The Dark Queen

  Remy paused only long enough to press Tavers’s hand one last time before vanishing into the darkness. He tore along back streets, scrambling over fences, slipping between houses and shops, trying to move as swiftly and stealthily as he could, all the time aware of the infernal peal of the bells and other sounds as well, growing steadily louder. Shrieks, the clatter of hoofbeats on the cobbles, the pounding of running feet. In the distance Remy could make out the movement of shadowy figures, the flicker of torches. It was as though all Paris was awakening and pouring into the streets.

  But as Remy emerged onto one of the main thoroughfares, he realized he was no longer in Paris. He’d detoured into hell. He drew up short at the terrible scene unfolding before his eyes, the red flare of torches illuminating the savage faces of men set beneath caps adorned with white crosses. Assassins armed with knives, clubs, swords, pistols, every conceivable weapon.

  Doors were being battered in, shrieking women and wailing children being dragged from houses. These ruthless lords and their men were not merely seeking to destroy the leaders, but to murder every last Huguenot in Paris, every man, woman, and child.

  The cobbles were already slick with blood, the very walls of the close-packed houses splashed red. The fallen and dying lay everywhere. Remy had seen death on the battlefield before but nothing to equal this mayhem. Bodies being hacked to pieces, limbs and heads being gleefully brandished.

  It was as though some foul wind had spread a contagion of madness over the city. Sword clenched in his hand, Remy’s every muscle tensed with the instinct to dive into the fray, to rush to the aid of his people. It was with difficulty that he checked himself, sought to remember that his first duty was to the king he’d sworn to protect.

  There had been no rooms available at the Half Moon Inn when Remy had arrived in Paris, but Remy had been able to leave his mount stabled there. But as Remy braced himself to make a dash for it, he caught sight of a familiar burly figure. Captain Devereaux stood braced in the battered ruins of the door that led to his quarters. Snarling, he brandished his sword, laying about him, fending off some half-dozen attackers who sought to rush the house. Devereaux was a formidable fighter, but the fear he could inspire on the battlefield was as nothing to the ferocity he displayed defending his young family.

  He cut down two of the assassins and turned on a third, never seeing the coward who crept up on his left, leveling the arquebus.

  “Dev!” Remy roared, but he was too far away for his warning to be heard amidst the chaos.

  The arquebus spit its deadly burst of fire. Devereaux’s face blossomed red. He sagged to his knees, pitching face forward into the street.

  All thoughts of his king forgotten, Remy lips curled back in a savage snarl. He plunged out of the shadows and raced forward.

  Clutching her infant son to her breast, Devereaux’s young bride screamed as she was dragged out of the house by two loutish attackers. Remy had to leap over Devereaux’s body to reach her in time. With one stroke of his sword, he cut down the brute who was attempting to wrench the babe from Clare’s arms. Whirling, he drove his steel through the stomach of her other attacker.

  Dev’s murderer sought frantically to reload his arquebus. Yanking his sword free, Remy slit the villain’s throat.

  Clare Devereaux had sunk to her knees, weeping over her husband’s body. Young Nicolas’s tiny fists curled in his mother’s hair as the babe set up a lusty wail. Remy realized that if he was going to save his friend’s wife and child, the Scourge was going to have to do something he’d never done in his life. Run from a fight.

  Bending down, he caught hold of Clare’s elbow. He had no time to be gentle. When she resisted him, he hauled her roughly to her feet.

  “Come on. Move!” he growled, propelling her away from Dev’s body. He hustled Clare back across the street, frightening off one attacker merely by brandishing his bloody sword. Knocking another man out of his way, an elderly priest.

  He stumbled away from Remy, tears coursing down his withered face as he pleaded, “In heaven’s name, stop this killing. This is not the way of our gentle Savior.” But no one was listening, not even his fellow clerics, one of whom was using a wooden crucifix as his weapon.

  As Remy shoved Clare toward the nearest alley, he became aware that he had acquired others seeking his protection. An old man, a frightened woman leading her two children by the hand, a tear-streaked young boy sobbing for his father.

  “Captain Remy,” the woman cried, and Remy realized he’d been recognized. They pressed close to him, looking as though they’d found salvation from their great hero, the Scourge.

