The Courtesan

by Susan Carroll

  Remy glared at her, but the rapid approach of mounted men made any further argument futile. He gave a low curse, then thrust her behind him, bracing himself. Gabrielle leaned to one side, peering around his stalwart frame at the arriving troop.

  This was no segment of the palace guard she had ever seen. The men were clad in crude helmets and coats of mail, covered with black tunics emblazoned with white crosses. They resembled a party of knights of yore about to embark upon the Crusades.

  As they approached the lists, the leader raised his hand and the entire troop came to a halt, wheeling to take up position opposite the spectator’s gallery. Gabrielle could just barely make out the faces beneath the raised visors, but she thought them the most ill-favored bunch she had ever seen. They looked like a pack of ruthless mercenaries.

  “Now what the devil is all this?” Remy’s brow creased with an expression of mingled confusion and apprehension.

  “I don’t know. A part of the tourney perhaps?” Gabrielle ventured out from behind him. Remy immediately locked his arm about her waist and hauled her close to his side as though he feared one of these men might be tempted to make off with her. Most of them certainly looked capable of it.

  Bewilderment was reflected in the faces of the other spectators. Only the king of France showed no astonishment as he stepped to the front of the gallery and signaled for silence.

  “Good friends. Ladies and gentlemen of the court,” he called out in a booming voice far different from his usual peevish tones. “I had planned to present a surprise to you at this evening’s banquet, but it has arrived a little sooner than I expected.”

  A surprise? Gabrielle and Remy exchanged an uneasy glance. She pressed closer to Remy, feeling as though she had already had enough surprises today to last a lifetime.

  The king brushed back his long mane of hair, his rings glittering as he attempted to adopt a solemn expression. “There is a growing threat to the peace of our realm that has long required our attention. Forces of darkness far too great to be dealt with in our ecclesiastical courts or halls of justice. I all but despaired of combating such evil until I heard of the work of these men you see arrayed before you. Soldiers devoting their life to a single cause, the destruction of a plague that has spread through all of Europe.”

  The king paused for dramatic effect, then hissed, “The foul practices of sorcery.”

  Witch-hunters. The grim troop of men were witch-hunters.

  This had to be more of Catherine’s doing, her treachery, Gabrielle thought angrily. It would not be the first time the Dark Queen had resorted to the use of witch-hunters to deal with her enemies. Such practice was considered the worst sort of betrayal one wise woman could inflict upon another. Her lips tightening, Gabrielle sought out Catherine’s face in the stands. She was disconcerted to see that Catherine had turned pale, her impassive face gone rigid with shock and another expression Gabrielle had never thought to see on the Dark Queen’s face . . . fear.

  Catherine clearly had nothing to do with this. Whatever intrigue was afoot was none of her devising, the situation beyond her control. The realization caused Gabrielle to shiver, making her feel strangely even more afraid.

  Catherine’s son paraded along the front of the stands, the hint of a smirk about his mouth, obviously enjoying the sensation he had created. “Too long have my people been forced to submit to the terror and intimidation of those godless women given over to the use of dark arts,” the king intoned piously. “Let me present to all of you the man who will drive out the devil and rid France of her witches once and for all.”

  The king raised his hand in a dramatic gesture. “Monsieur Le Balafre.”

  One horseman edged out of the line, wheeling his mount closer to the stands until he was positioned just below the king. He removed his helmet, the sight of his countenance eliciting gasps from the crowd.

  Gabrielle could see why. He was an ugly brute, his head close shaven, and a vicious-looking scar bisecting his right cheek. As he bent forward in the saddle, according the king a stiff bow, Gabrielle was also struck with how surprisingly young he looked. Far too young to be the leader of this hardened troop of men.

  In fact . . . Her breath hitched in her throat. She wriggled away from Remy, her eyes narrowing in an effort to study the witch-hunter more closely. To see beneath that scar, to traces of features that struck her with disturbing familiarity.

  “Oh, dear God,” she groaned.

  Remy was hard at her heels, pulling her back. “Gabrielle, what is it? Do you recognize that man? Who is he?”

