“Well, I—I—. It is probably nothing but when we were in the church, I noticed Mistress Cheney fidgeting with a ring dangling on a chain about her neck. Then later, by the pond, I saw the ring again. On her finger and—and she was twisting it and muttering.
“And when Monsieur le Comte pulled me from the pond, he was also wearing a ring and it matched Mistress Cheney’s.”
“So they were wearing betrothal rings,” Le Vis said impatiently. “There is nothing remarkable in that.”
“These were strange betrothal rings. Of plain metal with curious markings.”
The queen said nothing, but her eyes narrowed. She stalked over to Master Le Vis’s desk and snatched up a quill, dipping it in ink. While Simon and Le Vis watched, mystified, she scratched out something on a piece of parchment.
Blowing the paper dry, she carried it over to Simon. “Were the markings like these, Master Aristide?”
Simon squinted down at the odd symbols. “I cannot say for certain, but yes, I believe very like.”
The queen slowly crumpled the parchment, murmuring, “Le cercle d’amour. Rings of great and ancient power.”
“And doubtless of great evil,” Le Vis said.
“Oh, no doubt,” the queen agreed placidly.
Then how did she know of such things? Simon thought. There was something in her intent gaze that reminded him of Ari-ane Cheney and he wondered if the queen likewise possessed the ability to steal a person’s thoughts. But surely that was impos-sible because that would also make the queen a—a—
She smiled and flicked the tip of one fingernail lightly against his cheek. “You are a clever boy, Master Aristide, with sharp, observant eyes. You will likely go far in this world—if you learn to be more circumspect.”
The Queen Mother of France had just paid him a great compliment. Simon thought he should have flushed with pleasure. But her wintery smile seemed to splinter inside him like falling icicles striking the pavement. He shuddered and was excessively glad when Master Le Vis thrust him aside and he could retreat to his corner.
“If Your Grace will but give me a small command of soldiers,” Le Vis said. “I will return to Brittany and settle the score with this demon comte. Then no ring will avail Mistress Cheney. I will be able to continue my trials for witchcraft—”
“Your witch trials do not interest me, Le Vis.”
“But—but—” Le Vis frowned at her, uncertain. “When you first summoned me to the palace, you said that you had been directed by God to help me in my holy crusade against witches.”
“I am afraid God will have to wait,” she said drily.
Le Vis let out a sharp gasp, shocked by the queen’s blasphemy, as was Simon himself. A flicker of irritation seemed to cross the queen’s face, but was quickly smoothed over.
“Do not misunderstand me, monsieur. I, too, want to rid France of witches. But it is far more important for the security of my realm that I rid myself of other heretics first. I did not dispatch you to Faire Isle to make a great public spectacle by burning witches. I only wanted you to frighten Mistress Cheney into surrendering Captain Remy. I must have that man’s head and soon before he succeeds in finding some way to disrupt the marriage of my daughter to the king of Navarre.”
“That is something I do not entirely understand,” Le Vis said, pursing his lips sourly. “Why a great Catholic queen such as yourself is so eager to wed our princess to a heretic.”
“I have my reasons. Matters of state that do not concern you. Your only province is to destroy Remy and get me those gloves.”
“That is something that also confuses me. What is so important about those gloves?”
“Because they are my gloves, you fool. Only think what those witches on Faire Isle could do with an article of my clothing in their possession. What dark spells they would weave against me. Do you wish to be responsible for my death, Le Vis?”
“No, most certainly not, Your Grace, but—”
“Then do as I tell you. Return to Faire Isle, but use a little more good sense and stealth this time. Go under cover of darkness and raid the house at Belle Haven—”
Le Vis bridled with indignation. “I pursue my justice in the open where all heretics and witches may see, tremble, and be afraid.”
The queen sneered. “Do not be such a fool, Le Vis. If you wish to serve me, you will do as I instruct.”
The master puffed out his chest. “I serve no woman, Your Grace. Only God.”
“God may reward you in heaven, but I have the ability to do so here and now.”
