“They won’t,” Renard said tersely. “They will never set up their inquisition upon my lands.”
“How could you prevent it? If their commission comes from the king—”
“Not on my lands. Nor this island!” Renard banged the palm of his hand against the table. “I vowed that a long time ago. That none of those devils would ever come near me or mine again. Not my home and certainly not my bride. Do you hear me, Toussaint?”
“I hear you.” The old man stole an uneasy glance around him. “I just pray no one else does. And you take a great deal for granted calling Mistress Cheney your bride. Ring or no ring, it is just possible she has already given her heart to someone else.”
Renard laughed. “That is most unlikely. The woman practically lives like a nun, shut away here on her island.”
“It’s a strange sort of nun that steals out of her bed for a rendezvous at this late hour.”
“What the devil are you talking about?”
Toussaint shrugged. “Only that on my way here, I saw your lady stealing through the streets, riding with another man.”
“Impossible. I’d wager my last sou she is home safe in her bed. Your eyesight is failing you, old man.”
“There is nothing wrong with my eyes.” Toussaint bristled. “And you would lose your bet. I recognize Mistress Cheney well enough even when she is attempting to hide her face.”
“But what in the world would she be doing abroad with some man at this hour?”
Toussaint arched his brows suggestively. “You tell me, lad.”
There were times when Toussaint could be more than irritating. His suggestion about Ariane having a rendezvous with a lover was completely ridiculous.
Renard knew the woman better than that . . . at least he thought he did. He frowned, the first niggling doubt sifting into his brain.
Perhaps he had grown a trifle too arrogant of late. It had never even occurred to him that she might have other suitors.
Renard still didn’t believe it, but it might be just as well to determine what the woman was up to. He shoved abruptly to his feet. “Let’s go.”
Toussaint, who had been in the act of pouring himself another cup of wine, glanced up at Renard with surprise. “Go where?”
“Show me where you last saw Ariane.”
“Didn’t you just tell me that you had agreed to leave the woman in peace?”
“Now, Toussaint. Unless you want me to march through town, kicking in doors to look for her.”
Toussaint rose to his feet with a long-suffering sigh. “Yes, milord. As you wish, milord.”
But Renard didn’t even seem to hear him. He was already striding out of the inn and Toussaint had to make haste to keep up. As he had done so often of late, Toussaint searched for some trace of the openhearted generous boy he’d once known, but he found none in the grim, determined man he trudged after.
As he followed Renard into the night, Toussaint’s heart was heavy with memories of the old days and regrets. He mused as he had done too many times before.
Ah, Lucy. Why couldn’t you have set aside all the witchcraft and your cursed predictions and ambitions for the lad? You have done better to keep him safe atop your mountain.
Justice would have been the happier for it and Lucy . . .
His darling Lucy might still be alive.
Chapter Five
The convent of St. Anne’s was situated on a moderate rise of land, a peaceful sentinel keeping watch over Port Corsair. The spire of the modest church strained heavenward, the snug house of the chaplain tucked nearby just outside the stout stone walls that sealed off the convent.
At the gates, Charbonne rang the bell. Beyond the iron bars, Ariane could see the shadowy outline of the cloisters, bathed in an aura of quiet serenity. On such a gentle night, it was difficult to believe that evil or violence could exist anywhere in the world.
That is until Charbonne pointed out to her the place where the wounded man had been found, the grass still stained with his blood. Ariane shivered as a ghost-like figure melted out of the darkness, carrying a lantern. The sister’s flowing white robes brushed against the grass as she glided forward to open the gate.
It was the Mother Abbess herself. Marie Claire’s wimple framed a face that one exasperated archbishop had described as being too strong and willful to belong to a nun. Marie Claire had retorted that a woman who sat back with her hands meekly folded in prayer did not always serve God best.
The daughter of a duke, Marie Claire Abingion had thwarted her family’s ambition to marry her into the royal family, defying both her father and the late King Francis by choosing the veil instead.