  “It’s Simon,” Miri’s quiet voice spoke up.

  Gabrielle whirled around to find her little sister behind them. Miri’s face was pale and unhappy, her eyes filled with anguish.

  “Simon Aristide,” she whispered.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The sun set over the rooftops of Paris, the light fading on a day Gabrielle was glad to see end. She lingered by the windows of the bedchamber she had assigned to her younger sister, watching the shadows descend over the city beyond her town house walls, the gathering darkness fraught with new menace.

  Simon Aristide. That wretched boy whose betrayal had once nearly cost the life of Ariane’s beloved Renard, whose treachery had all but broken Miri’s trusting heart. Gabrielle wondered what perversity of fate had conjured up so many ghosts of the past all within the same day. First Etienne, then Simon.

  Turning from the window, Gabrielle stole a worried glance at her sister. The green gown discarded over a chair, Miri huddled in her shift in the center of the bed. Her knees drawn up, she rested her head against her legs, her shimmering curtain of hair falling forward over her face. Miri seemed to have dwindled back into a child and a hurt one at that.

  Miri had scarcely spoken two words since Remy had hustled them all away from the tourney and back to the safety of Gabrielle’s town house. At least it had seemed safe to Gabrielle once. Now these walls felt like scant protection from whatever dark forces might be plotting against them. She crossed over to the bed and sank down beside Miri. Necromancer rubbed his head against her legs, purring softly, but Miri ignored him, an action very unusual for her. Gabrielle sifted her fingers through Miri’s silken hair, brushing it back over her shoulder.

  “Miri?”

  Her sister lifted her head and managed a wobbly smile. “Don’t look so worried, Gabby. I’m fine.”

  “You don’t seem fine, dearest. You’re very pale. In fact, Necromancer’s paws have more color than you do,” she teased gently.

  Necromancer stretched up on his hind legs and patted Miri’s cheek with his snowy paws as if to emphasize Gabrielle’s point. Miri sighed and gathered the cat in her arms.

  “I’ve had a bit of a shock, that’s all. I keep remembering the first time I met Simon, that night in the ring of stone giants where those wicked girls were planning to offer Necromancer up as a sacrifice. They fled when the witch-hunters came and Vachel Le Vis—” Miri shuddered at the memory of the evil Grand Master of the Order of Malleus Maleficarum. “He thought I was responsible, but Simon knew better. He tried to defend me, and I thought he was the most beautiful boy I’d ever seen. His hair was so black and lustrous, his complexion white as milk, his dark eyes so kind.”

  “And now his exterior finally matches the ugliness of his heart,” Gabrielle said tartly.

  “If only you would have let me approach him, speak to him—”

  Gabrielle shook her head vigorously. She had many reasons to be grateful to Remy but none so much as for his prompt actions today. He had spirited her and Miri away before that treacherous Aristide even had a chance to notice her sister.

  “When did it ever do any good trying to talk to a witch-hunter?” Gabrielle demanded.

  “But Simon was different. There was much that was good in him. Or at least I once thought so.” Miri pillowed her cheek on the top of Necromancer’s head. “Perhaps this scheme to rid France of all wise women is more the king’s doing than Simon’s.”r />
  “It doesn’t matter who is behind it because we are not staying around to find out.”

  At least you are not, little sister, Gabrielle thought.

  When Miri lifted her head, a rebellious light springing to her eyes, Gabrielle said, “Surely even you must see the need to return to Faire Isle. Unless you want to risk finding yourself on trial for witchcraft again?”

  Gabrielle felt like a shrew for stirring up such a painful memory for her sister. But she was determined to use any argument at her disposal to get Miri to leave Paris.

  Miri sighed, her shoulders slumping. “Perhaps you are right. It was such a jolt seeing Simon again, realizing what has become of him. I can’t think clearly right now.”

  “Of course you can’t.” Gabrielle soothed. “It has been a long, exhausting day for all of us. Everything will seem clearer in the morning. I will send Bette to fetch you a bit of supper, then I recommend an early bed.”

