The Dark Queen

by Susan Carroll

  “Well, I—I—” Ariane faltered. She stole a furtive glance around to ascertain that no one was looking. “All right. Take your kiss. But do it quickly.”

  She closed her eyes, but she should have remembered that Renard seldom ever did anything quickly. He settled her into his arms and his mouth fastened over hers by slow degrees, starting gently, then flaring to an intensity that robbed her of breath. Her lips parted in a soft gasp, allowing him to deepen the kiss, the thrust of his tongue sending a flush of heat through her.

  He kissed her, long and lingering, as though it truly was the last time they would ever meet, his mouth hot and hungry, caressing and bruising her with the force of his passion. Her blood pounding through her veins, her heart racing, Ariane issued a low moan and kissed him back just as desperately. It was like being caught up in a strong undertow. But before the man could entirely sweep her senses out from under her again, Ariane pulled her head back.

  “N-no.” She sighed. “You—you really must go.”

  “But I can’t, ma chère.” Renard whispered, his breath warm against her ear.

  “Why not?”

  Renard peered down at her, his green eyes narrow slits, simmering with heat, but a hint of mischief as well. “Because you have your arms wrapped so tightly around my neck.”

  “W-what?” Dazed, Ariane was mortified to realize it was true.

  Flushing, she took a trembling step back, locking her arms firmly across her breasts as though to suppress any further temptation. The gesture appeared to amuse Renard, but there was a certain tenderness in his look as well as he reached out to stroke her cheek.

  “Stay safe, my lady,” he said. “And remember, you have but to slip my ring on your finger to send for me. I will only ever be a thought away.”

  Then he strode away without looking back.

  Renard trudged back toward the harbor, the warm glow from kissing Ariane already starting to fade, his boots growing heavier with every stride that took him farther away from her. He’d spent the better part of the morning trying to turn up some hint of what had really been going on at the convent last night, but to no avail. He’d almost begun to believe he was fretting over nothing until he had come across Ariane outside the apothecary shop.

  His lady had appeared on the surface as though she had little more to worry about than her unwanted suitors. But she had been more pale than usual, faint shadows beneath her eyes telling him she had not slept well. Renard would have liked to believe it was thoughts of him keeping her awake last night, but he feared otherwise.

  No, there was something else afoot, and every instinct he possessed, every desire, every wish dictated that he remain here on Faire Isle, keep a close watch over her. But there were the pressing matters of his estate that required his attention. He had no choice but to go.

  Trying to shake off his sense of unease, Renard continued toward the Passing Stranger. He found Toussaint waiting beneath the creaking inn sign, the old man in a lather of impatience.

  “Saints be praised. You have finally decided to come strolling back, have you?”

  Renard quirked one brow in haughty fashion. “I wasn’t aware I was keeping you waiting. When I left, you didn’t seem interested in much else beyond wolfing your way through that partridge pie.”

  “Ah, don’t be giving me any trouble, lad. I’ve already more than enough of it from that devil horse of yours.”

  “Hercules? Now what is wrong with the infernal creature?”

  “He’s been kicking all hell out of his stall this morning, to say nothing of biting two stable hands. I consider myself lucky to still be in possession of all my fingers.” Toussaint held up one hand and frowned, as though checking that a thumb had not gone missing. “That great brute truly is bewitched. I could swear that he senses we are about to leave the island and doesn’t like it.”

  Renard gave a vexed sigh, feeling in little humor for another battle of wills with his horse. “To tell you the truth, I am not very keen on leaving Faire Isle myself.”

  The old man’s sharp eyes flew to Renard’s face. His gruff voice softened a little as he asked, “What’s wrong, lad? Did you find out there was something amiss at that convent last night?”

  “No, and that is what is worrying me. I walked all the way up to the gates of St. Anne’s, but I never saw any place appear more serene. I couldn’t persuade any of the sisters to let me in, so I tried to exercise my charms upon some of the good wives of the town. I have never met so many ladies so good at keeping their thoughts to themselves. They are especially close-mouthed when it comes to any question from a stranger that involves Mistress Cheney.”

