The Huntress (8 page)

Meg bit down upon her lower lip. “So are you going to tell my father about me? He wouldn’t like me having the syringe or brewing potions. He wants me to forget everything I learned when I was with Mam—I mean, from the old days. Papa would be so disappointed in me if he knew what I did today.”

Cat frowned. Martin le Loup definitely needed to have his eyes opened where his daughter was concerned and yet as Cat studied Meg’s downcast face, she felt an unwilling empathy. She well remembered those days when one disappointed look from Tiernan O’Hanlon had been worse than a blow.

“Perhaps it might remain our secret for now.”

Meg brightened only to blanch with consternation when Cat added, “But you’ll have to surrender that witch blade to me.”

“Oh, no, please, I can’t. I always carry the syringe with me when I go out. To—to protect Papa. And if the sisterhood is still after me as you claim, or even the Dark Queen, I’ll need my weapon more than ever.”

Meg sank down in front of Cat, begging. “Please, Catriona…Cat, please. Let me keep the syringe. I’ll be careful how I use it and my potions. I swear it. Just please promise you won’t tell Papa any of this.”

Cat thought she would be an idiot to agree to any such thing or to make such a promise. But as she gazed down at Meg, she could not steel her heart against that earnest young face or those great pleading eyes.

She blew out a gusty sigh. “Oh, very well.”

Meg reached up to touch her hand. “No, you must really promise.”

“What on earth do you want, girl? An oath in blood?”

Meg regarded her gravely. “Promise me upon your sacred honor. I know that’s a vow you’d never break.”

And there was only one way Meg could know that. The little witch could read eyes and she had raided Cat’s mind again.

“All right. I promise you upon my sacred honor,” Cat said, then added sternly, “but you must promise me. No more practicing that little trick of yours upon me.”

Meg rose slowly to her feet. “What trick?”

“You know full well. You are dealing with another wise woman here, not your gullible papa. I am very familiar with the practice of reading eyes.”

“Oh.
That.
” Meg looked sheepish. She solemnly held up one hand. “I promise I won’t do it anymore. Upon my honor.”

But as she lowered her hand, her lips twitched with the hint of a smile. “But I
am
very skilled at it, aren’t I?”

“Yes, you are, minx.”

Meg’s smile widened and it was astonishing how the expression transformed her grave little face, giving it a hint of Martin le Loup’s roguish charm.

“I am good at other things too, like brewing potions.” She gestured to the empty cup on the bedside table. “That tisane I fixed for you should make you feel perfectly all right soon. If not, I can make you some more.”

“
You
brewed the tisane?” Cat asked. By the goddess Brigid! Was Martin le Loup aware of anything that went on beneath his own roof? “Your father told me it was Mistress Butterydoor who made the posset.”

“Aggie? She knows nothing about such things. Besides, she said she would not give you so much as a cup of her piss.”

Meg offered Cat an apologetic glance. “I am sorry, but Aggie doesn’t like Irish people. She says you’ll crunch my wee bones the first chance you get.”

“And you believe her?”

“Of course not. I am not some naive child,” Meg replied with dignity. “Aggie is a kindhearted woman, but sometimes she can be a trifle…”

“Superstitious and ignorant like most of the English?”

“I was going to say unlettered and untraveled. She has never been farther from London than Southwark. She has not had my experience of the world.”

It was an absurd claim for an eleven-year-old girl to make. Anyone but this one, Cat thought. But studying Meg, she glimpsed something sad and weary in the girl’s green eyes, so very like her father’s and yet so very different.

Martin’s eyes sparkled with a youth and vitality the man would likely possess if he lived to be a hundred. But as for Meg, an expression passed over her face that made her look as though she were already a hundred years old. There was a very old soul haunting that child’s eyes.

Cat was rarely subject to maternal impulses, but she brushed her fingers through a strand of Meg’s silky brown hair, smoothing it over the girl’s shoulder.

“Since you are so good at reading eyes, you must have some idea why I came to London.”

“You think I am in danger. I overheard you talking to my papa.”

