The Courtesan (30 page)

“Well enough, I hope. I was tempted to send for him immediately after Catriona’s tidings. But Renard would nigh kill himself getting here, and there is scarce anything he could do tonight.”

“No, but in the days ahead, the comte and his retainers might prove useful in searching for this Padraig O’Donal.”

“What do you think our chances are, Marie?” Ariane asked dispiritedly. “Of finding O’Donal before he sells that book or the witch-hunter gets to him first. That Irishman could be anywhere by now. It will be like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

“Surely not as bad as all that,” Marie Claire protested. “After all, there cannot be that many people wealthy or mad enough to want to purchase this
Book of Shadows.
Unfortunately, the most likely one is—”

“Catherine,” Ariane filled in with an involuntary shudder. “I have been trying not to think of the possibility of the Dark Queen acquiring that book.”

Catherine had already accomplished enough evil between her poisons and the miasma she had brewed up to foment the madness of St. Bartholomew’s Eve. What more havoc might the Dark Queen wreak with the powerful spells Cat had described?

“But Catherine is already well versed in the ways of dark magic and—and perhaps the
Book of Shadows
would not even interest her,” Ariane said, seeking to convince herself as much as Marie Claire. “Since we reached that truce after St. Bartholomew’s Eve, she has not employed her black arts on anyone.”

“That we know of,” Marie Claire said dryly. “Unfortunately, since Louise Lavalle and Madame Pechard were exposed, our spy system is not what it once was. A pity since Gabrielle is so much at court, she could not be persuaded to keep an eye on Catherine and provide us with information.”

Ariane shook her head vehemently. “Even if Gabrielle were willing, I would never allow that. I worry enough about my reckless younger sister being in such close proximity to that evil woman and what mad risks Gabrielle might already be taking. It seems like forever since we have had any reports from Bette.”

“Well, as to that, I had no opportunity of telling you earlier. My little hawk has finally returned from Paris.”

Among her gifts as a daughter of the earth, Marie Claire possessed the ability to train birds to carry messages over long distances. A gift that Ariane had found a great boon in the past, even more so since Gabrielle had run off to Paris. Without the regular reports from Bette, Ariane thought she would have run mad with worry for her sister. Although sometimes, she feared she was better off not knowing exactly what Gabrielle was up to.

She regarded Marie Claire with a mingling of eagerness and apprehension. “So what did Bette have to say? How is Gabrielle? Is—is she well?”

“Well enough, but you had best brace yourself for some tidings of an extraordinary nature.”

“Dear God! What—what is it? Tell me, Marie.”

To her astonishment a slow smile spread over the abbess’s face. “Nicolas Remy is still alive.”

“What!”

As Marie Claire told her about Remy’s startling resurrection, his arrival in Paris, Ariane could not contain herself. She leaped to her feet and paced excitedly, tears of joy stinging her eyes. Not just because of her affection for the solemn captain, but because of what this could mean for Gabrielle. For the first time in years, Ariane saw a glimmer of hope for her wayward sister.

“Thank you, God,” she cried, clasping her hands together. “Oh, Marie, this is wonderful. I never recognized it at the time, but I believe Remy was the one man who could have healed Gabrielle, restored her magic. When she learned of his death, the last, best part of her seemed to die with him. But now—”

Ariane broke off, realizing that Marie Claire was not sharing her enthusiasm.

The older woman stared into the dying embers of the bonfire, avoiding Ariane’s eyes.

“Remy’s return is a good thing, is it not?” Ariane faltered. “Surely it could mean Gabrielle’s salvation.”

Marie Claire sighed. “It might have done, except that Bette reports Gabrielle appears to have done her best to—to end their friendship, to drive him away from her.”

The hope that had flared inside Ariane died with painful swiftness. She groaned. “Oh, of course Gabrielle did. I might have known. Was there ever anyone better than my sister at pushing away anyone who might love or care for her?”

The abbess fingered the small wooden crucifix suspended around her neck. Gazing into Marie Claire’s eyes, Ariane read enough to realize that Marie Claire was holding something back from her.