  “Women who won’t gossip?” Toussaint asked in astonishment.

  “Shocking, isn’t it?” Renard said dryly. “It’s enough to shatter all of a man’s most cherished beliefs about women. Even Ariane. I thought when I met her by daylight, when I could see her face clear of shadows, I could read her easily, but she was still able to hide something from me. Even when I kissed her.”

  “She let you kiss her? Er, you haven’t been using—”

  “No, nothing but my own natural charm. The lady enjoys my kisses, although she’d probably jump into the harbor before she would admit that. I have never seen anyone so stubborn.”

  “You obviously haven’t spent much time looking into a mirror.”

  Renard cast the old man a disgruntled look. He was astonished when Toussaint responded by clapping him heartily on the back.

  “Well, congratulations, my lord. It appears you are on the verge of winning. Not only did you succeed in getting kissed, but if your suspicions are correct, your lady will soon be in some mortal peril. She’ll be forced to use your ring and you can come charging to the rescue. I just hope you manage to get to her in time.”

  “If Ariane needs me, I’ll be there. And who said anything about mortal danger to my lady? If there is any sort of problem, it belongs to someone else. Ariane would never be taking such pains to guard her own secrets.”

  “Ohhh, I see. Someone else’s life will be at risk. Well, that makes everything all right then.”

  Renard glared at him. “You are being deliberately provoking, Toussaint. No one will be at risk. Ariane has my ring. All she has to do is use it to send for me.”

  “As long as the lady is not too obstinate to do so.”

  Renard stalked away from the old man. He wondered exactly when Toussaint had developed this truly annoying habit of telling him just what he didn’t want to hear.

  Renard hesitated outside the stable door, stealing one last glance at the sunlit town and harbor. Very likely he was conjuring up trouble that didn’t exist, as old Lucy used to say. He had never seen any place appear more peaceful than the Faire Isle on this bright summer afternoon. How much difficulty could his lady possibly get into before he managed to return?

  Ariane made her way back up the street toward the convent, balancing her basket on her arm. Renard was truly gone this time. Lingering near the blacksmith’s shop where she had had a good view of the Passing Stranger, she had watched Renard mount his horse to ride away. For a moment, the issue had seemed doubtful, Hercules putting up quite a fight, rearing and plunging in the stallion’s efforts to unseat Renard.

  It had been a battle of titanic proportions between two mighty male creatures of strapping size and equally stubborn will. But Renard had won in the end, bearing down with his knees, tightening his grip on the reins. He had forced Hercules toward the road leading back to the mainland, closely followed by a fierce-looking old man on a dark gelding.

  Ariane certainly had enough to contend with in her life without dealing with Renard’s unsettling presence. And yet it was most strange . . . The street around her still bustled with its customary color and noise, but somehow her island already felt an emptier place.

  Ariane tried to shrug off the melancholy sensation, but her heartbeat quickened when she heard the clatter of hooves approaching behind her. Renard, she could not help thinking. S
he might have known he’d never keep his promise to stay away. But her anticipation died when she saw that it was not the comte, but a troop of some half-dozen riders.

  She shrank back as they passed, the lathered horses looking as though they had been ridden long and hard, the riders in little better condition, their cloaks travel-stained. The leader of the troop suddenly held up one hand, bringing the retinue to an abrupt halt. He twisted in the saddle and as he did so, his cloak fell back to reveal the bright blue tunic of the royal guard.

  Ariane’s mouth went dry. She possessed just enough presence of mind to draw farther into the shadows between two of the shops while the captain of the group wheeled his horse around, scanning the street with sharp eyes.

  He beckoned imperiously toward a cluster of women who were goggling at him and his men. Most of them huddled near the apothecary shop, but Madame Elan, the potter’s wife, had ever been a flirtatious creature. She sauntered over to flutter her eyes up at the leader of the guard.

  Strain as she might, Ariane could only catch snatches of what was being said.