A woman who had long been her mother’s friend, Marie Claire beckoned Ariane inside and wrapped one arm about her in a fierce hug. “Ariane, child! Thank heavens you are come.”
Ariane drew back, fairly bursting with questions, but she was hushed by a gesture from Marie Claire. The abbess had no wish to speak in front of Charbonne.
Marie Claire thanked the servant and dismissed her. As Charbonne led the horses off in the direction of the stables, the abbess murmured to Ariane. “I would trust Charbonne with my life, but I don’t want to involve her further in this business until I know more myself about what is going on.”
“What business?” Ariane whispered back. “Who is this man who has come looking for me?”
“I cannot tell you. He has adamantly refused to speak to anyone but you. He would not even give his name.”
“Do you think it is possible that he could be someone with word of my father?” Ariane could not quite keep the quiver of hope from her voice.
Marie Claire shook her head. “No, my dear. I fear that whatever has brought this stranger to you, it is nothing good.”
“Were you able to read his eyes?”
“I have always been too impatient to master that skill. I trust to my instincts instead and rely on other observations and—well, come with me.”
The abbess’s lantern lit the way across the silent grounds. At this hour, the other sisters were gathered in the refectory for the evening meal. The other buildings were all dark save for the glow from one long low building.
The infirmary was meant to treat the illnesses of the sisters. There were strict regulations regarding visitors to the convent, but those had long been ignored, the sisters frequently giving succor to the elderly and indigent of the town. Like many of the other women on the Faire Isle, the sisters of St. Anne’s tended to live by their own rules.
Ariane saw that most of the infirmary’s beds were empty except for one at the far end that had been cordoned off by a tall wooden screen. Nearby, the infirmarian tore and rolled bandages on a low stool before the empty hearth.
But at a few quiet words from Marie Claire, the elderly sister left. Marie Claire beckoned Ariane to approach the bed hidden behind the screen.
The stranger stretched out on the narrow cot looked harmless enough, but any man in his condition would. Unconscious, he was stripped to the waist, bandages wrapped tightly across his chest. Marie Claire moved the branch of candles closer so that Ariane could better view his face.
Thick lashes rested against cheeks that must have been deeply tanned, but his complexion was ghastly pale. His dark gold hair was cropped close, likewise his beard and mustache. Ariane judged him to be somewhere in his mid-twenties.
“Do you know him?” Marie Claire asked softly.
Ariane shook her head. Her gaze moved from his face down his sinewy body, his long muscular arms, the trace of old scars bisecting both his right shoulder and the base of his collarbone. This man was no stranger to hard physical labor or violence. He lay still, his breathing barely perceptible.
“Is he—will he be—” Ariane faltered.
“All right? I don’t know,” Marie Claire said. “I did my best for him, although I don’t possess anything like your mother’s healing skills. He had a crossbolt embedded in his side. Half-broken off. I suspect he did that so he could ke
ep on riding and not weaken himself by removing it.
“I managed to get the rest of it out. But as you well know, his danger now will be from infection and loss of blood.” Marie Claire’s eyes rested thoughtfully on her patient. “I would say he has a good chance. He appears to be a strong and thoroughly determined young man.”
“But who is he? Was there no clue about his person?”
“Unfortunately, yes.” Marie Claire motioned Ariane away from the bedside, where she produced a battered leather saddlebag.
“Our mysterious guest obviously parted company from his horse somewhere on the mainland. As near as I could determine, he came across the channel to Faire Isle in one of the fishing boats. Besides his sword, this is all he had with him.”
Marie Claire perched the bag upon a wooden stool and undid the straps. She tugged out a white garment. The article was a white overtunic with a red cross stitched onto it.
“Do you know what this is?” Marie Claire asked.
“No.”
“The uniform of a Huguenot soldier.”