“Ah, listening at the keyhole, were you?”

Again there was that trace of an impish smile, but Meg immediately sobered. “It is wrong of me, I know, but I have to. Papa doesn’t always tell me the things that he should. He tries too hard to be protective.”

Papa wasn’t the only one, Cat was tempted to retort, but she kept the observation to herself.

“If the sisterhood or the Dark Queen still threatens us, I need to know these things.” Meg shuddered. “I met her once…the queen. In the gardens of her palace in Paris. She is very old, but still quite powerful and frightening. There—there is a terrible darkness in her.”

“Which is why I came to fetch you to Faire Isle.”

Meg cocked her head to one side, considering. “Would I be entirely safe there?”

Cat hesitated over her answer, but was unable to lie to the girl. It would have done no good with Meg anyway. The child was far too wise for that.

“No, Margaret. There is no place on this earth entirely safe, but I think you would be safer there than in this infernal city.”

“Is Faire Isle a pleasant place? Who lives there?”

“The island is inhabited mostly by women because their husbands and sons are often away, making their living upon the sea as sailors or fishermen. Consequently, you will find many women employed in trades you would not elsewhere, blacksmiths, carpenters, brewers, shopkeepers, and—”

“And wise women?” Meg interrupted eagerly.

“Most certainly wise women. Faire Isle has long been a refuge for those seeking the ancient knowledge, herbalists and healers. The isle is small, but lovely like a gem set in the sea, with rugged cliffs and shell-strewn beaches, and at the heart of the island, a deep dark wood with trees too old to imagine. There’s a beautiful, wild spirit that inhabits Faire Isle, even more ancient than the ones that dwell in my own country.”

Or at least used to dwell there, Cat thought sadly. She had long felt that the spirit of Ireland was dying, being driven out by the invading English and the folly of her own countrymen.

“And what about the Lady of Faire Isle?” Meg asked.

“She is as wise as she is good and very learned. She could teach you a great deal more about the healing arts and the ways of the earth.”

“It sounds wonderful.” Meg looked wistful for a moment, and then sighed. “But Papa will never agree to go there. He likes London and he has great ambitions for me. He wants me to become a grand lady, admired, beautiful, and accomplished in music and dancing and—and fine needlework. I am not sure I can be all he wants me to be, but I have to try.”

“You talk a great deal of what Papa wants. But what about Meg?” Cat asked. “What does she want?”

“To please my papa. It is my duty. The clergyman at St. Barnaby’s preached just last Sunday how important it is for daughters to be obedient.”

Cat took the little girl’s smooth hand between her own calloused ones. “There are other kinds of daughters, Meg. Daughters of the earth, which is what you are. First and foremost a wise woman learns to be true to herself.”

“I—I remember. My first nurse, Prudence Waters, was just such a wise woman. She tried to teach me—” Meg broke off with a sorrowful shake of her head. “But I need to forget all of that. It is what my papa desires.”

“It is not that easy, Meg, forgetting the past, trying to deny who you really are deep in your bones, striving to be what someone else wants you to be. Trust me. I know.”

But the girl drew her hand away. “It was interesting talking to you, Catriona of the Clan O’Hanlon. But I agree with my papa. You should rest and then go home.”

Meg bobbed a quaint curtsy, her shuttered face a mirror image of what Martin’s had been. “I wish you a safe journey back to Faire Isle.”

The girl whisked from the room and once more Cat found herself staring at a closed door. She sprawled back upon the mattress with a disgruntled sigh.

Go home? She wished she could take Meg’s advice, but it had been a long time since Cat had known exactly where that was. As for the journey to Faire Isle, she would have been glad to embark on the next tide.

She had hoped to accomplish her mission swiftly and return to Ariane as soon as possible. For all of Ariane’s assurances about how well she was doing, Cat was deeply worried about her friend. Not that she was of much use when it came to the mysteries of childbearing, but if anything went wrong, she wanted to be there at Ariane’s side.

