The Courtesan

by Susan Carroll

  “What is she doing here? I only asked to see Mistress Gabrielle. Why did you fetch the other one?”

  Gabrielle almost choked on her outrage. Her sister had broken her heart over this miserable wretch and he dared callously term her “the other one.” Simon’s men stammered over their excuses as Miri rose from her chair.

  Gabrielle stole an arm about her waist, trying to hold her back. But Miri tugged free, moving to stand in front of Aristide where he would be obliged to look at her.

  “Don’t be angry with your men, Simon. I insisted on coming. You should have known I would.”

  “This has nothing to do with you.”

  “It has everything to do with me. Gabrielle is my sister.”

  “I have no quarrel with you, Miri. I warned you to stay out of my way.”

  “If your way threatens my family, you can hardly expect me to do so.”

  Miri tipped up her chin and they glared at each other. Even though they were separated by more than a yard, there was a strange suggestion of intimacy between them as well. A familiarity at odds with two people who hadn’t seen each other in three years.

  Gabrielle didn’t know when or how, but her little sister had managed to steal away. Despite all of Gabrielle’s warnings, she had risked going to see this dangerous bastard. But there would be time enough later to scold her little sister for her folly. At least Gabrielle hoped there would be.

  Miri and Simon squared off, each with arms crossed. Gabrielle feared the man was on the verge of ordering his guards to evict Miri when he surprisingly relented.

  “You may remain as long as you promise to sit over there and be quiet.”

  Miri made no such promise, but she stalked to the bench he indicated with such grace and dignity, Gabrielle swelled with a fierce pride in her little sister. Shaking back her pale shimmer of hair, Miri lowered herself gracefully, folding her hands calmly in her lap. As Simon stared at her, something almost warm flickered in his gaze. It was gone when he turned to face Gabrielle.

  But for the past two years Gabrielle had held her own among the vipers at court and against all the wiles and malice of a Dark Queen. She was not about to be intimidated by one witch-hunter, even if he was possessed of the devil’s own eye.

  Before Aristide could say a word, Gabrielle drew herself up haughtily. “First, let me make one thing clear, monsieur. This doesn’t look like any church or law court that I’ve ever seen.” She swept her hand toward the room with a contemptuous gesture. “This is only the taproom of an inn.”

  “I am aware of that. I have eyes.” He added dryly, “At least one.”

  “Nor do I see any justices or church prelates. Where is your authority to arrest me?”

  “My authority comes from special appointment by the king, as you well know. And you are not under arrest. Yet.” he added.

  “Then why am I here?”

  “Merely to answer a few questions.”

  “Really?” Gabrielle replied with a skeptical lift of her brows. “That sounds a bit like the devil saying he only wants to borrow your soul for a while.”

  Simon’s lips twitched with a hint of unexpected humor. “You relieve my mind, mademoiselle. I was afraid you might have already entirely deeded yours over.”

  When Gabrielle opened her mouth to retort, he held up one hand to stay her. “All I want to do is make a few inquiries. There is a distressing matter that has been brought to my attention. I am hoping you will be able to clear it up for me.”

  He held out a chair for her. “Please. Sit.”

  Gabrielle trusted neither his courtesy nor his reassurances, but it was not as though she had much choice. She lowered herself into the chair. Before Aristide could assume the seat opposite her, one of his men rushed into the room. He drew Aristide aside and whispered urgently in his ear. The guard seemed quite agitated, but whatever he imparted, Aristide remained unperturbed.

  “Certainly,” he replied. “Show him in.”

  The guard never had a chance to obey the order. There was a scuffling in the doorway and Gabrielle heard a familiar battle-roughened voice growl, “Get out of my way unless you want to part with your other ear.”

  Remy.

  Gabrielle’s heart leapt. She twisted in her chair just as he stormed into the room, closely followed by Wolf. Several witch-hunters rushed after them, drawing their weapons, but at a quick command from Simon, they all stood down. Remy paid no more heed to any of them than if they had been an annoying swarm of flies. He’d obviously ridden hard to get here, his face streaked with sweat, damp strands of dark gold hair spilling over his brow. His gaze darted about the room until he found Gabrielle, the barest hint of relief softening the hard set of his jaw.