  “Never mind about the supper. I have little appetite.”

  Gabrielle started to protest, but Miri was already struggling with the covers. The sight of her sister’s wan countenance caused Gabrielle to hold her tongue. Perhaps a good long sleep was the best remedy for Miri’s heartache. Tucking the counterpane up round her little sister, Gabrielle brushed a kiss on Miri’s brow. Her sister’s eyes were already closed as Gabrielle tiptoed quietly from the room.

  No sooner had the door closed behind Gabrielle than Miri’s eyes fluttered open. She grimaced to find herself staring straight into Necromancer’s amber eyes. Front paws braced on the edge of her pillow, the cat loomed over her, his gaze full of reproach.

  I know what you are thinking, Daughter of the Earth. Forget about it.

  “I have no idea what you are talking about,” Miri muttered.

  This meek compliance may have fooled your sister, but it does not fool me. You still want to see that miserable Aristide. You must stay away from him. He is a predator.

  “You are a fine one to talk of that. No matter how well you are fed, you persist in preying upon poor defenseless mice.”

  Necromancer sank back on his haunches, complacently licking his paws. It is in my nature to hunt, just as it is in his.

  “It also appears to be in your nature to constantly disturb my sleep,” Miri grumbled. “Good night.”

  She tunneled farther beneath the covers, where Necromancer could no longer read her expression. It was possible that Gabrielle and the cat were correct in their judgment of Simon. Perhaps what Miri planned to do was both rash and foolish. But it was not in her nature to give up so easily on those whom she loved.

  The candles had been lit in her bedchamber by the time Gabrielle returned to it. She froze on the threshold, startled by the sight of Remy bending over her washbasin, stripped down to little more than his trunk hose. The candlelight played over the rippling muscles of his bare back and broad shoulders. Gabrielle’s soft gasp alerted him to her presence. He straightened from the washstand.

  “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. Bette said you would not mind if I washed away some of the grime of the day and tended to this.” He crooked his right elbow, indicating an ugly red cut down his forearm.

  “N-no, of course not,” Gabrielle stammered. With the advent of the witch-hunters and her concern for Miri, she had forgotten Remy’s wound. Stricken with remorse, she hastened to pluck the damp cloth from his hand.

  “Here, let me take care of that.”

  Catching hold of his wrist to hold his arm steady, she dabbed gently at the slash. She was relieved to see that it had congealed over. Six inches in length, the wound did not appear deep enough to require stitches. All the same, she bit down hard upon her lip as she cleaned the wound. But her distress had not escaped Remy’s notice. He stroked a tendril of hair gently back from her cheek.

  “It’s only a scratch, Gabrielle.”

  She knew that. It was the thought of what could have happened to Remy today that made her want to melt against his chest and dissolve into tears. She focused on the cut instead. Although Remy protested it was not necessary, she insisted upon applying the witch hazel Bette had provided. Remy sucked in his breath sharply at the sting, but otherwise bore her fumbling with the linen bandage patiently.

  Her hands were not as steady as she would have wished and she had difficulty meeting his eyes. She had never told any man so bluntly that she loved him before. Her confession left her feeling self-conscious and vulnerable. The fact that Remy was half-naked did nothing to add to her ease. Her gaze strayed to the powerful contours of his scarred chest, Cass’s medallion resting against the crisp mat of his dark gold hairs. The charm had proved to be completely useless. What good was an amulet that warned of danger if a man was too obstinate to take heed of it?

  She was tempted to lift the chain over his head and simply throw the talisman away, but the contrast of the metal gleaming against Remy’s bare skin was in some odd way very masculine and strangely seductive. Such thoughts did nothing to steady her hands. She made an awkward job of wrapping the bandage around his forearm. Remy didn’t complain, but he winced when she pulled it too tight.

  “Sorry,” she muttered. “I have never been as good as Ariane at this.”

  “You are doing just fine.”

  She risked a glance up to find his gaze resting warmly upon her, the expression in his eyes tender and passionate enough to make any woman go weak in the knees. When she had confessed her love to him on the tourney field, for one brief moment everything had seemed possible, any happiness within their grasp. But Gabrielle had come to her senses.

