Gillian stole a furtive look down the corridor. Two harried maids rushed by, carrying armloads of blankets and fresh linens to one of the bedchambers. Gillian waited until they passed before leaning closer to Simon and whispering, “I must admit I am surprised to see you. I thought you had enough wisdom to keep clear of the Dark Queen.”
“I had little choice. Gautier took me by surprise.”
“You? The great Le Balafre?” Gillian mocked. “I have never known you to be caught off guard.”
Simon grimaced, remembering the way he had been mooning over Miri’s lock of hair. “I was a bit, er, distracted.”
“Now you truly astonish me. Even the queen says she never met a man more tenacious or single-minded. She once put a large price on your head, did you know that?”
“I have many enemies who would be happy to see my head part company with my shoulders.”
“Not this head, you fool.” Gillian tweaked the end of his beard and gave a throaty laugh. “This one.” She slid her fingers provocatively near his crotch. “Her Majesty offered a queen’s ransom in jewels to the one who could seduce you away from your mission to hunt witches.”
As Gillian’s fingers inched lower, Simon sucked in his breath and put her hand firmly away from him. “Then I assume you became a wealthy woman.”
“Me?” Gillian snorted. “I held your interest for less than a month. That didn’t even earn me a pearl necklet. Especially when the queen suspected you were only seeking a way to prove she was a witch. Of course, when you realized I would be of no help, you were done with me.”
“Gillian, I am sorry—” Simon began, but she cut him off with a shake of her head.
“Don’t be. I am accustomed to being used and you did it far more gently than most.” A look of unexpected sadness stole through her eyes, but she was quick to rally, flashing him an overbright smile. “Despite the fact that neither of us got what we wanted, we did share a pleasant interlude, did we not?”
“Yes, we did,” Simon agreed. Gillian had been a skilled and generous lover and for a time she had eased some of the emptiness of his nights. He felt a strange urge to draw her gown up over her shoulders and get her to wash the paint from her face.
“Surely you have amassed enough rewards in the queen’s, er, service. Why don’t you leave this life?”
Gillian’s mouth thinned into a bitter line. “No one simply walks away from the Dark Queen. Remember that if you are ever tempted to sell your soul to her.”
“I doubt my soul would be of any interest to Her Grace. Even if it was, I have no intention of making any deals with the devil.”
“That is what we all say, my dear Simon. Come, it is unwise to keep Her Majesty waiting.”
She led him briskly toward a door near the end of the hall, her perfume lingering behind her like a troubling memory. Simon fought to keep his head clear, knowing he was going to need his wits about him. He had first encountered the Dark Queen when he had been a mere lad, apprenticed to the witch-hunter, Vachel Le Vis. Master Le Vis had been fooled by the queen’s matronly demeanor, but Simon had been chilled when he looked into those dark de Medici eyes.
Eyes that could mesmerize, strip a man’s soul bare, plant thoughts in his head that he should never entertain, just as she had done with Le Vis. Simon had vowed that he would never go the way of his poor master and he had resisted the queen’s efforts to gain any control over him.
Perhaps he had been so successful because he had no personal ambition for her to prey upon, no one he cared about to be threatened, no point of vulnerability. Except that was no longer true. He did have a weakness and she was tucked up fast asleep, back at the Brass Horse. Simon resolutely blocked all thought of Miri from his mind. Give the Dark Queen any hint of vulnerability or fear and she would use it as a weapon against him.
Gillian ushered him into a large study with an oak coffer-style ceiling, the walls adorned with many paintings set in heavy gilt frames, portraits mixed with scenes of bucolic country life. One of the queen’s ladies, an older woman, sat working on some embroidery near the hearth. Several others stood about in quiet attendance. They cast nervous glances as Simon and Gillian entered, but otherwise took no notice of him.
Near the center of the room was a writing desk littered with parchment, ink, quills, and sealing wax. The ornate chair was drawn back as though only recently vacated by its owner, the woman who had retreated to the windows at the far end of the chamber.