  “What the devil is going on here?” he demanded as he strode toward her. “Gabrielle, are you all right?”

  It was all she could do not to leap up from her chair and cast herself into the strong comfort of Remy’s arms. But she was far too proud to put on such a display of weakness in front of the witch-hunters. She stretched out one hand instead. “Yes, I—I am fine.”

  He took hold of her fingers in a hard clasp, his gaze raking over her as though he needed to ascertain that fact for himself. Wolf had dashed over to Miri, looking very much like he wanted to do the same. But he stopped just short of touching her, whirling to snarl at Simon. “You evil bastard. You keep your foul hands off her, do you hear?”

  “I wasn’t aware that I’d ever had my hands on her,” Simon replied with a look of contempt. He and Wolf locked eyes, an inexplicable amount of hostility seeming to radiate between the two young men.

  Simon was the first to look away, turning toward Remy. “I assure you there is no need for all of this heroic exertion, Captain.”

  “Isn’t there?” Remy took a belligerent step closer. “You know who I am?”

  “From what you told my guard when you were demanding admittance, you are Mademoiselle Cheney’s betrothed. My congratulations. You also happen to be Nicolas Remy, otherwise known as the Scourge. Our paths crossed once before on Faire Isle, although we never officially met.”

  “Perhaps because I was in the cellar of the house you tried to help burn down while you were safely on the outside.”

  A hint of color surged into Simon’s face, a look in his eye that might have been shame, but he rallied, saying smoothly, “A regrettable incident and one best left in the past. I am more concerned with the present.”

  “So am I. I would like to know why you’ve arrested my betrothed.”

  Simon fetched a wearied sigh. “Not arrested. As I was explaining to Mademoiselle Cheney, I merely need to ask her a few questions.”

  “So ask her already,” Remy snapped. “Then we are leaving.”

  “Of course. As long as Mistress Cheney’s answers are satisfactory.”

  Answers regarding what? Gabrielle fretted. What the devil was he up to? If Aristide was not laying charges against her, what did he want from her? Testimony against some other daughter of the earth. He’d never get anything from her, especially if he was trying to gather evidence against Catherine. If the man was fool enough to take on the Dark Queen, he was entirely on his own.

  Aristide commanded one of his mercenaries to fetch him a leather portfolio while he invited Remy and Wolf to take a seat. Wolf arranged himself protectively beside Miri on the settle, but Remy brusquely declined the invitation. He positioned himself behind Gabrielle instead, resting his hand on her shoulder. She reached up to curl her fingers over his, grateful for the strong feel of him at her back. Aristide sat across from both of them, undoing the ribbon that bound the portfolio. He opened it, sifting through the documents. He perused one at great length, although Gabrielle was sure the witch-hunter knew by rote every line that was written there.

  This was simply more delaying tactics, another attempt to increase her tension. Simon might not resort to hot irons, but he was a master at more subtle forms of torture. She felt on the verge of shrieking at him to get on with it when h
e finally looked up. When his question came at last, it was far worse than anything she had expected.

  “Mademoiselle Cheney, you are perhaps acquainted with a woman named Cassandra Lascelles?”

  Gabrielle’s hand tightened convulsively on Remy’s fingers. Wolf started, but Gabrielle did not even dare meet the young man’s eyes. She stared at Aristide, trying to gauge just how much the witch-hunter might know. His mocking gaze told her nothing. She decided that outright denial might be less than wise. “Cassandra Lascelles, you say? The name sounds familiar. I—I—perhaps I have heard of her.”

  “She has definitely heard of you. By all reports, the young woman is blind and something of a recluse, but she sent her maidservant—” Aristide paused to consult his notes again. “One Finette Dupres, to lay some rather disturbing charges against you.”

  So this was to be Cass’s revenge? Gabrielle could scarce believe it, not even of Cass, not after the way the woman had lost her mother and sisters. Cass might be furious with Gabrielle, but she had far more cause to hate witch-hunters.

