“There is some part of herself a woman surrenders to a man she can never get back again.”
Gabrielle’s warning rang out stronger in her mind. Even as Renard urged her toward the bed, Ariane found the will to resist.
She stumbled back, panting as the fire burning inside her began to cool, the room shifting back into focus. Flushed, embarrassed, she crossed her arms in front of her in an effort to conceal her nakedness.
Her nakedness? Ariane blinked in confusion as her fingers closed over the soft silk of her bodice. Gazing down, she was stunned to see that her gown was not even disarranged. She was still fully clothed.
And so was Renard, his chest rising and falling quickly beneath his doublet. He looked a little dazed as well. He raised his hand to stare at his ring.
Ariane’s gaze dropped to hers, the metal still curiously warm.
“What—what just happened?” she asked hoarsely.
“I am not sure. But I believe that when we touched hands and pressed the rings together, it was as though—as though it bound our minds together as well, intensifying all our wishes, our imaginings, our secret passions and desires.”
“So we were about to make love . . . inside our heads?” Ariane cried. She stared at the ring on her hand with alarm. Shaking, she nearly clawed her own finger in her frantic effort to remove the metal band. She cast it down upon the table and backed away trembling.
Renard had already recovered himself enough to soothe, “Ah, chérie, please, don’t be frightened. I’ll admit that was a trifle unnerving—”
“I have threats enough in my life from debt collectors, unwanted suitors, and witch-hunters. But at least I have always felt safe inside my own head. Why didn’t you warn me the rings could do such a thing if we brought them together?”
“I did not know myself.”
Ariane regarded him with deep suspicion. “You were certainly quick enough to use the power once you discovered it,” she accused. “Seducing me with—with your passionate imaginings.”
“All those heated thoughts did not come entirely from me,” Renard retorted.
Ariane’s face burned. She wrapped her arms tightly around herself. But she realized it was more herself she feared, a wild, wayward part of her heart that she had scarcely recognized existed before tonight.
Renard stepped toward her. His fingers were gentle as he forced her to unlock her arms and gathered her hands into his own.
“Chérie, there is no need for you to be so distressed and embarrassed over what happened. As a daughter of the earth, you should know that the desire to mate is the most natural thing in the world. Why does it frighten you so?”
Because I don’t want to end up like Maman, breaking her heart over a faithless husband. Or even worse, like Gabrielle, wounded, embittered, my magic gone, Ariane thought desperately.
“But I am no ravisher or betrayer. Your magic would be safe with me.” Renard replied as though she had spoken aloud.
Ariane started, then groaned, trying to pull away from him. “Renard, you have got to stop doing that. Stop invading my thoughts.”
“Then tell your eyes to stop speaking to mine,” he said, brushing a light kiss across her brow. “Why cannot we bring an end to this foolish game we have been playing? Just forget about rings and bargains and marry me.”
“You were the one who set the rules for our contest, not I. I have only used the ring once and don’t mean to ever again.” She raised her hand wearily to her brow. “Now, please, it is very late and I am so tired and—and confused. If you want to remain until morning, I can supply you with a bed. Just not mine.”
Renard regarded her for a long moment, his own eyes simmering with a mixture of regret and frustration. “No, it is likely for the best that I go,” he said quietly. “But until I am certain all danger is past, I don’t intend to be that far away.”
Picking the ring up from the table, he folded it back into her hand. And then he was gone.
Chapter Sixteen
Shadows lengthened along the walls of the stone house in the countryside just beyond the suburbs of Paris. The place bore a gloom-ridden aspect and was shunned by its nearest neighbors. Monsieur Vachel Le Vis might be deemed a great and holy man, appointed by God to rid the world of witches, but even honest citizens dreaded to have his dark eye turn in their direction. Especially when he was in one of his black moods, as he had been ever since his return yesterday.
At such times only the boy Simon Aristide dared to wait upon his master. Carefully balancing the ewer of warm water, he carried it upstairs, glad that within the confines of the master’s house, he could shed his heavy black robes. He moved much more quietly and quickly in his simple tunic and breeches.