Of course, Ariane was aware that there had been unrest and trouble in much of France for years, a terrible civil war of religion, Protestants and Catholics hell-bent upon murdering each other in the name of God. But that hideous conflict had always seemed far removed from Faire Isle.
“Do you think there has been a battle near here on the mainland?” Ariane asked.
“No, one of the few things our soldier did tell me is that he came from Paris, and I know a truce exists there at present because of the proposed marriage of our Princess Margot to the Protestant prince of Navarre.
“And yet, that bolt did not lodge in this young man’s side by accident. He is definitely a fugitive from something or someone. I fear we will learn nothing more until he recovers his senses.”
Marie Claire folded the tunic and stuffed it back in the saddlebag. Ariane regarded her with troubled eyes.
“Pardon me, Marie, but is this not rather dangerous for you to be sheltering this man? If the archbishop were to find out . . .”
“His eminence would expect me to hand over this heretic at once, doubtless to be tortured for his salvation.” Marie Claire smiled wryly. “Unfortunately, I fail to see how that would benefit this young man’s soul. Or mine.”
She patted Ariane’s cheek. “Don’t worry about me, child. With any luck we will have this soldier healed and on his way before anyone realizes he was here.
“Now it is almost time for Compline, so I must leave you. You will stay and watch over our young friend?”
Ariane nodded, although she saw nothing in this stranger to make her presume that he was a friend. Not that Ariane held the fact that he was a Huguenot against him. Some of her own beliefs and skills could easily have condemned her for a heretic and even worse. But Ariane had trouble sympathizing with anyone who practiced the unholy arts of war, especially in the name of God.
After Marie Claire had gone, the silence in the large, empty room seemed oppressive. Ariane paced by the bed, staring at the unconscious man almost as though she could force him to say what he wanted of her.
In the distance, Ariane heard the clang of the bell, announcing the hour of Compline. Tonight even that had a foreboding sound, more like the peal of an alarm than a call to gather the sisters for their evening prayer.
With nothing else to do but wait, her attention was drawn back to the stranger’s saddlebag. She tugged out the tunic for another look at it, then dug deeper to inspect the rest of the bag’s contents, even though she supposed Marie Claire must have already done so.
A hunk of molding cheese, a hard remnant of bread, a nearly empty flask of wine. A tinder box and a dagger that Ariane gingerly passed over. Wadded at the bottom of the bag was a small leather purse. It seemed light and woefully thin of coin.
Ariane realized it did contain something . . . something soft was stuffed inside. Was there any chance his initials might be embroidered on a handkerchief?
She undid the drawstrings to check, but instead of a handkerchief, the purse contained a pair of lady’s white gloves. Ariane drew them out into the light. They were beautiful, delicate silk, softly perfumed.
“Don’t touch those.”
The sudden hoarse command almost startled Ariane into dropping the gloves. She glanced up to find the soldier with his eyes wide open, staring at her with a burning ferocity.
“Put—put those back,” he rasped.
Embarrassed, she hastened to comply. Before she could say a word, he gasped out another command.
“Now . . . go wash.”
“W-what?”
“Wash your hands!”
The order only added to Ariane’s confusion and astonishment, but he was growing so agitated, she obeyed. Then she wet down a cloth and fetched a glass of water.
His eyes had closed again. Ariane feared he must be delirious, lapsing into a fever. But when she applied the cloth to his brow, she was surprised to find his skin cool to the touch.
His eyes fluttered open and he dashed the cloth from his forehead. But he seemed glad of the glass of water Ariane pressed to his lips. Ariane tried to get a fix on the brown eyes that stared up at her, but it was difficult.
The pain swirling in those dark depths blocked her efforts, making her unable to get past it to anything else. Pain and sorrow and not all of it recent, Ariane realized, not all of it stemming from his wound.
He pushed the glass away. “No more. I—I thank you.”
He regarded his surroundings with confusion. “Where am I?”
“In the infirmary at the convent of St. Anne’s,” Ariane said. “On Faire Isle.”
