The Dark Queen

by Susan Carroll

  “Why haven’t you? Isn’t that what Catherine sent you to do?”

  Le Vis seized her wrist. “There is only one thing saving you or any of the women on this wretched island and that is the queen’s mercy. Give me Captain Remy and the stolen gloves and my tribunal will depart and leave in peace.”

  “I have no idea what you are talking about.” Ariane attempted to pull away from him, but Le Vis tightened his grip.

  “Don’t try my patience, witch. You have until sunset to comply.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Then I will march your sister into the square to administer my first test to prove she is a witch.”

  “The first test?” Ariane faltered.

  “The ordeal by water.”

  Ariane felt herself pale. “The—the ordeal by water? But that test is never used here in France.”

  “A fact I intend to remedy. I’ll admit our English brethren have little to teach us, but some of their methods in dealing with witches are to be admired. Your sister will be taken to the pond in the square, her hands bound. She will be thrown into the water. If she floats, that is proof she is a witch.”

  Le Vis continued, clearly relishing every detail. “However, if your sister sinks to the bottom, as any honest woman would, she will be proclaimed innocent.”

  “But she will also be drowned.”

  “Then we will accord her a Christian burial.”

  “Damn you! This is no test of anything. It is a death sentence.”

  “Your sister’s fate is entirely in your hands, mademoiselle, not mine. You can put a stop to these proceedings right now. Just give me Remy and the gloves.”

  Le Vis released his crushing grip and Ariane fell back. She rubbed her throbbing wrist, daunted by the choice that Le Vis offered her, Remy’s life for her sister’s. How could she ever agree to such a hellish bargain . . . and then again, how could she not? But even if she did betray the young captain, could the witch-hunter truly be trusted to keep his word?

  Although repulsed by the prospect, she forced herself to stare into Le Vis’s eyes. Ariane shuddered. It was like plunging into an icy lake, murky and fathomless. She felt pulled deeper and deeper into a dark place that held no room for reason or compassion.

  She realized it would not matter to Le Vis if she did surrender Captain Remy. The Dark Queen’s command had given the witch-hunter the opportunity he longed for, to ferret out every last wise woman on Faire Isle. He meant to destroy them all and there was nothing Ariane could do to stop him.

  An hour later, Ariane paced the snug confines of the abbess’s room, still shivering. Even here, safe behind the convent walls, she felt chilled by her recent encounter with Le Vis. She paused in her agitated motion, to peer out the window, catching sight of her sister.

  While several alarmed nuns watched her from behind the pillars of the refectory, Gabrielle practiced lunges with Captain Remy’s sword. Gabrielle’s lovely face was filled with such grim purpose, it frightened Ariane.

  She had sworn to her mother on her deathbed that she would always look out for both Miri and Gabrielle. Now she had one sister in the hands of witch-hunters and the other armed with a sword, preparing for who knew what rash and desperate action.

  Ariane’s shoulders sagged. “How did I ever allow any of this to happen, Marie?”

  Marie Claire bustled up behind her to wrap her arm around Ariane’s shoulders. “What do you think you could have done to prevent witch-hunters from descending on us?”

  “Perhaps I should have refused to help Captain Remy. I should have at least been more cautious, more vigilant about looking after my sisters.”

  Marie Claire sighed. “My dear child, you cannot hold yourself responsible for everything. Sometimes I fear you confuse yourself with—with—”

  “With Maman?” Ariane said.

  “No, I was going to say with God almighty himself.” Forcing Ariane to sit, Marie pressed a glass of wine into her hands. Ariane held the cup without tasting it, staring bleakly into the empty hearth.

  “When you agreed to help Captain Remy, you believed you were doing the right thing,” Marie Claire said.

  “Unfortunately, doing the right thing may get us all killed.”

  “Is there no way of bargaining with this Le Vis?”

  Ariane shook her head. “The man has no intentions of keeping any agreement he makes with us. I read his eyes, Marie. Never have I encountered such malevolence, such unreasoning hatred. He has long wanted to destroy all the wise women on Faire Isle and now Catherine has given him license to do it.”

