The Courtesan (48 page)

And why? All because of the arrival of this Le Balafre. She’d recognized him almost at once. This terrifying Monsieur Scarface was none other than that young person who had attended upon the grand master of witch-hunters, Vachel Le Vis. Simon something or other. That had been his name, and he’d seemed no more than an insignificant boy. But even then Catherine had glimpsed something in the lad’s eyes that had made her uneasy. Le Vis had been a madman and a fool, easily tricked into serving Catherine’s purpose, never realizing he was serving a far greater witch than those she had sent him to find. Simon, however, had stared at Catherine as though he saw straight through her, recognized her for what she was. He seemed possessed of an intuition far beyond his years.

After Le Vis had outlived his usefulness, Catherine had disposed of him. She should have done the same with the lad, but she had allowed the boy to go free, a mistake for which she might now be about to pay dearly . . . perhaps with her life.

“Stop thinking like such a fool,” she admonished herself with disgust. When all was said and done, this Le Balafre was still no more than a pipsqueak boy the same as her own son.

She would crush him like that. Catherine gave a scornful snap of her fingers. But Simon was not as foolish as his former master had been. He had refused Henry’s offers to quarter him and his troop of witch-hunters here at the palace. She’d already learned that Le Balafre had commandeered the use of an inn, turning it into a miniature fortress. It would make getting at him more difficult, but not impossible.

All she had to do was wait and be patient, although she was not sure she had that luxury. She tried to convince herself that Henry was using these witch-hunters as a bluff, an attempt to intimidate her into retiring from her position of power behind his throne.

Her son would not dare allow these creatures to charge his own mother with witchcraft, would he? Even if he did, what evidence would there be? Except for that matter of the poisoned gloves, Catherine had always been most careful. She had never shared the secrets of her magic, not even with her own daughters, as other wise women did.

Very few knew of the hidden room behind her chapel where Catherine kept all her darkest secrets. She experienced an urge to clear out the chamber, destroy all potions and ancient parchments, but she quelled it, refusing to give way to panic. She was not a terrified girl of twelve, she reminded herself fiercely. She was the dowager queen of France. Yet she could not help recalling that that august title had not been enough to save another queen of not so distant memory.

The English queen, Anne Boleyn, had been brought to trial by her husband, Henry VIII. Among the charges of adultery and treason, there had also been included one of witchcraft. And Anne Boleyn, queen though she had been, had lost her head.

Catherine’s hand crept involuntarily toward her own throat and she trembled, momentarily giving way to her dark, secret fear. Death . . .

“Your Majesty?”

The voice sent her heart leaping into her throat. Catherine whirled around to confront the man who had dared creep into her presence unannounced. Enough moonlight filtered through the windows to enable her to make out Bartolomy Verducci’s skeletal frame.

“Verducci!” Catherine clutched her hand to the cross suspended over her bosom. Her fright gave way to fury. “Sirrah! What do you mean by coming upon me this way unbidden? Did I not leave orders I had no wish to be disturbed?”

The little man bowed deeply and backed away from her like a whipped cur. “P-pardon, Your Grace. I would not have bothered you had I not thought it important. There is someone who craves a private audience—”

“If it is that idiot Danton, I will not see him. I have already told him so. I have no use for those who fail me. Besides, the doings of Mademoiselle Cheney and her Scourge are the least of my worries at the moment.”

With a crisp snap of her skirts, Catherine rustled angrily back to the window. Verducci made no attempt to approach again, but his timid voice trailed after her. “It—it is not the Chevalier Danton who desires admittance into your presence, my liege—”

“I don’t care who it is. Send them away.”

“It is your emissary, Majesty. From—from Faire Isle.”

Catherine had started to rebuke him again, but clamped her mouth shut. Her emissary? How like Bartolomy to put the matter so discreetly. Her spy had arrived at last to make report on the Lady of Faire Isle and her council meeting. This could prove the most heartening tidings Catherine had had all day.

“Very well. Show the woman in, but light some of the candles first.”

As Bartolomy hastened to do so, Catherine drummed her fingers against the windowpane. As soon as she realized what she was doing, she checked the motion. It had never been her habit to give way to nervous gestures that revealed any weakness. By the time Bartolomy returned with her visitor, Catherine had composed herself.