  Some hero when all he could do was herd them into the darkness of the alley. He felt like some bloody warrior shepherd trying to save his flock from an ever-increasing pack of wolves. His fellow Huguenots were not the only ones who had recognized him. He heard the shouts from the square behind him.

  “It was the Scourge. I saw him. He went that way. Get him.”

  “Run!” Remy gave the boy a slight push, urging Clare and the rest of them forward. He forced his helpless band down a twisting maze of alleys and back streets, nudging them onward. But he knew they could not possibly maintain this pace. The old man was wheezing for breath, the others beginning to lag. And where the devil was he taking them anyway? Remy was hopelessly lost.

  He led them down yet another alley, as the heavy pounding of feet behind them grew louder. Someone loosed off a shot that whizzed overhead, shattering the glass of an upper-story window. The old man sank to his knees. The woman collapsed, sobbing quietly, her daughters cowering near her, the young boy as well. Clare’s footsteps flagged, her eyes glinting up at Remy with desperation. She cradled her infant son, the child’s cry now little more than a thin wail.

  “R-remy,” she panted. “You could still get away and—and take my boy. Save him.”

  “No, Clare. Keep going. You can make it. Get the others up. Try to find some empty building, some place where you can hide. I’ll hold these villains off.” He laid his hand against her cheek, trying to infuse some hope into her when he had so little left himself.

  Remy spun about as the first of their pursuers hove into view, the torches casting hellish shadows up the side of the buildings. At the sight of the cruel, gloating faces, Remy hitched in a sharp breath and something snapped inside him. He was seized by a black rage, an intolerance and hatred for his enemies unlike anything he’d ever known. Raising his sword, he charged, emitting a bloodcurdling cry he scarcely recognized as his own.

  He cut down the first attacker with one savage stroke, but there were others now, surging forward, blocking off the end of the alley. Remy tore into them blindly, no longer seeing faces, only the red haze of his own fury. He lashed out with his sword again and again, the sickly sweet scent of blood filling his nostrils, spattering his hand, his clothing, his beard.

  Someone attempted to stab him with a pathetic excuse for a knife. Remy’s sword arced down, ripped through the assassin’s chest. Remy caught a glimpse of an agonized countenance and froze. Smooth cheeks, a thin face, eyes wide with the shock and pain of Remy’s mortal blow . . . his would-be murderer was little more than a child.

  Remy blinked, staring down in shock at the boy he’d just slain, and that brief moment of sanity cost him dearly. He felt the first blade break through his guard and tear open his shoulder. Searing pain shot through him and he staggered back. He managed to recover and parried several more thrusts. But the next one pierced his side. He felt the warmth of blood soaking through his doublet, but this time it was his own.

  He fought on, but there were far too many of them. He grew weaker, his sword heavier. Someone swung a club at his head and missed, the blow landing heavily on his shoulder instead.

  Remy cried out in agony, losing his grip on his sword. His knees buckled and as he slowly went down, he felt the stab of yet another blade. He fell hard, toppling onto his back. He lay there, bracing himself for the thrust that would end his life.

>   When it didn’t come, he forced his eyes open, viewing the world through a dizzying fog of pain. He had a dim impression of a terrifying giant towering over him, but strangely this man seemed to be trying to drive back his attackers. From somewhere in the alley behind him, he heard a terrified scream.

  Clare . . . Remy made an effort to rise. But it was futile. The pain . . . it no longer seemed so bad. He had a curious sensation of floating, drifting out of his body, away from this cold dark alley, away from all this madness.

  Back to Faire Isle. He was on the sunlit bank by the stream and Gabrielle was waiting for him. Only this time she didn’t turn away. She was smiling tenderly and holding wide her arms.

  Renard had followed the hue and cry after the Scourge. He arrived at the alley just in time to see Remy going down, like a mighty lion falling prey to a pack of jackals. Swearing, Renard rushed forward, sending one attacker flying to the ground, felling another with his fist.

  He caught the wrist of the third just before the man drove his poniard into the captain’s chest.

  “No,” Renard roared. “The Scourge is mine. You are needed elsewhere. The heretics are trying to escape down the Seine, loading their treasure onto ships.”

