The Courtesan

by Susan Carroll

  The inn yard was strewn with the fallen bodies of his witch-hunters, some of them no more than dark, unmoving shapes, other stirring, emitting low groans. Simon knew he ought to go to their aid, but he could not seem to rouse himself. Nearby Braxton nursed a burned hand, the older man casting a dazed look at Simon as though awaiting instructions.

  Commands that Simon could not give. He couldn’t seem to move or think, do anything beyond brood over that moment when Miri had leveled the pistol at his chest, the look in her eyes so cold. Had she learned to hate Simon so much? Had he taught her that well? Would she really have pulled the trigger?

  That was something he’d never know. He could hardly ask her because he’d let her go. Miri, Captain Remy, Gabrielle, the comte. He’d simply let them all go, making no effort to stop them, to mount a pursuit. Simon felt as though something more than the wind had been taken out of him in tonight’s explosion. He’d lost his strength of purpose, his confidence in his ability to battle evil, defeat it. And he knew whom he had to thank for that.

  That devil Renard. Just like his old master, Simon had completely underestimated the demon comte. Only Renard with his dark magic could have produced a cataclysm of this fearful nature. Simon could still have brought the comte down, but once more Miri had gotten in his way. For the sake of a girl who now despised him, Simon had let evil slip through his grasp.

  He dragged his hand wearily over his naked scalp. At least he had accomplished one thing. He had deprived that sorcerer of his devil’s handbook. The lid of the chest was scorched black from the fire, but otherwise the wooden box remained intact.

  Simon flung back the lid and blinked hard in disbelief. He had to rub his burning eyes, frantically grope the silk lining of the coffer to convince himself he was not mistaken. He wasn’t. The chest was completely empty. No medallions. No ring.

  Worst of all, the Book of Shadows was gone.

  The palace was in chaos, preparations for the removal of the court to Blois brought to a halt. Trunks remained packed, wagons half-loaded, grooms, maids, and courtiers alike left in a state of suspension, awaiting the king’s command. Henry Valois had flown into a rage when he’d learned of the attack on his witch-hunters. With only a few of his chosen mignons to bear him company, he had retired to his apartments, where he had remained for the past two days.

  Like a petulant boy sulking because some of his toy soldiers had been broken, Catherine thought contemptuously. Any excess of emotion seemed to exhaust her son to the point of rendering him bedridden. But Henry’s ill humor was the least of her concerns at the moment, although he had all but accused her of being responsible for the assault.

  She had been tempted to dryly inform him that he suspected the wrong witch. Catherine had gleaned enough information regarding the strange explosion and fire to guess who was to blame. That devilishly clever husband of Ariane’s, Renard. Pity that instead of burning the Charters Inn to the ground, the comte had not succeeded in destroying all the witch-hunters, especially Monsieur Le Balafre. But that wretched young man had somehow survived. By all reports, so had Gabrielle and Nicolas Remy. They had fled Paris, along with the younger Cheney sister, the Comte de Renard, and Ariane.

  The witch-hunter still alive, the Scourge on the loose in the countryside. Catherine could not seem to spare more than a passing thought for either of these disturbing tidings. As she paced her own apartments, all her energies, her entire mind was focused on one thing.

  Where the devil was Bartolomy Verducci? She’d had no word from the cursed man since the night of the fire. No word for two whole days. She only prayed the old fool had not gotten himself blown to bits on the most important mission she’d ever given him—the acquisition of the Book of Shadows.

  Her spy had been making regular reports to her and she’d been aware of the proposed trade of the book for Gabrielle’s life. Verducci had had his instructions. If the manuscript did indeed surface, he was to obtain it at all costs. But she should have known better than to trust Verducci or any servant with a task so vital. Despite all risk of discovery, she should have somehow contrived a disguise and gone herself.

  Verducci’s disappearance left Catherine in a quandary. She could hardly search openly for the man without raising questions about what her servant had been doing secreted in the witch-hunters’ quarters. She was considering how best to pursue a discreet inquiry when one of her ladies in waiting brought her the welcome intelligence of the signore’s return.