  “I can hardly believe that even Catherine would set such a creature upon us,” Marie Claire said. “She is still a daughter of the earth. God’s teeth! Has the woman been completely consumed by her own darkness?”

  Marie Claire frowned, steepling her fingers beneath her chin. “I don’t understand it. Why did we receive no warning from Louise? The last word I had from her was that she was installed in the palace and keeping a close eye on Catherine. Louise said that so far she saw nothing amiss.”

  “I feared it would be impossible to spy on Catherine. She is far too cunning. No doubt Louise herself is in great danger. You should warn her to leave Paris while she still can.”

  “Perhaps you are right, but at the moment I am more concerned about Miri.” Marie Claire stole an anxious glance toward the window. The leaden gray sky made the light seem as though it had already begun to fade. “We don’t have that many hours until sunset.”

  “I realize that,” Ariane replied tersely. “We are going to have to devise some plan to rescue Miri and I fear it will have to involve some armed resistance. It would seem that Gabrielle was wise after all to take the captain’s sword.”

  “It is not Gabrielle’s sword arm that is needed,” Marie Claire said, with a thoughtful glance in Ariane’s direction.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Have you given no thought to Renard? I know you are reluctant to call upon the comte for help, not wanting to place yourself further in his power—”

  “Oh, Marie, do you think I would care about that?” Ariane cried. “I would conjure up the devil himself to save Miri, but surely it is far too late to send for Renard now. No messenger would arrive in time.”

  “Why do you need a messenger when you have this?” Marie Claire bent over her. Tugging on the chain fastened around Ariane’s neck, she pulled Renard’s ring out into the light. Ariane reached up, closing her hand over the strange metal circle.

  “I have no doubt Renard is a brave man, Marie,” she said. “But when we made our pact, he likely envisioned deeds like—like frightening away my other suitors or paying off my debts. Do you think that even he would be willing to battle witch-hunters for me?”

  “I think he would do anything that you asked.”

  “And—and you believe that I can use this ring to summon him? That it would truly work?”

  “What have you got to lose? I don’t know about you, my dear, but I am desperate enough to try just about anything.”

  Ariane stared at the ring, hesitating a moment longer. Then she eased the metal circle off the chain, hating the flicker of hope that sprang to life inside of her. This was nonsense. But she was indeed desperate enough to try anything.

  Her hand trembled a little as she slipped the ring on her finger. Now what? His instructions had been brief and simple.

  “When you slip the ring upon your finger, we will be linked in a way that defies all distance and time. You will be able to summon me back to you with merely a thought.”

  Closing her eyes, Ariane pressed her hand over the region of her heart, concentrating hard, sending her thoughts out into the void like a fervent prayer.

  Renard, if there is any magic in this ring at all, please hear me. You must return to Faire Isle at once. I need your help.

  She felt foolish at first, but she persisted. Renard, please. Witch-hunters have come to my island. They have taken Miri. I need you.

  Th
en she felt it, a strange tingling in her finger, followed by a rush of warmth that spread through her entire body. She trembled as she heard Renard’s voice whisper in her ear.

  “Hold on, ma chère. I come.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Simon paused outside the crypt door, the tray with its meager contents balanced on his hand. A little bread, a little cheese, some water, and a slice of currant cake. The latter had been Simon’s addition and he felt a twinge of guilt. Somehow he doubted that Monsieur Le Vis would approve of him feeding cake to a witch.

  He peered through the bars of the locked gate that led into the crypt, looking for the prisoner. Miri was huddled on the stone floor, her back resting against the sarcophagus carved with the image of some long-forgotten knight. Her knees drawn up, she rested her chin upon them, her fine gold hair falling forward like a curtain to shield her from her grim surroundings. She looked so small and wretched, Simon’s own shoulders slumped at the sight of her.

  “She would have run away but for you.”

  Ariane Cheney’s accusation lingered in his mind. He felt a sharp stab of conscience, which he fought to set aside. Master Le Vis had done right to arrest Miri Cheney. When Simon had given his assurances to the girl, he had not known who she was. One of the Cheneys, the very women their order had come to this island to seek.