Her back was turned to him, but Simon had no difficulty recognizing the short, heavy figure of the Dark Queen garbed in her usual unrelenting black, her thinning silver hair drawn back beneath a bon grace cap. She rested one plump white hand against the windowpane, staring out. Or perhaps she merely sought to escape the trio of men who trailed after her wide skirts like a pack of yipping dogs.
Their doublets and trunk hose were of good quality, but somber, not nearly fashionable enough for courtiers. The obvious leader of the group, a burly man with a florid complexion, was gesticulating fiercely. “. . . and something has got to be done, Your Grace. A regiment of the Catholic League invaded my land only last week, making off with cattle and some of my finest horses.”
“And if that were not bad enough, a pack of these ruffians broke up our services,” one of his thinner companions complained. “It was a miracle we were all able to escape with our lives.”
“The last treaty signed by His Majesty guaranteed certain rights to those of the Reformed religion,” the burly man added. “That we might worship as we chose, providing it was done quietly and that certain towns and cities would be refuges—”
“I am aware of what was in the treaty, Le Marle,” the queen interrupted coldly.
Overhearing this exchange, Simon compressed his lips in surprise. Reformed religion? These men were Huguenots and were appealing to the Dark Queen for justice? It was surely as ludicrous as condemned men begging the executioner for mercy. Even Protestants who had been nowhere near Paris on that bloody St. Bartholomew’s Day of 1572 had to be well aware that the queen was accounted responsible for the massacre of thousands of their brethren.
Le Marle continued to plead, “If Your Grace will only present our grievances to the king. Despite all that has happened in the past, we of the Huguenot faith want to remain loyal to His Majesty. Our leader, Henry of Navarre, has nothing but good will toward his royal cousin, while the duc de Guise—
“I must speak bluntly, Your Grace. De Guise wants your son’s crown for himself and he is using the Catholic League as his weapon. By attacking Huguenots, he cuts away at what little support the king of France has left among his subjects. If the duke’s depredations against the Protestants go unchecked, you are going to have a bloodbath that will make all past battles in this conflict seem like mere skirmishes.”
“Are you threatening me, Le Marle?” the queen demanded.
“No, merely trying to warn Your Grace. Even if the king buckles to de Guise’s rising power, we Huguenots will not. There will be civil war on such scale as France has never—”
“Enough.” Catherine flung up one hand in a wearied gesture. “I sympathize with your concerns, my lords, but I am very tired at present. We will continue this discussion . . . tomorrow.”
“But Your Grace—”
“Tomorrow!”
The sharpness of her command caused Le Marle and his companions to beat a hasty retreat. But their frustration was evident as they stalked out of the chamber.
When the door had closed, Catherine’s shoulders slumped and she vented a deep sigh. Simon wagered it was not often the Dark Queen displayed such signs of weakness. Gillian cleared her throat and stepped forward.
“Pardon, Your Majesty, but Monsieur Aristide has arrived, as you requested.”
Without looking around, the queen commanded Gillian and the rest of her women to depart. One by one, the ladies curtsied and exited with Gillian bringing up the rear. She paused long enough to arch her brows as though offering Simon one last warning
before shutting the door, leaving him alone with the Dark Queen.
As Catherine came slowly away from the windows, Simon moved forward to make his bow. He froze in shock as he got his first good look at his formidable adversary. The Dark Queen was advancing in years, but she had always seemed indomitable, eerily immortal. Catherine was finally starting to show her age. She looked drawn and haggard, heavy lines creasing her mouth and brow. The most startling change was in those penetrating de Medici eyes. They appeared rheumy, their dark luster dimmed.
Her voice, however, held its familiar trace of mockery. “Am I that hideous a sight, you need gawk at me, Monsieur Le Balafre?”
Simon managed to stop staring and complete his bow. “I no longer rejoice in that title, Your Grace.”
“Very well, then Monsieur Aristide. Have you quite recovered from your shock at finding me so altered?”