But this mission was proving to be more difficult than Cat had ever dreamed, navigating the shoals between Martin le Loup and his equally obstinate daughter a near impossible task.

Cat didn’t blame Meg. For all of her wisdom, she was only a little girl desperate to please her father. Martin, on the other hand, ought to know better than to risk his daughter in this fashion. But the man was too blinded by his own ambitions to see what was best for his child.

Well, it was up to her to teach Monsieur le Loup the error of his ways. She would get Meg safely back to Faire Isle even if she had to snatch the girl out from under her father’s nose to do so.

Chapter Four

M
ARTIN STRODE THROUGH THE SILENT CORRIDOR, SHIELDING
his candle from the draft, the rest of the household long abed. It was not the first time he had found himself stirring while the rest of the world slept. From his days as a thief in Paris to when he had acted as an agent for the king of Navarre, much of his business had been conducted under the cloak of darkness.

His hooded cloak fastened about his neck, sword and dagger tucked in his belt, he prepared to steal from the house for a late-night meeting with his patron. But not before he checked to see that all doors and windows were barred, and he looked in on his daughter. For the third or perhaps the fourth time. That wild Irishwoman with all her dire warnings had alarmed Martin far more than he cared to admit.

Easing Meg’s bedchamber door open, Martin tiptoed inside. She was like a princess lodged in a tower, with her room situated at the highest point of the house. Martin had run up considerable debt refurbishing the chamber in regal fashion, the ceiling trimmed with gilt moldings, the walls papered with heraldic devices. An arras hung from one corner to shield the room from drafts that came from the north, the heavy tapestry depicting Meg’s favorite creature, a blue-green dragon with his wings tricked out in iridescent threads.

The chamber was crowded with everything a doting father could bestow upon his daughter, trunks stuffed with lovely gowns, a golden harp, a workbasket overflowing with silken skeins of thread, shelves crammed with books, a small writing desk.

Martin set the candle down atop the desk, the surface littered with ink, quill, and parchment where Meg had been busy translating some passage of Latin into English. Never much of a scholar himself, Martin was proud of his daughter’s achievements, although sometimes the hunger of her mind worried him.

His friends the Cheney sisters would no doubt be ready to roast him alive for harboring such an opinion, but Martin feared it was not always a good thing for a woman to be too clever. Certainly, Meg’s mother had benefited little from—Martin compressed his lips, blocking out all thought of Cassandra Lascelles.

He stepped closer to Meg’s bed, taking great care not to wake her as he drew back the Indian silk bed-curtains. His daughter looked small and fragile, a mere babe curled up in the center of the huge feather tick mattress.

He was relieved to see that she was fast asleep, her brow smooth and untroubled. He had been afraid that the events of the afternoon might trigger some of her bad dreams. It had been a long time since Meg had been tormented by any of her nightmares and Martin was determined to keep it that way.

She had fallen asleep as she often did, poring over the contents of her treasure box. The small chest inlaid with mother of pearl lay open on the mattress near her. Martin carefully eased the small coffer away, lest Meg roll over on it and hurt herself in her sleep. He smiled over her tiny hoard of treasures, a shell from the beach at Dover, a bird’s feather, the strand of pearls he’d given her for her tenth birthday, and a large oval locket that stirred other memories.

Hooking his finger around the silver chain, he drew the locket out of the box and dangled it in the candlelight. The oval surface was adorned with the portrait of a wolf baying at the moon. The pendant opened to reveal a cunning miniature clock and the etched words
Yours until time ends.

The necklace originally had been a gift for Miri Cheney, a prelude he had hoped to a betrothal. He remembered all too well the night he had discovered Miri was no longer wearing it. They had been walking in the moonlight by the pond on Simon Aristide’s farm.

“I have the locket safe,” Miri had said. “I meant to give it back to you the next time we met.”

“I won’t take it,” he had cried. “What, my Lady of the Moon? After stealing my heart, do you mean to try to rob me of all my hopes and dreams as well?”

“My dearest friend.” Miri had touched his cheek, her eyes full of sadness and regret. “I should have known years ago that I could never be what you want me to be.”