  Simon could well believe it of the older sister. He had sensed the strange and terrible power of Ariane Cheney’s eyes. But Miri reminded Simon painfully of his own sister, or how Lorene might have been if she had lived. If she, his mother and father, and the rest of his village had not been destroyed by witches . . .

  When he began to feel too tenderhearted toward Miri Cheney, he needed to remember that. Unlocking the gate to the crypt, he shuffled inside the small stone vault. He saw Miri tense, but she did not lift her head.

  “Mademoiselle?” he said sharply.

  She only shrank deeper into her corner.

  “I have brought you some food.” He plunked the tray down in front of her.

  One silvery-blue eye peeked at him through the curtain of her hair. “I am not hungry.”

  He could see the tip of her small, straight nose. It was quite pink. She had obviously been crying. Simon felt all his resolve to remain stern and aloof melting away.

  “You should try to eat something,” he said, more gently. “Look, there is cake. I brought it especially for you.”

  He picked up the small slice and held it out coaxingly. “Please take it.”

  Miri hesitated, then her hand shot out, accepting the gift. She retreated with the cake behind her fall of hair and Simon was forced to repress a tiny smile. She reminded him of a little mouse nibbling away in her corner. He longed to brush back those shining white-blond strands from her face and had to ball his hand into a fist to suppress the inappropriate urge.

  Between mouthfuls of cake, Miri mumbled, “How—how is the cat?”

  Simon stared at her in amazement. She was worried about the cat?

  “Your cat is fine,” he told her. “It is tucked away in a cozy cage and I gave it a saucer of milk.”

  “He is not my cat. You can’t own creatures of the earth and he won’t like being caged. He needs to be set free.”

  He touched her knee lightly. “You should worry more about yourself. You are in a serious situation, mademoiselle, but there is hope. If you would but confess, repent.”

  Miri lifted her head to regard him reproachfully. “Repent of what? You said yourself I was doing nothing wrong.”

  “That is before I knew who you were. You come from an entire family of witches, do you not?”

  “Ariane says we are wise women.”

  “Your sister has misled you.”

  Miri scowled at him, dusting cake crumbs from her fingers. “Ariane would not do that. She is exceedingly wise, just like my Maman was. My father is a great knight. If he were here, you would all be terribly sorry.”

  “But he isn’t. Monsieur Le Vis has sworn you may go free, just tell him what he needs to know. Where is the heretic you and your sisters are hiding?”

  “I don’t know anything about any heretic,” Miri said, looking genuinely confused.

  “The Huguenot soldier, Captain Nicolas Remy.”

  “Oh.” Miri bit down on her lip, her eyes dropping to the floor. “I—I don’t know anything about him either.”

  The girl was clearly lying.

  “Miri, I don’t believe you are wicked. But you are very confused—”

  “You are the one who is confused. Go away and leave me alone.”

  Simon studied the stubborn set of her lips with exasperation. The foolish child had no idea what she was up against. He had seen the implements Master Le Vis used to extract confessions from witches, the irons that could be heated red hot, the thumbscrews, the iron boot that could so easily crush a full-grown man’s leg, let alone the slender one of a girl.

  All grim and cruel, but necessary in the war against sorcery. He knew that Master Le Vis had something special planned for Miri Cheney, the ordeal by water. The thought caused a tight knot of apprehension in Simon’s gut. But before he could attempt to reason with her further, he heard the tramp of boots.

  Two others from the order appeared at the door to the crypt, the lean ascetic Brother Jerome and Brother Finial, with his constant sour expression and shock of peppery hair.

  Brother Finial frowned. “What are you doing in here, boy?”

  Simon hastily got to his feet. “I was just feeding the prisoner.”

  “A waste of food,” Finial sneered. “A full stomach will not do this witch much good by the time Master Le Vis finishes with her.”

  As the two men marched into the crypt, Simon moved instinctively to stand in front of Miri, but Finial brushed him aside.

  “Stand up, wench. It is time for your testing to begin.”

  Simon said, “But Master Le Vis promised that the Cheney women would have until sunset to produce the heretic.”