“I have no interest in amassing riches.”
“I am not talking wealth, Le Vis, but treasure of a different sort. Power.” When she stalked toward him, the master attempted to turn sullenly away. “Look at me, Le Vis.”
He did so reluctantly, his gaze locking on hers.
“Get me Captain Remy and those gloves. Succeed and I will reward you beyond your wildest imaginings. I will make you my Grand Inquisitor with authority over every other court in the land. Your name will be set down in the annals of history. You will have unbridled power to rid France of every last heretic and witch.”
“Every last witch,” Le Vis repeated.
Simon had to fight a strong urge to rush at the master, break that strange unblinking contact of his eyes with the queen’s. But the queen herself had already done so.
Lowering her veil, she said, “Return to Faire Isle at once and do not fail me this time. I seldom accord second chances.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” the master said, in an unnerving monotone.
The queen took her leave. As she rustled past Simon, he shrank back. He should have leapt forward, bowing to open the door for the queen, but he seemed unable to move until after she had gone. He hastened anxiously over to his master.
Le Vis still looked dazed.
“Master?”
When Le Vis did not respond, Simon shook his arm. “Master Le Vis!”
The master blinked, gazing in some surprise at Simon and then around the empty room. “The queen?”
“She is gone, master. And I thank God for it,” Simon could not resist adding fervently.
The master only gave him a bemused smile. “Did you hear what she said, young Simon? I am to be a great man, the Grand Inquisitor of all France.”
“Y-yes, master. But I am not sure you should put such faith in the queen’s promises.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well I—I—” Simon squirmed beneath his master’s heavy frown. “There is something so strange about the queen. Her eyes, the unusual things she knows about rings and such. I was wondering if she might not possibly be a witch herself.”
Le Vis looked thunderstruck. “Are you mad, boy?”
“I am not the only one who wonders,” Simon said defensively. “I have heard rumors in the street. Whispers. There are some who call her the Dark Queen and Sorceress.”
“Scurrilous lies. And foolish ones as well about a woman who is a great Catholic monarch and the niece of a Pope. Good lord, boy,” Le Vis snarled. “Do you think I would not know a witch if I met one?”
“Yes, m-master. I mean no, master.”
“Then never let me hear you speak of such treasonous nonsense again.”
“No, master.” Simon ducked his head to conceal the stubborn set of his lips. Master Le Vis had accused him earlier of being charmed by little Miri Cheney, but Simon feared it was the master who was bewitched. Befuddled by Catherine de Medici’s cold, compelling eyes, cozened by her honeyed promises.
The queen settled back against the cushions in her carriage, delicately pressing a handkerchief to her nose as though the witch-hunter’s house had left a foul stench in her nostrils. A house that she knew had been purchased with blood money. Accusers were entitled to a share of the condemned’s estate, a strong inducement for good citizens to level charges of witchcraft against neighbors and Le Vis had profited more than most.
Le Vis, however, had been telling the truth
when he had said that accumulating riches was not his prime goal. Wealth only enabled him to pursue his crusade against witchcraft, an obsession compounded out of his mad notions of religion, hatred for women, and lust for power. Fortunately, the minds of such fanatics were always easy to cloud.
Now the boy, Simon Aristide, was another matter. He viewed the world with that simple clarity often accorded the young and innocent. Catherine had been partly amused by the boy’s sharp-eyed perception and vaguely disquieted as well. She had been able to read his mind, his entire pathetic history, how he had lost everything he’d cherished at the tender age of eleven, how his entire village had been destroyed by the malevolent act of some old crone.
The boy certainly had reason enough to hate witches, to want to destroy them. Looking into Simon’s dark eyes, Catherine had been beset by a strange premonition that if Le Vis’s pup ever had a chance to become full-grown, he might pose a threat, even to her. Some instinct urged her to have the boy destroyed now.