  The man glowered at Renard, but wrenched his hand free and backed off, as did the other assassins. From the look of their crude weapons, these men weren’t soldiers, only common laborers and ruffians from the streets of Paris.

  Renard didn’t know whether it was because of the sight of his armband or the ring of authority in his voice. Or his rough-hewn face and formidable size. Perhaps it was simply greed or the lust for fresh blood.

  Eyes glistening like rats, the men slunk away from him, vanishing back down the alley. When the last of their footsteps receded, Renard hunkered down over Remy. The captain’s chest still rose and fell with labored breaths, but Renard could see he was in a bad way.

  He stripped off his cloak and used it, in a desperate effort to staunch the flow of blood soaking Remy’s doublet.

  The captain stirred, his eyes fluttering open. He was already far gone, those brown depths so clouded that Renard doubted that Remy even recognized him.

  But the captain surprised him by rasping, “Monsieur le Comte. What—what the devil . . . you doing here?”

  “Never mind about that now,” Renard said brusquely. “I have to get you out of here. Find you help.”

  “No!” Remy struggled to raise his hand. He clutched at Renard’s sleeve. “Clare. Th-the baby. Th-the others. H-help them. Get them away.”

  Renard’s gaze flickered unwillingly toward the shadowy forms at the back of the alley. A shaft of moonlight pierced the clouds and haloed the white outstretched arm of a young woman, the unmoving bundle that had been her child . . . a mother sprawled over the two little girls she had tried in vain to protect . . . the sightless eyes of an old man . . . the bloodied tunic of a young boy.

  Renard averted his gaze. Perhaps there was one mercy in all this. Nicolas Remy need never know the fate of those he’d fought so hard to protect. The man was dying and what was more, he knew it. His hand fell away from Renard, his eyes lowered to half-slits, but Renard caught the glint of quiet resignation.

  “My sword . . . all I have left,” he whispered. “Take it. Give to . . . Gabrielle. Promise . . .”

  “I promise,” Renard said hoarsely.

  “Tell . . . tell her . . .” Nicolas Remy’s voice faded to silence.

  Renard’s throat constricted and he was surprised by the depth of emotion he felt for a man he barely knew. But Captain Remy’s courage, his selflessness, his devotion to honor and duty were such to command any man’s respect.

  Renard didn’t know if it was a proper tribute to pay to a fallen Huguenot, but he made the sign of the cross over him. He drew his cloak up over the captain’s face. Retrieving Remy’s sword, Renard rose heavily to his feet.

  There was nothing more to be done for Nicolas Remy, but there were others who needed his aid. Despite the death-like silence that had fallen over the alley, the streets beyond still echoed with screams as this night of madness rolled on.

  Grimly clutching the captain’s sword, Renard raced out of the alley. As he turned the corner, he flattened himself against the wall of a shop with broken windows. A troop of mounted horsemen galloped in view, their uniforms marking them as members of the elite Swiss guard.

  And in their midst . . . garbed in his flowing red robes, Vachel Le Vis’s twisted features appeared even more hellish by the flare of torchlight. Renard sucked in a sharp breath, all his rage, all his hatred of the witch-hunter flared to a fever pitch, like a red-hot fire consuming his brain.

  Heedless of the fact that he was impossibly outnumbered, Renard leaped out of the shadows, roaring. He charged directly at the troop of mounted guardsmen. Twice Le Vis had escaped the fires of hell and Renard meant to send him there, even if he perished in the attempt.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  After the heat of the day, the taproom of the Half Moon Inn felt blessedly cool, a haven from the grim sights in the street beyond. Ariane stripped off her riding gloves and released a deep breath. She had only ever visited Paris once before, one of the rare times she had traveled with her parents as a very young child. Her memories were vague. She retained an impression of a great deal of bustle and noise.

  But two days after the event that was already being called Bloody Sunday, a pall of silence seemed to have fallen over the city. The few people who ventured abroad appeared subdued, their eyes downcast.