“Forgive me, Your Grace, I was merely surprised. You look . . . tired, that is all.”
“Gallantry from a witch-hunter? How unexpected. But there is no need for you to mince words with me. I look like a complete harridan. Growing old is the very devil.”
“But the alternative is even worse.”
Catherine gave a throaty chuckle. “Gallantry and a sense of humor? Apparently, I am not the only one who has changed, although you are still as elusive as ever. I have had my agents scouring the countryside for you.”
“I was not aware Your Grace was looking for me.”
“Or you would have made yourself even scarcer, hmm?” She extended her hand to him and commanded. “My eyesight is not what it once was. Come closer. You need not be afraid of me.”
“I am not.” Simon took her hand and saluted it perfunctorily.
“What? Not one shiver of apprehension as you passed through my castle gate?” she taunted. “The thought never occurred to you how easily you could be made to vanish within these walls?”
Simon barely managed to conceal his start. Perhaps those eyes of hers had not dimmed as much as he thought. He needed to remain on his guard.
“It occurred to me. It simply did not concern me overmuch,” Simon lied. He had a fleeting thought of Miri, suppressed it. “My death would be of little consequence to anyone.”
“You underrate yourself. There are witches across France who would rejoice to hear you were no more. As for myself, when I die, I expect the revels in Paris to last at least a week.”
The queen’s mouth twisted wryly. “Well, they must all perforce delay their celebrations a while longer. I have no intentions of obliging them anytime soon. Nor that you should either. Our relations have not exactly been . . . cordial in the past, but I am hoping that will change now that we have something in common.”
“Such as?”
“The same enemy. This Silver Rose is beginning to prove quite a nuisance, is she not?”
“So Your Grace knows something of this creature?” Simon probed cautiously.
“I have been aware of her for some time, thanks to all these earnest and lengthy dispatches you have been sending to my son.”
Catherine hobbled past him, her movements appearing stiff and painful. She winced as she bent to pick up one of the papers strewn across the top of the desk. Simon recognized his own handwriting.
“His Grace is too preoccupied at present to have time to spare for much of anything, even the state of his own king—” Catherine checked herself. Simon knew the queen was often angered by her son’s erratic behavior, but she seldom allowed her vexation to show, at least not in public. Pursing her lips for a moment, she continued, “I, however, have read your reports with considerable concern.”
“A concern that has taken a long time to manifest itself, if Your Grace will pardon my saying so,” Simon pointed out. “I have been sending those reports for over a year.”
“I saw little to interest me at first, just some wild tales about a witch’s coven. Frankly, Monsieur Aristide, I thought you had finally run as mad as your late master, Le Vis.”
“And what has happened to make you change your mind?”
“This.” The queen reached for a small chest at the corner of the desk. Simon had assumed it must contain writing materials, quill and ink. But when Catherine flicked open the lid and gingerly pulled back a fold of linen fabric, she revealed the withered remnants of a flower. Although the petals no longer glittered, there was no mistaking the flower’s strange ashen hue.
“A silver rose,” Simon murmured.
“I thought the cursed thing would never wither and die. Ironic, isn’t it? That the poison that extended the life of this flower and gave it such exceptional beauty should be so fatal to whoever touches it.”
“How did Your Grace come by this?”
“It was given to me by one of the Silver Rose’s coven, apparently as a small token of the sorceress’s esteem. Fortunately, the rose came into the hands of a guard instead of mine. Well, fortunately for me, not him.”
Tearing his gaze from the box, Simon directed a startled look at the Dark Queen. “Are you telling me that this witch actually—actually—”
“Had the impertinence to try to assassinate me? Yes.” Despite her dry tone, Simon sensed the queen was badly shaken by the attempt on her life. He was a little shaken by it himself. He had accounted the Silver Rose as a threat, but even he had not fully appreciated how dangerous she was until now.
“My God,” he muttered. “If this creature would dare attack Your Grace then—then—”
“Then she would dare anything,” Catherine finished his thought as she closed the lid of the chest. “You stopped sending in your reports some time ago.”