Very likely he should have known it as well, Martin reflected. If he hadn’t been so blind, he would have seen that Miri would never be his, that she had long been in love with Aristide.

Martin placed the locket back in the chest and closed the lid. The pain of losing Miri had dulled to a bittersweet ache. They had parted friends, and she had given the locket to his daughter the day that he and Meg had left for England.

There were times late at night when the house was too quiet, when he kept his lonely vigil over his daughter, that he still missed Miri. Mon Dieu, how he had adored the woman, or so he had believed.

Miri had often accused him of treating her like some distant goddess, of pursuing her the way he lived his life, as one grand romantic adventure. Likely she was right. Sometimes he felt as though he had not known what it meant to truly love another human being until he had become a father.

Placing the chest back on the shelf, Martin returned to Meg’s bedside. He tucked the coverlet up over her thin shoulder and stroked back a tendril of her silky brown hair.

Meg stirred at his touch, nestling deeper into her pillow, and Martin swelled with such love for his child, it was nigh painful. He had not even known of Meg’s existence for the first nine years of her life, but how swiftly she had burrowed her way into his heart until she was knit into his very blood and bone. He loved her so much, it frightened him.

If he ever lost her, he knew he would run stark mad. Perhaps he was as much of an idiot as Cat accused him of being for not heeding Ariane’s warning. Perhaps he would be wiser to scoop Meg up and run. But to do what and to go where?

To Faire Isle with all its strange mystical influence and the lure of the ancient knowledge and ways of the daughters of the earth? Magic, even the most benevolent kind, could lead to darkness and danger. Martin had striven far too hard to exorcise all of that from Meg’s world.

And as for simply taking Meg and trying to disappear…He had inflicted enough of a fugitive existence upon his daughter when they had first come to England and he joined Master Roxburgh’s traveling company of players. Struggling to shield Meg’s innocence in a world of low taverns and lewd talk, often obliged to flee from some puritanical vicar determined to keep his town free of the pernicious influence of rascally actors. Pursued by dogs, constables, aldermen wielding pitchforks.

Such a madcap existence might have suited Martin just fine. He was used to it. He felt as though he had spent most of his life running from or running to something. But it would not do for his little girl.

No, Martin thought, his jaw hardening with resolve. He had worked too hard, risked too much to secure a better future for Meg to panic now and throw it all away.

He would simply have to be more vigilant, hire an extra servant or two, burly men to patrol the garden and keep watch over the house. And he’d threaten to switch Agatha Butterydoor within an inch of her hide if the old woman ever took Meg out of the house alone again.

He
would
succeed. He’d give his daughter the kind of life he had never known, secure, contented, and respectable, even if he had to hazard his soul to do it.

Martin’s mouth twisted ruefully as he thought of the man he was leaving to meet tonight. Sell himself to the devil? Sometimes Martin feared that he had already had.

Bending down, he brushed a kiss upon Meg’s brow. He retrieved his candle and slipped from the room.

The figure hiding behind the arras waited long minutes after Martin had left before emerging from her hiding place. Cat moved as quietly as she could, awkward in a pair of Martin’s boots, the toes stuffed with extra stockings in a vain effort to make them fit. His breeches threatened to fall to her knees no matter how tight she cinched the length of cord about her waist, and she had to keep shoving up the sleeves of his shirt to keep them from falling over her hands.

Not exactly the kind of garb to render one stealthy, but unable to locate her own clothing, Cat had had to make do with whatever she could find, rummaging through Martin’s wardrobe. It felt disturbingly intimate to be wearing the man’s garments, the clothing carrying a hint of his musky, masculine scent.

Martin’s removal of the candle had plunged the bedchamber back into darkness. With only the moonlight filtering through the window to guide her, Cat banged her shin against a leg of the writing desk.

Suppressing an oath, she cast an anxious glance at the bed. Meg stirred and Cat froze. But the girl only rolled over, tunneling deeper beneath the bedclothes. Releasing her breath, Cat bent to rub her aching shin, grateful that such a simple action no longer caused her head to reel.