  Heart thudding with anticipation, Catherine quickly dismissed all her attendants. When Verducci staggered into her antechamber, even she was shocked by his appearance. He looked like a man who had just escaped from the depths of hell. He was still clad in the clothing he’d worn the night of the fire, his breeches and jerkin ashen with soot. His eyebrows had been completely singed off, likewise the ends of his beard, his gaunt cheek displaying an ugly blister. His head was wrapped in a thick blood-stained bandage that prevented him from donning his cap.

  Verducci limped toward Catherine, barely able to execute a bow without tumbling off balance. “Y-your grace,” he rasped.

  At any other time, she would have roundly rebuked him for taking so long to return with his report, but she wasted no time on pointless preliminaries, not even asking where he had been all this while. There was only one thing she wanted to know.

  “Well, sirrah? Did the Comte have the Book of Shadows?” she demanded. “Have you succeeded in your mission? Did you acquire it?”

  Verducci held up a pouch that he attempted to present to her, but the scrawny little man swayed, collapsing at her feet. Ignoring the unconscious man, Catherine all but stepped on him in her haste to reach the pouch.

  Catherine’s heart thudded, and her hands trembled with eagerness as she worked the drawstrings. She was barely able to suppress her cry of triumph as she groped inside and drew out the worn leather book . . .

  Most of the courtiers were quiet and subdued, the mysterious affair of the Charters Inn discussed in hushed whispers for fear that any mention of the subject might be reported and further infuriate the king. Legs stretched idly before him, Navarre sat on a bench in the Tuileries garden, affecting to read a book and act as though recent events were of no moment to him.

  But it was hard to retain his pose of customary indifference. Gabrielle was safe. Navarre’s relief at that was tempered with a residue of anger and hurt against both her and Remy for the deception they had practiced upon him. He reflected that he should have been accustomed to not being able to trust anyone by now, but Gabrielle, the woman he had so adored . . . Her defection had been painful enough, but if there had been one man Navarre had believed he could entirely rely upon, it had been his Scourge.

  Navarre was as mystified as the rest of the court regarding what had happened at the inn two nights ago. He doubted he would ever entirely know what Gabrielle had been doing to get herself accused of witchcraft. Far more clear to Navarre was what had transpired between Gabrielle and Remy. They had become lovers. Navarre had suspected as much since the day of the tournament, although he had allowed Gabrielle to allay his doubts.

  It had been Remy who had made the true state of affairs clear in his last message to Navarre. Written in the captain’s plain hand, Remy had expressed his sorrow for not being able to carry out Navarre’s rescue, but Gabrielle needed him more. Navarre entirely forgave Remy for that. He bitterly wished he could have played the hero himself and saved her, not as usual been completely useless, the shadow king.

  No, it was not Remy’s calling off the escape that Navarre found unpardonable. Truth be told, Navarre had never had much confidence in the success of the plan. It was the other matter that irked Navarre, the thing that Nicolas Remy did not even apologize for, making off with the woman Navarre had desired above all others. Remy had merely written after his blunt fashion,

  “I love Gabrielle to the depth of my soul, in a way that you never can. After I have freed her, I intend to take her far from Paris and make her my bri
de. I will yet find a way to rescue you from your imprisonment. My duty, my life, my service will always be yours to command, my liege. There is only one thing that I will never be able to offer you, and that is my wife.”

  Remy loved Gabrielle to the depth of his soul? A rather passionate declaration to come from such a somber man. Navarre’s lips quirked in spite of himself. It would have been amusing to finally see the mighty Scourge fall victim to a lady’s charms. Amusing perhaps if it had been any other woman but Gabrielle.

  But Remy’s words rankled, perhaps because Navarre was forced to admit the truth of them. “I love Gabrielle . . . in a way that you never can.” The solemn Scourge was indeed the sort of man who would love but one woman, remain true to her forever. As for Navarre, he feared that he had inherited his libertine grandfather’s wandering eye. Would it have been different with Gabrielle? Navarre would have liked to believe so, but even he was not sure. Now he would never know.