Easing open the door to the master’s bedchamber, Simon picked his way cautiously inside the darkened room. He set down the ewer upon the washstand and then cracked the curtains open, allowing a small ray of afternoon light to penetrate the chamber.
Simon gazed anxiously at the figure shivering on the massive four-poster bed. Monsieur Le Vis had fallen into one of his wild and unpredictable humors ever since their expulsion from Faire Isle. The Comte de Renard’s men had been ruthless, driving their brotherhood all the way out of Brittany. Master Le Vis had been grim and silent throughout the entire ordeal, saying nothing even after their return to the house.
He had sealed himself up in his room, refusing to eat or drink, the chamber deathly silent except for the dull thuds and the occasional outcry of pain.
Tiptoeing toward the bed, Simon called softly, “Master?”
Lying on his stomach, his head twisted to one side on the pillow, Le Vis stared at Simon through a matted tangle of hair, his drooping eye glazed over.
But what truly caused Simon to shudder was the sight of the master’s back, that pale expanse of flesh criss-crossed with angry red weals.
“Oh, master, what have you done to yourself?” Simon murmured. When the wild mood came upon him, he had known Master Le Vis to attempt to purge himself, but never to this brutal extent.
Simon made haste to fetch the basin closer. Dipping a cloth in the water, he prepared to minister to the master’s wounds. But Le Vis thrust Simon’s hands away.
“No, boy.”
“But, master, you must allow me to help—”
“The only way you can help me is to, to hand me my—”
His features contorted painfully as he bent, groping for the scourge he had dropped upon the floor.
“No, master!” Simon cried. Le Vis’s hands closed around the thick handle of the whip, while Simon fought desperately to wrench it away from him.
“Let go, boy. You . . . don’t understand. Must continue . . . must purge out the poison.”
Simon struggled until he succeeded in pulling the whip away. Ordinarily he could not have prevailed against a man the size and strength of the master, but Le Vis was greatly weakened by the punishment he had been inflicting upon himself.
Simon flung the whip across the room.
“How d-dare you—” Le Vis glared at him.
“You will fall ill and die if you continue in this fashion.”
“I am dying already. That witch has poisoned me with her evil kiss.” Le Vis pressed trembling fingers to his lips, his features contorting with revulsion.
Simon was at a loss himself to account for what Ariane Cheney had done to his master. But it seemed to him more in the nature of a miracle than anything evil.
“But Monsignor, the lady did save your life—”
“The lady! She is a succubus, using her foul mouth to try to draw out my soul.” Le Vis staggered to his feet, a wild light springing into his eyes. But the moment passed. Le Vis sank weakly back down upon the edge of the bed. “That—that witch has put her curse upon me. I—I am doomed.”
“No, master. You will be well if you allow me to tend your wounds and then take a little to eat and drink.” Simon said. “You cannot hope to fight witches if you do not maintain your strength.”
Le V
is released a long shuddering sigh. “You—you are right. M-must stay strong.”
He remained docile after that, sucking in his breath and gritting his teeth as Simon ministered to his lacerated back. For his part, Simon was relieved to see the master coming back to himself. Le Vis was always at his most reasonable and calm after his dark mood had passed.
The master claimed these fits came upon him as the result of curses leveled at him by witches conspiring all over France to be his undoing, to prevent the continuance of his holy work. There were times that Simon privately feared the master might simply be a bit mad.
When he had finished tending to Le Vis’s self-inflicted wounds, Simon persuaded him to partake of the tray of food he had fetched. After a little wine, some bread, and cheese, the master appeared much better.
He even reached out to tousle Simon’s hair and said gruffly, “You are a good lad.”
Simon smiled. He was reminded of the man who had so kindly taken him in years ago, giving him far more than food and a roof over his head. Given him the sort of education no mere peasant lad could have even dreamed of possessing. Reading, writing, and ciphering.
