find Devereaux. Get to the palace. Protect the king.”
Henry . . . Remy thought with a wave of black despair. The young king he’d been obliged to abandon at the Louvre, quartered in the very midst of their enemies. If the Dark Queen was bent upon destroying all the Huguenot leaders, Henry was likely already dead.
No. Tavers was right. If there was any chance at all that Henry still lived, Remy had to get to him, save his king or die trying.
Dragging Tavers into the house, Remy consigned him to the care of the merchant and his wife. Although the fear was naked in his eyes, Monsieur Berne maintained a dignified calm as he issued Remy terse instructions how to keep to the alleys, taking a shortcut to reach the stables where Remy had left his horse, not far from where Captain Devereaux had found quarters.