The Courtesan

by Susan Carroll

  “You?”

  “Yes, I could take him to my bed, seduce him. Could you imagine how that would affect all those stern Huguenots when the word got abroad? That not only did you succeed in making a Catholic of their king, but now their great hero, the Scourge, is in thrall to one of the Dark Queen’s most notorious courtesans.”

  Gabrielle faced Catherine, summoning up her most brilliant and convincing smile. “Far more effective than merely killing the man, you would destroy his legend.”

  Catherine steepled her fingers beneath her chin, her brow furrowing as she considered. Gabrielle held her breath, wondering what she would do if Catherine rejected her proposal. Fall to her knees before the queen and beg for Remy’s life or seize Catherine by the throat and choke the life from her before she could harm him.

  Gabrielle actually felt her fingers flexing when a slow smile spread over Catherine’s face.

  “I have always admired the way your mind works, Gabrielle. Ruthless and devious, so like mine. But do you really believe that even your charms would be enough to tempt our honorable Scourge from his path of duty?”

  Her charms hadn’t been enough in the past, Gabrielle reflected, but then she had never really tried. She bit down hard upon her lip as she remembered Remy’s kiss, the way it had stirred desires in her that she’d believed long dead, the passion she had seen flare in Remy’s eyes. But to seduce Remy into forgetting his honor, twisting him to the Dark Queen’s purposes, would be the final betrayal, the corruption of everything that had ever been fine and good between them. The thought filled her with despair, but if she didn’t succeed, it would be the same as signing Remy’s death warrant.

  For Catherine’s benefit, Gabrielle suppressed the sick feeling in her heart and traced her hand seductively over her ample curves. “Could I manage to seduce the Scourge or any other man?” she purred. “What do you think?”

  Catherine gave a throaty chuckle and stripped off a small gold signet ring from her finger. “I do believe you and I have finally reached an understanding, Gabrielle. Take this ring as a token of my good faith. Now come and pledge me yours.”

  Catherine held the glittering ornament out to Gabrielle. Gabrielle recoiled from the ring as though it were a snake. Then she forced herself to smile. Rustling forward, she sank down gracefully before Catherine and brought the queen’s hand to her lips, feeling strangely hollow inside. As though she was about to barter away the last remaining vestige of her honor. That by making this pact with Catherine, she betrayed not only Remy, but her sister as well, Ariane, who had once so fiercely and bravely defied the Dark Queen.

  Don’t be so melodramatic, Gabrielle, she chided herself. This was only another part of the game, another bit of intrigue, and pacts were made to be broken. Besides, what other choice did she have?

  “I pledge myself entirely to Your Majesty’s service,” she began.

  “Oh, no, my dear.” Catherine caught hold of her chin, tipped Gabrielle’s head back. “Forget the words. Just pledge to me with your eyes.”

  Catherine’s voice was soft and soothing, but her dark eyes bore into Gabrielle’s. Gabrielle’s heart sped up as the Dark Queen sought to invade her mind. She had to will herself to not jerk away, to remain calm. To stare steadily back, to reveal nothing to Catherine but the ice in her veins, the cold shadows of her heart. Above all else, not to think of Remy, the devastation she would feel if—

  Catherine’s fingers tightened on her chin, her gaze thrusting hard against Gabrielle’s barriers and for one terrible moment, Gabrielle wavered. She made quick recovery, slamming the door to her mind closed. But had she been quick enough? How much of her vulnerabilities, the secrets of her past might Catherine have read?

  Gabrielle searched Catherine’s countenance anxiously for some sign of triumph. But to her relief, the Dark Queen merely looked bitterly disappointed. She jammed the ring upon Gabrielle’s finger, her shoulders sagging as though suddenly exhausted.

  “Very well,” she said. “I’ll consider our bargain sealed. I am suddenly finding myself extremely tired, child. You may leave me now.”

  Gabrielle was only too grateful to do so. She ducked into a curtsy, which Catherine did not even acknowledge. But as she was on the verge of slipping out the door, the Dark Queen called softly after her.

  “Just remember this, Gabrielle. If you are unable to deal with Nicolas Remy, I will.”