Simon often thought that Master Le Vis would have made the most clever and patient of tutors if he were not so obsessed—that is, possessed of a divine mission to destroy witches.
The master’s expression turned morose as he sipped his wine. “By all the blessed saints, Simon, lad. What a debacle. To have waited so long to have my chance to destroy the evil women of Faire Isle and to have failed so dismally.”
Simon squirmed in his seat, casting down his eyes. The better to conceal his guilty secret, for he was shamefully relieved they had failed, relieved especially that the little girl, Miri, had escaped.
Part of Simon knew that she had not been doing anything wrong. The Lady Ariane frightened him with her strange compelling eyes, her even stranger gift for restoring the dead to life. And the demon man upon his devil horse was a figure of complete terror. But Miri . . . the girl was fully as innocent and sweet as his own sister had been.
Simon shot a nervous sidelong glance at his master. “Monsignor, is it not possible that we might have been wrong about all the women on Faire Isle being evil?”
Le Vis’s mouth twisted in a frown. Ordinarily such a comment would have earned Simon a sharp rebuke. But the master must have been mellowed enough with wine and exhaustion that he only chided, “Ah, Simon. You are still such an ignorant lad. I daresay I should not have yet taken you to a place so dangerous as Faire Isle. You were not ready for such a test of your faith. I fear you may have been bewitched by that clever little sorceress with her shining blond tresses and strange silvery eyes.”
Simon flushed hotly. “I have not, sir. Miribelle Cheney is—is only a child. In my experience, many women are but simple creatures, easily led—”
“Your experience. All fifteen years of it,” Le Vis scoffed. “I was far wiser at your age and you would be too if you had had a mother such as mine. Given to drink and fornication with any man who possessed a sou.”
Simon had heard the sad tale of the master’s wicked mother many times. But his own mother had been far different, virtuous and hardworking, as gentle and loving as his sister had been. He had seldom dared to contradict the master before, but he could not seem to hold his tongue.
“We were sent to the Faire Isle because we were told that the Cheney women were hiding a dangerous heretic, practicing witchcraft, weaving evil plots against the crown. But surely such schemes require too much cunning for the female mind. The Comte de Renard is the one to blame.”
“Don’t be absurd, lad. Renard hopes to marry the Lady of Faire Isle. She is the one who holds sway over him, but only a man who is evil himself would want to mate with a witch and he shall be punished along with—”
The master was interrupted by a light knock at his bedchamber door. When he uttered a curt command to enter, Brother Jerome appeared, the tall ascetic man looking paler than usual.
“Your pardon, Master Le Vis. But you have a visitor.”
Le Vis scowled. “Bid whoever it is to be gone. Did I not say I have no wish to be disturbed?”
“You have little choice, master. It is the queen.”
“The—the queen? Here?”
“I fear that somehow she has learned of what transpired in Faire Isle. She has come in great secrecy and demands to see you at once. You—you had better make haste.”
Le Vis absorbed this in grim silence, then nodded. “Tell Her Majesty I will be down at once.”
Le Vis shoved aside the food tray, rising stiffly to his feet. He snapped his fingers, commanding Simon to fetch his clothes. The boy scurried to help the master into his robes.
Surely this was odd behavior for any queen, to come by stealth at sundown to pay a visit to the master of witch-hunters. Simon cast an uncertain look up at the master, his mind bursting with questions. But one look at the dark expression settling into Le Vis’s eyes warned Simon that this was one of those times he would do far better to hold his tongue and use his eyes and ears instead.
Simon trailed quietly after his master, his own dark robes brushing against the wooden floor. The private parlor of Vachel Le Vis was an austere chamber, unsoftened by carpets or hanging tapestries. The walls were adorned instead with paintings inspired by the Bible, grim reminders of the perfidy of women, Eve coaxing Adam to bite into the forbidden fruit, Salome holding up the head of John the Baptist, a hapless Samson being shorn by the treacherous Delilah.