“What is it?” she asked. “What else did Bette have to say about Gabrielle? What aren’t you telling me?”

“Forgive me, my dear. But you are already so overburdened.” Marie Claire fluttered her hand in a helpless gesture. “You have quite enough to worry about.”

“I fear that I do, but you had better tell me all the same.”

When Marie Claire remained reluctant, Ariane sank back down beside her and pressed the older woman’s hands. “Tell me, Marie.”

“It may be nothing to worry about at all, but apparently Gabrielle has befriended another wise woman living there in Paris . . . one Cassandra Lascelles.”

When Ariane regarded Marie Claire with a puzzled look, the abbess asked, “You have not heard of this woman?”

“A little.” Ariane frowned, wracking her memory. “Cassandra is some sort of recluse, is she not? A poor, helpless blind woman whose entire family was destroyed by witch-hunters years ago.”

“Blind, Cassandra may be. But helpless?” Marie Claire grimaced. “If the rumors I have heard about Mademoiselle Lascelles are true, the woman dabbles in many of the black arts. She is supposed to be especially adept at necromancy.”

Ariane squirmed, avoiding Marie Claire’s eyes, because at one time Ariane herself had dabbled with the dangerous art, raising her mother’s spirit from the dead. There were times that Ariane still longed for Evangeline Cheney’s wise counsel, but Ariane had made her mother a solemn promise to leave all such dark magic well alone.

“A cloud of suspicion hangs over this young woman,” the abbess said gravely. “There are many daughters of the earth who wonder: How, out of all the Lascelles women, was Cassandra the only one to survive the witch-hunters’ attack? Some even wonder if Cass herself had something to do with that raid.”

Marie Claire shrugged. “Of course, all these tales about Cass might be nothing more than gossip and innuendo. All the same, Gabrielle ought to be cautioned.”

“You know Gabrielle will never heed anything I have to say.” Ariane sighed.

“You are not Gabrielle’s only sister. Miri has also worried much about Gabrielle. In fact—” Marie Claire hesitated. She drew in a deep breath before finishing, “In fact, Miri has made up her mind to journey to Paris and see Gabrielle for herself.”

Ariane stared at Marie Claire, dumbfounded at the notion her shy younger sister would even think of such a thing. Her initial surprise was instantly replaced with alarm. “Miri shall do no such thing! Bad enough that Gabrielle has run off on her own. I’ll not have two sisters swallowed up in Paris, so close to the Dark Queen’s grasp.”

Ariane leaped to her feet and stalked away from Marie Claire, demanding, “Where is Charbonne with those horses? I shall find Miri at once and tell her that I forbid her to set one foot off of Faire Isle.”

But Marie Claire sprang up and took hold of Ariane’s arm. “My dear child, you cannot forbid Miri anything. This is what I have dreaded telling you. It is too late.

“Miri has already gone.”

Chapter Thirteen

G
abrielle lifted the hem of her skirts to avoid the mud, horse droppings, and other offal that clogged the street. The passageway threaded through buildings crowded close together, three- and four-story timber frame houses and shops. Some of the structures were so old, they sagged against their nearest neighbor.

The wide brim of her straw hat shielded Gabrielle’s face from the late morning sun as she sought No. 14 rue des Cartelles. There it was. The last house but one before the corner. A newer building of whitewashed stone, a prosperous ironmonger, had the lower level, the horizontal shutter folded down, making a counter to display the shop’s wares. The second floor was the shopkeeper’s dwelling place, the third reserved for apprentices and servants, while the attic was let out as accommodations to travelers.

Gabrielle squinted as she studied the fourth story’s narrow window, where the shutters were forbiddingly closed. This, according to Catherine’s spies, was where Captain Nicolas Remy had taken his lodgings, living under the name of Jacques Ravelle.

Most of the people who brushed past Gabrielle in the street were working people, apprentices, shopkeepers, artisans, housewives, a few beggars. Clad as she was in her oldest gown, with her hair tumbling loose about her shoulders, Gabrielle realized she could have passed for a humble tradesman’s daughter herself.