Meg’s tisane had done its work, just as the girl had promised. Feeling much better, Cat had soon grown restless lying in bed. Having reached the unhappy conclusion that it might be necessary to abduct Meg back to Faire Isle, Cat had decided the sooner she implemented her plan the better. When she had thought the household asleep, Cat had stolen from Martin’s bedchamber to study the house and its environs. What she had discovered was a trifle daunting.

The Angel was but one house in a row of buildings crowded together on a narrow street. A street that was bound to be bustling with people and carts by day. By night it was patrolled. Cat herself had heard the watchman intoning the hour.

“Eleven o’clock and a fair night. All is we-ell.”

As for the rear of the house, the Angel had a small garden, but it was surrounded by a very high wall. Cat had to concede that Martin had chosen well when he had selected this house to rent. It would not be easy to spirit his daughter out of here unseen.

Cat had been creeping about upstairs, checking for the possibility of an egress to the roof, when she had been surprised by Martin le Loup and forced to take refuge behind the arras in Meg’s room.

Surprised
by the man? Cat frowned, thinking it a poor word to describe the tumult of her feelings as she had watched le Loup bend over his sleeping child.

Cat had set him down as an arrogant, swaggering knave. But as he had drawn the coverlet about Meg, the rogue’s face had been so open and vulnerable, Cat had felt half-ashamed to be spying upon him.

His expression had been such a mingling of tenderness, love, and fear that it had taken Cat back to those times when her own father had tucked her in. She remembered grumbling in a sleepy voice.

“You don’t need to do that, Da. I can tuck myself in. I am not afeard of the dark anymore. I am not a babe.”

“Alas, no, you aren’t,” her father had replied in a strangely melancholy voice. “I look in upon you at night to appease my fears rather than yours.”

“Yours, Da?” Cat had peered up in wonder at her bold warrior father. “What could you ever be afraid of?”

Tiernan of the Laughing Eyes had skated his rough broken knuckles along her cheek. “Of losing you, my wee lass. You are such a great treasure, I am afeard some dark night the
sidhe
might have a mind to steal you away from me.”

Cat’s lips curved in a wistful smile at the memory. The
sidhe.
Martin le Loup certainly had more substantial fears for Meg than Tiernan’s worry that the little people might snatch his daughter.

Tonight there was only one bad fairy creeping about the house and that was her, Cat thought guiltily. As she gazed at the girl innocently asleep, Cat abandoned all thought of abduction.

Not because of the difficulties of carrying out such a scheme, the layout of the house, the crowded streets, finding a way to get Meg alone—Cat was confident she could surmount all of that.

What stayed her was the thought of that little girl whose father was everything to her and the look on Martin’s face when he had kissed his daughter good night.

No matter how badly she wanted to get back to Faire Isle and Ariane, she would not be stealing anyone’s child. That left her with no other choice than to remain in London and guard Meg until she persuaded Martin to change his mind.

Quietly exiting the room, Cat stretched herself across the threshold to begin her watch.

W
HITEHALL SPRAWLED OVER TWENTY-THREE ACRES OF
L
ONDON
, a city within a city. The palace was a haphazard jumble of architectural styles, a warren of fifteen hundred rooms where Queen Elizabeth’s courtiers jostled, fought, and intrigued for scraps of the royal favor.

But neither queen nor court were in residence, Elizabeth preferring her palace at Richmond during the summer months. As Martin followed his escort through a maze of corridors, their footsteps echoed in silence through empty halls. Many of the walls were bare, the costly tapestries taken down and removed with the queen, but some of the portraits remained, particularly those of the late king, Henry VIII. It was as though Elizabeth was determined that no one should ever forget whose daughter she was.

Martin’s usher was a laconic young man who looked bored, as though it was mere routine to be escorting dubious characters to meet with the principal secretary of the realm at such a late hour, and very likely it was. Sir Francis Walsingham was rumored to employ a legion of shadowy men, of whom Martin feared he was but one more.