  Remy gave Gabrielle’s shoulder a comforting squeeze as he demanded, “Who the devil is this woman? What does she say Gabrielle has done?”

  “Mistress Lascelles claims that mademoiselle has been employing evil magic, to ensnare men and keep them in her power.” Simon directed an insolent smile at Remy. “You in particular, Captain.”

  “I admit I have long been charmed by Mademoiselle Cheney, but she has never had to resort to black magic. I assure you my love has been most freely given.” The tenderness in Remy’s voice, his complete faith in her made Gabrielle want to shrink down in her chair from guilt.

  “How very romantic,” Aristide sneered. “Then no doubt mademoiselle has an innocent explanation for certain objects that have been found in her possession.”

  “What objects?” Gabrielle asked hoarsely, although she already knew, even before Simon snapped his fingers, summoning one of his guards. The man strode forward and set her wooden chest down before Simon, the lock smashed open.

  Her stomach took a sickened dive. She now understood the reason she had been kept waiting for so long. The bastard had been having her abandoned house and her carriage searched for evidence. Not that it would have taken that long to find. Not when she had been obliging enough to leave the casket in plain view on the carriage seat.

  Wolf hitched in his breath, poised on the very edge of his seat. Gabrielle exchanged an apprehensive glance with him. She had been so grateful to have Remy with her, strong and supportive by her side. Now she wished him miles away, anywhere but here. She slid her fingers from his grasp, clutching her hands tightly together in her lap as Aristide cracked open the lid of the wooden chest.

  He drew out the medallions and laid them on the table side by side.

  “Mademoiselle Cheney, do these belong to you?” Aristide asked quietly.

  “Well, I—I—” she stammered.

  “They were found in this box, in your carriage,” he added, making futile any attempts at denial.

  Remy stepped from behind Gabrielle’s chair. He picked up one of the amulets to inspect it, comparing one to the other. He appeared bewildered to find the two identical, but he shrugged, tossing them back on the table. “And so what if Mademoiselle Cheney does possess such medallions? They are harmless trinkets, nothing more.”

  “Not according to Mademoiselle Lascelles,” Aristide said. “She claims these amulets are imbued with the most evil kind of sorcery. The witch who wears one of these can control the person who wears the other.”

  “That’s ridiculous—” Remy began.

  “By inflicting severe pain that can strike without warning, anywhere on the body, an arm, a leg, a shoulder. Apparently they even have the power to kill.”

  Remy fell silent. His hand crept involuntarily toward his shoulder, the first look of doubt clouding his eyes.

  Unable to contain himself any longer, Wolf shot to his feet. “Mademoiselle Lascelles seems to be an expert on those evil medallions,” he cried hotly. “And why shouldn’t she be? She is the one who is the evil witch. She is the one who made those damned charms and gave one to Mistress Gabrielle for Capt—”

  Wolf stopped abruptly. Whether it was Simon Aristide’s smile of triumph, Miri’s look of horror, or the way that Remy paled, it dawned on Martin he was making everything worse. He closed his mouth and slumped miserably back down in his seat.

  A terrible silence ensued. Gabrielle could not bring herself to look at Remy. She was aware of how rigid he had gone. When he spoke, his voice was low, almost fierce.

  “None of this is true. The medallion that I wore was fashioned by Gabrielle’s sister, Ariane. The Lady of Faire Isle, a wise woman of great virtue. A healer who would never have anything to do with the dark arts. Tell him, Gabrielle.”

  Her throat had squeezed so tight she could not speak.

  “Gabrielle? Tell him.”

  She flinched when he seized hold of her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. The look in his eyes was more than she could bear, hope warring with desperation, his need to believe in her battling with a stark sense of betrayal.

  “Remy, I—I—” she faltered. It would have been so much easier to make Remy understand, to confess what she done if they had been alone. If Simon Aristide had not been dispassionately observing them as though they were mummers in some pageant, their most private emotions on display for his entertainment.