Bartolomy stepped forward to present his companion, but Catherine cut him off.

“Leave us,” she commanded.

The scrawny little man bowed and slunk away, leaving Catherine alone with her spy. Bartolomy had lit several candles and left them burning atop Catherine’s escritoire. She beckoned to the woman to join her in the pool of light. Despite the fact that the night was warm, the woman was swathed in a long brown cloak, the hood drawn forward to hide her face. Catherine extended her fingers to be kissed as the woman knelt before her. But when she made no move to fling back her hood, Catherine withdrew her hand.

“It is not my habit to receive those who hide their eyes from me, madam,” the Dark Queen said coldly.

Reluctantly, the woman threw back her hood and revealed the pale pinched features of Hermoine Pechard. Catherine deigned to offer her hand again and Madame Pechard saluted it. The woman’s touch felt unpleasantly clammy and cold.

Catherine curled her fingers away in distaste. “Well, Madame Pechard. So you are come to Paris at last. I had all but given up on you, you have taken so long.”

“That—that is not my fault, Your Grace,” Hermoine whimpered, but Catherine silenced her with an imperious gesture.

She could not abide women who whined or squealed like frightened vermin. Such pitiful creatures ought to be sewn up in sacks and drowned, a fate that Catherine had once planned for Madame Pechard when she had caught the woman and the courtesan Louise Lavalle spying on her for the Lady of Faire Isle.

Catherine had little patience for other people’s spies, but if Hermoine proved of use to her now, Catherine would be glad the woman had been spared. If not . . . there were still plenty of sacks to be had. Realizing she might gain more information from the foolish woman if she did not terrify her out of what few wits she possessed, Catherine graciously bid her rise. She suppressed her irritation as Madame Pechard resumed making excuses for her delay in that annoying querulous tone.

“It is a long journey from Faire Isle. And I almost turned and fled straight back again. He is here.” Hermoine huddled her arms beneath her cloak and shivered. “Oh dear lord, he is right here in Paris. That evil man.”

“I thought you were hoping to be reunited with your husband,” Catherine said dryly.

“I am not talking about my Maurice,” Madame Pechard replied with an indignant squeak. “But that—that devil.” She darted a nervous glance about her, then lowered her voice to a whisper.
“Le Balafre.”

“You know of this witch-hunter?”

“He was much discussed at the council meeting.”

“Tell me.”

To Catherine’s annoyance, Hermoine shrank back biting her pale, thin lips. Catherine would have liked to have seized her by her bony shoulders and pinned her to the wall, ruthlessly probing her eyes. Hermoine’s gaze darted every which way, like a terrified mouse hunting for a place to hide. Curbing her impatience, Catherine strove to put Hermoine at her ease, offering to send for a glass of wine, inviting her to be seated. But Madame Pechard refused all refreshment and eyed the proffered chair as though it was an iron maiden where Catherine proposed to torture her.

“Before I tell you anything more, you must understand. I have no wish to betray the Lady of Faire Isle. She was good to me when—when you had me arrested and then when I had to flee Paris.” Hermoine actually achieved a modicum of dignity as she said this, her voice holding a faint hint of reproach.

Catherine felt a flicker of grudging admiration. Not for Hermoine but for Ariane, that she could inspire loyalty and courage even in this wretched excuse for a woman.

“My arresting you was all an unfortunate misunderstanding, as I explained in my letter when I approached you to work for me. It was all owing to Louise Lavalle, her wicked behavior, that implicated a virtuous woman such as yourself in her misdeeds.”

Catherine realized she could not have hit upon a more efficacious argument. Hermoine nodded, her lips tightening in self-righteous indignation.

“Mademoiselle Lavalle is indeed a wicked, licentious creature, just as so many of these young wise women are today. But the Lady of Faire Isle is possessed of great wisdom and virtue.”

“Of course Ariane is and I wish to be her friend as well,” Catherine said soothingly. “But until I can get her to trust me, I must rely on you for information, my dear Madame Pechard. I assure you I can be generous to those who serve me.”