“Ah.” He sighed, relaxing a trifle. “Yes, I remember now.”
To Ariane’s surprise and dismay, he kicked the blanket aside and struggled to rise from the bed.
“Have to—to get out of here. Must go.”
“No, lie still.” Ariane made haste to restrain him, but as she pressed her hands against his bare shoulders, she could feel the tension and power surging through him. Ariane feared she would not be able to stop him. He possessed an amazing strength of will.
“Please, you are safe,” Ariane soothed him. “No one here means you any harm.”
“I—know that,” he said in taut breaths, fighting to rise to his feet. “But must leave . . . must find Ariane Cheney.”
“I am Mistress Cheney,” she informed him gravely.
He stared at her for a long moment before sagging back down onto the bed. His gaze roved over her, his expression torn between doubt and hope.
“So young,” he murmured at last. “I was expecting an older woman.”
“And I was not expecting you at all.” Retrieving the blanket, Ariane tucked it firmly around him again. “Who are you, sir?”
“My name is Remy . . . Captain Nicolas Remy.”
Ariane stiffened. The captain flinched, obviously paying the price for his recent attempt to stand, but he was still perceptive enough to notice Ariane’s reaction.
“You have heard of me then?”
Ariane nodded grimly. “Your reputation has even carried here. You are a captain in the army of Navarre, are you not? Famed for your ferocity in battle against the Catholics. I believe they call you the ‘Scourge.’”
Remy grimaced. “That is a title I despise and have never sought. I am merely a soldier seeking to defend my homeland and the right of any man to think and worship as he pleases.”
“Very admirable. But I still don’t understand why you have come to Faire Isle or how you even know of me.”
“I learned of you from an apothecary’s wife in Paris. She is one of your kind.”
Ariane felt a warning prickle at the base of her spine. “What do you mean—my kind?”
“I—I mean . . . you know . . .” Remy hesitated, then said bluntly. “A witch.”
Ariane flushed, squaring her shoulders back. “That is not a title I like. Anymore than you like to be called a scourge. And if that is
why you have sought me out, you have wasted a great deal of effort.”
“But mademoiselle, I—”
“I am a healer, nothing more. If you came to Faire Isle thinking to find some sort of—of dark magic or spells to aid you in your war, you are highly mistaken.”
“No! I need your help, Mistress Cheney. But not for war. For justice.” He attempted to rise again only to sink back with a stifled groan. “Please, will you not at least hear me out?”
Ariane frowned. She had never known any man who declared that he was seeking a witch to be after anything decent. But there was something in Captain Remy’s eyes that arrested her, something open and earnest, something . . . yes, something good.
“Very well,” she said. “I will listen, but only if you promise to lie still with no more of that thrashing about.”
The captain nodded weakly.
Ariane settled herself upon the stool and folded her hands in her lap.
At length, he said, “As I told you before, I am a captain in the army of Navarre. I recently accompanied my queen to Paris as the head of her royal guard. You—you have heard of my lady Jeanne d’Albret?”
“Yes, my late mother spoke highly of her, praising her strength and intelligence. A good woman and a good queen.”
“Was,” Remy said bleakly. “My queen is dead.”
“Oh, I am sorry. I had not heard.”
“She died only last week in Paris.”
Ariane’s mother had had a great admiration for Jeanne of Navarre. She was one of those rare instances of a woman who ruled by her own right, not through marriage. Like Elizabeth of England, Jeanne d’Albret had inherited her kingdom from her father and also like Elizabeth, Jeanne had governed with incredible sagacity and strength.
“I am truly sorry,” Ariane said. “My mother always said that your queen was a truly vigorous, forceful woman. Was she struck down by a sudden illness?”
“Struck down?” Remy choked out. “Yes, but not by any illness.”
He flung one arm across his eyes to conceal an unsoldierly display of grief. “She—she was murdered. Poisoned.”
Ariane stared at him, horrified. “Is that what the doctors determined?”