  Jerome, who could be more kind than many of the other brothers, explained patiently to Simon. “The master grows tired of waiting. There is a storm moving in and he believes it best that we proceed for the good of all the innocent folk on this island. The longer we allow witches and heretics to remain among them, the more their immortal souls will be endangered.”

  The two men crowded around Miri. Finial hauled her roughly to her feet. She looked terrified to death, but she made no sound. It was Simon who had difficulty suppressing his outcry.

  He forced himself to stand aside, knowing this was the way things had to be, reminding himself of all that he owed to the memory of his family, to Master Le Vis. After his village had been destroyed, Simon would have been naught but a beggar lad with nowhere to go.

  The master had taken him in, given him a home, his education, his livelihood. But as Miri was dragged from the crypt, she cast Simon such a look of mute appeal, he was obliged to close his eyes and turn away.

  The sky had darkened, heavy storm clouds roiling in from the harbor. Thunder rumbled in the distance, but the sound was nowhere as ominous as the beat of the drum emanating from the town square. The relentless tattoo summoned people out of their homes and shops.

  The crowd slowly began to gather. Master Le Vis had made it plain that any who refrained from bearing witness to the trial would be suspected of being as guilty as the accused. And no one was particularly eager to be the next to fall victim to the witch-hunters’ brand of justice.

  Word of the proceedings had reached Ariane at the convent. She flew down the street, not waiting to see if Marie Claire, Gabrielle, or Charbonne followed. She lifted up her skirts and ran, not pausing to draw breath until she reached the edge of the crowd in the square.

  Anxiously scanning the cluster of faces, she caught a glimpse of the grim features of Madame Jehan and Mistress Paletot, little Madame Elan hiding timidly behind her husband. Many of those in attendance were male, rugged sailors and fishermen from the harbor, the proprietor of
the Passing Stranger, stable hands, and apprentice lads.

  But the one face Ariane most sought was not there. Renard. She whipped about to stare down the road leading to the square from the harbor, praying for some sight of a powerful man astride a rebellious gray stallion.

  The road was becoming obscured by the gathering clouds. The way from the mainland would soon become impassable.

  “Oh, where are you, Renard?” she murmured, twisting the ring on her finger. After that initial burst of warmth, that strange giddy sensation when she had first attempted to use the ring, she had felt nothing, except a growing sense of despair.

  The ring had not worked. She needed to have worked out some other way of rescuing her sister, but Le Vis had not given her enough time. The man had broken his word to wait until sunset.

  Ariane pressed forward. When her presence was known, the crowd fell back, clearing her a path, many drawing away as though she now carried the plague. The drum sounded louder in her ears and Ariane’s heart thudded fearfully in time with it as she saw the witch-hunters.

  They were lined up before the pond like a flock of black-winged scavengers, their hands tucked within the sleeves of their robes, their pallid faces concealed beneath their dark cowls.

  Only one seemed human. Simon Aristide banged out the rhythm on the drum, his shoulders rigid, but beneath his hood, the boy looked wretched. Le Vis stood nearby, in his fiery robes, gripping a tall crosier like some unholy shepherd presiding over his flock.

  Ariane looked frantically for her sister, but Miri appeared to be swallowed up somewhere behind that sea of black robes. Someone shoved against her and Ariane realized that the others had caught up to her at last. Gabrielle pressed close to Ariane’s side, close followed by Charbonne and a breathless Marie Claire.

  Gabrielle glowered at Le Vis. “That bastard! So much for ever trusting the word of a witch-hunter.” She drew Remy’s sword and would have rushed forward immediately if Charbonne had not restrained her.

  “Where is Miri?” Marie Claire asked.

  Gabrielle paused in her struggle as they all craned their necks. The line of witch-hunters shifted and Ariane’s throat constricted as she spotted her little sister imprisoned between two of the men. Miri’s hands were bound in front of her, a halter fastened around her neck. She looked dazed and bewildered, her eyes wide and staring as though she sought retreat into some inner kingdom because the world in which she found herself had suddenly turned senseless and cruel.