But she had greater things to worry about than a mere boy. Such as what use the fugitive Captain Remy and Ariane Cheney might be preparing to make of those gloves. Resting her head against the squabs of the swaying carriage, Catherine thanked God, or perhaps she should say Marie Claire, for sending Louise Lavalle to spy upon her. The courtesan’s smug expression and the secretive gleam beneath her thick lashes had alerted Catherine to Le Vis’s failure. Louise was good at concealing her thoughts, but Catherine was growing increasingly better at piercing the girl’s mind.
Although . . . there were times that she feared Louise, fully aware of Catherine’s suspicions, was playing games with her. Allowing Catherine to read her eyes, just enough to glimpse snippets of thoughts, both tantalizing and frustrating her.
She would deal with Louise soon enough. Her main concern was the Lady of Faire Isle, putting a stop to Ariane Cheney’s interference with her plans. At least she had gleaned one tidbit from that fool Le Vis and his sharp-eyed boy.
So little Ariane Cheney had taken for herself a lover, this Comte de Renard. Ariane must be indeed besotted with the man to have bound herself to him using the cercle d’amour. An interesting piece of information and it was always good to know the weaknesses of one’s enemies.
Catherine closed her eyes, seized by a small twinge of compunction. She was fully aware that despatching Le Vis back to Faire Isle was like setting loose a mad dog. Humiliated by his first failure, he would do far more than raid the house at Belle Haven to search for Captain Remy.
Le Vis would raze the place, destroying all who dwelt within, all of her dear friend Evangeline’s pretty daughters.
Catherine sighed and murmured, “Forgive me, Evangeline. You know that I never wanted it to come to this. Your foolish girl has left me no choice.”
Elsewhere in Paris, the master witch-hunter was not the only one receiving an unexpected visitor that evening. Madame Hermoine Pechard cracked open her kitchen door and then hastily dragged the hooded woman waiting on her stoop inside.
It was not unusual for the tall, spare woman to receive guests at her back door. Her husband, Emile, was a distinguished doctor and lecturer at the University of Paris. But all the students knew if one suffered from any serious ailment, it was far better to consult Madame Pechard.
Madame’s current visitor did not appear to be suffering the effects of ill health. As Louise Lavalle flung back her hood, her freckled cheeks were flushed with excitement, her blue eyes sparkling with a sense of adventure.
Madame peered out in the darkened yard before quickly closing the door. Fortunately she had already taken the precaution of dismissing her servants to their beds. As she threw the latch, she scolded the girl, “I vow, Mademoiselle Lavalle. You can be so infernally reckless. You should have waited until later at night. What if you had been followed from the palace?”
“Don’t fret, my dear Hermoine. The Dark Queen’s eyes were trained elsewhere tonight. And I needed to borrow one of your little friends to get word to Marie Claire.”
Louise nodded toward the cage of cooing pigeons tucked in the corner.
“I hope you mean to write to tell her that you are leaving the court as she warned you to do.”
“Why? When I am doing so well?” Louise asked with a serene smile. Plunking down an exquisite muff on the kitchen table, she produced a small strip of parchment from the fur-lined depths. “Have you pen and ink? It was difficult to complete my message. Even with Catherine preoccupied, there are always some of her creatures lurking about.”
Madame Pechard frowned, but moved to fetch the desired articles. Louise settled at the table, wielding the quill with deft, clever fingers. She began to compose an encrypted message with amazing tiny strokes set in a meticulous hand.
Madame watched her with a disgruntled frown. She disapproved of Louise’s morals and way of life. She disapproved of her pert manners and recklessness. And most of all Madame Pechard disapproved of this dangerous enterprise. When she had first started using her birds to communicate with Marie Claire, it had merely been for the pleasure of staying in touch with another wise woman of great learning. Madame had never bargained for being drawn into intrigues involving the Dark Queen.
While Louise finished her note, Madame paced nervously. “You and Marie Claire were ill-advised to have attempted this spying on Catherine, even to help the Lady of Faire Isle. You may fancy yourself very clever, Mademoiselle Lavalle, but the Dark Queen will find you out.”