The paintings were barely visible as the gloom of evening settled over the parlor. Only a few candles had been lit, but the master’s unexpected guest seemed to prefer it that way. A woman of medium stature and robust frame, she was garbed entirely in black from the hem of her gown to the cloak falling from her shoulders. The only thing that relieved the darkness of her attire was the gold, ruby-encrusted cross that glittered around her neck.
Despite the veil that hid her face, there was little doubt of her identity. Queen Catherine had a regal carriage that was as hard to disguise as the imperious way she held out her hand to Monsieur Le Vis.
Simon had never seen the master accord respect or courtesy to any woman before. But Le Vis forced himself stiffly to his knees before the queen, paying homage to her outstretched hand.
“Majesty . . . this is an unexpected honor.”
“Is it?” a dry voice inquired from behind the veil. “I wonder . . .”
She commanded Le Vis to rise. As the master struggled to his feet, Simon shuffled his feet awkwardly, wondering if he too would be expected to make some obeisance.
But as so often happened when he trailed in the master’s wake, his silent presence went unremarked. He shrank back even farther against the wall, but he could not help gawking as Her Majesty lifted her veil. It was not often that a simple peasant lad ever got the chance to lay eyes on a queen.
He held his breath, not quite knowing what to expect. The form of Catherine de Medici was as plump as any good matron of the city. But there was no softness in the face revealed by the flickering candlelight, her features as cold and white as alabaster. This was as nothing compared to her piercing eyes.
Simon could not repress a shiver as the queen frowned at his master. “I was astonished, Master Le Vis, to hear of your return. And yet you sent no word to me regarding the outcome of your expedition.”
“I—I am only just returned, Majesty. I planned to wait upon you tomorrow.”
“That is no longer wise. There are prying eyes at the palace who would interfere with our work.”
“Spies in your own household?” Le Vis looked much shocked.
“That can hardly surprise you, monsieur. Were you not the one who warned me that there are witches abroad everywhere these days, turning up in the most unexpected places?”
Simon thought that an odd half-smile played about her lips as she said this, but in the semidarkness it was difficult to tell. She continued, “With such evil abroad, all the more re
ason that I was bitterly disappointed to learn of the failure of your mission. Tell me what happened.”
Le Vis bristled. The master was not accustomed to accepting commands from any women, even a queen. But he complied, relating the tale, grudgingly at first, then waxing ever more indignant as he described the defiance of Ariane Cheney and the interference of the Comte de Renard.
“Renard?” the queen interrupted. “How strange. The Deauvilles have ever been noted for casting their lot on the side of power. No Deauville would ever seek to defy the crown, unless of course he perceived some advantage in it for himself.”
“The advantage this Justice Deauville seeks is union with a witch. He is that Cheney woman’s lover.”
“Then it was foolish of you, was it not? To allow Mistress Cheney to send to the comte for help.”
The master flushed, looking much stung. “I allowed nothing. No messenger was permitted to leave the island. That Cheney witch conjured up her lover with witchcraft, summoning him by some unnatural means. I know not how.”
“I do,” Simon blurted out, then was immediately sorry when two heads swiveled in his direction, the master clearly furious at his impertinence, the queen, cool and assessing.
“And who might this be?” she asked.
“No one. Just young Simon Aristide, a novice of my order.” The master glowered and was about to dismiss him when the queen intervened.
“Come here, Master Aristide,” she said, beckoning.
She spoke to him in a kind manner that strangely made him feel the more afraid. He moved haltingly toward her until he stood, head bowed, before the Dowager Queen of all France.
“Now, monsieur, what did you have to say?”
“The boy knows nothing,” Le Vis growled.
“Silence. Allow the lad to speak.”
The queen’s icy command caused the master to subside with an angry hiss. She crooked her fingers beneath Simon’s chin, forcing him to look up at her. “Don’t be afraid. I understand boys. I have many sons of my own.”
And devour them regularly for breakfast. Simon did not know why such an irreverent thought should have popped into his head. He found himself reluctant to tell her anything, but a strange thing happened. The longer he looked into the piercing depths of her eyes, the more he felt compelled to speak.
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