  The night crept toward the darkest hours before morning and still Catherine could not sleep, a problem she experienced more often of late. A troubled conscience, her enemies would say. Catherine merely laughed at such a notion.

  No, her lighter sleeping habits were just one more thing to put down to the vagaries of advancing age, a burden even all of her sorcery could not find a way to defeat. She could have summoned one of her ladies to fetch her a sleeping draft, but that would have been a concession to weakness, an admission she was not prepared to make.

  Her powers were on the wane. The Dark Queen was growing old.

  Catherine preferred to battle the demons of her restlessness by prowling her bedchamber. To and fro until she was at last exhausted. As she took another wearied turn before the chamber’s windows, Catherine fidgeted with the empty place on her finger where her signet ring should have been. The same ring that now adorned Gabrielle Cheney’s graceful hand. Of course the ring had been much too large for her.

  “Just like all your grand ambitions, my girl,” Catherine murmured.

  A thin smile curled her lips as she thought of her conquest over Gabrielle, but the triumph did not afford Catherine the pleasure she had once expected it would. She had looked forward to her duels of wit with the girl, her attempts to read Gabrielle’s eyes that the young woman had always successfully blocked.

  The contest had helped to keep Catherine’s wits sharp, her powers well honed. Gabrielle had seemed so clever, bold, and ruthless, a truly worthy adversary. At least until tonight, when Catherine had penetrated her mind at last, uncovered all of Gabrielle’s secrets and weaknesses. Those pathetic memories of her encounter with Etienne Danton.

  Catherine remembered the young chevalier quite well. He had been a minor hanger-on at court years ago until he’d been dismissed in disgrace for cheating at cards, breaking the law against dueling, and, worst of all, for raping one of Catherine’s ladies.

  None of the charms of the Dark Queen’s beautiful courtesans were to be wasted on some insignificant knight from the provinces. And Gabrielle Cheney had fancied herself in love with such a man? Pah!

  Catherine could have forgiven her that. After all, Gabrielle had only been sixteen. Catherine herself had been foolish enough to devote her heart to a husband who had humiliated and betrayed her at every turn. But Catherine had learned her lesson, that love only weakened a woman. Clearly Gabrielle had not and that was what Catherine found truly unforgivable. Gabrielle had repeated the same mistake all over again and she was too stupid to even realize it.

  The girl was hopelessly in love with Nicolas Remy.

  When Catherine had learned that Gabrielle had smuggled the Scourge into the palace tonight, she had believed that Gabrielle had done it merely to make mischief, to curry favor with Navarre and advance her ambitions to become his mistress. Catherine could have admired her for that, the deviousness of her plans, the coolness of her nerve. But to discover that the girl was merely besotted with that stiff-necked Huguenot soldier—it was nauseating.

  Catherine paced the bedchamber, shaking her head in disgust. She was disappointed in Gabrielle, most cruelly disappointed. Now she was obliged to find some way to be rid of a promising young woman who could have been a valuable asset to her. One could not rely upon loyalty or even prudent self-interest from a woman idiotically in love. Gabrielle’s agreement to seduce Remy from his mission was not to be trusted. Not that it mattered. Catherine doubted that even a woman as devastatingly beautiful as Gabrielle Cheney could divert the Scourge from his notions of honor and duty. Nothing could do so . . . short of death. />
  Catherine had realized that about the earnest young soldier a long time ago. She had made many attempts to dispose of him, attempts that had all failed. She would have to proceed more cunningly and carefully this time. Especially with any actions she took against Gabrielle. Catherine had not been entirely truthful earlier when she had declared she did not fear the power and influence of the Lady of Faire Isle.

  Catherine remembered far too well that day in the wake of the St. Bartholomew’s Eve massacre when she and Ariane Cheney had confronted each other in this very palace.

  How tall and proud that young woman had been, her deep brown eyes so like her late mother’s, full of Evangeline’s searing honesty and indomitable strength.

  “I am warning you, Catherine.” Ariane had declared. “I mean to revive the council of the daughters of the earth, the guardians against misuse of the old ways as you have done. Even you cannot fight us all, a silent army of wise women.”