The absurd creature clutched her hands together, her eyes filling with tears. “All I want is the return of my comfortable little house, my good name as the respectable wife of a doctor at the university. My life back as it was before I got involved with that wretched Lavalle woman and her schemes to spy on Your Grace.”

And what a small pathetic life it had been, of value to no one. Catherine could not imagine any woman wanting such an existence back, but she patted Hermoine’s hand.

“I will make sure everything is restored to you, my dear. Now tell me all about the council meeting and what was said of this man, Le Balafre.”

“Well, there was this mad red-haired wise woman come over from Ireland, Catriona O’Hanlon. Quite rude she was. She interrupted my turn to address the council to tell us about this Le Balafre and the missing book that brought him to France . . .”

Catherine fast realized that once one got the woman talking, it was all but impossible to shut her up. Hermoine waxed far more eloquent about her grievances with the behavior of the other women at the council than she did on the subject of Le Balafre. After the first ten minutes, Catherine scarcely paid attention. She had already heard all she needed to hear.

A missing book. The
Book of Shadows,
the stuff of legends and a daughter of the earth’s darkest fantasies. Catherine paced over to the window, hard-pressed to contain her excitement. If she possessed such a thing, she need never fear anything again. Not the Scourge or Huguenot rebels, not witch-hunters, not even death itself. She would become in truth a Dark Queen and nothing or no one would be able to stand against her.

She needed to get her hands on that book.

Chapter Twenty

D
awn had barely crept past the rooftops, the darkness of night surrendering to the gray light of morning. Miri pulled the hood of her cloak forward to shield her features as she scurried across the courtyard carpeted in mist. The damp seeped into the soles of her shoes and she shivered as she stole a glance over her shoulder.

The town house was enshrouded in silence, not a sign of anyone stirring. No one peered anxiously out the windows, no one burst through the door in frantic search of her. She had eluded them all, Gabrielle, Remy, Bette, even the vigilance of Necromancer.

With any luck, Miri might complete her errand and return before she was missed. If not . . . she breathed a faint sigh. She had no wish to worry or grieve any of these people who cared so much about her, but they could not understand. She realized herself the danger in what she was about to do. She had risked everything once before to save Simon Aristide from the dark influence of the dread witch-hunter, Le Vis, and she had failed. The beautiful boy had been transformed into Le Balafre, the man with the scarred visage and soulless eyes. And still Miri could not give up on him.

Stealing through the gardens, Miri moved as swiftly and quietly as she could. Only a few more steps and she would be out the wrought-iron gate and gone. But then what? Paris was an overwhelming place with its endless maze of streets and sea of rooftops. Without Necromancer’s uncanny senses to guide her, Miri had no idea how she was going to locate the inn where Simon was staying.

She would be obliged to ask directions of someone and the city beyond the garden wall still seemed fast asleep. She heard little beyond the distant creak of wagon wheels, the far-off clatter of horse’s hooves, and . . . and the snap of a twig.

The sharp crack originated from the recesses of the garden behind her. Miri froze, tensed and listening. A pair of larks twittered in the branches of an elm tree, but beneath their joyous song, Miri detected the light pad of a footfall, the faintest whisper of grass. The sound might have gone undetected by others, but Miri’s senses were as finely tuned as any fox or badger.

The nape of her neck prickled with the awareness she was not alone in the garden. She was being stalked and she feared that she knew by whom. Spinning around, she sought to pierce the whorls of mist obscuring the pathways.

“Necromancer?” she whispered fiercely.

“No, mademoiselle. It is me.” A shadowy form bounded out of the bushes.

Miri’s heart did a wild somersault. She staggered back, clapping her hand to her mouth to stifle a startled cry. A young man loomed before her, a mane of rich sable-colored hair flowing back from his sharp, angular features. Heavy brows and thick dark lashes accented green eyes that stared at her with a hungry avidity.

“Do not be alarmed, mademoiselle. I did not mean to startle you. It is just that I have spent most of the night gazing up at your bedchamber window.”

Miri hardly found that information reassuring. She wondered what would be her best course. To bolt back to the safety of the house, which was much farther away, or out through the gate in the hope of finding some refuge in the street. He seemed to divine her thoughts, for he stalked closer. “Please don’t run away. I have been waiting for you.”