“I know that. Actually, I have been permitting her to read my eyes.”
“You what!” Madame Pechard paused in her pacing to slam her palms down on the table, staring down at the girl.
“Take care, Hermoine. You nearly overset the ink,” Louise said coolly.
“It is Madame Pechard to you, Mistress Sauce. Now tell me. What have you done?”
Louise leaned back in her seat, looking smug. “Just played a little cat and mouse with our dear Catherine. I let her read my eyes enough to realize the dismal failure of her witch-hunters. You should have seen her face.”
Louise chortled. “The Dark Queen actually showed some honest emotion for a change. I vow she went positively pale.”
Madame Pechard felt herself going a trifle pale. “Are you quite mad, girl? Why did you do that?”
“Strategy, my good Hermoine. Alarmed people often make mistakes because they become less cautious.”
“Yes and they also wax far more dangerous.”
“Don’t be such an old hen. I am having an amusing time with the Dark Queen, feeding her bits of information, some true, some false. I truly was getting bored with seducing all the men at court. This is far more stimulating than taking a new lover.”
As Louise serenely rolled up the message to a size capable of being attached to the band on the pigeon’s leg, Madame Pechard gripped her hands together, saying tersely, “You are going to be the undoing of us all.”
Although Louise glanced up at her with mischievous eyes, her smile was genuinely apologetic as she said, “I am sorry if I alarm you, but one gains nothing by not taking a few chances. We grow closer than ever to the date when the king of Navarre is to arrive in Paris.”
Louise turned suddenly somber, an expression of rare seriousness darkening her eyes. “I am not as good at reading thoughts as the Dark Queen, but I can tell you one thing. I don’t know what that evil woman is planning, but I would wager my finest jewels that it is not merely a wedding.”
Chapter Seventeen
A sense of peace slowly returned to Faire Isle, the island basking in a succession of golden summer days. One could almost imagine that the island had never been threatened by witch-hunters or the intrigues of a Dark Queen.
Almost . . . Ariane thought, as she retired to the privacy of her bedchamber late one afternoon. Safe from any curious eyes, she unfolded the note from Marie Claire that Charbonne had just delivered, detailing the recent tidings from Paris.
Despite all risks, Louise remains stubbornly ensconced in the palac
e to keep an eye on the queen. All appears quiet at the moment, Catherine spending a great deal of time in her private closet, but Louise doubts that the woman is devoting that much time to her prayers. She is convinced that Catherine is brewing up some mischief and that she has a hidden workshop somewhere. Louise is determined to find it although she fears Catherine has grown suspicious of her. But she hopes to use that to our advantage, by allowing the queen to read her thoughts and using false information to direct Catherine away from Faire Isle . . .
“Oh, that foolish, reckless girl,” Ariane muttered. Louise was playing a dangerous game and Ariane needed to find a way to bring an end to all this madness before the young courtesan or anyone else met the same fate as the unfortunate queen of Navarre.
Ariane had been laboring down in the dungeon until her eyes were crossed and still she was no closer to solving the mystery of those gloves, obtaining the proof that would prevent the Dark Queen from ever harming anyone again. She simply had no idea what else she could do.
Rubbing her neck, Ariane paced to the window, staring out at the fading day. The sun was setting with gentle golden fingers, preparing to draw the mantle of night over Belle Haven, the rustling gardens, the silvery surface of the pond, the sturdy frame of the nearby stables. Usually the sight of all the snug comforts of her home comforted Ariane, but lately all she seemed able to see was everything that she had been neglecting.
Her herb garden badly wanted weeding and the trees in the orchard were fairly bending under the weight of ripening fruit. She needed to organize her household and see the bounty gathered before the apples rotted and they lost the entire crop.
There were still Papa’s debts to be considered and she had scarcely found time to even look at her account books. The island folk, made wary by the witch-hunters, were recovering enough to creep back to her, imploring aid with their ailments, and Ariane’s store of remedies was growing woefully thin. She needed to be distilling medicines, not devoting herself to the study of poisons.
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