“No one was taking any heed of them.”
“Well, now I am. So tell me. Are you any nearer to discovering who this witch is, what she wants?
“The identity of the Silver Rose still eludes me. As to what she wants—” Simon shrugged. “Sometimes it seems as if her only aim is to spread as much evil, fear, and misery as possible.”
“Now you are talking like a witch-hunter,” Catherine scoffed. “You rarely find anyone who does evil for evil’s sake alone. Even madmen have reason for what they do, at least in their own mind. I need you to find out what this Silver Rose’s true aims are, put an end to her schemes and her as well. From now on, you will send your reports directly to me.”
Simon was taken aback by this cool demand. He rubbed the ends of his beard, trying to find some tactful way of refusing. Unfortunately, he could think of none.
“Forgive me, Your Grace,” he said bluntly. “But I was not aware that I worked for you.”
“Forgive me, my dear Le Balafre,” she returned silkily. “But I was not aware that you were succeeding on your own.”
“True. And in light of that, I wonder that Your Grace would even desire my services.”
“Because you are the only one who even detected the existence of this sorceress. You are a clever, perceptive man, and together we can defeat this Silver Rose. I can supply you with funds, men, arms, anything you need.”
“No,” Simon snapped. When a tiny crease appeared between the queen’s brows, he sought to ameliorate his tone. “I appreciate Your Grace’s offer but—”
“You would sooner accept help from the devil,” she interrupted with a dry laugh. Rustling closer, she touched his hand lightly. “Believe me, I understand. I know that in the past you harbored certain . . . suspicions of me, imagining I might even be a witch myself.
“An absurd notion that I fear may have been encouraged by my own son when Henry engaged you to rid all France of sorcery. But that was a time when relations between the king and I were . . . a little strained, although it was nothing serious. Merely a boy seeking to rebel against the influence of his mother. But Henry has long since realized how much he needs me, as do you, Monsieur Aristide.”
“All the same, Your Grace, I prefer to continue working alone.” Simon tried to inch away from her, but her grip tightened on his wrist.
She stared up him, tryin
g to fix him with her gaze. But her eyes watered and she was obliged to give over the attempt. She turned away from him, muttering under her breath as she applied her handkerchief to her eyes.
As she turned to face him again, she had recovered her steely composure. “The problem with you working alone is that you have no official status. You have taken up this investigation entirely on your own, with no authority from the king or any parliament. Acting as prosecutor, judge, and executioner when you find one of these witches.”
“I have only killed when I had to,” Simon said. “In self-defense.”
“Oh, I am sure of that.” The queen cast him a thin smile. “Still, it is the sort of questionable behavior that could even get a witch-hunter detained somewhere—oh, for instance in a castle dungeon until the matter was cleared up.”
“Is Your Grace threatening to have me arrested?” Simon asked.
“No, merely pointing out to you the awkwardness of your situation. Now, you would be entirely safe from any sort of prosecution if I were to give you my royal commission to pursue your inquiries unimpeded. An offer you would be most unwise to refuse.”
An offer? More like a pistol being held to his head. Simon paced toward the windows, trying to buy himself time to think. It was unbelievable that only that morning he had felt so isolated and alone in his quest to defeat the Silver Rose. Now he was barraged with more help than he could have imagined and none of it the kind he had wanted. On the one side, there was Miri, gentle, earnest, and forgiving as an angel, harboring some notion that the women of this coven might yet be saved, turned back to the light. And on the other, there was Catherine, a very devil for intrigue and dark dealings, who would have no problem slaughtering anyone whom she perceived as a threat.
It was like being caught between heaven and hell. Each woman determined to make use of him after her own fashion, each doing a fine job of forcing him into alliance. Whoever said females were the weaker sex? Simon thought wryly.
But with Catherine, Simon had no other choice, not if he entertained any hope of riding away from this castle tonight. And loath as he was to admit it, a document granting him official authority might prove useful when the time came to arrest the Silver Rose and her coven.