  Navarre sighed as he turned a page in his book, the print a blur. He saw only the image of Gabrielle’s golden hair, bright blue eyes and lush, beckoning lips. Perhaps in time he would be able to forgive her and Remy. Navarre was not possessed of a vengeful disposition.

  But at the moment he was consumed by envy for Remy and not just because of Gabrielle. He envied the Scourge something even more precious, his freedom. He had never allowed anyone to see how much his captivity chafed him, this degrading, shameful role he’d been forced to adopt, Navarre, the rustic buffoon, the cowardly turncoat, the puppet king. It was wearing him down to the depths of his soul.

  More than his desire for Gabrielle, it had been Navarre’s growing desperation that had made him consent to Remy’s plans for his escape. His longing for the rugged mountains of his home, his need to be clear of all the treachery of the French court, his burning hunger to become the kind of king that he wanted to be, strong, wise, and courageous.

  But Navarre found he was more relieved than disappointed that Remy’s plan had to be abandoned. He had seen too many plots for his rescue come to nothing, too many of his followers executed. He had become convinced that the reason for all these failures was that the attempts had been too elaborate, involved too many people. He was more determined than ever to escape, but when the time was right, it would involve the simplest of plans and depend mostly upon the one person Navarre did fully trust. Himself.

  As for right now, he needed to lull the dragons that guarded him back to sleep, dispel the suspicions that Remy’s return had aroused. Hard as it was, he must continue to play the indolent young fool, concerned only with the gratification of his senses. Fortunately, that role was not entirely without its compensations.

  Hearing a discreet cough, Navarre glanced up from his book to find himself being observed by a buxom brunette with laughing eyes and a pert smile. He recognized her as one of Catherine’s ladies, the Dark Queen’s latest offering to keep him seduced and tame. But oh, well. What the devil, Navarre thought with a cynical shrug. His breeches might be easily undone, but his counsel he had learned to keep to himself.

  The young woman fluttered her fan and with a provocative look disappeared into the shrubbery. Navarre grinned, closed up his book, and followed.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The modest farmhouse was tucked away in a valley sev-eral leagues from Paris. Not as far away as Gabrielle would have wished, but Remy had been unable to go any farther. The last mile, only Renard’s strong arm had prevented Remy from slipping from the saddle. Gabrielle was grateful for the temporary haven provided by the farm with its stone cottage, snug dairy barn, and chicken coops.

  The place was the property of the Widow Perrot, noted for her fine apple jellies, sweet cream, and mellow cheese. She was also known to brew up the occasional potion to ease the pain of childbirth or monthly courses and concoct ointments that could cure anything from warts to rheumatism. Few outsiders would have guessed from her dimpled chin and plump matronly figure that she was one of the wise women who had recently attended the council on Faire Isle and that her name had likely been included on that list that had eluded Simon Aristide.

  It was the widow who looked after Gabrielle and Miri while Ariane tended to Remy. Clucking over them both in motherly fashion, she dabbed her ointment on the cuts they had sustained from the flying glass. She even applied a poultice to Gabrielle’s ankle, wrapping it tightly.

  “Something that I use on the pony when he pulls a fetlock,” the widow said with a wink. “Ornery old cuss. If it works on him, it should work for you, m’girl.”

  Gabrielle mumbled her thanks, but she had little thought to spare for her own aches or exhaustion. All her mind, all her energies were focused on Remy. He’d finally sunk into unconsciousness when Ariane had worked upon his wound. After she’d finished he’d been tucked up in the widow’s own bed. He slept most of that day, then spent an uneasy night, stirring restlessly.

  Gabrielle hovered by his side, soothing his brow with a cool cloth, fearful he might fall prey to fever or his old nightmares. Even though Ariane had urged Gabrielle to get some rest, said that she would look after the captain, Gabrielle had refused.

  She perched on a wooden chair near the bed, offering him sips of water whenever he briefly roused. The herbal brew that Ariane had administered to dull his pain left him groggy. Gabrielle doubted that he even realized she was there with him and the thought brought an ache to her heart. Despite her best efforts, she dozed off, only to be awakened by the cheerful twittering of sparrows in the apple tree outside the window. She sat up and stretched painfully, rubbing the lower area of her spine. Her neck muscles protested as she twisted to peer at the man on the bed.