  She loved Remy. She had finally told him so, but that didn’t change anything, none of the peril they faced from the Dark Queen or witch-hunters, the awkward situation with Navarre. It especially did not change the kind of woman Gabrielle was, make her any more worthy of Remy’s love.

  Gabrielle finished tying off the bandage. Then she moved to dispose of the bloodied water in the basin, summoning one of the servants to fetch a fresh ewer of water so Remy could continue bathing. As Gabrielle refilled the basin, she was aware of Remy watching her every move. The heat of his gaze made her heartbeat quicken, her skin tingle. She had never realized it was possible for a man to make a woman want him simply through the stillness of his eyes.

  The silence that stretched out between them was not an easy one. It was far too fraught with unspoken desires. As Gabrielle laid out a linen towel for Remy, she sought to lighten the tension by asking with false brightness, “I don’t suppose you’d care to borrow some of my perfumed soap?”

  “And end up smelling like some of the French king’s petit amis?” Remy replied dryly. “No, thank you. You’d best save the soap for Miri. Perhaps she’d like to try it.”

  After the fraction of a pause, he asked, “How is your sister?”

  “Well enough. I am sure she’ll be fine once she’s recovered from her shock. But I will feel better when she is safely on her way back to Faire Isle.”

  “When both of you are,” Remy said firmly.

  Gabrielle folded and refolded the towel. The moment had come that she could no longer avoid. She avoided looking at Remy instead as she said, “There is only one place I am going and—and that is back to the palace tonight.”

  “What! Are you quite mad?” Remy growled.

  She clutched the towel, crumpling the linen she had just so carefully folded. “I have to seek out Navarre and explain things to him. You must have noticed him mounted near the end of the lists as we were all hurrying away. The stunned look on his face.”

  “Yes, I did. But it is my duty to explain to him about us—not yours.”

  “Remy, there is no us. I don’t want Navarre misinterpreting what I did today and being angry with you. Fortunately, he was not close enough to hear what I said to you. I should still be able to smooth things over with him and make amends.”

  “What sort of amends?”

  Gabrielle could not bring herself to answer him. She sought to refold th
e towel. Remy snatched it away from her and flung it to the floor. Catching her hard by the shoulders, he dragged her around to face him.

  “You still plan to become his mistress, don’t you?” he cried. “To share his bed even after what you told me today? Damn it, Gabrielle! You said you loved me. Didn’t you mean it?”

  It would be better if she could lie, pretend that she’d only said what she had in order to put a stop to the duel. But Remy’s eyes clouded with such hurt and self-doubt, she could not bear it.

  “Yes, I meant it,” she said. “I do love you, but I must never tell you so again.”

  “In God’s name, why?”

  “Because . . . don’t you see? Because it makes no difference.”

  “It makes all the difference in the world to me.” He hauled her closer, bending to claim her lips. Gabrielle averted her face so that his mouth only grazed her cheek.

  “Remy, no matter what I feel for you—”

  “What we feel for each other,” he insisted, brushing his lips against her hair, his breath warm upon her ear. “I love you, Gabrielle. I need hardly tell you that. You must have always known.”

  He kissed the sensitive hollow behind her ear, his mouth trailing lower down the column of her neck. The warm rasp of his lips sent a shiver through her, his kisses by turns soft and fierce, tender and passionate. It took all of Gabrielle’s will to resist.

  “Remy, please don’t,” she begged. She thrust herself away from him. “Can you not see that any love between us is as hopeless as it ever was?”

  Remy’s face darkened with a mingling of desire and frustration. “Why? Because of a vision some cursed witch conjured up for you? Some damn fool prediction that Navarre will be king of France, that you will be his mistress and rule by his side. Is that what you really want? Is such a thing so important to you?”

  Gabrielle backed farther away him, her hand fluttering to her neck, her skin grazed and flushed from the heat of Remy’s kisses. “I made a vow to myself long ago that I was not going to be helpless like other women, without power in a man’s world.”