  A silent army of women . . . There had been a time when such a threat would not have fazed Catherine. But she no longer felt quite so invincible. She halted before the windows, resting one hand upon the sill. She peered past the glass toward where the moonlight charted its way across the grounds leading to the Tuileries, the Florentine palace Catherine intended to be her legacy. A palace that was destined to remain unfinished and not just because of the necessity of diverting funds to waging war.

  The true reason she had halted the construction was far less rational, far more humiliating. She had fallen prey to a prophetic dream, a belief that when the last stone was mortared into place, that would also be the day that Catherine drew her final breath.

  How her enemies would have laughed if they had known of this superstitious fear, that Catherine de Medici, the most powerful sorceress France had ever known, the dreaded Dark Queen was afraid . . . of dying.

  Death—that ultimate helplessness and loss of all power. Her hand fluttered to her neck as though she could feel the cold brush of its fingers fastening around her throat. She dragged in a lungful of air, taking comfort in her very breath, the strong steady beat of her heart. No, death should not have her yet. But she had to take care. Before she raised her hand against Gabrielle or her Scourge, Catherine needed to ascertain how powerful the Lady of Faire Isle had become, exactly what went on at those little council meetings on the island.

  Fortunately, Catherine had finally secured herself a reliable spy. One of the last persons that the Lady of Faire Isle would ever suspect . . .

  Chapter Twelve

  The bonfire blazed in the clearing atop the cliff, the flames casting leaping shadows over the circle of dolmens, the mysterious ring of standing stones that seemed as old as Faire Isle itself. The massive, timeworn rocks strained upward to touch the night sky with its sprinkling of stars and traces of cloud drifting across the face of the moon.

  Beyond the ring of stones and the sparse line of trees, the land fell away into darkness. Far below at the base of the cliffs, the surf pounded against the rocks on this wilder, less inhabited side of the island. But within the ring, the bonfire gave off a cheering light, as did the scattering of torches embedded in the ground. Their glow reflected on the women who had gathered in the clearing, some seated on makeshift benches of fallen logs, others on the ground, feet tucked demurely beneath their skirts.

  They chattered amongst themselves, waiting for the meeting to begin, many stealing awed glances in the direction of the flat altar rock where the Lady of Faire Isle sat enthroned. Ariane wished they could have held these councils in a less melodramatic setting, back at Belle Haven, sensibly seated on proper chairs, passing out mulled wine.

  That would have likely disappointed many of these wise women, who had traveled so far and were meeting the Lady of Faire Isle for the first time. She studied the sea of faces that surrounded her. Many of these she recognized from right here on the island, women she had known all her life . . . the ribald apothecary, old Madame Jehan, with her straggling gray hair, the stately Marie Claire, abbess of the island’s convent of St. Anne’s, Marie Claire’s lay servant, the strapping Charbonne with her boyishly cropped milk-white hair. Others, like the prim Hermoine Pechard and the buxom Louise Lavalle, were exiles from Paris owing to having run afoul of the Dark Queen.

  But word of these council meetings had spread, drawing in daughters of the earth who were entirely new to Ariane. Most were from France, but a handful hailed from as far away as Spain, Portugal, and Italy. There was even a pair of English sisters, Prudence and Elizabeth Waters, and one Irish girl. Hooded in a dark cloak fastened with a brooch of Celtic interlacing, she tapped her foot with impatience for the proceedings to begin.

  But there were two daughters of the earth whose presence was markedly absent. Her own kin. Ariane’s eyes swept the shadows beyond the ring of stones for the approach of a tall young woman with white-blond hair, a dark cat close at her heels.

  But there was no sign of Miri or her pet, Necromancer. It appeared that her youngest sister did not mean to attend. But Miri had always preferred the lone trails of the forest, the company of woodland creatures to the world of men. These days she was more withdrawn than ever. The girl grieved for all the people who had vanished from her life, her mother, her father, and now Gabrielle—

  Ariane hitched in her breath, refusing to think of her other sister. The fact that she had not heard from Bette in some time regarding Gabrielle filled Ariane with anxiety. But tonight she could not afford to be worrying about Gabrielle or fretting over the strained way she had recently parted from Renard or despairing over her childless state.