  Morning light flooded the small chamber, playing softly over Remy’s face, his jaw coarsened by the stubble of beard. He appeared alarmingly still, his breath barely audible. Gabrielle pressed her hand to his brow, finding his skin cool to the touch. No fever. Surely that was a good sign and yet he looked so pale and drawn, like a mighty warrior who’d taken one blow too many and could not summon the strength to rise.

  She couldn’t help but contrast his present state with the way he’d been but a week ago, so strong, bursting with vitality and enthusiasm as he’d laid his final plans to rescue his king. She longed to thread her fingers through his tousled dark gold hair, tenderly caress his face, but she feared to disturb whatever healing slumber he had found.

  Gabrielle drew back, careful not to brush against his bandaged arm resting atop the coverlet. His powerful shoulders and upper chest were likewise exposed, the scars that creased his flesh appearing even crueler in the gentle morning light. So many wounds, so much pain for one man, and now he’d had to endure one more.

  But this time it was her fault. Such a stupid, senseless injury for Remy to have suffered. If not for her recklessness, her deceptions, none of the terrible events of last night need ever have happened. The creak of the door behind Gabrielle cut short her guilt-stricken thoughts. She turned from Remy as Ariane stole quietly into the room. Her older sister’s eyes were smudged with exhaustion, her soft brown hair tumbled about her shoulders, but she was still very much the same calm Ariane.

  “How is he?” she whispered as she tiptoed over to the bed.

  “I don’t know,” Gabrielle confessed with a wan effort to smile. “My Scourge looks rather—rather weak and helpless lying there like that.”

  She stepped out of the way as her sister bent to examine Remy. Ariane’s hands seemed so much more capable and confident than hers as she tested his brow for fever and checked his pulse. Feeling utterly useless, Gabrielle retreated to the window while Ariane carefully undid the bandage to inspect his wound. Remy barely stirred.

  Gabrielle rested her head wearily against the window frame, taking in the soft breeze, the earthy smells emanating from the barnyard below. She spied Necromancer stalking some hapless field mouse. If Miri had noticed, she would have put a stop to it. But her little sister was busy currying the mane of a stout gray pony while Wolf leaned up agai
nst the paddock gate watching her.

  The early morning peace was broken by the dull thud of an axe. Shirtsleeves rolled up, the Comte de Renard was busy chopping firewood, not looking in the least fazed by the battle at the inn or their fatiguing flight from Paris. The man had always possessed a stamina that was downright exhausting. The pleasure he took in such simple tasks as chopping wood had once caused Gabrielle to dub him a peasant. But she found something solid and reassuring about the sight of her brother-in-law wielding his axe while he kept an eye on the track leading to the farm, alert to any possible danger.

  It was good to have an ogre guarding the castle, especially when her Scourge was so vulnerable. As Ariane finished rebinding his wound, Gabrielle took some comfort in noting her sister’s nod of satisfaction as she drew back from the bed. Ariane joined Gabrielle at the window, speaking low so as not to disturb Remy.

  “Your captain will be fine. He is a very strong man who has survived much worse. He lost a great deal of blood, but there is no infection, no fever. All he needs is a little time to rest and heal. Pray God he will have that.”

  Ariane stole an anxious glance out the window. The sight of her stalwart husband must have offered her reassurance. Some of the tension melted out of her shoulders. It was a rare thing to see Ariane with her hair unbound. She usually dressed simply, but neatly, her glossy brown tresses done up in a chignon or confined beneath a veiled headdress. Her hair hanging loose about her shoulders made her look younger somehow and yet there was a shadow of sorrow lurking in Ariane’s serene eyes that Gabrielle did not remember being there, not even after their mother had died.

  They’d had little time alone since their hurried and perilous reunion, too many other concerns and dangers getting in the way. This was their first quiet moment together and the silence that descended felt strained with memories of their quarrels, the bitter differences of opinion that had caused their paths to diverge.