  Ariane and her sisters had ridden through the streets surrounded by the comte’s retainers, Toussaint leading the way. The protective cordon had been unnecessary. They were in no danger of assault. But Ariane feared the terrible images would remain branded upon her mind for a long time . . . cobblestones stained rusty with dried blood, doors broken off their hinges, windows smashed, half-burned shops, buildings that were no more than blackened shells. The Seine itself was murky with blood, the riverbank heaped with naked corpses awaiting burial.

  Miri sank down at one of the tables, her curtain of hair falling forward over her face. Only days ago, she had seemed so young for her age. Now she appeared old beyond her years, deep shadows pooling beneath her eyes.

  Ariane stroked the girl’s hair back, murmuring, “Oh, little one, I wish you hadn’t had to see—”

  “It’s all right, Ariane,” Miri said in a wearied voice. “Don’t worry about me. I’d seen it all before. In my dreams.”

  Her sad attempt at a reassuring smile was enough to break Ariane’s heart. Never before had she appreciated her little sister’s courage in enduring her nightmares. But in some respects, Miri was bearing up far better than Gabrielle.

  Gabrielle slumped in a chair opposite Miri, her face bleached white. Much to her mortification, she had been distressingly ill in the stableyard. Ariane had ordered up a basin of water.

  She dampened her handkerchief and tried to bathe Gabrielle’s face, but her sister reared back, fending her off.

  “You don’t need to fuss over me either, Ariane. I’m fine.” She made an effort to straighten in her chair. “The first thing we need to do is find out where the wounded are being kept. There have to be some who were only wounded. They cannot have killed all the Huguenots.”

  When Miri made a small choked sound, Gabrielle glared at her. “I don’t care what you saw in your dream, Miri. Some of the Huguenots must have escaped or gone into hiding.”

  Although she would not speak his name, Ariane knew what particular Huguenot Gabrielle was thinking of. For all her fierceness, Gabrielle was seeking reassurance, a reassurance Ariane was unable to give.

  Perhaps some of the Huguenots had managed to escape, but Gabrielle had to know as well as Ariane did that Nicolas Remy was unlikely to be one of them. He would have spilled the last drop of his blood before he stood by and allowed any innocent to come to harm.

  They had come to this particular inn because Toussaint had said this was where Renard
always stayed when he ventured to Paris. Although Ariane knew it was foolish, she kept hoping at any moment to see him walk through that door, smile his slow smile, and address her with that familiar teasing drawl.

  “Ah, chérie, how foolish of you to have worried about me. Do you not know I am far too clever to have been trapped by the Dark Queen?”

  But the only man who entered the taproom was Toussaint. Ariane could tell from the old man’s expression that the tidings were not good. He wasted no time getting to the point.

  “I spoke to the landlord. It appears Justice was here, but he did go out that night . . . St. Bartholomew’s Eve, and the innkeeper’s not set eyes on him since. But by what reports he’d heard, the comte was arrested by a party of the Swiss Guard.”

  Toussaint paused to swallow thickly. “Apparently the lad didn’t go too willingly. He was clubbed unconscious and dragged off to the old fortress of the Bastille.”

  “Oh, dear God.” Ariane’s heart wrenched at the thought of Renard badly hurt, tossed into some dungeon.

  “We—we’ve got to get him out of there, milady,” Toussaint said.

  Ariane nodded, but she knew there was only one way of securing Renard’s release. She would have to barter with the Dark Queen. Her first impulse was to rush immediately to the Louvre.

  But she could not be received at the palace this way, dusty from her travels. She would have to take the time to bathe, to put on the extra gown she had brought tucked in her saddlebags, one of her mother’s. Prepare herself like a knight donning his armor to face his enemy.

  The most difficult part would be convincing Toussaint to remain at the inn, and her sisters as well. Grateful as she had been for their company, crossing swords with the Dark Queen was one battle the Lady of Faire Isle must wage alone.

  Catherine paced the silent halls of her royal apartments. She had dismissed all of her ladies-in-waiting and attendants. Brushing back the heavy drapery, she peered out the window of her antechamber. The violence of St. Bartholomew’s Eve had even reached the Louvre itself, blood splashed on the palace walls and in the courtyard. The corpses had long been removed, but the workmen were still on their knees, scrubbing to remove the last evidence of the slaughter from the cobbles.