  Ariane needed to keep all her own troubles from her mind. These women had risked much to come here to Faire Isle, many of them defying fathers and husbands. Not only did they hazard the usual perils involved in traveling, they also faced the dangers of participating in a gathering that could be misconstrued. They could easily be accused of being a witches’ coven rather than what they were, wise women seeking to preserve and share ancient knowledge long forgotten or forbidden by an ignorant superstitious world. These brave women deserved Ariane’s respect and her full attention.

  The Abbess of St. Anne’s glided forward to rest one hand on Ariane’s shoulder. Marie Claire’s starched wimple framed a face that one exasperated archbishop had described as being too willful for a nun. The friend and confidante of Ariane’s mother, Marie Claire had served the same role for Ariane for years.

  Although her face was lined with the full weight of her sixty-odd years, Marie Claire’s eyes still retained all the sparkle of youth as she smiled at Ariane. “These women will talk themselves hoarse before the meeting has even started. Should we not begin?”

  Ariane concluded ruefully that she could not wait for Miri any longer. She nodded her assent to Marie Claire. The abbess signaled to Charbonne, then positioned herself at Ariane’s right, folding her hands into the sleeves of her white robes.

  Tall and lanky as any peasant lad, Charbonne dressed like one in her loose muslin shirt, coarse breeches, and heavy boots. She strode to the center of the circle, rapping a thick staff of white birch against the rocky ground.

  “Let all tongues be still except mine,” she called out in her booming voice. When her first request did not entirely meet with success, she shouted louder, “Silence!”

  Charbonne’s fierce gaze raked the throng of women until the last murmur had died away. Then she continued, “Here upon the sacred ground of these standing stones and in the presence of our Lady of the Faire Isle, let the third gathering in recent memory of the daughters of the earth commence.

  “These meetings are intended to promote peace and harmony among all wise women everywhere, to share and preserve our ancient knowledge, to redress grievances, to solve problems, and to seek advice from our learned Lady.”

  Charbonne extended the birch staff outward. “Let anyone having business to bring before this council step forward and claim the staff of office.”

  The words were scarce out of
Charbonne’s mouth when Hermoine Pechard leaped up to seize the staff. Ariane exchanged a dismayed glance with Marie Claire. Madame Pechard was a thin woman with a perpetually soured expression. Caught helping to spy on the Dark Queen years ago, Hermoine had lost everything, her comfortable home and her husband, who had disassociated himself from her.

  Hermoine never lost an opportunity to complain about the decline of morals and the depravity of other wise women. A faint hum of conversation had broken out again and she rapped the staff sharply on a stone, quivering with self-importance.

  “Milady,” she said, with a stiff curtsy to Ariane. “Esteemed members of this council.” Hermoine swept her hawk-eyed gaze over the rest of the assemblage. “I wish to address a growing problem that I have observed among many of our sisters. The misuse of our knowledge for the purposes of lewd and wanton behavior.”

  Hermoine’s opening words evoked a few groans from some of the young women present. She drew herself even more rigidly upright. “We daughters of the earth are meant to devote ourselves to the arts of healing and keeping records of history and knowledge for future generations. Instead some among us waste our time on frivolous matters, brewing up perfumes and lotions to tempt and overcome the senses of men.”

  The woman’s words caused Ariane a twinge, calling up thoughts of Gabrielle. Madame Pechard, however, stared at Louise Lavalle. The courtesan merely laughed, the dusting of freckles on her nose enhancing Louise’s mischievous expression.

  “I wouldn’t say it was a waste of time,” Louise drawled. “And you wouldn’t either, Hermoine, if you had spent the night I did with that burly young ostler who works at the Passing Stranger.”

  Old Madame Jehan slapped her knee and cackled. “I know the one you mean, the one with the fine legs on him like a pair of young oak trees. How was he, dearie?”

  “A proper stud, Madame Jehan. I rode him to heaven and back again.” Louise leaped up and demonstrated with a provocative thrust forward of her hips.