  Remy searched her face. Whatever he saw caused him to release her. He recoiled a step as though he had taken a severe blow and still that bastard Aristide was not finished. He delved inside the box, pulling out the remaining object and set it carefully alongside the medallions.

  “And what of this, Mademoiselle Cheney? It appears to be a signet ring of some sort emblazoned with the letter C. Did Cassandra Lascelles manufacture this, too?”

  Gabrielle swallowed. “No, that—that was a gift from someone else.”

  “Both costly and exquisite, a very regal gift, one would almost say.” Simon’s mouth curved into a taunting smile. The witch-hunter likely knew full well who had given her that ring and she feared that Remy did too. If he looked as though he had been kicked in the gut earlier, he now appeared as though he had been dealt a mortal blow.

  Aristide gathered up his notes, arranging the parchment into the leather portfolio. “Regrettably, I am going to have to detain you further, Mademoiselle Cheney. I fear there is enough evidence here to warrant a trial for witchcraft.”

  “Simon, no!” Miri cried.

  He ignored her, directing his words only to Gabrielle. “Your trial will be held in, say . . . a fortnight’s time. That should give you ample time to prepare a defense.”

  Gabrielle scarcely heeded him, her gaze fixed imploringly on Remy. But now it was he who could not bear to look at her. He was pale and silent, his gaze fixed numbly on the Dark Queen’s ring and those damning medallions.

  But Cass’s evil charms no longer had the power to wound Remy, Gabrielle reflected. She was the one who had done that, with her own foolish lies.

  Aristide was more merciful than Gabrielle would have expected. He had made no immediate move to have her clapped in arms or carted off to the prison where she would be held until her trial. The witch-hunter was even gracious enough to permit her a few moments alone with Remy in the inn’s small private parlor, although making it clear that any attempt at escape was not to be considered.

  Guards were posted outside both the parlor’s doors and windows. Gabrielle had feared that Remy might make a rash attempt to free her then and there, despite the impossible odds. But the fight appeared to have been bled out of her Scourge to an alarming degree. He was like a man who had taken a hard fall and was unable to regain his wind. He had not even protested when Simon had demanded that he surrender his sword as a condition for this moment alone with Gabrielle.

  Gabrielle paced before the parlor windows, rubbing her arms as she sought to contain her desperation, knowing that she had on
ly a brief time to explain to Remy, to try to repair the damage her lies had done. But as she unraveled for him the whole tale of her dealings with Cass, her excuses sounded halting and lame even to her own ears.

  Remy heard her out in grim silence, his arms locked across his chest. Whatever hurt she had inflicted upon him was now shelved behind an expression so stony, a stance so forbidding, Gabrielle’s heart quailed. It was all she could do to finish.

  “. . . and—and this laying of charges against me must be Cass’s idea of revenge. I should have anticipated her doing something to get back at me. But when Martin and I didn’t hear anything more from her, I suppose we hoped that—that—”

  “That you’d gotten away with everything?” Remy asked icily.

  “Yes. I—I mean no.”

  Knowing Remy’s temper, she braced herself for the blast. But instead of raging at her, he shook his head in disgust. “If you were going to meddle with the dark arts, at least you might have had the wit to get rid of the evidence or keep it better hidden.”

  “I didn’t have enough time to decide what to do with the medallions. I thought after we were away from Paris, I could consult Renard—” She broke off as the full import of Remy’s words struck her. “I wasn’t meddling with the dark arts. I explained to you that I didn’t know what the medallion really was. Surely you don’t believe that—”

  “I don’t know what the devil to believe.” Remy took an agitated turn about the room, raking his hand back through his hair. “I hear that my betrothed has been taken up by witch-hunters and nearly break my neck getting here to defend her innocence. Only I end up making a fool of myself because it is obvious I don’t have a clue about what has really been going on. Then you feed me some incredible tale about owing a favor to this sorceress and that what she wanted was me for one night. To father her child, a little she-devil that will rise up one day and take over the world. And if I didn’t comply, she was going to kill me, use the medallion to strike me dead.”