  “Searching for . . . escaped convict. Dangerous man. Young, powerful stature, dark blond hair, beard, likely wounded . . . wanted dead or alive by warrant of the king.”

  Ariane pressed her hand to her lips. Despite all this talk of escaped murderers, she was certain these men were in pursuit of Captain Remy. Equally, she had no doubts about who had sent them. Not a king, but a queen. A dark queen.

  Trembling, Ariane backed slowly away until she reached the alley behind the shops. And then she ran, bolting toward the convent of St. Anne’s as though her life depended upon it.

  Chapter Ten

  Open in the name of the king!”

  The convent bell clanged, followed by the thunderous sound of a fist pounding against the convent gate. The impatient summons sent nuns scattering across the courtyard like a flock of frightened chickens.

  “Stay calm, my daughters,” Marie Claire commanded.

  Ariane wondered how Marie Claire could manage to sound so calm. Her own heart was tripping in her chest as she watched Captain Remy plunked over Charbonne’s shoulder, his arms dangling limply down her back. Straining under his weight, the burly woman carried him to the waiting farm cart and eased the captain down upon the makeshift bedding hastily assembled on the rough wooden planks.

  Ariane sprang up beside Remy on the back of the wagon, praying his wound had not been torn open. The captain had taken a feverish turn during the night, but there was little to be done about it now, with the royal guard clamoring for admittance to St. Anne’s. Perhaps it was a mercy that the young man was unconscious.

  “We are going to kill him,” Ariane said, pressing a vinegar-soaked cloth to his heated brow as the mother abbess came up behind her, fetching a blanket.

  “Nonsense. He’s a tough man.” Marie Claire tucked the blanket around Remy carefully. “And what would happen if he stayed here? Even with my authority, those buffoons may very well ransack St. Anne’s.”

  “They are telling everyone he is an escaped convict, Marie. If the soldiers capture Remy, they likely have orders to kill him on the spot.”

  “Very likely. So we must make sure he doesn’t fall into their hands. If Charbonne takes the cart out through the vineyard onto the path through the woods, it will be rougher and longer, but you’ll have a better chance of avoiding the soldiers.”

  “And what about you, Marie?” Ariane asked.

  “Bless you, child. I am a tough old dragon. It won’t be the first time I have breathed the fire of defiance. What are a few paltry soldiers compared to an archbishop? Besides, St. Anne’s will be safe enough once Captain Remy is away.”

  Marie Claire carefully arranged the hay in the cart over the captain’s inert form. Ariane moved to help her.

  “I will do my best to delay the guard here in town as long as I can,” Marie Claire said. “I did hope we would have more time to find the captain a safer hiding place. I never wanted you to have to bring him to Belle Haven.”

  Ariane hated the prospect of involving Gabrielle and Miri. But there was no sense fretting over what could not be helped.

  “We have no other choice, Marie,” she said. “Besides, no one has ever been able to locate our hidden workshop and there is a small room down there where I can place a pallet. It will not be the first time it has been used as a hideaway. Great-aunt Eugenie frequently used to offer sanctuary to poor women fleeing the abuse of their husbands.”

  “Hoodwinking a few drunken louts is not the same thing as routing a company of the royal guard. I wish your Renard was here with that new sword he bought.”

  “He is not my Renard and how did you hear about that?”

  “When one creates that kind of stir in the town market, it does not take long for the tidings to spread. You know, this might not be a bad time to try out the power of that ring.”

  Marie Claire gave a grim smile, as though she were jesting, but only partly so. Ariane’s hand closed reflexively over the outline of the ring beneath her gown, then she shook her head.

  “The comte has left the island. Besides, it will not improve matters if Renard rushes in brandishing his sword and bashing heads.”

  “Perhaps not. Although occasionally a little bashing can be most useful, my dear Ariane.”

  As Charbonne clambered up onto the seat of the wagon and gave an impatient signal that they needed to be gone, Marie Claire reached up and pressed Ariane’s hand.

  “Go with God, my dear.” She added in low urgent tones, “There is one other thing I must tell you and you may not be pleased. But I went ahead and sent word to Louise Lavalle in Paris requesting her help.”