Exhausted by the events of last evening, Gabrielle had passed a sleepless night. She had simply felt too tired this morning to be decked out in the corset, farthingale, and petticoats required for one of her elegant and costly gowns. Never had she looked less like the infamous courtesan she was reputed to be, a woman capable of carrying out the promise she had made to the Dark Queen, to betray Remy, to seduce him from his duty.

The ring she had been forced to take from Catherine was already locked away in a drawer and Gabrielle had lain awake for hours, trying to think of some way out of the devil’s bargain she had made and still manage to keep Remy safe. One did not lightly break faith with the Dark Queen and Gabrielle silently cursed Remy for putting them both in this difficult position.

Still, she was eager to see the man if only to find out how he had fared with Navarre last night. She waited impatiently for a grain cart pulled by a stout mule to lumber past. Darting across the street, she hastened toward Remy’s lodging, dismayed to feel her heart begin to trip faster. Who was she trying to fool? she wondered.

She was quite simply . . . eager to see him.

Stealing inside the workshop, Gabrielle was accosted by the harsh clanging of hammers pounding hot iron into shape. The forge bellowed out a fiery blast of heat like a dragon’s breath, rendering the shirts of the young apprentices damp with sweat. She had no difficulty charming one of the gangly youths into showing her the way up to Remy’s chambers.

She felt an unaccountable flutter of nervousness. Her knock was more timid than she intended. Curling her knuckles tighter, she rapped harder. No one answered. Gabrielle frowned. The apprentice had told her that Wolf had gone out, but the ironworker was certain that Monsieur Ravelle was still within. Gabrielle started to knock again, then tried the door handle. To her astonishment and consternation, it turned easily.

Was Remy quite mad, to not even bother locking his door? Never mind about the dangers of the Dark Queen. This was Paris, for heaven’s sake, not some rustic village in Navarre. The city teemed with robbers, pickpockets, and cutthroats.

Gabrielle shoved open the door and peeked cautiously inside. “Remy?”

The room was so shrouded in gloom, it took Gabrielle several moments before she was able to discern anything. Not that there was that much to see in the sparsely furnished chamber. Someone was stretched out upon the cot underneath a thin blanket. She caught the gleam of dark gold hair tumbled against the pillow.

Remy was still abed at this hour? It seemed so unlike him, Gabrielle’s stomach knotted with apprehension. She tiptoed over to the bed.

“Remy? Are—are you—” She broke off as a guttural cry breached Remy’s lips. A cry so horrible that Gabrielle jerked back in alarm.

Remy writhed on the mattress, dislodging the blanket. It fell to his waist, exposing the contours of his chest, his skin glistening with perspiration. With another low moan, he tossed on his pillow as though he was locked in the delirium of a fever.

Fear shook Gabrielle that Catherine had already broken her word, found some way to get at Remy and administer one of her deadly poisons. Gabrielle dropped to her knees by the cot, groping frantically for Remy’s pulse. She captured his wrist for a few fleeting seconds before he wrenched away from her, but it was enough to assure her his pulse was strong, although thundering rapidly.

He groaned again, muttering, “Sword . . . damn you. Give me . . . sword. Need to fight . . . need to save.” He shuddered with a deep sob that wrenched at Gabrielle’s heart.

No fever held Remy in its grip. He was trapped in the throes of a nightmare . . .

The church bells pealed out an incessant clangor that Remy thought would drive him mad. He clutched his hands to his ears as he staggered through streets that twisted and turned. Madness erupted around him, the toll of the bells punctuated with the screams of women, the wails of children, the guttural cries of men. Paris was washed in ashen gray, the houses, the cobblestones, the faces of the dead and dying. The only color left was the crimson tide of blood, splashed upon the walls, pooling beneath the bodies sprawled on the pavement.

His sword . . . Remy needed to retrieve his sword before it was too late. But every step he took, another massive wall reared up before him. He ran down one alley after another, his desperation mounting. The ground was so thick with bodies, he could scarcely move without stumbling. Losing his footing, he crashed to his knees by the lifeless form of a burly man, his beard spattered with blood.