  Marie Claire rushed on, “I know you did not want to spread the risk to others, but we desperately need information. If we are going to fight Catherine, it is far too dangerous to do it in the dark.”

  Ariane sighed. It was pointless to remonstrate now. And there clearly was no more time. As the pounding at the gate grew more insistent, Marie Claire signaled Charbonne to go.

  Ariane did her best to keep the captain as comfortable as she could as they lurched away from the convent. With each jolt of the wagon, Remy uttered a low moan. Ariane bit down on her lip, torn between anxiety for him and her fear of seeing a squadron of soldiers come galloping across the vineyard after them.

  She felt somewhat easier when they reached the crude path leading through the forest, but she continued to peer tensely behind her. Scarcely thinking what she did, she tugged the chain from beneath her gown, fretting with the ring.

  When she realized what she was doing, she peered down at the ring. Small as it was, it felt like a warm, comforting weight in her hand. She had been so determined to be rid of the thing and Renard as well.

  But somehow the man had once more persuaded her to keep to their strange pact. And not through threats and bullying this time. She had not been able to withstand the gentleness in his eyes, the warmth of his parting words.

  “You have but to slip this ring on your finger to send for me. I will only ever be a thought away.”

  A thought away. There would have been a time she would have been completely convinced that she did not want Renard that close. He had alarmed her yet again with the fear he might be able to read her eyes.

  But his explanation had seemed reasonable when he had finally been induced to tell her the truth about himself. He was the son of a peasant woman. Such a simple explanation, yet Ariane could well understand why he had felt the need to keep that part of his past hidden. It also might explain his faith in magic rings. Shepherdesses and other such people of the earth often cherished such notions. Renard very likely inherited some of his beliefs from his mother’s people.

  Still . . . Ariane felt oddly disappointed that there was not more to it than that, that the ring truly did possess some magic. She held the ring poised over her finger, overcome by an inexplicable temptation to try it. If the ring were magic, she could summon Renard back to her . . . j
ust this once.

  Ariane had the ring halfway down her finger, when she paused, amazed at what she was doing. The cart had lumbered deeper into the forest with no sign of any pursuit. She didn’t need Renard, and considering the effect his kisses had on her, the man already seemed in danger of gaining enough power over her.

  Ariane tucked the ring firmly back inside her gown.

  The small room off the Dowager Queen’s bedchamber was forbidden to all, even her son, the king. The closet had been set aside for the queen’s most private devotionals, complete with a gold-trimmed altar, crucifix, candles, and kneeler. But it had been a long time since Catherine had done any praying.

  The kneeler shifted easily, becoming a lever that when pulled caused the entire altar to swing out, revealing a dark chamber beyond not unlike the hidden cellar at Belle Haven. The Dark Queen’s workshop was of necessity smaller, the walls cramped with well-stocked narrow shelves. Ancient books to give Catherine access to forbidden knowledge, jars of herbs and powders to aid her with her brews, and the skull of some long-vanquished foe . . . simply because it amused the Dark Queen.

  Lights from dozens of votive candles flickered over her determined features as she bent over her worktable, intent upon the formula she was mixing. She wore an apron over her stiff brocade to protect her gown, her plump fingers stripped of her costly rings. But that was more to protect the formula. Some of the mixtures she brewed were so delicate that the merest contact with any sort of metal might contaminate her efforts.

  Seizing a small glass vial with a pair of tongs, Catherine waved it over the flame of a large candle, until the liquid turned bright red, bubbling like overheated blood. She held the vial closer to inspect it before giving a satisfied nod.

  The brew would help her son Charles retain his sanity, and keep Catherine’s grip upon the throne of France secure. But even with her potions, Catherine was not certain how much longer she could stave off his descent into complete madness.

  All her children were proving a disappointment. Her firstborn, poor Francis, had been of a sickly constitution and had died only a few years after his coronation. Charles showed signs of faring little better, although the weakness was in his mind rather than his body.